The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (43 page)

George Bedivere heaved his big
shoulders in embarrassment.

‘And we sit back and do
nothing?’ Surely George would stand by him? ‘It can’t be right.’

Bedivere shrugged. ‘What can
we do? Let’s face it, the UK is not a world power anymore. Hasn’t been for
years. Our armed forces have been cut to the bone by successive governments.
There’s no way we can go it alone. Not even the Yanks can do that. They stopped
being the world’s policemen after the Iraq debacle. No more foreign adventures
for them, no more talk of bringing democracy to the world. They’ll only act if
they feel their vital interests are threatened.’

‘Surely that’s the case here?’
said Arthur. ‘You do see that, George, don’t you?’ He was pleading with his
Defence Minister.

George Bedivere’s massive chin
jutted obstinately. ‘What I see is what I’m paid to see. Oil is losing its
strategic importance as an energy source. No, I’m sorry, Arthur, there’s no
vital interest involved. Not for the U.S., not for us.’

From the window of the Prime Minister’s office
Arthur looked out at Downing Street. A couple of fat pigeons pecked here and
there, some tourists peered curiously through the wrought iron gates that
separated the street from Whitehall, a policeman stood outside Number 10, hands
clasped behind him in the manner of a prince or a clergyman; a tranquil,
reassuring scene, a scene familiar to every Londoner, a vignette of a peaceful
and secure way of life that people took for granted because they lived in a
democracy.

‘A hundred thousand men, women
and children brutally massacred. Not in our vital interest, George?’

George studied the carpet.
‘I’m afraid not, Prime Minister.’ ‘Then God help the human race.’

Arthur tried to dismiss the
horror from his mind but he could not. The satellite images of the victims were
still fresh in his memory. He doubted they would ever fade.

 Across the fields the two men strode,
Arthur breaking into a run every few yards to catch up with Merlin who set so
fast a pace that his white robe trailed behind him, as if it too had difficulty
keeping up.

Virgil clutched his master’s
shoulder anxiously. A moment before the wind had gusted so strongly that it
hurled the owl backwards off his perch in a whirling ball of flying feathers.
In that moment of panic he flapped his wings frantically in order to gain
height, all the time shrieking his rage. When the wind dropped as suddenly as
it rose, he settled again on Merlin’s shoulder, grumbling in the back of his
throat.

‘Alright, old chap?’ Merlin
soothed the owl’s ruffled feathers, and Virgil nibbled his master’s fingers to
show how much he appreciated his concern.

Yesterday Arthur had presided
over a meeting of the cabinet called to discuss London’s readiness, or
otherwise, for a possible major terrorist attack. There had been a lot of talk
and no decisions, except to leave things as they were. The
status quo
was
agreed by a show of hands, even though Arthur had made it clear that for him,
at least, the
status
quo
was entirely inadequate. Angry and
disheartened, he had been only too glad to accept Merlin’s sudden invitation to
stay overnight at his cottage on ‘important business’. As an ex-Special Forces
man it had not been too difficult for Arthur to throw off his body-guards. A
call to his PPS from the car reassured him that the PM was away on an ‘urgent
personal matter’, and would be back in Downing Street the next afternoon. A
high speed drive to Somerset was followed by a light supper in Merlin’s
kitchen, a game of Monopoly and a good night’s sleep. The two men were up at
dawn and off on a trip to only Merlin knew where. Arthur asked no questions,
though he had his suspicions.

It all appealed to his sense
of the absurd. Here was the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom stumbling
across the countryside, chasing after a wild figure with shoulder-length hair,
flowing robes and a furious barn owl on his shoulder.

‘How much further?’ panted
Arthur. A grunt. ‘Not far.’

Arthur knew better than to
waste breath asking any more questions. The instant they reached the stream
bordering the wood, the gusting wind calmed. Merlin sat on the grass by the
water’s edge, signalling Arthur to join him. Virgil flew into an oak tree and
settled himself down, his eyelids blinking, rapidly at first, then slower and
slower, until finally his black eyes were shuttered. Seconds later he opened
one enquiring eye to check that Merlin was still there. Reassured, he ruffled
his feathers, inflating his body to twice its normal size, and drifted into
sleep, deflating as he did.

In the stream a few sleepy fish
moved with the ebb and flow of the water. Two or three of them gently nuzzled
Arthur’s hand.

‘The salmon is an
extraordinary fish,’ Merlin mused inconsequently, ‘all that swimming against
the current, all that battling against the odds. Is he not much to be admired?
A noble creature, independent of spirit, brimful of courage’ A sly look at
Arthur. ‘Why does he swim against the stream, negotiating rapids, climbing
cataracts, leaping falls, when it would be so much easier to go with the flow?’
A wondering shake of the head. ‘Is it his destiny? Has he perhaps been
specially chosen to save his race from extinction? It makes you wonder, doesn’t
it?’

Arthur said nothing, though
Merlin’s meaning was by no means lost on him.

‘In everyone’s life,’ continued the magus,
looking everywhere but at Arthur, ‘there comes a defining moment, a moment when
they must choose between the easy solution and the difficult one. The moment
passes quickly, so quickly that most people miss it, either because they are
too short-sighted to recognise it for what it is, or because they recognise it
and are afraid to do anything about it.’

For a few moments neither man
spoke. Something made Arthur look up, and there through the trees was the great
mound of Glastonbury Tor with St. Michael’s tower on its summit. The hairs rose
on the back of Arthur’s neck. His spine tingled.

‘Years ago when you were a boy
we climbed the Tor, you and I,’ Merlin reminded him.

‘I remember.’ Arthur was lost
in the green moons now, hearing nothing but Merlin’s voice, seeing only the
images he conjured up.

‘What do you see?’ asked the magus.

Arthur stared into the
distance. ‘I see two figures on the summit.’

‘Who are they, Arthur?’

Arthur shielded his eyes from
the early morning sun. ‘A man and a boy. That’s odd. Before when I looked . . .
’

The magus prompted him. ‘Yes?’

‘ . . . it was all a blur . .
. like a picture in two dimensions, one too far away, the other too close.’
Arthur peered through cupped hands as though he were looking through a
telescope.

‘And now?’ asked Merlin.

‘The two images are in focus,’
said Arthur excitedly. ‘Time past and time future have merged, then?’ ‘Yes.’

The magus gave a long,
satisfied sigh. ‘They are now time present.’

‘Yes.’ Arthur lowered his
hands. He was looking at the magus now.

‘So the man . . . ?’

‘Was you, Merlin . . . will be you . . .
is
you.’
‘And the boy?’

For a long moment Arthur hesitated. ‘The boy is
me.’

The eyes of the magus glowed
with a sudden blinding light. When the light died, Arthur was himself again. Beside
him sat Merlin, chin on chest, snoring like a warthog. His body relaxed, his
mind at peace, Arthur was filled with the joy of living. The stream shimmered
in the dappled sunlight, the warmth of the sun caressed his face, the soft rush
of the wind stirred the trees.

After lunch the two men sat
quietly and peered into the kitchen fire. Merlin had withdrawn into his head,
leaving Arthur to reminisce about the past; his thoughts drifted back to his
childhood and to those high summer days at Ponterlally when he and Keir would
sit for hours on the riverbank by the stone bridge.

‘There are bigger fish for you
to catch,’ said Merlin suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Silence broken only by the crackling of burning
logs.

Then Merlin began to speak,
conjuring up images of things beyond the borders of belief. Yet extraordinary
as they were, Arthur had the feeling they were real, and that in some other
place, some other time, he had seen them all before . . . Eclipse and Kraken,
Nimbles and Scuttles, rectangles and squares, pyramids and spheres, slender
towers waving at the heavens, all on a shining white island set in a grey green
sea. When exactly he had seen these things he could not remember, though he
guessed it must have been before time past and future merged into time present.

‘The time for dreaming is
over,’ said Merlin. ‘And the time for doubt has passed.’

‘You have been my friend and mentor since I was
a child.

Don’t desert me now,’ begged Arthur.

‘I shall never desert you,’ said Merlin. He
stared into the fire.

‘But you are the one who must bear the burden.’
‘If I should fail?’

‘Fail!’ Merlin smoothed the
air with his hands as if to erase the word. ‘Why talk of failure? Remember, you
will have more power than the world has ever known, the power you need to fight
the forces of darkness. Imagine, Arthur.’

For a moment Arthur’s eyes
dreamed, as they used to when he was a boy. But then, like those two figures on
the Tor, the dream and the reality became one, and it was as if a door had
opened and he had walked through it and entered the world of his imaginings.

‘Imagine aman,’ said
Merlin,‘amanwholivedmany centuries ago. This man is the only one on the planet
to possess, let us say, a sword, a sword so magical that it made him
invulnerable. Imagine that, Arthur. Such a man would have the power to save the
world, would he not?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur uncertainly.

‘A gentle man,’ continued
Merlin, ‘a man of conscience with a heart and a soul, a man of peace who
against his will becomes a man of war, compelled to impose order on chaos,
doing it reluctantly, only because he believes there is no other way.’ He
looked intently at Arthur. ‘Someone once said that the meek would inherit the
earth, but only if the strong helped them do it.’

‘I am trying to remember,’
said Arthur. ‘When was it?’ His eyes clouded as he roamed his memory. ‘It was
on Glastonbury Tor. I was eleven years old, and . . . yes, I remember now. It
was you who said it, and you were talking about King Arthur.’

‘I was talking about you,’ said the magus.

In the long silence that
followed everything became clear to Arthur, all the things that he had known or
almost known but had never allowed to enter his conscious mind. Above all he
understood that he had been given the choice to accept or reject his destiny. Now
at last he knew what Merlin meant by that word. Destiny was not a trap set by a
malign fate for a man to fall into; it was the product of all the choices he
made in his life.

As the flames of the kitchen
fire died down, Merlin put Arthur into a deep sleep. At first it seemed to him
that he was entering the world of his dreams, as he had so often done when he
was a boy. Yet in his sleep he understood that these were not dreams but
reality, the reality of his own future. He saw great battles in the sky and on
the sea, he saw the destruction of evil and the death of tyrants, he saw the
wicked perish and the good prosper. And he saw himself seated at a round table
surrounded by friends and comrades some of whom he knew, some whom he would
know in the future – proud Lancelot and noble Galahad, Ian Duncan, George
Bedivere and Leo Grant, Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris, Mordred and Gareth. He saw
acts of love and hate, acts of meanness and generosity, acts of friendship and
acts of treachery. He saw the first battle and the last.

When he awoke he felt
overwhelmed by the responsibility of it all. Merlin was right, it was his
burden and his alone. Was he strong enough to bear it? His fingers touched the
scar where the eagle’s talons had slashed his cheek when he was a boy.

‘We are all flawed,’ said
Merlin, ‘none of us is perfect. Nothing is in this universe. If there were such
a thing as perfection, the universe would be symmetrical. But if it were, if
matter and anti-matter were perfectly balanced, there would be no matter, only
energy, and we would not be here, we would not be anywhere. Now there’s a
mystery for you. We owe our very existence to the imperfection of the
universe.’

Suddenly Arthur knew that
everything in his life had led him to this moment. ‘When the time comes, if it
comes, will you be with me? On Camelot, I mean.’

‘If she will let me,’ said
Merlin wistfully. Arthur could not hide his astonishment. ‘Who? ‘Nimue. The one
who casts a spell on me.’

Arthur remembered now that Merlin had mentioned
her before. Could Merlin be playing one of his games? No. One look at his face
told Arthur this was no joke. He was concerned for his friend and wanted to
know more. Wherever Merlin was in the byways of his mind he read Arthur’s thoughts.
‘We met at university,’ he said. ‘We fell in love. For a time we lived
together. Then one day she left me.’

‘So it’s all over,’ said Arthur.

Merlin shook his head. ‘It
will never be over,’ he said. ‘Nimue’s passion is devouring. It is less about
love than about possessing. She wants to shut me in a cave and roll a stone
over me so that I will be hers forever.’

‘Then she must be very
stupid.’ ‘Why so?’

‘To imagine she can trap the magus.’

Merlin smiled. ‘You have a
great deal to learn about women.’

When it was time to drive back to London,
Arthur said goodbye to Merlin who handed him a small urn. ‘A long time ago I
made a promise,’ he said. ‘Now it is you who must keep it for me. I told you
once that the island of Camelot was given to me not for any material thing, but
for love. In this urn are the ashes of Robbie, beloved by the Lord of Camelot,
and in turn by you and me. Robbie is dead, but love never dies. When you bury
his ashes on the island it will be a sign that Camelot is founded on honour and
respect, on justice and mercy, and on love, Arthur, above all, on love. These
are the principles by which you and your followers must live. Abandon them and
you will lose your power, and Camelot will be doomed. Hold fast to them, and
you might even save the world.’

‘I shall try not to disappoint you.’

‘You will never do that, not
if you remember the meaning of Pendragon.’

Arthur’s face was blank. ‘You
don’t know?’

Arthur shook his head. For some reason he could
not explain, his heart was beating fast.

‘Hmm. A serious gap in your
knowledge,’ said Merlin, looking suspiciously pleased, happy to have found
something that he could still teach his protégé. ‘Hundreds of years ago the
word “pen” meant a chief, and the word “dragon”, a leader. So there you are,
Arthur. It is in the blood. You were born to be a leader of men.’

‘How shall I know?’ asked Arthur.

‘There is a legend that the
Round Table appears at the full moon,’ said the magus.

‘Where?’

‘At Bossiney Castle.’

Arthur was trying to puzzle
out that conundrum when, much to his embarrassment, Merlin dropped on one knee
and kissed his hand. ‘I have served you as best I could,’ he said humbly. ‘The
rest is up to you.’