The End of Magic (28 page)

Here were bright ribbons tied in knots that fluttered against the wind, but she had ribbons a-plenty at home, and she had
never had a silver penny of her own. There were slabs of gilded gingerbread and barley-sugar candy painted red, but still,
the girl did not feel that such treats were special enough to spend her money upon.

Then she heard the voice.

Marian had always loved to listen to the bards that traveled through the land performing at weddings and other great occasions.
It was said that King John had minstrels in attendance at his fine London court all the year around and so could listen to
their songs any time he wished. Marian thought it was a great thing to be king, but even more than she loved the songs they
sang, Marian loved the stories the bards sometimes told—old stories, of the days of heroes and marvels. When she heard the
man’s voice, she moved toward it as the bee moves toward the flower.

She reached the edge of the crowd and pushed through them until she had reached a place where she could see and hear clearly.

The storyteller was an old, old man. His white hair and beard flowed down over his shoulders, and he was dressed in a long
raggedy robe that looked as if it had sticks and burrs caught in its weave. As he spoke, he leaned on a staff that seemed
to be made from an old gnarled tree-branch. He was shabby and not very prepossessing, but Marian did not care. He was telling
her favorite story of all, the story of Arthur the boy-king and how he had defeated the wicked sorceress Morgan le Fay and
her evil son Mordred.

The storyteller told of the great battle Merlin fought as if he had really been there. Marian listened, enchanted, spellbound
by his words until at last they drew to a close.

“I had won. I was trying to smile, but it was the smile of desolation. Inside I felt only the pity of the terror and the waste
of it all. Everyone I ever loved, and who ever loved me, all gone, all gone down.

“But then Galahad returned, and brought with him the Holy Grail, and Spring, and the land became fertile again, and the cycle
of death and darkness ended, and so does my story.”

He turned aside and lay down his staff, and picked up a box, getting slowly and painfully to his feet.

“And now, if my story entertained or enchanted, you may show your appreciation in any way you think fit… but particularly
with money.” He set the box down on a tree stump and looked expectantly at the audience.

“Master Merlin!” Marian asked, clutching her penny. “Did you ever find Nimue?”

The old storyteller shook his head. “No, I never found Nimue, or even the cave again.” He shook his head sadly.

Marian came forward and shyly dropped her silver penny into the box. The story had been worth it. And maybe he really was
Merlin the wizard.

“Maid Marian!” her nurse called, and Marian, guilty, ran toward the familiar cry.

“What about the magic? Can you still do magic?” a man’s voice called out.

Merlin sighed. He loved to tell the stories, but he hated the questions that inevitably followed. So often they were questions
he had asked himself, over and over. This question was an easy one, though. They always asked about the magic.

“No,” he said tolerantly. “I got out of the habit—and besides, nobody believes in it any more.”

The audience that had gathered to hear him was drifting away, back to the other delights of the fair. Merlin looked down into
the box. Two or three bronze groats, and among them, one shining silver penny. He wondered who had been so generous. He scooped
the coins up and tucked them into a pocket, then glanced up. One of the townsfolk was still sitting on the bench, as if hoping
Merlin would continue.

“It’s all over, friend,” Merlin said gruffly. “There is no more.”

“It’s not exactly the way I remember it, Master Merlin,” a familiar voice drawled.

Merlin stared. “Frik?” he whispered in disbelief, peering toward the stranger. “Frik, is it you?”

The old man on the end of the bench drew back his cowl to reveal the long pointed ears and bulging eyes of a very old gnome—though
he did not look quite as old as Merlin.

“Yes,” Frik said simply, “it’s me.”

Frik’s hair was white and wispy with age, but he was unmistakably Merlin’s old teacher. He chuckled with delight at the expression
of astonishment on Merlin’s face, and Merlin joined him, more lighthearted than he had felt in many years.

They came together and embraced, two creatures of magic who had survived into a world that no longer believed in their existence.

“I must say,” Frik said, “you do tell a good tale—terribly exciting and all—but I was intrigued that you chose to omit certain
…”

“Well, that’s how they like it,” Merlin said philosophically. “Besides, I don’t think they’d believe me if I told them how
it really was.” He held Frik at arm’s length and studied him. “And how are you doing in this world, Master Frik?”

The elderly gnome simpered self-deprecatingly. “Well, I mean there will always be a need for the perfect gentleman’s gentleman,
and I was and always will be one of the best,” he said with simple pride.

Together they walked away from the storyteller’s circle. Merlin jingled the coins in his pocket.

“Meager pickings, Frik. Meager pickings,” Merlin said with a sigh.

“You’d do better if you gave them some magic,” Frik said judiciously. “Even if they don’t believe in it any more, that’s what
they’re always hoping for.”

Merlin shook his head. “The time for magic is done. It would bring back too many sad memories.” Of Nimue, and all that he
had lost. Merlin sighed sorrowfully.

“As a matter of fact,” Frik said, “that’s why I’m here.”

He led Merlin around a corner, to where an ancient horse stood patiently waiting. Merlin stared in astonishment.

“It can’t be—it is!” Merlin whispered as Frik chuckled in glee at the success of his surprise.

“Sir Rupert!” Merlin moved forward to stroke the old horse’s satiny nose.

“I found him grazing in a field and we got to reminiscing,” Frik said offhandedly.

Merlin found a bit of bread in one of the pockets of his tattered robe and held it out for the horse to take.

“Dear old boy! Shouldn’t you be dead by now?” he asked, still stunned by seeing his old companion from the days of the Wild
Hunt once more.

*No, no… there’s a little magic in me, too,*
Sir Rupert said fondly.

“Oh yes,” Frik said casually. “I almost forgot. Nimue.”

“What about her?” Merlin said levelly, for the memory of losing her still brought him pain, even after all these years. It
always would.

“Oh, nothing, really,” Frik rattled on in those too-casual tones. “Other than that she was inquiring about you when I saw
her last month.”

It took a moment for Frik’s words to penetrate Merlin’s senses. He turned slowly away from Sir Rupert to stare at Frik.

“I don’t understand,” Merlin said. He and Frik and Sir Rupert were all touched with magic, but Nimue was only mortal. Even
if she had managed to escape the magic that Mab had set around her, she should still have died long ago.

Frik took pity on his bewilderment and explained.

“Sometime after Mab disappeared, her spells began to lose their power, and Nimue was set free.”

Now Merlin understood. Nimue had been cocooned and protected by the last of the Old Magic on her passage down through the
years. She was alive! Alive!

“Where is she, Frik?” Merlin asked eagerly.

“Sir Rupert knows,” Frik said, with a touch of his old mysteriousness.

“Thank you, my old friend. For everything,” Merlin said unfeignedly.

“Oh, no need to thank me,” Frik said, raising his hands in protest as he began to walk away. “I just love happy endings.”

And we’ve had too few of them in our lives, haven’t we, Master Frik?
Merlin watched for a moment longer as the gnome strode purposefully away, then turned back to the horse. Sir Rupert regarded
him with a sparkling gaze.

“Well now,” Merlin said. “Shall we see if either of us has anything left of our youth in us?” With the aid of a nearby bench,
Merlin managed to mount his old companion, and old horse and ancient rider left the fair at a gentle walk.

Sir Rupert’s leisurely ramble took them north, out of the town and toward the vast forests now claimed by the King as a hunting
preserve. Merlin struggled to remain calm, but inwardly he was breathless with anticipation. To see Nimue again after so many
years, to hear her voice…!

Slowly the landscape they traveled through began to seem familiar. It had changed greatly with the years, but Merlin still
recognized the trees of the forest through which he had roamed as a boy.

*We’re here,*
Sir Rupert said, stopping.
*And now I’ll leave you, Master Merlin. You won’t need me again,*
the horse said confidently.

Carefully, Merlin slid down from the saddle. Sir Rupert tossed his head and began to trot away, growing younger and more vibrant
with each step. At last he gave a great leap into the air and disappeared.

Merlin hardly noticed. There, up ahead in the clearing, was Ambrosia’s old cottage.

It had been much mended, and showed the wear of the passage of many seasons. But there was firewood stacked outside it in
neat piles, and a curl of smoke wafting upward from the hole in the roof.

Barely able to breathe, Merlin began walking across the clearing. When he had covered about half the distance, a woman came
out of the hut.

Her hair was as white as his own, and she wore coarse peasant clothing, but Merlin would have known her anywhere. It was Nimue.
She smiled delightedly to see him and walked sedately toward him, moving with the carefulness of age. Though her face was
seamed and lined with the tracks of age—and bore, once more, the scars of dragon-fire—she was more beautiful to him than she
had been in her long-ago girlhood.

“Oh, my dearest,” Merlin whispered, taking her gently in his arms. They kissed, as gently and companionably as the old lovers
they were.

“Frik found you,” Nimue said. Tears glittered in her eyes, and Merlin could feel her body trembling. Like him, Nimue had not
dared to hope that Fate would allow them to be together once more.

“I never believed I would ever see you again,” Merlin said quaveringly. “So many years lost.”

Nimue nodded, her eyes growing sad. “You’ve grown older,” she said, inspecting his white hair and fierce wrinkles.

“You too,” Merlin said, wagging a finger at her and then touching her lightly on the tip of her nose. For some reason the
simple remark struck them both as terribly funny, and they laughed together like schoolchildren. He hugged her tightly, and
they began to walk toward the hut.

“Does it hurt?” Nimue asked.

Merlin knew what she meant. All the loss, all the failure, all the loneliness of his life…

“No,” Merlin answered, still chuckling in the wheezy way of the very old. “Not anymore.”

They stopped before the door of the hut. Nimue turned to face him.

“But… I think I still have one trick left,” he said.

Merlin reached deep inside himself, calling upon his true magic, his heart magic. Not the illusions Mab had wanted him to
learn, but the true transformation that he had once used to turn himself from a boy into a hawk—to bring the green of the
spring. He reached out, stretching one hand toward Nimue’s face, turning the other toward himself.

The magic kindled slowly. Nimue gasped as it raced over her, erasing the marks and scars of age, doing for her in truth what
he had once tried to do for her in illusion: making her whole, young, beautiful.

Unscarred.

She stared at him in wonder as Merlin was transformed in turn: the white hair melting away to leaf-brown, the gnarled fingers
and stooped back of age straightening into youthful vitality. Time ran backward as it filled his veins with the hot fire of
youth.

Nimue cried out in wonder, reaching to feel her own smooth skin and to run her hand over his beardless face. Merlin kissed
her again, this time with the passion of youth, and as he did Merlin felt the last of Mab’s gift fade from his bones. His
fairy heritage melted away, leaving him wholly mortal at long last.

He gazed down at Nimue. They had long lives before them now, lives to spend as they had always dreamed: together, at peace,
in love. Not a princess and a wizard, but a husband and wife. It was all either of them had ever wanted.

“There’s no more. That’s the end of magic,” Merlin said, smiling down at her.

And so it was.

T
HE
C
AMELOT
C
OMET

T
here’s a good reason to write about a comet coming to Britain at the time of Arthur’s death: there probably was one. Though
we have no definitive records from the chroniclers of the period, we have other ways of determining what was happening in
sixth-century Britain, the period most commonly associated with King Arthur and the Matter of Britain.

Dendrochronology is the study of tree rings to provide evidence of ancient environmental conditions. Good years produce wide
growth rings, while bad years appear as narrow ones. In western Europe in the past two millennia, one particular dendrochronological
pattern stands out. Between
a.d.
536 and 545, the weather in Britain wasn’t good at all. In fact, this period is characterized by crop failures and famines
worldwide, and constant references in contemporary records to a “dry fog” or “dust veil.”

The relevance of this to the Arthurian mythos is twofold. First, Arthur’s death traditionally heralds the beginning of a time
of famine and drought in Britain. Second, the Arthurian mythos is inextricably intertwined with that of the Grail, which is
also associated with famine. Now we have scientific evidence to indicate a widespread famine at precisely the period history
has assigned to Arthur and the Grail.

Famine—drought—darkness—what could have caused them? Since we’re able to rule out volcanic eruption, the likeliest answer
is the close approach of a comet. Passing through its tail could load Earth’s atmosphere with enough cometary debris to produce
the same “little winter” that occurred on a much smaller scale in Tunguska in 1908. Records of heavy meteor showers beginning
around
a.d.
400 and extending for the next two centuries suggest that Earth was at increased risk from cosmic interlopers during this
period, and a comet would fit the few facts we have.