The Secret of Excalibur (7 page)

Sitting in his opulent office, Dobie proudly surveys his domain. He's contently puffing on a cigar, savoring the rich flavor. He never allows himself the pleasure of smoking a cigar before noon, but he feels he deserves one today. He starts reading the reports gathered from last night. He's already memorized them, but they make him feel good, so he rereads them again. After he's done, he studies the tip of his glowing cigar, mentally reviewing his wardrobe.
There isn't anything I own suitable to go before the Queen, for knighthood.
Oh he has time yet, but he can feel his knighthood, getting closer and closer.

Blowing out a stream of blue/gray smoke, the Commander of MI6 thinks about the American.
He's almost under control
.
That fool lesbian kept Arthur with her all night in the hot-tub, and now, I'll be able to use Arthur whenever needed, through Dr. Burns
.

Funny though, with all the listening devices he had installed over the years in her house, even when her father held his quiet, subcabinet meetings there, not once was there a hint the lesbian also went for men. He chastises himself for overlooking that important detail.
I'll have to be more careful in the future.

Swiveling in his chair to gaze out the window at the London skyline, he reflects on his early morning meeting with the PM. With a self-satisfied smile, he remembers how the PM almost fell over herself with praise of him and his team. Why, she admitted he'll be knighted before long, and even confirmed his knighthood was long overdue.
Finally, the silly woman is beginning to see who's really in charge around here. About time, too.

Puffing on his cigar, he thinks,
hmm, a new blue suit will work.
I always look good in blue. Sir Cecil Dobie. Yes, that has a good sound.

I polish off Gladys' sumptuous breakfast, then drink more coffee, but with less of the rocket fuel. I can't get drunk, per se, just a feeling of euphoria and highness. Kinda like the time I was stupid enough to mentally push my pleasure center. Bad mistake. Just thinking about my two-minute orgasm still makes my legs tremble. The next two days I was dribbling and dripping all over the place. I've never been dumb enough to try that again. Men take longer to recover from that type of orgasm, unnatural I guess. Yet, women recover fairly fast, they just feel all warm and cuddly.
Weird. Oh well, that's life.

Ruth strolls into the kitchen giving me a soft, affectionate little smile, then pats my hand. Yup, warm, cuddly, and definitely a person who pats. She's smearing cream cheese on muffins. “Well, since I see no reason to run any further tests on you, what do you want to do today?”

Taking a sip of my coffee, I think about that. “I'd really like to go sightseeing around the city.”

As Gladys replenishes her cup of tea, Ruth points out, “I don't think we should do that. The reporters will be on us like vultures. They know about me, and where I live, and though Dobie has men stationed at the gates to keep them away, how far would we get?”

She's right, and despite myself, I become angry again.
Politicians.
But at the same time, I know I helped MI6 of my own free-will and can't exactly blame Dobie. But it feels good, so I do it anyway.

“Okay, kid, you're right. How about this? We take your little car and pop out to the country. Make a day of it.”

With a sideways glance at Gladys, she asks, “Can you do that? I mean with my car?”

I tell her, *Sure, we can take the whole house if you want.*

She jumps up, heading for the door. “No, just us, alone. I'll get ready.” And she hurries off, like she's afraid I'm going to say no or something.

Gladys picks up the dishes with tears in her eyes.
This tough old woman, crying?
So, I ask, “Gladys, are you crying?”
My, but I'm observant.

Rinsing our dishes at the sink, Gladys says softly, “Sir, I've known Miss Ruth all her life. For the first time since she was fourteen, she's finally alive, excited, and a woman. God Bless you, sir.”

Either there are no secrets around here, or I'm missing something. Carefully, I read Gladys' mind.
I'll be damned.
She's always known about Ruth and Toni, but kept out of their affair, always hoping a man would come along and put Ruth back on the right track. And now, she figures that finally happened.

“Sir, be kind to Miss Ruth. She's a good girl. Always was, just took the wrong path for a while.”

Stepping behind her, I gently place my hand on her rounded shoulder. “Gladys, Ruth is a special person to have someone like you who loves her so much.” As I turn away, I gently pat her arm.
Damn. Now Ruth has me doing it.

Upstairs, Ruth is talking with Toni, handing her a small suitcase and a bag to take to the car. Ruth faces me in the hall. “Arthur, pack a bag, I want to do an overnight trip, just us alone. No one will know where we are, or who we are. Please?” she asks, gazing up at me, batting her eyelashes.

Ruth is standing with the same pleading look she used last night during my phone conversation with Dobie. And it works the same way. Emotionally, I'm a pretty tough guy, but she's cutting through the protective coating men keep around their feelings, really damn fast.
I'd better watch myself before I turn into a marshmallow. Okay, act annoyed, so she knows you're upset at being told, not asked, and stall a few minutes.
Instead, I simply say, “Sure, kid, I'll get ready.”
Very macho.

Throwing my belongings together in one of my suitcases, I start thinking about our trip. Generally, I don't become excited over small things, but this trip is getting me going. Not just spending time alone with Ruth. Something else is pulling me, right at the edge of my mind. But I can't find the reason, and when I try to narrow it down, the reason slips away.

Out on the porch, if you want to call an area that has thirty large, marble columns a porch, I see her, sitting in her cute, little car, waiting. “Would you like to drive, Arthur?” she asks me, oh so sweetly.

I study her car. “No, you'd better. I'd be driving on the wrong side of the road, kid.” I load our luggage and concentrate on the road out by the back of the airport. “Close your eyes.” She already has them closed and a death grip on my right arm. BLIP! “Okay, kid, fire her up and let's go sightseeing.” I gently pry her fingers from my arm.

With a sheepish look, she says, “That still frightens me. I'm sorry.”

Driving along the old highway, the wind whipping through our hair, I think about how frightened Ruth would really be if she knew exactly what happens when we teleport. There's no way I'm telling her. Nobody wants to learn they've just gone through nuclear expansion, and would light-up a Geiger counter for several seconds afterwards, enough radiation to kill. But the radiation is controlled, somehow, by my mind. I never could figure out exactly how the process works; only that it does.

The clear June morning gives way to cobalt skies with a few fluffy white clouds and several contrails arcing across the sky. Ruth indicates landmarks and historical locations along as we ride. I notice she's driving barefoot now, her sandals up close to her seat. She's wearing a beige, midi-length skirt, short-sleeve blouse, and a red bandanna tied up in her medium-length auburn hair.

I watch with titillation as she shifts gears, because each time her leg moves to the clutch pedal, her skirt slides up an inch farther. Her skirt finally stops to where if I lean a hair forward, I glimpse white panties. I'm acting like a sixteen year-old boy again.
Better get my shit together, or I'll be wetting myself.
When she isn't shifting, steering or pointing, her left hand is resting on my leg, halfway from my knee, which doesn't help matters at all.

Around noon, we stop and have a beer, with a lunch of some funny looking buns filled with meat. In the USA, they're called Runzas, but I have no idea what they're called here. They have a slight liver flavor.

We're traveling southwest, and after four more hours of seeing absolutely nothing but trees, a few fat cows, some sheep, and a few bicycles, we arrive at a small town. As Ruth gears down, she says, “They have an inn here.”

That's all.
What does she mean? That the other towns we passed through didn't? Or they weren't far enough away?

We pass a muddy pond in the middle of the town, with a long, old pole on a tripod, hanging over the water, and a few ducks swimming around. Ruth notices me staring. “Long ago, they used to dunk witches in the pond until they confessed.” As she steers around the pond, she continues, “In fact, about twenty years ago, the name of this village was Witches End. Gruesome, isn't it?” She's slowing and heading for a large, brown, two-story, stone building.

I ask, “What happened after the witches confessed?”

She steps on the emergency brake, then glances over at me. “They were burned at the stake.”

Of course, how silly of me.

I study the building as we park in front. “What a formidable place kid, looks medieval.”

Ruth examines the building, too. “Well, actually, it is. The inn was built around the same time as the pond. Over the years, they've added modern conveniences inside, but the outside looks about the same. In fact, the people suspected of witchcraft were brought here and imprisoned, to await their trial by dunking. If they confessed, they were burned as witches. If not, they were either drowned during the trial, or stoned to death as hypocrites.”

Looking around, I think,
What a cheerful history. And she wants to spend the night here?

She pats my leg, staring intently at my face. “I wonder how the folks in that era would've felt about you and your abilities. For that matter, even people living here today. They're still a suspicious lot. They believe in curses, and still fear witches.”

“You've got to be kidding, it's 1987.” I glance at Ruth to see if she's serious.
How can anyone still believe in witches?

“You wouldn't know the history around here, but over there, to the west, about twelve miles away is where Camelot is meant to have been located. Old Merlin used to send his minions here to collect the villagers to be used for his magic potions.”

“Hey, wait a minute here, I always thought Merlin used his magic for good, not evil. He was one of the good guys,” I say defensively. I've read many books about Merlin, and never read or heard this version before. I always thought he would've been a cool guy, hence my last name.

She regards me as one would a new puppy that just wet the floor. “Arthur, by his own admission, Merlin lived more than one thousand years. He used plenty of human organs and blood transfusions to keep himself alive. In fact, when he became involved with King Arthur, he was supposed to be more than eight hundred years, so he used many people, all locals, to keep his youth and vitality. King Arthur ignored what Merlin was doing because he required his magic. So, for God only knows how many generations, Merlin's minions came here, and other villages like this, to gather peasants for whatever reasons he needed.”

Burned, drowned, or stoned.
I witnessed some of that in Viet Nam, but the burning there was napalm, and quick. There'd been enough stoning going on too, but it had nothing to do with rocks.

Ruth opens the trunk, and I take out our bags, following her to the front entrance. We step into a large room out of the Dark Ages, except the new fluorescent light fixtures. The floor and walls are old, worn wood. Along one wall is the biggest fireplace I've ever seen, seven-foot-high and nine-foot wide. You could roast a whole cow or pig in there. Over farther into the room is a long, wooden bar, serving as a counter, with an oversized coffee urn and two hot-plates with pots of water on them. The whole rooms filled with old, wooden tables and benches, not one chair. Mounted on the walls are ancient weapons, and some armor: maces, quarterstaffs, broadswords, shields, battleaxes, daggers, lances, helms, coat of plates, chain mail, and gauntlets. Neat, really, if you don't think about the history of the place.

When I first met Ruth, I thought I'd read her mind fairly well, but the tragedies of her life were in the foremost of her conscious mind, so most of what she'd learned over the years, and her special interests, had been shaded out. Now I wish I'd scanned her more deeply, then I could've found elsewhere to stay.
But no, that's not true. I do want to be here. No … not here, but somewhere close by.

Damn, why can I read everyone else's fucking mind but mine?
I can feel something nagging at me, but can't figure out what it is.

As we're looking around in awe, a short and very stout woman trundles from the back, behind the counter. She's wiping her hands on a sky-blue apron and with her, drifts the smell of fried food.

“Lady and Gent, I'm Mary Moynin, and I'll be pleased to help ye.” She gives a half curtsy and half toothless smile.

“Mrs. Moynin, we need a room, please, for one night.” I flash a charming smile while giving her a slight mental nudge. “We're on our honeymoon, ma'am.”

She glances at Ruth, whose face is running a bright red while fingering her necklace, then she smiles again. “Oh, sir, ye'll have the best room we got, and the lamb chops are on the house for ye tonight.” She curtsies again.

Did I really hear her say ye instead of you? Or am I too wrapped up in the stories from outside and the ambience of this place? Oh well, we're here now, might as well enjoy our stay.

Opening a book on the counter with large, yellowed pages that looks older than the building, she says, “I'll be apologizin' for no one to carry yer bags. Me old man is gone fishin' today, and I'm just not the type for heavy liftin'.”

I sign the book as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Merlin. “Don't blame you, ma'am, I don't care for it myself. See? We packed light.” I nod towards our small suitcases, giving her a tiny mental push. She actually blushes, thoughts of her own honeymoon skittering through her mind.

“Oy, sir, won't need much for nightwear.” Her face turns a deeper red.

As Mrs. Moynin reads over the register, with tightly, pressed lips Ruth gives me a small kick with her sandaled foot. Not hard, just enough. The pink flush leaves Mrs. Moynin's face. “Uh, sir, would ye have any relations from around these parts?”

I look at Ruth, who shakes her head NO. “No, ma'am, I'm recently from America, although my beautiful wife is from London.”

Whatever's bothering Mrs. Moynin has to be strong to overcome the mental nudges I gave her. But she seems satisfied for now, and wiping her hands again, waves towards the stairs. On the second floor, the place looks even older, if that's possible. She indicates a door and pushes it open. We follow her into a large room that's mostly taken up by a humongous bed.

“The bed has been here fer over two hundret years, but it's the most comfortable one in the village. Built fer the man who used to own this place, and he was a big man.”

Now that's an understatement. The bed is a good seven feet long, and has to be almost as wide.

Ruth stares transfixed. “God, you could get lost in that thing.”

The old lady stares right at Ruth, replying, “Daren't think so tonight, Lady.”

Hey, hey, now that's a blush. Ripe tomatoes have nothing on this girl.

Mrs. Moynin shows us the bathroom, with a new shower, and opens the window a few inches. “If'n I ain't pryin', what manner of work is ye in, sir?”

I answer, “You're not prying, ma'am. I'm a magician; at least, I was one in the States.”

All the color that had returned leaves, and she slaps her hand over her mouth. As she backs from the door, she says, “Dinner is at seven, sir.” She quickly shuts the door as Ruth sighs.

“Now what did I do?” I ask a bit cranky.

Ruth sits on the bed, bouncing a few times, testing the firmness. “Don't you see the connection? I told you how superstitious these people are, and the history. Along comes a magician named of all things, Arthur Merlin.”