The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

The Call of
Destiny

Alan Fenton

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© Alan Fenton
2015

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author has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988
to be identified as author of this work

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the author.

Born in London, Alan Fenton
was educated at Mercers’ School in the City. Having won an open scholarship to
Oxford he did two years National Service in the Royal Air Force, becoming a
Pilot Officer, before going up to St Edmund Hall to read English Language and
Literature.

On graduating, he worked as a
trainee in business for a couple of years before writing a sketch for a
children’s television programme starring Ronnie Corbett. This led to a career
writing comedy sketches and scripts for T.V. comedy series, Saturday Night
Spectaculars and Sunday Nights at the London Palladium for most of the top
comedians of the day, including Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth, Dickie
Henderson, Roy Castle, Arthur Haines, Jack Douglas and Joe Baker, Dick Emery,
Irene Handl, Des O’Connor and many others.

After several years of comedy
scriptwriting, he drifted back into business. Working for a large American
trading organisation he travelled the world, until he and a few friends set up
their own company trading in metals and minerals, and ultimately in oil.

Leaving business a few years
later, he wrote the
Shadow of the Titan
, his first novel, based loosely
on his business experiences. Subsequently he wrote
The Call of Destiny
,
the first book in the
Return of Arthur
cycle, and its sequel,
The
Hour of
Camelot.

Alan Fenton lives in London
with his wife and nine Pekinese dogs.

The weapon
forged

Yet some men say in many
parts of England that

King Arthur is not dead
. . . Men say that he shall come again
.
.
.
I
will
not
say
that
it
shall
be
so,
but
rather

I will say, here in this
world he changed his
life.

But many men say that
there is written upon his tomb this verse: ‘
Hic Iacet Arthurus, Rex Quondam
Rexque Futurus.’

On the summit of a hill in the county of
Somerset stands a solitary church tower, bearing witness to the ferocity of
nature and of man. It is all that survives of two churches that once stood
here. The first was destroyed by an earthquake, the second by the command of
Henry the Eighth. As sunset approaches, subtle details of stone and lichen,
archway and niche, buttress and embrasure, are lost in the deepening shadows.
Silhouetted against the evening sky the stark stone mass of the tower dominates
the soft contours of the landscape, uniting earth and heaven.

A few yards from the base of
the tower, on a mound that marks the crest of the Tor two motionless figures
stand, one taller than the other. Seen from the valley below, their dark shapes
loom, remote and mysterious. There is a haunting and powerful aura about them,
as if they were not people but primeval monoliths or statues of pagan gods in
an ancient burial ground. In some strange way they are beings apart, belonging
not to the present time, but to time itself.

The hill is otherwise deserted,
as are the woods at its foot and the countryside beyond. The red ball of the
sun sinks below the horizon. The west wind that has gusted all day is suddenly
stilled. Not a sound, not even a breath of air, disturbs the silence. Nothing
stirs. In this hushed moment, the earth and all the planets that only an
instant before wheeled round the sun, seem to hang motionless in space.

Slowly the taller figure
raises his hand, as if to release the world from its spell, then touches the
boy lightly on the shoulder. ‘Shall we go? It’s getting late.’

They begin the descent. ‘Tell
me more about him,’ says the boy.

‘He was a great leader,’ his
older companion responds. ‘King of Britain, as they called it then. When he
came to the throne the country was under constant attack by its enemies, both
from outside and within.’

Down the steep track they
jolt, each for a time absorbed in his own thoughts, the boy’s head buzzing with
questions. ‘But what exactly did he do?’

‘The world had gone mad. The
king tried to bring it back to its senses, and restore meaning to people’s
lives. He wanted to give them courage and hope for the future. But to do that
he first had to impose order on chaos.’

‘How do you mean, impose?’

The man nods approvingly. ‘You
are right to question that word. He questioned it too. The thought of using
force troubled him. But after much heart searching he decided that if mankind
was to be saved, he had no other choice. He was given the power to do it, you
see, power so formidable that many thought he had been sent to earth by God, or
even that he himself was a divine being.’

‘And was he?’ ‘No.’

‘So he was just an ordinary man?’

A brief silence. ‘He was a
man, but no ordinary man. When he was young he found it hard to believe he had
a special destiny. He wanted to lead a fun life and have a happy time, just as
most people do. But as he grew older he came to understand that he was not the
same as other men, and that the road he would have to take would be a different
one.’

‘Because of the power he had?’

‘Yes. And because of the way
he chose to use it.’ ‘How do you mean?’

‘Other men would have used it for selfish ends,
but not him. He decided to fight the forces of darkness and chaos. He was a
brave and cunning warrior; but he was also much more than that, a philosopher
and a visionary, a wise and humane individual, gallant, just and honourable.
Those who ruled by terror feared him. Those whom they terrorised, worshipped
him. And in return he loved and honoured them, the ordinary men and women. He
had a dream, a dream that one day the meek really would inherit the earth. But
he knew they could only do it with his help.’

‘Was there no one else they could turn to?’

‘No one else whom good men and
women would follow, no other leader who had the courage and strength of
character to meet the challenge. Not that he was the only one who saw the world
descending into chaos; there were leaders in other lands who feared for the
future but were too weak, or too corrupt, or simply too afraid to act. As
everything around them disintegrated, they stood by helplessly, resigned to
self- destruction, accepting that mankind was doomed. They had abandoned all
hope of changing anything; they no longer cared what happened. But he cared. He
did everything in his power to create a new world for mankind, a world based on
love and respect and justice.’

‘And did he succeed?’

‘For a while. Until things started to go
wrong.’

The boy is impatient. ‘But
how? Why? I want to know everything.’

‘It’s a long story. Are you
sure you want to hear it?’ asks the man, teasing his young friend.

‘You know I do!’

A loving hand rests lightly on
the boy’s head. ‘Then you shall.’

A mole of thought furrows the boy’s brow. ‘Is
it just a story?

Or was there really such a person?’

‘There was,’ says the man,
adding tantalisingly, ‘and may be again.’ The boy looks puzzled.

 ‘There are those who say that if ever he
is needed, he will come again.’

The boy’s eyes shine. ‘What will he do?’

In the twilight the first star
shows itself. A pale sliver of moon floats above the horizon.

‘Now there’s a question,’ the
man says softly. ‘What will he do . . .? Well now, I imagine he will try to
save mankind, just as he did all those centuries ago. Lord knows, we need
saving.’

The boy nods in
acknowledgement, though scarcely understanding.

‘You never told me his name.’
‘You know it already.’

‘I do?’

‘From the story books.’

The boy stands still and looks
up at his beloved mentor, puzzled.

The man looks fondly down.
‘You want a clue?’ ‘Yes.’

‘You have the same name as that king.’

For a second or two the wide
eyes dream, catching the starlight, then suddenly sparkle as he laughs with
delight. ‘Oh, that king!’ On an impulse he cups his hands around his mouth and
shatters the silence, crying out the name at the top of his voice. ‘Arthur!’

The echoes wrap around him like a cloak in a
swirl of wind

. . . ‘Arthur! . . . Arthur! .
. . Arthur!’, then tumble down the hill, fading as they fall, losing themselves
in the twilight woods.