He could have learned to be a coward and fool and so have been so unworthy of an honest life that he would slowly lose even the desire for it.
Bile was in his mouth as he thought these things.
As the sun set, the robe hanging from the pine branch grew brighter, and tiny glints of starlight were caught in the many white feathers and glowed.
That evening he took a walk in the woods. He carried no candle, sure in his night vision. It was cold, and the wind was sharp, but there was no snow on the ground. He asked a raccoon, and then two squirrels who had not yet decided to hibernate if his dog had been nearby. One of the squirrels led him to a recently turned patch of earth, which Gil dug up with a spade. He uncovered his father’s helm and shield.
The silver swan of the shield glinted in the starlight. The brave silver crest of the helm seemed to regard him, waiting patiently for some ponderous decision.
He took up his tall helm and tall shield and marched back to the house. His footsteps were firm; his stride was long. Gil paused and stared at his own feet. When had he learned to walk that way, almost a swagger? It was a man’s walk.
The only light in the room was from the shimmering swan-robe, softer than moonlight, and from the windows. The smell of woodsmoke from the sink was ever present. He did not bother lighting a candle.
He put the shield atop the armor, which his mother had stowed beneath the couch. The helm he propped up on the standing radio. The tall ornamental wings glistened boldly. The crest reached toward Heaven, nobly trying to fly. Even the cheek pieces jutted like the outthrust chin of a proud and cheerful prizefighter daring a foe to take a poke at him.
The empty eyeholes stared at him accusingly.
“What else could I have done?” Gil shouted at the empty helm. “Lived like a worm? I could have let Jeery go his way, let every bully and crook and lying cheater in this school grow like weeds, or at the school before that or the one before that! Why is it my duty to pluck the weeds? When did it become my job to take out the garbage?”
The helm stared at him sardonically.
“When did it become my job to protect the weak, to help the helpless, to save damsels and widows, to tell the truth, to uphold the law, to serve the King, and to serve the Christ?”
The helm looked unimpressed. Gil knew exactly when that had become his job. When he vowed it to Arthur’s noble, slumbering form, and placed his hands between the king’s own hands.
Gil said in a softer tone, “Why is it my job to keep my word even when it means death?”
He closed his eyes, not willing to continue the staring contest with the empty eyeholes of a silvery mask after nightfall in an unlit room. He knew why he kept his word: he was born that way.
“Why was I born?”
Gil flopped heavily down on the couch, wincing at his bruised ribs. He stared upward, seeing pine branches swaying in the motionless air. Through the hole in the ceiling, he could see stars. With no lights in his house, they were brighter and closer than stars should be, and they looked down coldly.
But Gil knew why he had been born. His mother, wrongly thinking herself a widow, had bestowed herself in love upon a man who had risked life and limb to save, serve, and protect her and who loved her in return. The cave in which she had been trapped was full of the bones of other victims, and soon hers would have joined them. His father acted as no ordinary man is wont to act and risked everything for a stranger in need.
He was born because his father had drawn a fabled sword both bright and true in defense of the helpless widow against a monster. (That same sword Gil through his own folly had lost into the hands of that same monster.)
In short, he was born for honor. Did that mean he was born to die?
He wished he knew the phone number of someone he could talk to. Gil wished he owned a phone. He was pretty sure there was a working phone in the church a mile or so down the road. He was not as nonchalant as his mother about breaking into a church. There was a payphone at the bus stop in town, eleven miles down the main road. He had no change for a payphone. Perhaps he could pry a gem off his armor and trade it to Mr. Yung, the pawnbroker.
But if he did make a call, what would Gil say? Or ask? What advice was he expecting anyone to give him?
Anyone? Not anyone. The face his longing conjured up was Sir Bertolac, the King’s Champion. What other man did he know who could give him advice on how to be a man?
He stared between the pine needles at the stars. Stars were made to turn and turn again in their courses, rising and setting just where and when they were made.
Stars kept their courses because, like the deathless and sad kings of the elfin lands, they had no power to break their word, to change their destiny, or to select their paths.
He could pick. His choice was simple: either life as a coward or death as a fool.
He wished Nerea had a phone.
2. A Familiar Voice
Gil was awakened in the pitch darkness. The first thing he noticed was that his sword was not at hand. A moment later, he realized what must have wakened him: his mother’s swan robe had been shedding a soft starlight from its fabric, enough for Gil’s eyes to make out the silhouettes and distances to objects in the room. He could not see any stars through the window. Perhaps cloud smothered them. He had no idea what hour of the night it was.
A voice spoke in the darkness. It was a rich baritone, full of good humor, but with a strange note of sadness behind the words. “Have you decided whether to resign your commission as an officer in the special metaphysical police force? You have now the training need to be a crusader rather than a martyr, but laying down one’s life is a requirement of both professions.”
It was the Man from the Black Room. Gil sat up on the couch, and the covers rustled around him. He turned his head left and right, trying to identify the source of the small noises of the big man’s breathing and motions.
Gil said, “Who are you, really?”
“Arthur’s true and trusted servant.”
“Are you Merlin? Bedivere? Gawain?”
“I am neither mage nor knight, nor any post so high and great.”
“Baldwin?”
“Nor was I a bishop. My life as an undercover detective involves continual deception and violence and other antics ill-becoming a holy vocation.”
“Dagonet?”
“Nor was I the jester. Ah! Is this a test to see how many obscure Arthurian references you can name, hoping I miss one and proving me an imposter?”
“Well…” Gil would not lie, but he did not want to admit that this guess was right.
“Let me help you: Arthur’s elf-forged sword was Caledvwlch, his dwarf-forged dagger was Carnwennan, and Carduel was the castle whose stones the eftlings erected for him by harping.”
“No, I believe you. You don’t need to…”
“I respect your skepticism! Merlin’s daughter was Inogen, his master was called Bleys, and his secretary was Bishop Anthony, a Roman who refused to abandon his flock when the legions marched away, and the eagles of Rome passed across the sea, and the lamps of brighter days went dark.”
“Got it. You can stop now.”
“Would you like me to recite the triads of Arthur’s ancestry: Which three Kings of Arthur’s line trod upon the stone of Fal? Cynvor, Cynwal, Cynan. Which lost their true seeming in sin? Uther in Lust, Cadwalladwr in Wrath, Cadien in Idolatry.”
Gil made an impatient noise. “Fine! Stop! You are from King Arthur’s court!”
“Tuk was the Court Physician.”
“Stop! Mercy! I yield!”
“You are wise to surrender since I am expert in the art of irksomeness. It was part of my vocation and mission at the Court of Camelot.”
“And? What was your job there?”
“Kitchen page.”
“Wh-What?”
“Pot boy. I worked next to Beaumains. Turns out he was Gareth in disguise! Who would have thought it! Hard worker, too, and he whistled like a bird when other boy
s boasted and cursed and talked about the Queen’s rump. Never a foul word out of his mouth! Too bad he became a knight because he was the only pot boy who ever got Big Bertha clean. That was our name for the copper pot Orimonde brought from Persia. But that was not my main job. I had court duties and wore a tabard! I carried the cauldron captured from Diwrnach Gawr.”
“Who?”
“Dyrnwch the Giant. Please don’t tell me that story is forgotten among men? It was a great and bold adventure, involving miracles and desperate fights by land and sea, and the moon walked backward in the sky. Forgotten? Ah, time is cruel.”
He was speaking of events well over a thousand years ago. Gil was astonished. “How can you have lived so long?”
The man chuckled. “By being careful. Very careful.”
“What?”
“The cauldron I carried acted as a lie detector and would not boil the meat of men who exaggerated their exploits or cowered before their foes. I was the most hated man in a court full of cruel and fearless men of war. Do you wonder how I learned to detect crimes and outwit intrigues?”
Gil stood. There was no light from the windows at all, so he could catch no glimpse of the tall man, even by starlight. He could hear and feel that the kitchen window was open. Something in the scent of the air told him it was snowing.
Gil said, “Why are you here?”
“To accept your resignation if you wish release.”
“From Arthur’s service?”
“I have no power to excuse you from that. But I can excuse you from the Last Crusade if the burden is too great, and I can take back the badge I gave you. And I am also here to beg you not to.”
Gil turned his head again, listening. It was really beginning to bother him that he could not pinpoint the man’s location. It almost sounded as if the man was equally in every direction. “Beg, not order?”
“Not to me you swore, but Arthur. Technically, that makes you a squire. You outrank the kitchen staff. That is why you have the discretion to select your own case to work on. How are you coming on overthrowing the tyranny of all elfs and evil spirits over mankind?”
“I saved one girl.” Muttered Gil morosely.
The man cawed with delight. “Susy the witch’s maiden, apprentice to Squannit! I thought she was eaten by an alligator! Did anyone tell Saint Cyprian of Antioch? I think witchcraft is in his bailiwick. You have made more progress than I had hoped!”
“How can you know her name?”
“By being very curious as well as by being very careful.”
“You were spying on her?”
“Don’t be silly. I was spying on you. Material was needed for your quarterly performance review! I have heard that you made some initial inquiries at Mommur, doing undercover work.”
“Mummery—or what you said—is that Alberec’s palace, buried under Brown Mountain?”
“The elf city of Mommur, the Nether Tower, is buried beneath many places and no place so that it can open doors in distant countries. Like my office. Like the cave where Arthur is.”
“How can a place have no place?”
“It exists as a cloud of potential locations which only actualize when an observer interacts with the sunlit world. It is a secret of the mists of Everness.”
“What’s Everness?”
“Merlin’s house. His memory. And his arsenal, where the weapons of the Otherworld are hidden. If you go there, the house will simply erase your memory. I assume I have been there many a time, but how can one know? You were in Mommur, and you shamed the elfin court and brought great honor to Arthur, or soon will.”
“Yes. I was there. At Alberec’s palace.”
“You had the sword Dyrnwen with you then.”
“Guynglaff Cobweb took it. I fought him.”
“Did you yield?”
“What? I mean– I beg your pardon?”
“Did you, of your own will, offer him the sword in return for your life or for some other promise or consideration?”
“No, he took it, and he kicked me off a bridge into the water.”
“God be praised!”
Gil reached out with his hands, groping, but encountered nothing. His feet made noise on the layer of pine needles. Why were the big man’s feet making no noise?
“Are you still here?” Gil asked.
The voice spoke again, but this time it sounded distant. “Your claim to the sword is still good, and it will serve you when you recover it. You must take up the sword again, for without it the quest to destroy the giant Ysbadden is forfeit, and all the hope of the Grail is lost!”
“Where did that come from? What is the Grail to me?”
“I have recently acquired another agent, working that case. Your mission is to get the training you need to be a true knight. What happens after that? Providence knows.”
Gil heard a rustle of pine branches. The voice was overhead. He realized that the big man must be climbing among the pine boughs above him. “Wait! Don’t go! Where can I recover my father’s sword?”
“Inquire at the Green Chapel.”
Gil shouted, “Don’t leave yet! Inquire how? Inquire what? It is a death sentence if I go there! The Green Knight is going to kill me!” And then, wretchedly, “My mom told me not to go!”
But there was no answer.
“Where are you? Why are you going?”
The answer was soft and distant. “You have guests.”
A moment later, Gil saw a flicker of red and blue lights in the window. He stepped over and looked out, his bare feet rustling the soft pine needles.
Police cars, lights spinning, were coming up the road.
3. A Thickness in the Mist
Gil took the precaution of donning his armor, helm and shield while the federal agents surrounded the building and readied their weapons. He thought it would be wise to render the armor unseen, as he had so often done with his sword.
It turned out that it was easy to coat the armor in mist. The mist came up immediately, much thicker than he had expected. Gil wondered if that meant someone else had summoned up a large and thick cloud of mist in this area, just now.
He looked out the window again. More vehicles were arriving, including a heavy boxy machine on treads that looked like a tank with no cannon. These were not the county police or even the state troopers. He wondered if he should run. He wondered where his mother’s swan robe was. He wondered where his mother was.
Gil put his hand against the pine tree. “Hey, listen. I don’t think I have time to write a note. If you see my Mom, tell her what happened…”
Then, he fell silent, his stomach knotted. What if his mother had sent the police to capture him? Such a desperate act would keep him alive, would it not? And she had threatened to chain him up, had she not?
The men did not knock and announce their presence, or ask his name, or give theirs. Two hefty men broke in the front door with a battering ram and threw tear gas canisters into the room. The cloud expanded outward. In a moment, Gil was in a smog of stinking smoke.
But it did not touch him. He neither vomited nor did his eyes water.
Gil kicked the gas-emitting can casually through the hole in the floor into the empty garage below, and said, “Pardon me, officers. Do you have a warrant?”
Gil simply had too much respect for the law to resist the men. He ached still from his last fight and was not eager to hurt the innocent. From the dull looks in their eyes, and the dull monotone in which they answered him, he realized that they were under the Black Spell. These were merely human puppets, acting without awareness and without their own will.
The agents were from some bureau of the federal government of which Gil had never heard. They were dressed in bulky bulletproof riot gear and armed with rifles, clubs, grenades, and what looked like bazookas, as if they had come to fight an army rather than arrest a teenager.
But they were able to enter the apartment, step on the pine needles, and stand under the tree without harm. Whatever Cobweb had sent
them must have been afraid of the tree. Gil plucked a small twig of pine from the bough and held it in his hand even when the glassy-eyed men handcuffed him and forced him into the back of the police cruiser.
He had slung his shield over his back, and their eyes could not see it, but the tall shape could not fit into the door of the cruiser. Nonetheless, the spell that held their eyes evidently also prevented them from noticing or remarking on how many tries it took them to stuff Gil into the seat. Minute after minute they shoved him toward the opening, only to have the unseen shield clang against the metal door frame. Then, like broken robots, they would stand for a moment with blank expressions on their empty faces and try again and then again.
Eventually, Gil solved the problem by diving headfirst into the back seat, banging his helmet on the far door.
A pinewood scent from the twig in his chained hands filled the back seat. Gil felt an inexplicable intuition that this scent prevented any additional spells or elfin charms from drawing near.
He wondered idly whether they could see his face or not. The mist prevented them from noticing the helm on his head, but it did not turn the metal invisible.
4. The Bureau of Compliance
He had his answer when he was taken to a facility—it was neither the county police station in Blowing Rock, nor the state trooper headquarters in Lenoir, but a blocky concrete edifice hidden off the highway in the middle of nowhere—where he was fingerprinted and photographed. The dull-eyed desk officers did not have him remove his gauntlets for the fingerprinting nor his helm for the photograph.
In a bare side room at a wooden table before a tall mirror sat a tired-looking officer with a five o’clock shadow and jowls like a sad bulldog. He gave Gil a typed confession to sign. Gil asked to see a lawyer. The officer grunted, signed Gil’s name, which he spelled as Gilbert P. Mott, and slid the confession into a drawer.