《Arthur》


 Page 1

    Chapter One


    The dream is always the same.


    I''m standing at the base of a cross. High above, jagged bolts of lightning crisscross the starless night sky. Rain angles down like slashing silver daggers. The crowd behind me is cheering, roaring, surging. A living animal. An enraged animal.


    Lightning flashes again, and I see that there are actually three crosses rising straight out of the earth. They stand side by side along the crest of a steep hill.


    Three crosses. And three broken figures hanging upon them.


    In my dream, I''m standing before the middle cross, looking up into the rain, up toward what had once been a man. I can see that his hands have been hammered to either side of the cross, the rusted nail jutting from his bloodied palms. His shoulders sag in such a way as to suggest his arms have been torn from his shoulder sockets. A third nail protrudes from his feet, which have been hammered together on the lower center beam. He''s wearing a crown of thorns, which had been thrust cruelly low on his face. Blood from his many wounds, lash marks that reach from behind his back and legs, pours down along the center beam, pooling briefly at the base of the cross.


    Behind me, the crowd is chanting.


    I do not understand their language, but I know what they want. They want these three men to die. In particular, the center man.


    Rain drives hard into my face. Lightning pierces the churning sky. There''s something happening here. Something supernatural.


    Something slams into my shoulder. It feels like a punch, but it''s not. A fist-sized rock settles near the base of the cross. I''m about to turn around to see who threw the rock when another hits me. And another.


    The last rock hits me in the kidney and I stumble forward, gasping, and fall forward against the cross, which I hold onto for dear life. Why it''s so important that I hold onto the cross, I do not know. But I refuse to let go.


    And while I hold it, wrapping my arms tight around the wooden base, I realize a pair of bloody feet are now just inches from my face. The head of a rusted nail projects from them. I watch with fascination and horror as the toes curl in obvious pain. Blood seeps from around the protruding spike.


    I''m still being pelted with rocks. Some ricochet off me harmlessly. Others hit me with greater force. I''m certain that it''s only a matter of time before one of them kills me.


    But it''s the man on the cross who takes the brunt of the rock throwing, and that''s when I realize the crowd isn''t throwing rocks at me. Indeed, they''re throwing rocks at him. As if he hasn''t suffered enough pain, now he must helplessly endure projectile after projectile, many of which hit home, plunking solidly into his chest and thighs.


    He winces with each impact.


    As rocks continue to hail down around me, I look up into the falling rain. I want to see the face of the man on the cross. Perhaps there''s something I can do for him. Perhaps there''s some way I can help him or ease his pain. But his face, I see, is hidden in the late evening shadows.


    More rocks, more shouting from behind. I can feel palpable waves of hate emanating from the crowd. Their anger and fear is a living thing.


    Lightning suddenly explodes across the heavens, illuminating everything, including the man.


    The broken man; the badly beaten man.


    I think at one time he had been handsome, but that''s nearly impossible to tell now. His jaw is clearly broken, and the bones in his face appear pulverized. Blood drips from his many open wounds, most obviously from wounds caused by the vicious-looking crown of thorns. His body hangs grotesquely upon the cross. But perhaps most shocking of all is that he''s returning my gaze.


    I gasp and step back. I realize then that he''d been watching me this entire time.


    He holds my gaze, and then smiles. As he does so, more blood bubbles out from his broken mouth. How much blood can a body hold? A single drop of it falls free from his swollen lips, and I watch in fascination as it twists and turns in the driving wind.


    Falling toward me.


    Now I see I''m holding an ancient silver chalice in one hand and a glowing sword in the other. With the chalice, I catch the falling drop of blood, and with the sword, I turn and face the angry crowd. And as they charge, I hold my ground.


    And that''s usually when I wake up.


    Weeping...


    Chapter Two


    Glastonbury, UK


    Present Day


    It was coming on evening when my taxi arrived at the Number Three Hotel in Glastonbury, England, legendary location of King Arthur''s Camelot. At least, that''s what my travel guide told me, the signs along the way told me, and even my taxi driver told me. Hell, I was practically expecting a knight or two on horseback to escort us.


    But no knight appeared and soon the cab pulled up in front of an ivy-covered doorway that led to an ivy-covered courtyard. Beyond was a large Georgian townhouse that doubled as a bed and breakfast.


    The driver hopped out and ran around to the trunk and removed my bags, which he energetically stacked on the curb. I gave him a tip. Perhaps too big, because he suddenly smiled brightly, tipped his hat and I could practically hear him thinking, "Stupid American," and quickly drove away, perhaps before I realized how many pounds I had given him.


    Pounds or money was the least of my problems these days. Now, my sanity was another story entirely.


    I briefly watched the vehicle''s tires bounce and wobble over the cobblestone road, and, with an undeniable feeling of impending doom, turned and looked up at the massive edifice that was the bed and breakfast.


    The impending doom part might be an exaggeration. Okay, it probably was an exaggeration. But say that to my damn dreams. Dreams that have been plaguing me for the past three months or so.


    Dreams that seem to be centered here, in Glastonbury.


    Dreams that seem to be centered around a goblet. A chalice.


    A grail.


    The Holy Grail, in fact.


    You''re crazy, you do realize that?


    Crazy or not, the dreams had nearly become nightmares. Interestingly, it was only when I began making actual plans to come here to Glastonbury that my nightmares finally ceased.


    Relieved, I was about to cancel the trip when the nightmares returned two-fold, stronger than ever. Rocking my world and my life. Consuming me completely with their haunting images.


    I thought of this now as I stood there under gloomy skies as a light rain began to fall.


    I''m here, I thought. So now what?


    Yes, here I was in England, on what was officially a research trip for my next novel. After all, I had to justify the trip: to myself, to others, and to the tax man.


    Unofficially, it was something else. Unofficially, I was here to put an end to my dreams. Something wanted me here badly enough to invade my nights and haunt my days.


    No, not just something.


    As the rain picked up, pelting my upturned face, I thought of the Holy Grail. The silver goblet filled with Christ''s blood. I was holding it in my dreams.


    Holding it triumphantly.


    Insane, I thought. I''m going insane.


    If anything, you''re here to save your sanity, if it''s not too late.


    Granted, others didn''t need to know I was going insane. No, that honor was reserved for me and me alone; or, at least, until my insanity was so obvious I couldn''t hide it anymore. Anyway, calling this a research trip - rather than, say, a fool''s errand - seemed the safest route to take, even if it confused the hell out of my editor.


    Especially since my next novel was supposed to be a supernatural thriller about ghosts, tentatively titled Ghosts. Yeah, I know. I''m not great with titles.


    Well, I had begun the ghost story, and had gotten quite a bit into it, when something unusual happened:


    I hit a wall. I just couldn''t write it anymore. I discovered I was tired of writing about murder and mayhem. And I was tired of thinking up new and creative ways of killing people.


    So I decided to take a break from writing about murders.


    And that''s when the dreams started.


    Yeah, you''re losing your mind, James, I thought again, looking at the old-world, bed & breakfast before me.


    And with the sun setting behind a row of gnarled elms, plunging the cobblestone street and hotel in shadows, I took hold of my two suitcases and headed for the ivy-covered courtyard door.


    What awaited me within, I didn''t know.


    But I was about to find out.

 Page 2

    Chapter Three


    The old hotel was haunted.


    I was sure of it. Then again, I had ghosts on the brain these days.


    Actually, the hotel looked haunted. There''s a difference. The long entry hall consisted of an ornate marble floor, wing-back chairs, antique bureaus and elaborately-designed wallpaper. Fresh-cut flowers were everywhere, and the hotel, I felt, had a decidedly turn-of-the-century feel to it. Heck, it had a decidedly turn-of-the-millennium feel to it. As in, one thousand years ago.


    Then again, I grew up in Southern California, and any building older than, say, fifty years was deemed an important historic monument.


    Anyway, an old man behind an older front desk smiled at me warmly, his teeth surprisingly straight. I gave him my name. He punched it in, found my reservation, confirmed my credit card info, and told me where to find my room.


    Following his directions and fumbling a bit with the key card, I soon found myself standing in an ornately decorated room, complete with a fireplace, loveseat and a massive, decorative curtain hanging just beyond the headboard. I wasn''t sure what the curtain was all about, but it looked nice enough. I happened to know that this was called the Winston Room. As in Winston Churchill, who had not only stayed here but had even lived here for a brief period.


    Yeah, I felt special.


    I generally don''t immediately unpack and hang my clothes on hangars. I''m on vacation, after all, right? Granted, an alleged research vacation, but a vacation nonetheless. And when I''m on vacation, wrinkled clothing is acceptable.


    Who are you kidding? I thought. I''m here to see what the dreams are about. Plain and simple.


    And then it hit me all over again, harder than ever, perhaps because I was here. I was finally here:


    I had traveled halfway around the world because of a few crazy dreams.


    No. Not a few crazy dreams.


    Wildly incessant dreams. Persistently haunting dreams.


    Sighing, I dropped my bags and did what I had been itching to do since first touching down in England. I jacked in my laptop, went on-line, and checked my email.


    There were a few dozen Facebook notifications (someday I''ll figure out how to stop those from blasting my emails). There was an email from a publisher in Turkey interested in buying the Turkish rights to one of my vampire books. I tried to remember if the book had been published in Turkey but for the life of me, I couldn''t. I forwarded the email to my agent. He would deal with it. There was an email from an up-and-coming writer wanting to work with me on a project. I politely declined. I have more books to write than I have time.


    And there was an email from my editor, Rita, asking me if I had arrived safely. I replied that I had not, that, in fact, the plane was currently spiraling out-of-control. She would be my last email ever, and did she feel privileged?


    My editor liked me. I liked her, too. We had a nice working relationship, probably because I mostly stayed on deadline and she didn''t edit the crap out of my books. I also made my publisher a lot of money, and that reflected positively on her, even while it reflected damn positively on my bank account. Making lots of money smooths a lot of wrinkles.


    With the advent of the persistent dreams, something interesting started happening to me creatively. I started losing my taste for mystery novels. In particular, for death and destruction. So much so that it affected my writing output and I had to stop work on my ghost thriller.


    Rita my editor hadn''t been pleased. Especially when I informed her that I was thinking of writing a different kind of book, one that featured a decidedly lower body count. Now, the book idea had been brewing since the dreams began plaguing me. No surprise there. Any writer who suddenly starts dreaming of Christ, King Arthur and the Holy Grail is bound to start thinking about plot, structure, and theme.


    Yeah, I was thinking about writing a King Arthur novel.


    "King Arthur?" said Rita. I noted the mild hysteria in her voice.


    "But not just any King Arthur book," I said. "A spiritual King Arthur book."


    "Spiritual?"


    "Yes," I answered. "A sort of spiritual adventure."


    "What, exactly, do you mean by spiritual adventure?" she asked. She enunciated each word slowly and carefully.


    "You know, something in the tradition of The Alchemist or The Celestine Prophecy."


    "Those books were flukes."


    "The authors would beg to differ."


    "I mean publishing flukes. It''s like hitting the lottery."


    "I''m not looking to hit the lottery," I said. "I''m looking to write something that heals, rather than hurts."


    Rita snorted. I didn''t blame her. This was a lot to absorb, especially coming from a guy who''s last book featured a machete-killing high school teacher and his cult of honor student followers.


    "Your audience will never go for it," she said. "They want murder mysteries, James. They want a thriller. They don''t want God on Harley, or whatever the hell you''re thinking of writing about."


    "The Holy Grail."


    "Oh, Lord."


    "Deep breaths, Rita."


    "Will you at least consider putting some sort of murder mystery in it?" she asked, nearly pleading.


    "I''ll see what I can do."


    "Please, James. One corpse."


    "Probably not."


    "Oh, sweet Jesus...."


    "Keep breathing, Rita."


    And it had gone on like that for some time: her begging for bodies and hyperventilating and me holding my ground. She finally hung up when I promised to at least add some blood.


    But before she hung up she asked, "Any chance King Arthur can be a vampire?"


    "No."


    "Damn."


    Now in the hotel room, I finished my email to Rita by telling her that the plane had miraculously pulled out of its dive and that, after this near-death experience, I had had a vision of me writing historical romance novels. I typed a winkie face and could almost see her fainting. Poor thing.


    I dashed off a few more emails, snapped shut my laptop and took a brief nap.


    Big surprise, I dreamed of Christ hanging from the cross, a bloody goblet, and, just to mix things up a little, a surging underground river. I woke up and checked the time on my cell phone. I had been asleep for just under twenty minutes.


    A lot of dreaming for just twenty minutes.


    Surprisingly rested, I pocketed the hotel room key and headed down to the dining room for some dinner.


    A surging river?


    Lord help me.


    Chapter Four


    The dining room was small but elegant.


    I was seated next to a window that looked out upon the western gardens. A young waiter dressed smartly in a long-sleeved shirt and apron gave me a leather-bound menu. He asked if I wanted a drink and, despite making a concerted effort not to drink lately, I decided that a locally brewed ale couldn''t hurt.


    Just one, I reminded myself.


    I don''t drink for a number of reasons but top on the list is that I tend to get belligerent when I consume alcohol. I think everyone is a jerk and everyone needs to be put in their place. Except I''m really not a fighter and I tend to get my ass kicked by just about everyone.


    Anyway, the waiter returned with a frothing mug of brown ale (think Newcastle). Some of the froth bubbled over his hairy knuckles, but he didn''t seem to mind, although I did. The hairy knuckles, that is. I next ordered a broccoli quiche. He asked if I wanted chicken with that, and I said no. He wanted to be sure he''d heard me right and I mentioned that I was a vegetarian. He looked at me strangely, nodded uncomfortably, smiled weakly, and headed off, absently sucking his knuckles.


    I sipped my foaming beer, no doubt sporting an equally foaming mustache. Attractive. A man with a wife a few tables away belched loudly. Asshole. Someone should teach him some manners.


    Down boy.


    As this was mid-June, the late evening sun still had a lot of warmth left in it. The gardens beyond the window were immaculate and perfect with flowers and plants that I should know the names of but didn''t. Still, I appreciated their beauty.


    The reality of my situation struck me again: Here I was in England, alone, because of a dream. A dream.


    A persistent dream, granted. Still, a dream.


    I must be crazy, right?


    Right?


    And just as I was doubting my sanity - heck, just as I was wondering if I was actually dreaming this whole damn trip - a strikingly beautiful woman was shown to the table next to mine.


    Oh?


    As she sat, she removed a Kindle ebook reader and a writing journal from her oversized purse. She set the Kindle off to one side, opened the journal and unhooked a plastic, leopard-print pen.


    Well, well, well....


    Was she a writer? Could I possibly be so lucky?


    As I watched her, drinking my beer and doing my best to ignore the too-loud man behind me, I decided that she had a most perfect nose. It was small, but not too small. Straight, but not too straight. Upturned, but not too upturned. She also had lovely, rounded cheekbones that reflected the dining room light. Her black hair was ruler straight, just the way I liked it, and she wore a snug, sleeveless sweater that took my breath away with each breath she herself took. Oh, and she had a cute little mole on her left forearm.


    God, I needed to get a life.


    As the sky beyond darkened, the dining room filled with patrons. Overflowing beer mugs streamed out of the bar area. There was much clanking of glass and laughter. Too much laughter. Someone on my left was irritating the crap out of me. Seriously, did she have to laugh so loudly? Sweet Jesus, she sounded like a rabid hyena.


    Easy James.


    And all the while, the woman with the perfect nose and leopard-print pen wrote away. I ached to see what she was writing. I also ached to punch the douche bag waving to someone across the dining room.


    She can see you, asshole. We can all see you. Sheesh.


    I was getting hot. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I was halfway done with the beer and already I itched to do something about the guy belching. He''d let loose with another nauseating burp that even had some warble in it. Where the hell did he think he was, anyway? Seriously, someone needed to teach that s.o.b. a lesson....


    I continued sipping from my beer. The trapezoid muscles along my neck and shoulders felt tight. I was going to blow a gasket any minute now.


    I pushed my beer aside.


    Enough, I thought.


    I virtually inhaled the glass of water sitting on my table...and nearly wretched. It was lukewarm. Where the hell was the ice?


    It was about that time my quiche arrived. I dove in. I needed to take the edge off the alcohol, which I had consumed on an empty stomach. I didn''t come all the way to England only to get thrown out again.


    And why did you come?


    But I ignored my own question and dove into the quiche. As I ate, I noticed the beautiful, black-haired woman was still writing, and furiously. She turned a page, smoothed it out, and started anew at the top of the next. The pink tip of her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth as she wrote. I thought it looked adorable.


    When she finished the third page, I finished my quiche.


    Synchronicity at its best.


    She finally set her pen down just as the alcohol all but left my system and I was once again at peace with the world. The laughing, the waving, the clanking and the belching had little effect on me. That had been close. I had been moments away from getting into someone''s face.


    Anyway, the woman next reached inside her oversized handbag and extracted a small, plastic container. She uncapped the container and brought it to her lips and inhaled deeply from it. She held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. She replaced the cap and returned the container to her purse.


    Medicine? Did she have asthma? I didn''t know, but I did know one thing: I wanted to talk to her.


    Then go talk with her, I thought. Ask her about her writing. Mention you''re a writer, too. Couldn''t be easier. Heck, just say something to her, anything.


    But at the prospect of talking to her, complete with the many potentially humiliating outcomes, I broke out in a cold sweat. Talking to random women just wasn''t my thing. Especially gorgeous random woman.


    I took a deep breath, then reached over and finished off the last of the beer, hoping it was just enough alcohol to give me liquid courage but not so much that I might dive across someone''s table at the smallest sneeze.


    You can do this, James.


    But I just sat there with the setting sun. I couldn''t do it. She was too pretty. She was too perfect. I was far from perfect. I was so damned flawed.


    I pushed aside my beer mug in shame and decided to pack it in for the night. Defeated, I left some pounds on the dining table, hoping it was enough, and as I walked past her, I couldn''t help but glance down at her open notebook.


    And nearly tripped.


    Covering the page was a single word repeated over and over. A word I was quite familiar with. After all, it was my name.


    James.


    And it was written perhaps a hundred times. Perhaps many hundreds of times. In fact, she was writing it again now, over and over, her hand flowing quickly across the page, the pen a blur:


    James. James. James. James...


    I made a small, squeaky noise. A noise I couldn''t control. The woman''s head snapped up and I was moving so quickly that I nearly slammed into another waiter. I apologized, embarrassed. And as I left the dining room, my face red, I was certain her eyes followed me all the way out.


    Or was that just wishful thinking?

 Page 3

    Chapter Five


    I went straight to my room, where I proceeded to spend the next ten minutes burning off my nervous energy by pacing in front of the flatscreen TV.


    On the way up to my room I had convinced myself that she had been writing my name over and over. Now in my room, I realized how insane that sounded.


    Surely she hadn''t been writing my name, right? I mean, how egotistical can one person be?


    I expanded my pacing to include a trip to the bathroom. But now I was back again, hitting the small section of space in front of the TV hard, the wooden floorboards squeaking rhythmically.


    Obviously, it had been another James. Another very lucky James. Perhaps a long lost lover. Perhaps a war hero who had died on some distant battlefield. Or perhaps he worked in a local Starbucks, a James who whipped up one hell of a good vanilla latte.


    Or perhaps it had been you.


    Yeah, right.


    I occasionally looked out the open window. The sky beyond was much darker now. In the far distance, I could still see the dark silhouette of St. Michael''s Tower high upon Glastonbury Tor. The sky beyond it was purplish-black.


    I sat down at the edge of my bed, and ran my fingers through my thick, unkempt hair. Next I drummed my fingers on the bedspread. My drumming fingers didn''t make any noise. I quit drumming.


    An electric energy continued pouring through me. I still felt ashamed for not saying anything to her. A part of me felt that I had missed an opportunity, that I was supposed to talk to her. In fact, that same part of me was telling me to run back down to the dining room and finish what I had barely started. To talk to her, to at least introduce myself.


    That part of me I didn''t like. That part of me was apparently a glutton for punishment, because guys like me didn''t introduce themselves to girls like her. Guys like me admired from afar and watched the real men go to work, using their charm and wits to make her laugh and playfully slap his arm.


    I sighed and went back to pacing.


    I was tired from the long flight, but not tired enough to sleep, apparently. The woman had energized me. Heck, she had freaked me out, too.


    She had been writing James...over and over and over....


    So, after about ten or fifteen more minutes of this, I found my wrinkled jacket in one of the suitcases and left my room. I headed downstairs and out into the cool dusk.


    I hit the streets, walking with my head down and my hands deep in my coat pocket. My breath misted before me. The fog that had partially covered nearby Glastonbury Tor had now settled over the town. I like fog. I like rain, too. Maybe I was English in a past life.


    I passed a bum sitting up against a lamp post. A big guy with a shaggy beard and even shaggier hair. His boots and clothing were worn and dirty, made dirtier by sitting on a muddy sidewalk in the now lightly falling rain.


    He turned his mangy head toward me, face and eyes hidden in shadows. He held out a dirty and callused hand. It was a big hand with split nails.


    I have a philosophy when it comes to the homeless: Give them a hand, there''s enough for everyone.


    Yeah, I know, bums might spend my money on even more booze and/or drugs. Sure, they might. Then again, they might also spend it on a hot dinner. So I always give them the benefit of the doubt. And, honestly, did I really care if they did buy cigarettes and whiskey? Hell, if anyone out there truly needed a smoke and a drink, it was someone living on the streets, sitting in the rain, cold and alone and perhaps miserable.


    And so I stopped and dug out my wallet, removed a few bills and placed them squarely in the man''s outstretched hand.


    "God bless you, brother," he said.


    "Same to you."


    And, yeah, he sounded drunk as hell.


    Oh, well.


    Legend has it that after rescuing Guinevere from the clutches of evil, King Arthur and his noble knights established a mighty fortress high upon Glastonbury Tor. Legend also has it that the local Glastonbury Abbey is comprised mostly from the ruins of this once-mighty fortress. That is, of course, if King Arthur had ever lived at all. There are plenty of scholars who seriously cast doubt on this. These scholars are spoilsports and probably tell their kids there''s no Santa, too. The main problem with King Arthur was that had he lived, it would have been during Britain''s Dark Ages. That is, before written records. So when it comes to King Arthur, you get lots of "as legend has it" and "as the story goes". There''s just nothing written, and there''s very little proof.


    Ah, but there is some proof.


    And it''s all here in Glastonbury.


    Anyway, Glastonbury Abbey is not only the oldest abbey in all of England, but also the legendary final resting place of one King Arthur Pendragon, where his tomb supposedly lies beneath the high altar. I say supposedly because the tomb is now empty. But folks around here aren''t surprised that the tomb is empty. After all, there''s a story around here that King Arthur will return one day to usher in a new age of enlightenment for all mankind.


    I could hardly wait.


    Here''s another cool legend: it is said that the nearby Glastonbury Tor is not only home to the Faery King but also to Gwyn ap Nudd, who happens to be Lord of the Underworld. This tor - which is just a fancy English word for hill - is magically hollow inside, and was once known as Annwyn. The Annwyn part is historical fact. The magically hollow inside, not so much.


    So to recap, Glastonbury Tor was once called Annwyn.


    Annwyn, many believe, is an ancient form of Avalon.


    The story continues. There is some evidence to suggest that Glastonbury Tor, or Annwyn, or Avalon, once rose high above an inlet sea. Indeed, that it was surrounded by the inlet sea. The legendary isle of Avalon, where young Arthur pulled Excalibur from the enchanted stone, and where the good wizard Merlin gave counsel to the young king and taught him the ways of faery and magic, and where, in a nearby empty grass field, sits the possible remains of a once mighty fortress.


    Camelot.


    The fortress part is historical fact. That it might have been Camelot is heatedly debated.


    More legends. More stories. Glastonbury has a stranglehold on some of Western civilization''s greatest legends and mythos. Anyway, further legends contend that hidden within the magically hollow Tor is one of the most sought after treasures in the world:


    The Holy Grail.


    Anyway, I''m not making this stuff up. It''s all over the internet, filling dozens, if not hundreds, of books.


    Myself, I was beginning to believe there might be something to all this. Of course, I was hardly an objective observer, since I''ve been obsessively dreaming of the Holy Grail and King Arthur for the past few months.


    And if there wasn''t already enough mystery and fantasy attached to the place, a few months ago workers from a nearby quarry unearthed a very strange object from deep within the stone. An object that was curiously embedded in nearly a ton of granite.


    The hilt of a very old sword.


    The sword and stone are currently on display here in Glastonbury, where tourists can try their hand at removing the sword from the stone. No one has been successful, of course, although many have tried. And, yeah, many believe it''s a sham. Me being one of them.


    Of course it''s a sham, right?


    Then again, what''s five pounds in exchange for the rare chance at being the next great King of England?


    To top it all off, Glastonbury is also a hotbed for New Agers and the modern spiritualists. Like Sedona in Arizona, Glastonbury is a mecca for the New Movement, as some have come to call it, claiming that here upon the grassy tor strange energies and powerful forces are at work. A veritable vortex of psychic energy. Heck, the place is even popular among UFOlogists, with many reporting strange lights hovering over the Tor.


    Lots of legends for what amounted to nothing more than an unusually-shaped hill.


    Anyway, Glastonbury the town was quaint and charming and provided a great introduction to English life for someone on their first trip to England. That someone being me. Indeed, so far, the town was everything I imagined England to be: decidedly medieval in feel, with cobblestone streets, rock-and-mortar homes, and ancient street lamps.


    I dug my hands a little deeper into my jacket pockets, hung a right on High Street, and looked for an English pub. I had heard all my life about English pubs. Well, let''s find one and see what all the fuss was about.


    The late evening sky was so purple that it was nearly black. The light rain now angled straight into my face. God, I love the rain.


    I came upon a side street called Northload, and there, sitting within a small row of small shops, was my first English pub. The sign out front read: The Who''d A Thought It.


    I went straight up to it, pulled open the heavy oak door, and found myself in a very warm and cheery old-school tavern. Glasses clanked merrily. Laughter issued forth. And sitting on a stool closest to the door was the same dark-haired girl I had seen earlier.


    And she was still writing in her journal.


    Unbelievable.


    As I stood there, dumbfounded, my mouth hanging open, she looked over at me and...smiled. I took in a lot of air, and this time, without hesitation, I walked straight up to her.


    Chapter Six


    With each step, my head felt lighter and lighter, to the point I thought I was going to topple forward into her lap. Or, more likely, hit the corner of the bar and kill myself.


    Somehow, I kept from passing out, and before I knew it I was already standing in front of her. Too late to back out now. My heart was pounding somewhere up near my throat, making speaking nearly impossible. Which didn''t matter, since my mind was blank, anyway.


    She was even prettier up close. Her eyes were exceptionally large, lashes exorbitantly long, lips achingly full. She was looking up at me, smiling curiously, her eyes searching my face.


    I noticed that the other men in the bar were watching me with shit-eating grins. No doubt they were looking forward to seeing me get shot down, since she was easily the prettiest girl in the room. Heck, any room.


    Here goes....


    "Um, hi," I said lamely.


    "Hi," she said. Her eyes continued to roam over my face, and as they did so her smile disappeared, even while her eyes widened. Her strange reaction gave me a modicum of hope. Meaning, there wasn''t an obvious lack of interest.


    "My name''s James," I said.


    I''ve never really seen the blood drain from someone''s face, but it sure did with her and it was a sight to see. One moment her rosy cheeks were full and lush, and the next she went dead pale.


    "James?" she repeated.


    "Yes, last I checked." Okay, that was really lame.


    I was about to say something else, something decidedly unlame, when she motioned to the stool next to her. "James, would you like to have a seat?"


    The bartender came right over. The dark-haired girl had his attention, too, and I was the beneficiary of that attention. He asked what I wanted. I glanced over to see what she was drinking. It looked like cranberry juice and so I ordered something else in the juice family. Orange juice. The bartender shrugged and stepped away to pour my drink.


    My first time in an English pub and I order orange juice?


    Lord help me.


    "So you don''t drink alcohol, James?" she asked. She had a strange accent. I''ve never been good with accents. Heck, half these English blokes sounded Australian to me.


    "I''m trying to stay away from the stuff," I said.


    "Are you a recovering alcoholic?"


    "No, no. Just don''t, you know, think I handle the stuff very well."


    "I see," she said. "Well, you were drinking ''the stuff'' earlier tonight. A beer, if I recall."


    Holy crap. She''d been watching me?


    "Right, and I nearly started a half dozen fights. I tend to get, um, feisty when I drink."


    "Belligerent drunk?"


    "A belligerent drinker. Give me one beer and I want to take on the whole room."


    "Interesting."


    "Interesting how?" I asked.


    "It''s almost like someone, or something, is trapped inside of you and is aching to get out."


    "Yeah, an asshole who likes to fight."


    "A fighter, yes. But probably not an asshole."


    "Say that to the old man I yelled at a few months ago for talking a little too loudly to his hard-of-hearing wife."


    She laughed behind her hand, her eyes lighting up like two stage lights. I liked the way she laughed. I also liked the way she looked at me with those amazingly round eyes. Her apparent interest in me was giving me some courage.


    "So what''s your name?" I asked.


    "Marion."


    "I love that name."


    "Really?"


    "Reminds me of Maid Marian from Robin Hood."


    "Except mine is spelled with an ''o''."


    "As it should be," I said for no reason at all.


    She smiled as if I''d said something witty. And still she didn''t take her eyes off me. The bartender came over and set a frothing mug of orange juice down in front of me. Okay, it wasn''t really frothing. It was just a plain glass of orange juice. In my first English bar. Hey, on the bright side, at least I wouldn''t be sporting any embarrassing orange juice mustaches or get into needless fights.


    Okay, so how do guys hit on girls, anyway? I''ve never been much of a ''hitting on'' type. I''m more of a we-just-happen-to-cross-paths type. Granted, my type gets a lot fewer dates, but I have accepted my lot in life.


    "So are you from around here?" I asked.


    "No."


    "Where are you from?"


    Lord, this had to be the world''s worst pick-up ever. Heck, I would even hesitate to call this a pick-up. More like a prelude to utter humiliation.


    "Iceland," she said.


    I almost made a stupid Icelandic joke. Hey, I heard it''s pretty cold there. Hey, the land of ice. Hey, I''m retarded.


    Somehow I kept my mouth shut. And sadly, I know from past humiliations that when a girl only gives one-word answers, well, she''s probably not that into you; otherwise, she would give you more material to work with, right?


    And so, with her curious yet beautiful eyes still searching my face, I took my drink and stood. I tried to smile as I said, "Well, enjoy your time here in Glastonbury, Marion with an ''o''."


    With that, I turned and left and found a small booth in the far corner of the far side of the room, far away from the happy gazes of the other men, and far away from her. Once seated, I did the only thing I could think of to save face: I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to receive a text message.


    God, I need to get a life.


    I had just scrolled through some old messages when someone sat across from me at my table. It was Marion, of course.


    "Sorry if I seemed rude back there," she said. "It''s just that I wasn''t expecting to meet you so quickly." She paused, took a deep breath. A deep, ragged breath. As if she had jogged to my booth.


    I set my cell phone aside. "Did you say expecting to meet me?"


    Still breathing deeply, Marion reached inside her purse and removed a book: A tattered copy of my very first published novel, a mystery thriller called Unwanted Dreams.


    She held it out to me. "This is you, is it not?"


    I nodded dumbly, too stunned to speak.


    "Good," she said and shoved the book back into her purse. "Finish your orange juice, James. We have someone to meet."

 Page 4

    Chapter Seven


    The Who''d A Thought It was hopping.


    People were smoking and drinking and having a grand old time. A warm fire crackled in a stone fireplace nearby, rain streaked the smoky windows, and sitting directly in front of me was a crazy woman. Beautiful, admittedly, but crazy nonetheless. And crazy trumps beautiful every time. At least, in my book.


    I said, speaking slowly, "What exactly did you mean by ''we have someone to meet''?"


    "Exactly that," she said.


    "Look," I said, "I''ve had a long flight from Seattle and a two and a half hour cab drive from Heathrow. I''m a little slow on the uptake here. Not to mention I just had my first English ale and it was a little stronger than I''m used to - "


    "Holy smokes, you''re long-winded, James. Good thing your books aren''t. Anyway, tell you what, ditch the orange juice and I promise to buy you another one when this is all over."


    "When what''s all over?"


    Nothing was making sense. Had someone spiked my juice? Or was this another crazy dream? After all, I was in the land of dreams, right? Heck, the Faery King''s underground kingdom was allegedly within a nearby hill.


    As these thoughts raced across my mind, Marion surprised the hell out of me by grabbing my orange juice and knocking it back in three big gulps. She slammed the empty glass down on the table, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and burped quietly.


    I gaped, too stunned to speak.


    "Come on," she said, offering me her hand. "I have a lot to tell you."


    I stared down at her tiny, proffered hand, somehow sensing that my life would forever change if I took it. How exactly it would change, I did not know. I also sensed that every decision and choice I had ever made in my life had led me to this very moment. How I knew this, I didn''t know, but the feeling was a strong one.


    "Well, James?" she said. "We don''t have all night."


    "We don''t?"


    "No."


    She was crazy. I knew that. Beautiful and crazy, and suddenly I was finding it hard to think straight. The music seemed a little louder. The laughter seemed a little louder. And Marion seemed, somehow, even more beautiful. Her hand was tiny and white and it was waiting for me. And before I realized what I was doing, I was reaching out for it -


    She snatched my hand like a mongoose. The brightness in her eyes instantly turned mischievous, and it turns out her hand wasn''t so delicate after all. No, it was iron-like, and it promptly yanked me out of my cushioned seat and onto my feet.


    "Hey!"


    But she wasn''t listening. She turned and, still gripping my hand, led me through the pub and toward the open front door, where I could see it was still raining steadily outside.


    At the door, I heard a scream behind, followed immediately by a grunt and the sound of a glass crashing to the wooden floor. I gasped and spun around and saw something I would not soon forget.


    On the far side of the tavern, three men dressed in full medieval garb - chain mail, tunics, hoods, high boots, and what appeared to be very real swords strapped to their backs - were pushing their way roughly through the bar, scattering men and women and ale. All of them were staring at Marion and me, and all of them looked utterly insane. They appeared to have entered the bar from a back entrance.


    "Um, Marion, are these friends of yours?" I asked, pointing.


    She turned, and when she saw the three approaching Medieval Times castoffs, she did something that surprised the hell out of me.


    Still holding my hand, she yanked me out the door and into the night, where we ran as if our lives depended on it.


    Which, I was beginning to think, they very well did.


    Chapter Eight


    Fog hung low over the ground, swirling ominously. We had only gone fifty feet or so, when Marion hung a hard right and we headed back toward High Street. She released my hand and now we were really running.


    Yeah, I''m dreaming. Any minute now I''m going to wake up.


    "Hurry, James!" she shouted ahead of me.


    Sure, what does it matter? No doubt I''m making a tangled mess of my bed sheets as I pantomimed running. For all I knew, I was back in my condo in Seattle and the trip to England was just one long, surreal dream.


    But I played along. After all, I had seen Inception, too. Maybe there were more to these dreams.


    Unless, of course, I wasn''t dreaming at all.


    I put my head down and did my best to keep up with Marion, who was apparently part cheetah. I heard a noise behind me, and if I had to guess, I would say it sounded looked the clank or clink of armor. The three Renaissance fair rejects, no doubt. I looked back over my shoulder, and sure enough, the three lunatics just rounded the corner, too. Their boots echoed loudly along the quiet street. I saw that they were now brandishing their swords.


    Brandishing. A word I never, ever thought I would use.


    Ever.


    A word meant for pirate movies and medieval romance novels. Not in real life.


    You''re dreaming, James. Remember that. It''s all a dream. Just like the dozens and dozens of dreams before this one.


    Only this one had a fresh spin on it.


    Men brandishing swords.


    Rain drove straight into my face. The street was empty. The street lamps were mostly obscured behind the rain and fog and displayed spectacular golden halos.


    We rounded a corner and headed down a dark side street. A small chapel was to our right and a low brick building was to our left. I was sucking wind. I felt a stitch in my side. I needed to stop. I needed to double over. I needed air.


    Behind me I heard the three men round the same corner. No time to double over. No time to even breathe.


    Lord help me.


    We crossed another empty street and Marion plunged under an ivy-covered arch and straight into what appeared to be a spacious park. A dark and spacious park. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I followed right behind her, through the archway.


    The stitch in my side was now something more than a stitch. My new pal Marion dashed along a curving concrete path and I dashed right along behind her.


    My breathing was loud to my own ears. My chest heaved. My heart pounded. My side burned. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream.


    Sweet Jesus, I couldn''t do this for much longer.


    Adrenaline would only last so long before reality set it. And the reality here was that I''m a full-time writer who occasionally plays street basketball and even more occasionally takes his mountain bike out for jaunts around town. The reality was this: sooner or later I was going to drop dead.


    The trail curved to the right, toward the park exit. Marion, to my utter surprise, hung an abrupt left, and plunged headlong into some bushes and trees and along what might have been a game trail. Like an idiot, I followed right behind, blindly dashing into a tangle of branches and leaves and thorns. I covered my face with my arms, fully expecting to run headlong into a very wide and very hard tree trunk.


    But I didn''t. At least not yet. We were on a trail. A very narrow trail that was almost not a trail at all. We followed it for another hundred feet or so before Marion ducked behind a large moss-covered tree and stopped. I stopped right behind her, about a second too late.


    "Sorry," I said, holding her up. The bump into would have been more memorable if there hadn''t been three goons waving swords behind us.


    We waited. While we waited, I tried catching my breath. I wasn''t doing a very good job of it. White and yellow spots blurred my vision. I was certain that I was on the very brink of passing out.


    Water dripped down from the branches above. A cricket chirped. I held my side, wondering if the pain would ever leave.


    So far, it hadn''t.


    And through the sounds of my own ragged gasping, I could hear the three men approaching down the park''s main concrete path. Marion shushed me and I did my best to quiet my breathing. The running footfalls came and went, and when they were gone I collapsed against the mossy tree trunk.


    "You okay?" Marion asked.


    "No," I said. "I think I might die."


    She grinned, then reached down and took my hand and hauled me to my feet. I almost cried.


    "No resting," she said. "C''mon."


    And she led me deeper into the woods.

 Page 5

    Chapter Nine


    We were still holding hands when she led me to a leafy hollow of some sort, surrounded by tall trees with interlocking branches. The branches nearly blotted out the rain. Nearly. Cold, fat drops doggedly found their way down, to splatter on the back of my neck. I shivered with each drop.


    I didn''t mind holding her hand. Mostly because I was scared shitless, and any human contact was welcome. That is, any human who wasn''t brandishing a sword.


    Brandishing. There it was again. Sheesh.


    Besides, her hand seemed to fit nicely in mine. A perfect match, if I do say so myself.


    The rain continued beating a steady staccato on the leaves surrounding us. Other than that, there wasn''t much else in the way of sound. I was still breathing hard, and so was Marion. The three sword-waving throwbacks seemed to be long gone. My heart was still racing. A part of me still believed I was back in the pub, drinking my orange juice and pretending to be reading text messages.


    This all happened so fast. Too fast. One moment I was tongue-tied around a beautiful woman, and the next three men with swords were chasing us through a park.


    Too weird. Too flippin'' weird.


    The silence continued and we continued holding hands and moving through the hollow, stepping through puddles and over soggy twigs. With each snap, Marion winced. I shrugged, apologizing. Working my way quietly through a wooded trail wasn''t one of my strong points. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I could see Marion''s face fairly clearly.


    She led me over to a rotted, moss-covered tree log. I was beginning to think everything out here was moss-covered. As we sat, she released my hand. I''ll admit, I was sad to let her hand go.


    "You''re probably wondering what''s going on," she said, tucking her long, black hair behind her ears.


    "Not at all," I said. "I rather enjoyed running for my life through the deep, dark woods."


    She snorted. "These are not the woods, James. This is a city park."


    "Yeah, well, it feels like the woods to me."


    And just as I said that, something crashed through the undergrowth nearby. I gasped. Marion put her hand on my thigh. I looked at her hand on my thigh and nearly forgot about the thing crashing in the undergrowth.


    Nearly.


    The sound came again. And again. And that''s when I realized it wasn''t so much a crashing as a scurrying. I relaxed. Just some critter.


    I hoped.


    We sat in silence some more. She took her hand off my thigh, and I was sad all over again.


    "I was told to expect a writer," said Marion suddenly.


    I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came immediately to mind. At least, no rational words. So I closed my mouth and let her words sink in a little more. And the more they sank in, the less sane they seemed.


    Finally, I gave it a shot. "A writer?"


    "Yes."


    "When were you told this?"


    "Months ago."


    "But I only decided to come here a few days ago," I said.


    "You only consciously decided to come here a few days ago. Deep down, you knew all along you would come."


    I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing.


    "You can close your mouth, James. You know what I''m talking about."


    Crazy as her statement was, a part of me, a part that I was beginning to hate and fear, knew exactly what she was talking about.


    I found my voice. "Who, exactly, told you to expect me?"


    A strong gust of wind rattled the branches above us, shaking loose a shower of water over us. I shivered. I could feel the nearly physical touch of Marion''s eyes on my face.


    "The who isn''t important, James," she said. "If I had to guess, there are many who''s - that is, many people and beings and entities - that worked hard to get you here today."


    "I''m not sure I know what you''re talking about."


    "Not now you don''t, James. But you will. Soon."


    "Am I dreaming?" I asked.


    "No, James. But you are here because of your dreams."


    Her words might as well have been an arrow. I gasped and swung my head around, thunderstruck. "How did you - "


    She reached out and touched my thigh again, sending a shiver of pleasure coursing through me.


    "Because I''m here because of my dreams, too," she said.


    Chapter Ten


    "What sort of..." I stopped, swallowed, and tried my best to collect my thoughts. I tried again, and heard myself ask: "What sort of dreams?"


    "Dreams of the Holy Grail. Dreams of Christ hanging from the cross, dreams of Glastonbury, dreams of this night, dreams of this park, dreams of this very hollow."


    "Which is how you knew to find it."


    "Exactly. But mostly I dream of a writer. A handsome, blue-eyed, blond-haired mystery writer."


    "I''m afraid I''m the one dreaming now," I said.


    She reached out and pinched me. Hard. I was about to yelp but she promptly clamped her hand over my mouth.


    "Shh," she said, then slowly removed her hand. "Still think you''re dreaming?"


    I rubbed my arm. "No, but now I don''t like you as much."


    She giggled. Her giggle said that she didn''t believe a word of it. She was right, of course. I liked everything about her. Except for maybe the crazy part.


    "Okay, fine," I said. "So I''m not dreaming. Then can I ask what the heck is going on?"


    "What the heck do you think is going on?"


    I thought I might know the answer, but I didn''t want to admit it. Admitting it to another person would positively prove that I had lost my mind.


    Marion was watching me. She was taking short, sharp breaths. My breathing had leveled off, but not hers. She seemed to be having a problem. The rain picked up, tattering the overhead canopy.


    "Talk to me," she said.


    "I think...I think I might be here to find the Holy Grail," I said. "And, if I''m correct, you''re here to help me."


    "I think," she said, grinning, "that you might be right."


    The harder the rain came down, the worse Marion''s breathing seemed to get. It was to the point where she was making a conscious effort to breathe.


    "It''s called LAM disease," she said, turning to me. "In case you''re wondering."


    "Lamb?" I asked, frowning.


    "LAM," she said, spelling it out for me. "It''s a disease that strikes the lungs, among other things."


    "I''m sorry," I said.


    "Strikes one in a million," she said, looking away. "Lucky me."


    I didn''t think she was so lucky.


    "And once diagnosed, a woman is given about ten years to live."


    "A woman?"


    "Yeah," she said. "As in female. It''s a disease that strikes only women, and only in their child-bearing years."


    I was silent, digesting this. "So how long ago - " I began, but couldn''t bring myself to finish.


    She finished for me: "How long ago was I diagnosed?"


    I nodded.


    "Ten years ago, James. I guess you could say I''m living on borrowed time."


    "I''m so sorry."


    "I am, too."


    "What is LAM disease?" I asked.


    "Something cruel and not very nice," she said, and actually smiled at her own play on words. "LAM disease attacks the lungs, lymph nodes and liver. In my case, it attacked my lungs, forming cysts that restrict breathing."


    "Is there a cure?" I asked, but I already knew the answer and felt like crap asking the question.


    "No," she said. "And there''s far too little research being done to find one."


    We were silent some more. My heart rate finally - finally - seemed to be settling into a normal rhythm after all that running. "So they can do nothing for you?" I finally asked. Normal rhythm or not, I could practically hear my heart breaking.


    "There is something," she said. "But it''s risky and there''s only an eighty-percent survival after the first year."


    "That''s not too bad."


    She looked away. "Survival drops to fifty percent after the first five years, and then declines dramatically after that. Translation: the surgery would probably only buy me a few extra years."


    An image came to mind. A very unsettling image. I voiced my thoughts without thinking. I said, "You''re talking about a lung transplant."


    How I knew this, I don''t know. She nodded and looked at me curiously. I think she was surprised, too. "Yes," she said. "I''m scheduled for surgery next month."


    "Jesus," I said again.


    The rain intensified. So did the rattling in her chest. Lord, did she even have a month?


    "I''m sorry," I said.


    "So am I," she said.


    "Do you have any kids?" I asked.


    "No."


    "Do you want kids?"


    She looked away. "More than you know."


    We were silent. Her lungs, however, weren''t so silent. I took her hand gently, and we sat like that for a long, long time. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. A few small animals, perhaps now used to our presence, made brief appearances and scuttled along the perimeter of the clearing. I wondered what we were waiting for.


    "So what did you think of my book?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.


    "I liked it, James, especially your protagonist. Is Cotton Painter anything like you?"


    "Well, we''re both colorblind, and we''re both private investigators, although I don''t do much investigating anymore."


    "You''re sure jumpy for a private investigator."


    "Most private investigators don''t get chased out of bars by goons with swords."


    She nodded. "Where on earth did you get the name Cotton Painter?"


    "I was drinking one night and it just came to me."


    She rolled her eyes.


    "You don''t like the name?" I asked.


    "I''ve heard better."


    A break in the rain. Brief silence, followed by a bird chirping overhead. Probably a very cold and wet bird.


    Marion said, "Your dream was never really to be a private investigator, was it, James?"


    "How did you - "


    She continued, "Your dream was to write about private investigators."


    "Yes, but - "


    "But even that''s not really accurate, is it, James? You never really wanted to write about murder and mayhem." I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, then let her continue. "No, you always wanted to write epic adventure stories, stories that featured swashbuckling heroes, intrepid explorers, heroes from other worlds, other lands. The great mysteries of the world intrigue you. You have always wanted to explore these mysteries with your writing. Instead, you fell into mystery novels because they seemed safe, maybe even easy."


    "They''re hardly easy, but, yeah," I said, a bit stunned. "And you''re good."


    She dug something out of her back pocket: A business card. She handed it to me.


    I used the light of my cell phone to read it. I blinked, stunned. "You''re a psychic?"


    "Are you surprised?" she asked.


    "If I wasn''t surprised, wouldn''t that make me psychic, too?"


    "Good one, James."


    I opened my mouth to speak, but she surprised me again by putting her finger to my lips, pressing them lightly. And then I knew why.


    There was a crash from somewhere. A big crash. Something was coming toward us.

 Page 6

    Chapter Eleven


    The crunching of leaves stopped abruptly just outside the perimeter of the clearing. Whoever was out there was watching us. I was sure of it. An unsettling feeling, at best.


    And then I saw something that would forever be seared to the back of my retina: a naked man stepping out of the bushes.


    My jaw dropped open and I squeaked like a dog''s chew toy.


    My God, what have I gotten myself into?


    He picked his way carefully over pine needles and twigs on legs that didn''t seem entirely steady.


    Just a drunk in the park, I thought. And a naked drunk at that.


    He stopped before us in all his naked glory. His pale skin seemed to glow from within, as if backlit by its own inner light, but that could have been my overactive imagination.


    I found myself on my feet, although I didn''t remember standing.


    Then Marion did something very, very peculiar. She stood slowly...and then very carefully dropped to a knee.


    And bowed deeply.


    The man spoke to her in a language that was completely incomprehensible to me. Foreign, yet oddly familiar. Icelandic? Pig Latin?


    I had no clue.


    She answered in the same language, and stood. The man, who was older than me by a few years and taller by a few inches, reached out with the tip of his forefinger and gently lifted her chin. He smiled at Marion with something akin to love.


    And then the naked man''s gaze shifted to me. "And who is this?" he asked in perfect English. He placed both his hands on his very naked hips.


    "He is the writer, my lord. His name is James."


    My lord?


    The naked man tilted his head in my direction. "The teller of tales is an admirable profession, my good man."


    I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.


    "But you are more than a bard, my friend," said the naked man. "Much more. Never underestimate yourself."


    "Um, okay."


    Marion turned to me, and when she spoke her voice was filled with something close to reverence. "James, I would like to introduce you to Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, the Once and Future King of England, or, as he''s most commonly known today, King Arthur of Camelot."


    The naked man grinned and tilted his head.


    Chapter Twelve


    I said nothing, did nothing, and, really, thought nothing.


    I just stood there staring confoundedly at the naked man whose nakedness seemed to somehow be solidifying before my very eyes. It was only then that I realized the glow around him had been a sort of haze, and now his body was taking on a more distinct shape.


    It''s official. I''m nuts.


    But maybe my eyes were simply adjusting to his, well, nakedness. It wasn''t often that I saw a naked man appear from the woods. Maybe I was in a bit of shock.


    Or maybe he just appeared out of thin air.


    Okay, that line of reasoning scared the crap out of me, so I put a stop to it immediately. Instead, I did my best to grasp the reality. And the reality was that there was a naked man in front of me who, apparently, Marion thought was the one-time king of Britain. Or maybe I had heard wrong.


    "King Arthur?" I finally said, and as I spoke I realized that I was seriously losing it. My mouth seemed to be working independently of my brain, or as if possessed by someone completely and totally whacko. "An odd name. I had a friend named Peter King. I used to call him King Pecker. Good times. God, I miss King Pecker."


    I had a very real - and very frightening - feeling that I might be losing my mind.


    "I know," said the man. He was watching me carefully.


    "You know?"


    "Yes."


    "You know what?"


    "I know about you, James."


    I nodded and turned to Marion. I was suddenly filled with something close to fear. Something very, very strange was indeed going on here, and I suddenly didn''t want any part of it. In fact, I wanted to be about as far away from it as I could get. "Marion," I said, "I''m leaving now. Please, please, please do not try to stop me, or look for me. Goodbye."


    She didn''t say anything; neither did the naked man.


    And leave I did, pushing back through the forest, or woods or park, or whatever the hell it was, hitting my head once or twice on thick, unseen branches. Branches that I was sure weren''t there when I had first set out upon the trail.


    I found my way back onto the curving path, took a right, and headed all the way back to the Number Three Hotel.


    There, I stripped off my wet clothes, and headed straight for the shower, where I let the piping hot water hammer me for a long, long time, and tried desperately to empty my mind of the image of the man in the forest.


    No luck. He was still standing there front and center, in all his naked glory.


    After my shower, I crawled into bed and was asleep, as they say, before my head hit the pillow.


    I tossed and turned.


    Gone were the dreams of the Holy Grail and Christ on the Cross, replaced now by creepy, torch-lit tunnels, a silver-haired man trapped inside a tree, a beautiful dark-haired girl, a fearless warrior king, and one amazing sword.


    When I opened my eyes again, the sun was shining through the curtained windows. I sat up and yawned loudly, feeling tired yet still oddly refreshed, and the strange events of the night before seemed only a distant and disturbing memory. In fact, I had to fight hard to recall if I had, in fact, dreamed the events of the night before. A part of me believed I had. Hell, a part of me wished very much that I had.


    A naked King Arthur?


    I chuckled, and as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, Marion and King Arthur materialized before me, sitting together in the love seat at the foot of the bed. I screeched like a howler monkey and yanked the plaid comforter up over my bare torso.


    Was I still asleep? What the hell was going on?


    Arthur was now dressed in local tourist garb: a sweatshirt that said "I Heart Glastonbury," baggy cargo shorts, and a new pair of open-toed leather sandals.


    "You left your door unlocked, Mr. Private Dick," said Marion in her cute Icelandic accent.


    "But last night was..."


    "Last night wasn''t a dream, I''m afraid," said Arthur, finishing my thought.


    The man had a touch of an accent himself. Just a touch. He sat easily on the sofa, leaning forward on his elbows, which were propped up on his bony knees. His hair was dark and straight, and he was sporting a hint of stubble. Strangely, there was dirt under his fingernails, as if he had just clawed his way up out of the ground. A disturbing thought, at best. His skin looked remarkably healthy, the skin of a young man. The skin of a very young man, in fact. More than anything, Arthur appeared to be a man who radiated power, but I could just be making that up.


    After all, more than likely I was making all of this up.


    Marion stood. "Get dressed, sleepy head." She tossed me my jeans. And since I was still busy staring at Arthur, they draped over my head, one of the buttons thunking against my forehead.


    "Get dressed, why?" I asked, pulling them down.


    "Because we have a sword to recover," said Arthur.


    "A sword? What sword?" I asked, but the moment the words left my lips I knew the answer. "No, no, no. You cannot be serious."


    But Arthur only leaned back and winked.


    Marion said, "Just get dressed, James. We''ll explain on the way."

 Page 7

    Chapter Thirteen


    Fumbling awkwardly, I changed under the comforter with Arthur looking oddly amused and Marion making a half-hearted attempt to look away. I think I was blushing.


    Bare-chested but sporting my rumpled jeans, I went to my suitcase and pulled out a favorite Old Navy thermal sweatshirt. With socks and shoes in hand, I marched back to the foot of the bed and sat before the two love birds. I made no effort to put my socks and shoes on.


    "Unless you plan on searching for the Grail barefoot," said Marion. "You''re going to need your socks and shoes."


    "No," I said.


    "What do you mean ''no''?"


    "I mean, no, I''m not going anywhere until someone tells me what the hell is going on, and let''s start with you." I pointed at Arthur.


    He acknowledged me with a nod and a grin. I had a feeling that whoever he was, he was having a heck of a good time. "What would you like to know, old chap?" he asked, eyes twinkling.


    "Who are you?"


    "I believe we''ve been properly introduced," he said pleasantly enough, cocking his head slightly to one side and smiling. His eyes kept twinkling.


    I looked over at Marion. She looked impatiently down at her watch. I looked back at Arthur. I said, "No, we haven''t. Marion introduced you as King Arthur. That, to me, doesn''t sound like a proper introduction. That, to me, sounds like an insane introduction."


    "Insane or not, I''m known by many names to many different people, but King Arthur, in this context, will certainly do."


    "No, it won''t do," I insisted, looking back at Marion. "And you can look at your watch all you want, woman, but I''m not moving until I have some answers."


    "Woman?" she said, and I couldn''t tell if she sounded pissed or amused. Arthur, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.


    Marion was about to speak again - and the flashing in her eyes told me she was, in fact, pissed - but Arthur (or the man who called himself Arthur) placed a gentle hand on her forearm, quelling her. He smiled at me so warmly that I nearly forgot why I was irritated in the first place. He said, "What answers do you seek, my friend?"


    I took some air. Oh, yeah. Now I remembered. "Why the hell were you in the woods naked last night? Seriously. I''m mean, what the hell was that all about?"


    "The hell," said Arthur, pausing, seemingly testing the word. He frowned, made a face. Apparently, it had tasted bad. "I''m not entirely sure you will accept my answers, my good man."


    "Try me, my good man."


    He studied me some more, then nodded. "Okay, then. Last night, in the woods, not very far from where we first met, I was re-born in the flesh."


    I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at Marion. She looked at her watch. I looked back at Arthur.


    "What?" I said.


    "Is there any chance we can explain this to you on the way, James?" asked Marion, making a small movement toward the door.


    "On the way to where?" I asked.


    "To get my sword, of course," said Arthur.


    "Of course," I said. "I mean, no. Definitely not. I''m not going anywhere until I know what the heck this is all about." I pointed at Arthur. "Until I know what the heck you''re talking about."


    "I see," he said.


    "What do you mean re-born?" I asked. I noted the alarm in my voice.


    "Sometimes a spirit can choose to be born again, fully incarnated. I made that choice to be here now to aid you on your quest."


    "That makes no sense to me," I said. I stood. "I''m calling the police."


    "James," said Marion sharply. "You will do no such thing. Sit your butt down."


    I sat. Glumly. My mind was going a thousand different directions at once. Hell, ten thousand. "What quest?" I heard myself asking.


    "For the Holy Grail, of course," said Arthur. "Why else do you think you''re here, in Glastonbury, my home? To order orange juice in English pubs?" He winked.


    Marion giggled; I felt sick.


    "This doesn''t make sense."


    "Only because the concepts are new to you, James," said the man who would be king.


    "That King Arthur was reborn in a park? I have a feeling that wouldn''t make sense to anyone," I countered.


    "Anyone who was not initiated," said Arthur.


    "Am I on drugs? Did someone slip me a roofie?"


    "What''s he talking about, Marion?" asked Arthur.


    "He thinks he might have unwilling partaken in a hallucinogenic substance."


    Arthur clapped his hands. "Oh, yes, the merry root!"


    I rolled my eyes. This wasn''t happening. "You''re King Arthur?" I asked.


    "The one and only."


    "Then how is it that you speak modern English, complete with modern vernacular and idioms and...everything?"


    "I speak many tongues," he said easily. "But this is something you will just have to accept on faith."


    "Faith? You''re avoiding the question," I said.


    "No, James. I''m just suggesting that you won''t accept the real reason."


    "Try me."


    "I''ve already tried you once," he said.


    "Then try me again."


    "The real reason I can speak your modern vernacular is that I choose to speak it. Just like I choose this body."


    "You''re right, I don''t get it."


    "James," said Marion. "Those spirits who can manifest fully in the flesh are often considered ascended masters."


    "Ascended what?"


    "Ascended masters are highly evolved spirits," said Marion. "Those who do not die. Or rather, those who cheat death."


    "Those who do not choose death," Arthur corrected.


    "I have a headache," I said.


    Marion went on. "Ascended masters are spiritually enlightened beings who in past incarnations were ordinary humans, or even kings of , but who have undergone a process of spiritual transformation. Ascended Masters have learned the lessons of life during their many incarnations, gained mastery over the limitations of the earth planes, balanced their karma, and fulfilled their divine plan. Ascended Masters become a source of unconditional love to all life, and serve as the teachers of mankind from the realms of spirit."


    As she spoke, Arthur closed his eyes and seemed to have gone into a trance. He gave no indication that she was speaking of him, or those like him. Myself, I might have blushed, if any of it were true.


    Marion continued, "Ascended Masters help others realize their potential, to eventually attain their own ascension and thus move forward in spiritual evolution beyond this planet. Ascended Masters remain attentive to the spiritual needs of humanity, and act to inspire and motivate its spiritual growth. They have achieved the highest desires of their soul. They have, in fact, achieved mastery of the soul. Such masters can come here for a specific purpose. Usually their purpose is to help us. And thus, they remember their purpose, unlike us."


    "Unlike us? What does that mean?"


    Arthur answered, "It means you are put on this earth with no memory of who you truly are or why you are here."


    "And who am I?"


    "You are many things, James. It is up to you to decide that which best expresses who you are."


    "Who I am," I said simply. "Is a writer."


    "Very well. Then be the best writer you can be. Embrace it and love it, and in the process help your fellow man find and discover their true purpose."


    "I already do that," I said, somehow getting caught up in the madness. "I love helping people reach for their dreams. My friends call me the Great Motivator."


    "I know," said Arthur.


    "You know what?" I asked.


    "I know you are a great motivator, James. But you are also a writer who often doubts his own talents. Doubting yourself is doubting God."


    "Guys, we''re getting off the subject - " began Marion.


    "Wait," I said, holding up a finger. "How am I doubting God if I doubt my own writing skills?"


    "Because God has given you the ability to do anything you want, to be whoever you want. By doubting yourself, you are doubting the abilities God has given you. And thus, you are doubting the power of God."


    "Then explain my dreams."


    "Your dreams," said Arthur, "are your own soul''s gentle reminders that you still have another purpose here."


    "And what is my purpose?"


    "That is for you to decide."


    "But it has something to do with the Holy Grail?"


    "Oh, most definitely. That, and saving the world."


    "Saving the world?" I said.


    "Yes."


    I took in some air. "Fine. And why are you here?" I asked him.


    "Why, to help you find the Holy Grail, my boy," said Arthur. "After all, I''m the one who hid it."


    And he winked at me again.


    Chapter Fourteen


    I was silent.


    The hotel, however, wasn''t so silent. Showers were running, people were talking, floorboards were creaking. The sun was shining through the parted curtains. On the surface, it was just another morning. Below the surface, something very, very strange was happening to me.


    "So do I have your full support, my friend?" asked Arthur.


    Marion looked up, hopeful. But I wasn''t ready. Not yet.


    "Look, can we go back to the part about you being re-born. Help me understand this. What do you mean by re-born?"


    "Prior to yesterday, James, I was not of this earth," said Arthur. "I was in spirit."


    My head was hurting. I needed my morning Starbucks. Bad. "And then you just appeared?" I said.


    "Yes."


    "How?"


    "It''s easy, James. It is nothing more than a slowing of energy."


    "A slowing of energy?"


    "Yes."


    "And you''re here to help us find the Holy Grail?"


    "I came because you drew me here, James."


    "You guys are nuts," I said.


    Marion turned on me. Apparently she took exception to being called names. Probably, as a psychic, she was tired of people calling her everything from a charlatan to a freak. "Is it nuts that you''re here now, in Glastonbury of all places? Is it nuts that you dream of the Holy Grail? Is it nuts that I have in my bag your slightly better-than-average first novel?"


    "First of all, ouch. And second of all: Yes! Maybe it is nuts. Maybe I''m the one who''s nuts, maybe I''m dream - "


    Marion reached for my arm again, and I sprang back.


    "Okay, fine!" I said, my voice rising to near hysterical levels. "So I''m not dreaming. He''s an ascended master. He''s here for a specific purpose. We''re all here for purposes. Hell, the whole damn world is here for a purpose."


    "Your purpose," said Arthur gently, "is to express the greatest vision of who you are. In this case, I suspect, the greatest vision of who you are is to write a book that helps change the world."


    I sucked in air, forced myself to calm down. "So is my purpose to chronicle these events, this search for the Holy Grail?"


    "If you so choose."


    "It''s my choice?"


    "Everything is your choice, old chap. It was your choice to come here to Glastonbury in the first place, was it not?"


    "Hardly. My dreams were rather persistent."


    "Many people ignore their dreams, along with many other signs, as well. You, my friend, chose not to ignore. Bully for you."


    "Fine. Bully for me." I looked at Arthur. "And so your purpose is to help us find the Holy Grail."


    "One of my purposes, yes."


    "And you really are King Arthur?"


    He stood from the love seat and bowed deeply. "King Arthur," he said. "At your service."

 Page 8

    Chapter Fifteen


    Marion stood as well.


    As she did so, the crazy, not-so-naked guy who just might be King Arthur, held out his hand rather chivalrously and helped her to her feet. She smiled up at him with some serious puppy love in her eyes. My heart sank.


    Great, my dream girl has the hots for King Arthur. What the hell chance did I have?


    "So are you with us?" she said, turning to me.


    "Can we at least get some breakfast?"


    She rolled her eyes and took Arthur''s hand and led him through the hotel suite toward the door. She called back over her shoulder:


    "There''s no time, James. C''mon, hurry!"


    "I knew you were going to say that," I said and looked down at my bare feet. "Wait, I have to put my shoes on!"


    But they were already gone.


    I pulled my socks and shoes on and dashed after them. The seam of one of my socks was crooked. I hate when that happens.


    They were just exiting the hotel and stepping into the bright sunshine of the late morning sun when I caught up to them. Gone was the rain and most of the clouds. Although giving off little heat, the sun was shining furiously.


    The three of us merged with a throng of pedestrian traffic along a busy sidewalk. As we did so, I suddenly had a damn good question:


    "Hey, if you''re really King Arthur, then why not lead us straight to the Grail?"


    Arthur, who was a few inches taller than me, glanced back over his shoulder. There was a bemused expression on his handsome face. "And just what do you think I''m doing?"


    "Then why not just, you know, make it appear? After all, you just appeared."


    Supposedly, I wanted to add. We moved past an outdoor cafe; I eyed the steaming dishes longingly.


    "And where would the fun be in that?" he asked jovially.


    I blinked. That caught me off guard. "You''re here for fun?"


    "Sure," he said. "Why are you here?"


    I thought about that. Yeah, my dreams had been pretty persistent, but the idea of coming to England to pursue them had certainly been an intriguing one.


    I nodded. "Yeah, I guess I''m here because I thought it would be fun."


    He laughed. "Life is supposed to be fun, lad. You are supposed to enjoy yourself. It is only you humans who have made things so difficult."


    You humans? Okay, that sounded weird.


    "I''m buying a scone," I said when we came upon a bakery. I didn''t check to see if they stopped or not. I didn''t care. I was hungry and I was getting a scone and a coffee, and that was that.


    But stop they did, and Marion even put in an order for both she and Arthur, who excitedly picked out something dripping with chocolate icing. I think it was a cinnamon roll, but with all the icing, it was hard to tell. Anyway, I was reminded of a kid in a candy shop.


    I paid for everyone, although Marion had her wallet out and was hunting for some money. While she hunted, I handed the young lady behind the counter a few pounds and told her to keep the change. In actuality, I had no idea how much I had just given her, nor did I care.


    Back in the sunlight, Arthur was already making a mess of things. Chocolate icing covered his lips and hands; Marion giggled and used a napkin to clean him up.


    Damn. Lost her. To King Arthur, no less.


    But did you ever have her?


    Nope. Not even close.


    I couldn''t feel too bad. After all, they seemed to make a very nice couple, and they seemed very comfortable around each other. Very natural. Granted, I would have loved to have been on the receiving end of that napkin, but life goes on, right?


    On the move, I ate my scone and drank my coffee, and when I spilled a little of both down the front of my shirt, I didn''t see Marion running over with a napkin. Granted, Arthur was still making a royal mess of himself (no pun intended) and needed Marion''s help, but whatever.


    Maybe being freshly re-born had its downside: clumsiness. Maybe getting used to one''s new physical body took some time.


    Lord, what am I saying?


    I had no idea. I had no idea what I believed, or what was going on. But something strange was going on here. Something worth looking into, even if my next stop was a looney bin.


    Ah, what the hell. I didn''t fly halfway around the world just to go home again, right? And what better way to explore Glastonbury than with King Arthur himself?


    Right?


    Yes, the same King Arthur who was currently sucking a massive chocolate stain out of his souvenir sweatshirt.


    Lord, help me.


    Chapter Sixteen


    The sunshine was short-lived.


    The sky quickly filled with clouds and a sharp wind followed. Tree leaves scuttled across the cobblestone sidewalks, and those with the forethought to bring a jacket, zipped them up tightly with glee. Marion was the only one in our group wearing a jacket. Psychics always think ahead.


    I was cold but didn''t complain. And if I got cold enough I could always pop into a souvenir shop and get an I Heart Glastonbury jacket.


    I was walking behind the two of them. As much as it pained me to admit, they really did make a good couple; that is, if they were in fact a couple at all.


    Now explain to me how could you be born one day, and have the prettiest girl in the land the next?


    Maybe if you were King Arthur, you could.


    King Arthur?


    Really?


    I think I was jealous of the naked guy who wasn''t naked any more. The naked guy who might just be the greatest king Britain has ever seen.


    Or its greatest nut job.


    Either way, Marion was hanging onto his arm as if he were a buoy in turbulent seas. For her, maybe he was. Even now, from behind them, I could see her struggling for breath. She was sick. Very sick, and my heart went out to her, and suddenly I wanted her happy no matter who she was with.


    King Arthur made her happy.


    Good for him.


    Lucky bastard.


    "So where are we going?" I asked, but the moment the words left my mouth I saw the answer: there, before us in a crowded outdoor marketplace, was a long line of smiling, happy people.


    And why wouldn''t they be smiling? After all, they were waiting in line for a chance to remove history''s most coveted sword:


    Excalibur.


    We got in line, too.


    I had to admit that I was a bit intrigued. Was Excalibur really in there? Could the naked guy who was no longer naked actually pull it free? So far, no one else had been able to remove it.


    Of course not, a voice inside my head said. Because the sword is a fake. A ruse. A hoax to separate tourists from their hard-earned pounds.


    Anyway, I watched a great many people enter the tent with a smile on their faces, only to exit a moment later still smiling. Sometimes they shrugged or snapped their fingers. And every one of them seemed to enjoy the experience.


    Still. A scam was a scam. And I was sure this was one.


    Well, pretty sure.


    So we waited with the other chumps, and while we did so, I asked a few more questions. "Can we go back to the part where you mentioned remembering why you had returned here?"


    "Of course," said Arthur.


    "Can you, well, elaborate on that?"


    "My reason for being here is very specific," he said. "I''m not necessarily here to learn or to evolve my own soul, although that might still happen."


    "Because you''re here to help," I said.


    "Yes, exactly," he said.


    The line moved forward a little. The wind picked up, whistling over my exposed ears. Luckily, I was growing my hair out, and my longish, rakish hair kept my ears mostly warm.


    "And the rest of us?" I asked.


    "The rest of you don''t remember why you''re here, which is kind of the point," he said.


    "And what is the point?"


    "To re-discover yourselves, to re-discover God."


    "Why do I need to re-discover God?"


    "You don''t. You can do whatever you want."


    I turned to Marion. "Does any of this make sense to you?"


    She nodded. Of course she nodded. I''m sure that whatever her darling king said, she would agree to it. If he said pigs could fly, I''m sure she would have happily nodded about that, too.


    Okay, that sounded a bit catty, didn''t it?


    Marion said, "We''re born with a sense of separation from God for a purpose. One of our jobs here is to reconnect with God."


    "To reconnect with God?"


    "Yes," she said.


    "Which implies we were already connected," I said, trying to kick start my brain into gear. "Or that I already knew Him."


    "Yes," she said.


    "Before I was born?" I said.


    "Yes."


    "You''re saying I knew God before I was born?" Okay, now my head was hurting a little.


    "Oh, yes," she said.


    I looked to Arthur for some help here, but he was looking up into the sky, whistling to himself. A merry tune, from what I could gather.


    The line before us continued moving; we shuffled forward obediently. Our conversation had attracted the attention of a few bystanders.


    "Are you implying that I''m reincarnated?" I finally asked.


    "No," she said. "I''m implying that you have always been alive."


    "Always?"


    "Yes."


    "From the beginning of time?"


    "Oh, yes."


    Lord, my head hurt. Maybe there was a better way to pass the time in line. Maybe I should ask Arthur how Merlin was doing.


    Or maybe not.


    "Fine," I said, plunging blindly forward. "Last question before my head splits in two: why do we need to reconnect with God in the first place? Why not be born with full knowledge of God? Heck, why be born at all? Why not just keep living in Heaven? It''s got to be better than here."


    Marion looked at me patiently. "Only when we reconnect with God does true growth occur. Only when we awaken to Him do our souls evolve into something more than they were before."


    "I don''t under - "


    "We are born with separation from God so that we may know separation."


    "What does that mean?" I asked. "Seriously. Help me here."


    "It means," said Arthur, leaning forward, his breath smelling of chocolate cinnamon. "You cannot begin to know God, unless you have not known Him."


    "But - "


    "Can you know up without knowing down?" he asked me.


    "Probably not, but - "


    "Can you know hot without knowing cold? Can you know good without knowing evil? Can you know love without knowing hate?"


    "No, but - "


    "So it is with God," said Marion. "If you bask in God''s love for all eternity, then you will never have the experience of not knowing His love."


    The line was moving again. We had attracted a few more listeners.


    "And why would I want to experience not having God''s love? I''m not exactly sure what God''s love is, anyway, but having it seems a lot better than not having it. And if given a choice I choose to bask in God''s love."


    "Tis a good choice," said Arthur.


    "But you''re saying I chose to come here, to earth, to experience not basking in God''s love."


    "Yes," he said.


    "And why would I do that?"


    "To evolve. To grow. To experience something new."


    "And I had a choice to be born?"


    "Always," he said.


    I was about to say something when Marion touched my arm lightly and pointed to the tent. "It''s your turn, James."


    And so it was.

 Page 9

    Chapter Seventeen


    My heart was pounding. I don''t know why. After all, what chance did I have of pulling the alleged Excalibur from the stone, especially with alleged King Arthur in line behind me?


    Still, I wanted to give the damn thing a tug. Why not, right? Fake or not, this was sort of fun. And I seemed to recall someone recently saying "life is supposed to be fun."


    So I paid my five pounds to the guy standing outside the tent. The guy was wearing fake chain mail and a purple tunic. He looked miserable. He also looked silly as hell. Anyway, he handed me a green ticket stub and held the tent flap open for me. I was on my way!


    The interior was gloomy, made even more gloomy by the presence of a very large, gray-colored boulder. The boulder looked a bit like a massive brain. A giant''s brain perhaps. And jutting from the side of it was the gleaming hilt of a sword.


    I hadn''t been expecting to be so...impressed by the sword. The thing was utterly beautiful. Almost larger than life. And, if I didn''t know better, it seemed to glow and sort of pulsate, as if it were alive.


    Or as if your overactive imagination was on hyperdrive.


    Another fake chain mail clad worker was sitting behind a fold-out card table, bobbing his head to music pumped through iPod earphones. So much for avoiding anachronisms. Unless, of course, it was the first iPod. The iPodeth, perhaps. Maybe he was rocking out to popular minstrel R&B tunes of yesteryear. Dark Age classics about grog and ale and fair maidens, or dragons and sorcerers and how not to get your head chopped off.


    Anyway, the squire held out his hand and when I gave him my ticket, he said: "Pull with strength, pull with care, and perhaps, you''re the heir. Good luck, O Future King of England." He sounded bored. He also sounded not very hopeful.


    "Um, thanks."


    I turned and faced the boulder. A high-powered spotlight, similar to something you would see on a Hollywood set, illuminated the dark rock and glittering sword hilt.


    I''ll admit, I felt excited. Had I not been dreaming of King Arthur and Camelot and the Holy Grail?


    The hilt looked very old. The leather strap wrapped around the handle looked worn and battle-tested. How had the leather survived after all these years?


    The pommel, a shining steel ball that counter-balanced the blade, was badly worn, as if it had seen many battles. Maybe it had. The cross-guard, which protected the hand from the blade, was engraved in writing that looked vaguely English. Old English?


    Very Old English?


    The weapon itself was a massive broadsword, and eight percent of it was deeply embedded in the rock. Fake or not, I wondered how the heck that thing got in there. The blade showed signs of heavy use, but still appeared razor sharp.


    The worker leaned across the table and pulled out one of his earpieces. "Hey, mate. You gotta give it a tug and get moving. We''ve got a long line out there waiting."


    "Yes, of course. Sorry, um, mate."


    I turned back to the sword. The handle was tilted upward at about a forty-five degree angle. Perfect for grabbing and pulling. The rock itself - a massive chunk of granite that easily weighed a ton or two - was sitting atop a blue tarp. Nothing fancy here. Just a tent, a worker, and a rock with a sword in it.


    All to capitalize on gullible tourists.


    Well, this gullible tourist slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt with a certain amount of excitement, and as soon as I did so...


    Well, nothing much happened, unfortunately. No surge of energy. No blue sparks radiating up and down my arms. The sword didn''t hum with magic or do much of anything special at all. Disappointment flooded me.


    Still, the handle seemed a perfect fit for my hands. This gave me hope. I next positioned my feet in front of the rock, adjusted my grip slightly. Took a deep breath.


    And pulled that sucker with all my strength.


    The sword didn''t budge or shift or give any indication that it was coming free. I stopped pulling before I gave myself a hernia. Damn. Destined for a life as a commoner. Granted, a handsome and charming commoner with some writing skills, but a commoner nonetheless.


    I sighed and turned to leave, and that''s when someone let loose with a blood-curdling scream from somewhere outside the tent. The worker snapped his head around and yanked out his earphones. The scream was followed by what I was sure was the sound of metal hitting metal.


    And then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then bone hitting bone.


    Sweet mother of God, what was going on out there?


    The tent flap burst open and I yelped. Arthur appeared at the entrance, breathing hard and bleeding from a small wound in his arm. Through the still-open tent flap, I caught a fleeting glimpse of people running in every direction - but also of two men moving determinedly toward the tent.


    Both were armed with swords.


    "Excuse me, James," said Arthur, as he brushed past me and headed straight to Excalibur.


    Chapter Eighteen


    "You''re going to need a ticket to do that," said the worker behind me, and he actually stood and blocked Arthur from the sword. Then the kid caught sight of Arthur''s wounds - bloody rents in his sleeves and a cut lip - and the worker''s mouth literally dropped open.


    "You will step aside," said Arthur in a low, even voice. "Better yet, I suggest you leave altogether. Would be better for your health."


    The kid stared at Arthur. Arthur stared back. Someone screamed outside. The worker glanced nervously toward the closed tent flap, then back to Arthur. They stared at each other for another heartbeat or two, and then the kid dashed out through the tent flap without looking back. He was still running as the tent flap settled back into place, giving me snatches of the scene outside. Unfortunately, I also had a good view of the goons with swords, both of whom were now a good deal closer.


    "Um, Arthur, what''s going on?"


    "As they say in your physical world, James, there''s no time to answer."


    He positioned himself in front of the stone. Outside, the crowd was still screaming, along with the sounds of running feet. I had a sense that the market was clearing, and clearing quickly. Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes.


    "Where''s Marion?" I asked.


    "She''s safe," he said, and wrapped his hands around the hilt, his long fingers gripping it tightly. There was sweat on his brow, I saw, and the knuckles of his right hand were bloody. The sound of bone hitting bone that I had heard earlier?


    What the hell was going on?


    Better yet, what the hell had I gotten myself into?


    More shouts outside. More screaming. I shied away from the tent flap, expecting two men to come bursting through at any moment. Two men with swords.


    Sweet Jesus!


    I turned back to Arthur...and my jaw dropped. Something was happening to him and to the sword. Something very strange and wonderful and mind-blowing - and not of this world.


    At least, not of the world that I knew.


    I''m dreaming. This can''t be real.


    I had joked about blue sparks earlier - but I had been close. Too close. They weren''t exactly blue, and they weren''t exactly sparks. Instead, green coils of crackling energy wound around Arthur''s hands and wrists like glowing neon tubes. Seemingly binding him to the sword.


    Arthur lifted his face to the heavens, mumbling something completely incoherent to me. As the green coils moved further up his arms, a man holding a sword burst into the tent.


    I squeaked like a dog''s chew toy. The man scanned the tent wildly, found me conveniently standing nearby, and his face twisted into something ugly. The man was dressed in light armor and leather boots and sported a sword that looked like it meant business.


    "Arthur..." I said, backing into the table.


    Did I mention he had a sword?


    But Arthur wasn''t even looking at me. Okay, he so wasn''t my new BFF anymore. In his defense, all of the man''s concentration was centered on the sword. In particular, pulling the sword free. Sweat poured free from Arthur''s brow as thick, muscular cords stood out on his neck. A vein popped out on his forehead, thick as an earthworm. He continued pulling, grunting. The muscles along his shoulders and upper back bunched together impressively and seemed ready to burst free from his sweatshirt. He was clearly pulling with all his strength.


    Sweet mama.


    And to my amazement - although I probably shouldn''t have been - the sword slowly, ever so slowly, started coming free. And as it did, more coils of green energy looped around Arthur''s hands and wrists, around and around, sealing him to the sword.


    He grunted through his clenched teeth: "Help me, James!"


    But he didn''t mean help him with the sword. No, he meant help him with the crazy-looking guy with a sword - a sword that wasn''t embedded in two tons of rock. A sword that was now raised and ready to strike.


    Is this really happening?


    Yeah, I think it is.


    I looked desperately around for anything that resembled a weapon. Nothing. And so I did the only thing I could think of: I hurled myself at the guy, yelling like a madman.

 Page 10

    Chapter Nineteen


    And promptly bounced off his thick, muscled arm, and flopped straight to my back.


    The guy, still holding his sword, looked down at me curiously. And then started getting a little pissed. I had certainly diverted his attention away from Arthur.


    Unfortunately, I had diverted it to me.


    "Arthur..." I said, scrabbling backwards, crab-like.


    "You''re doing fine," said Arthur, grunting through clenched teeth. As he spoke, the sword slid out a few more inches. Or, as they say here in England, a few more centimeters.


    Focus, James.


    More screaming from outside, and now something else. Something that sounded like...


    A roar.


    Yes, a roar. As if a tiger had been let loose in the streets of Glastonbury. The terrifying sound came again, louder, vibrating up through the cobblestones, and up into my skull, rattling my brain.


    Somehow I suspected it wasn''t a tiger. Somehow I suspected it was something else. Something bigger.


    But I didn''t have time to think about that now. The goon was now bringing his broadsword down like a man chopping wood. Or like a man determined to cleave a skull in two. I dove to the side, under the card table, just as the sword came crashing down.


    I half expected the weapon to go through the table, but instead it wedged deeply into the particle wood. A portion of the blade appeared above me, through raining particle wood dust. The blade moved back and forth as the freak tried desperately to work it free.


    Outside came the roar again. Somehow louder. Somehow even more bone-chilling.


    What the hell was that?


    Grunting, the guy above me finally worked his sword free. As he did so, I did the only thing I could think of. From my position under the table, I whipped-kicked him, sweeping my leg low across the floor, and neatly swiping his own legs out from under him.


    The results were more than I could have hoped for.


    As his feet went in one direction, his broadsword went flying in the other. He landed hard on his back, air bursting from his lungs.


    I did not just do that.


    Across the tent, under the bright set lights, Arthur gave a tremendous heave -


    And pulled the sword free from the stone. I had a brief image of my crazy new friend staggering backward, holding the sword triumphantly, when a blinding flash of green light sent me hurtling through the air.


    Chapter Twenty


    I found myself lying on my back in the middle of the outdoor market, staring up into gloomy skies. As I stared, something very large and bat-like passed in front of the lowest hanging clouds.


    I blinked. Surely I was imagining things.


    Groaning, I rolled over to my side and stayed like that for a moment or two, my body aching in places it had never ached before. And as my senses came back to me, so did my memory. There had been an explosion in the tent. What happened to the tent, I had no idea. What happened to Arthur, I had no idea, either.


    I shook my groggy head, and that''s when I heard - and felt - the galloping of hooves. I turned toward the sound and immediately saw three men on horseback charging down the middle of the street, kicking up dust and rocks and holding honest-to-God lances.


    The street, thank God, was mostly clear of tourists. Unfortunately, I was lying in the middle of it, directly in their charging path.


    If I was dreaming, I wanted to wake up now.


    But I didn''t wake up. The horses were still coming and now a massive shadow was sweeping over the ground. Still on my side, I craned my head up around up toward the sky. The rain had stopped and there was a break in the clouds. Sunlight poured through, and as it did, some of it caught something very, very big flying just under the cloud cover. The sunlight gleamed off two massive, leathery wings.


    I gaped. "You have got to be kidding me."


    And now I knew what all the roaring had been about. Yeah, I very much wanted to wake up.


    Now!


    The dark shape swept across the sky again, disappearing briefly below the distant foothills. I say briefly because now it was coming back. Low and hard and fast, and heading straight towards me.


    A dragon.

 Page 11

    Chapter Twenty-one


    I found my feet but couldn''t move.


    I just stood there in the center of the street while the dragon - yes, a real honest-to-God dragon - flew in low from the north, its massive, leathery wings outstretched like a bat on steroids. I should have run for cover. Heck, I should have done a lot of things. Mostly, I should have awakened from the nightmare I was living.


    But I didn''t.


    The dragon opened its impossibly wide mouth and shot a stream of fire that twisted and curled ten feet above my head and obliterated a nearby hot dog cart, sending wieners and buns flying everywhere.


    And as the smoldering shrapnel rained down around me, as processed meat splattered and plunked, as buns flitted down like dying birds, I finally got the hint:


    This wasn''t a dream.


    And I wasn''t waking up.


    Like a low-flying jet, the dragon thundered by, veering over a church and began a wide, arching turn. Apparently, dragons didn''t have much of a turning radius. The SUV''s of the monster world.


    With it gone for the moment, I now realized I had more pressing matters. Yes, even more pressing than a fire-breathing dragon. A very large horse was bearing down on me. And sitting atop the very large horse, was an insane-looking knight wielding a long and pointed joust.


    Good God! I''m going to get gutted by something from Middle Earth.


    I should have run; I should have done something. Anything.


    But I couldn''t move.


    The ground beneath me rumbled. Someone nearby screamed. Actually, that someone turned out to be me. The horse veered slightly to the left to give its rider a good angle to pierce my heart. I closed my eyes. My bowels turned to water.


    The horse snorted. Its hooves thundered.


    I had just wondered if I would even feel the sharp lance, when someone tackled me off my feet, knocking me to the ground, just as a rush of air swooshed past me.


    My fingers went straight to my heart, groping, feeling. Good news: everything was intact. Bad news: the attacker was turning back around.


    Yet more good news: Arthur was standing over me and he was holding a glowing Excalibur.


    Very, very good news indeed.


    The rider tossed his javelin aside and withdrew his sword. He then snapped his reins hard and charged, leaning forward in the saddle, raising his sword high.


    Arthur never flinched, and if he was scared, he didn''t show it. Instead, he calmly raised Excalibur with both hands. He opened and closed his fingers around the leather grip.


    The rider thundered hard, bearing down.


    "Let''s go, let''s go!" I yelled.


    But we didn''t go, and Arthur never moved. Instead, he spoke to me without taking his eyes off the approaching rider.


    "Do not move, James. Stay behind me."


    "I couldn''t move if I wanted to," I said.


    "When I dispose of him, I want you to take his sword."


    Dispose? Holy crap!


    "And do what with it?" I asked.


    "You''ll know what to do with it, old friend," he said.


    Old friend? I was about to ask him what exactly he meant by that, but the horse and rider were upon us.


    The knight slashed down hard from high in the saddle, just as Arthur swung Excalibur around, heaving with all his strength. Both swords clashed with a mighty clang and a hail of sparks. To my amazement, the rider exploded out of his saddle, nearly flipping backwards, and landing hard on his shoulders. He lay in a motionless heap as his riderless horse continued on.


    "Get his sword!" shouted Arthur. "Now, James!"


    I was still on the ground and, at Arthur''s urging, found myself crawling forward until I found my feet. Stumbling, I hurried over to the downed rider who still hadn''t moved.


    Was he dead? I didn''t know.


    His sword lay next to him. Not as nice as Excalibur, but a serious piece of weaponry. It also looked heavy as hell. Just as my hand reached for the well-worn grip, my feet were suddenly swept out from underneath me. In a blink of an eye, I was on my back. Air burst from my lungs.


    I turned, half expecting the brute to pounce on me, but my assailant wasn''t in any condition to do much assailing. The leg sweep was apparently all he had left in him. Now he lay in a pathetic heap, holding a broken arm, and watching me with pitiful eyes.


    "The sword, James. Hurry!" Arthur shouted. From somewhere nearby came the sound of thundering of hooves. More guys on horseback. No doubt, more guys with swords on horseback.


    Great.


    Keeping an eye on my injured friend, I reached over and took hold of his fallen sword. It was as heavy as I thought; hell, even heavier. As I stood, I used both hands to heft the weapon. Recalling that the downed knight had wielded it with one hand made me feel less than manly.


    Still, as I hefted it, he watched me closely. He was dressed in full chain mail. How he didn''t roast to death in that thing I didn''t know. He expected me to kill him, that much was obvious. Wherever he was from, apparently people played for keeps. He closed his eyes and muttered what appeared to be a small prayer. Or perhaps a really big prayer.


    "Dude, relax," I told him. "I''m not going to hurt you. We really should get that arm of yours looked at - "


    "Forget him, James. Over here!"


    And forget him I did. Hey, his prayers worked! No doubt someone would call an ambulance for him, right?


    Anyway, lugging the sword behind me, I was soon by Arthur''s side. A good thing, too, because now two riders were bearing down on us. And the dragon was flying low just behind them.


    "Mama."


    Chapter Twenty-two


    The dragon swept low over the street, its outstretched wings somehow just missing street lanterns and store awnings. Papers, leaves and various other debris swirled and trailed behind it like the tail of a comet.


    With ridiculous speed, it swept past the two riders and flew directly over us. Arthur never moved, staring up at it calmly. I nearly soiled myself. As it passed, I swear the thing looked down at me with eyes as big as bowling balls. Black smoke curled up from its flared nostrils. I shuddered like a frightened field mouse and made a conscientious effort to control my bladder. The dragon veered away, just missing a flag-pole. The flag itself whipped and snapped in the dragon''s wake.


    "Sweet mother of all that which is holy," I said.


    "This is fun, no?" Arthur said, grinning.


    "No," I said.


    Back on terra firma, the ground shook as the two riders drew closer. One was shouldering a lance and the other wielded a sword. Both were bearing down on us.


    "I''ll take the one on the right," said Arthur.


    "What about the one on the left?"


    "He''s all yours, James."


    "What?"


    "Simply parry the lance with your sword," said Arthur, shrugging. "You have more mobility than he does."


    "Or I could just run like hell."


    "Sure," said Arthur. "But why haven''t you?"


    Good question. I didn''t have a ready answer. Perhaps I had a death wish. I looked at Arthur; he looked at me. He grinned.


    "And it''s not because I''m having fun," I said. "I assure you."


    "If you say so, my friend."


    "Well, I do say so," I said, but my words were nearly drowned by the thundering of approaching hooves.


    Arthur tossed Excalibur from hand to hand. The fact that I could barely hold my own sword up with two hands, let alone toss it from hand to hand like a hot potato, wasn''t lost on me.


    I was doomed.


    The ground shook some more. Pebbles at my feet bounced an inch or two off the ground. The rider on the left lowered his lance. Straight at my heart. I lifted my sword. Barely.


    From my peripheral vision, I saw Arthur look over at me. I think he saw me struggling with the sword. He raised his voice loudly above the din of hooves. "Try using your right hand," he shouted.


    I shouted back, "I''m having trouble with both hands, let alone using one hand. Besides, I''m left-handed."


    "Trust me," he said, mouthing the words.


    "But I don''t understand," I said.


    And somehow, amazingly, his words came to me clearly, easily, as if I were seated directly across from him at a quiet outdoor cafe. "Some things you don''t have to understand, James. Some things can be taken on faith." He winked. "Besides, in this case, it''s called muscle memory."


    "Muscle what?"


    "Just try it, James," he said. "Trust me."


    Then the sounds of the galloping horses came rushing back at me, and I felt as if I had just emerged from a soundproof studio. Arthur, I was sure, had somehow been inside my head, and that was a troubling thought at best.


    But trust him I did. I switched hands, and something amazing happened. The sword felt remarkably comfortable in my right hand. It even felt somehow lighter, too. I gripped it confidently, amazed.


    "Heads up, James!" said Arthur loudly.


    I snapped my head around in time to see the rider on the left lean forward in his saddle and thrust his lance straight for my heart.


    Dressed in shining armor, complete with a fluffy red plume, the rider and lance came at me quickly.


    I did the only thing I could think of: I turned my shoulders sideways just as the deadly tip of the lance passed me by.


    The rider looked down at me as he charged on by. Although his eyes were hidden behind his visor, I sensed his perplexity at having missed such an easy target. Heck, I shared in his perplexity. I should have easily been on the wrong end of a shish kabob.


    Beside me, metal clashed against metal. I turned in time to see Arthur spinning from the force of the blow. His own adversary charged on by, and now both knights pulled up together and turned to face us.


    "Good job, old boy," said Arthur. He sounded slightly winded.


    "How do you know I did a good job?" I asked.


    "You''re still talking to me, aren''t you?" he said. I could hear the humor in his voice.


    Something roared in the near distance. I was fairly certain I knew what that something was.


    "You ready, James?" asked Arthur.


    "Ready for what?"


    As if on cue, both horses leaped forward again, spurred on by their riders who dug their heels deep into the creatures'' flanks. The knights separated, one angling for Arthur, the other for me. And, as luck would have it, the one with the lance picked me again.


    Oh, goody.


    This time he seemed to come at me even faster, his lance even steadier. Actual steam billowed from the horse''s flared nostrils. I wanted to run all the way home to Seattle.


    "Easy, James," said Arthur next to me, as if reading my thoughts.


    I took in some air and gripped my sword, and when the lance came at me this time, I did something that astonished even me.


    First, I side-stepped it again, then I swung my sword around hard, and drove the lance straight down into the ground, wedging the point deep between the cobblestones.


    To my utter amazement, the rider launched into the air like an Olympic pole vaulter. Except there was no blue mat waiting for him below. He landed hard on his back, his armor clanking against the cobbled street.


    "Unbelievable," I muttered. Next to me, sticking out of the rocks, the lance quivered like an arrow in a bull''s-eye.


    "Unbelievable," I said again.


    In that moment, out of my peripheral vision, I heard a great clash of metal and saw the second rider fly out of his own saddle, landing hard next to my rider. Both horses trotted off, riderless.


    There was no time to rejoice our minor victory. Flying straight down the center of the street again, its wingspan impossibly wide, its cold, black eyes seemingly staring at me, was the dragon.


    Arthur spun around. "Run, James!"

 Page 12

    Chapter Twenty-three


    And run we did, angling across the cobblestones, toward some shops, just as a twisting geyser of fire erupted from the creature''s mouth, burning a furious trail down the center of the street, directly for us.


    I didn''t think we could outrun the fire. And just as I felt the searing heat, Arthur yanked me into a recessed doorway, and the fire blasted harmlessly past.


    The dragon turned to starboard and was gone, and we continued running along the now empty street. Dragons have a way of clearing towns and streets.


    Wait. Not entirely empty.


    There, standing a block or two up the inclined street, was a man watching us. He wore a black trench coat (or was it a robe of some sort?) that swirled about him as if it were alive. The man was tall and thin, and there was something distinctly menacing about him. A darkness seemed to surround him and, although he was standing in broad daylight, he appeared permanently cast in shadows. He also looked familiar.


    As I stared at him, I promptly tripped over the uneven stones and would have fallen face-first into a filthy gutter if Arthur hadn''t reached out and caught me. Cobra fast.


    He said, "Easy, old boy."


    "Who is that guy?"


    Arthur pursed his lips. "Later, my friend."


    "But - "


    "Later," he said, and then pointed to a narrow alley. "Here."


    He turned into it, and I followed right behind, but not without a final glance up the inclined street.


    The man with the dark cloak was gone.


    Marion was waiting for us inside the alley. And to my utter shock and delight, she launched herself into me, throwing her arms around me, hugging me tight. "You were amazing, James!"


    I think I blushed. Actually, I know I blushed. "Amazingly lucky," I said.


    Arthur gave me a hearty pat on the back. "You did good, old boy. I knew you had it in you."


    Marion released me, doing so far too soon, and I found myself babbling nearly incoherently. "Say, I don''t suppose either of you saw the dragon?" But I didn''t give them time to answer. No. I was on an adrenaline high and I was damned scared and nothing was going to shut me up. "No, of course not. Obviously, I''m going insane. Or maybe I''m still dreaming. Or hallucinating. Maybe I took some bad cough syrup back at the hotel. You know, you should always check the expiration date on those things - "


    Arthur grabbed my shoulders and shook me vigorously. I nearly bit my tongue. "You''re not dreaming or hallucinating, old boy. We all saw the dragon."


    "Then we''re all crazy. Or maybe I''m the crazy one, and I''ve fabricated this entire - "


    Arthur steered me deeper into the alley. "Let''s talk about your psychosis later, old friend. For now, we need to get moving."


    I heard the horses then. Many of them. More horses, more men, and more swords.


    Marion and I followed Arthur down the narrow alleyway - too narrow, I hoped, for the horses. And definitely too narrow for a dragon.


    Lord help us all.


    Chapter Twenty-four


    The three of us were sitting together in an ancient tavern on the outskirts of town. Hot cocoa had just been served by a bartender who sported an actual hump in his back. The way things were going, I wouldn''t have been surprised if his name was Quasimodo.


    Anyway, the tavern itself was blessedly warm with a nice fire roaring in the center hearth. Outside, through the plate glass window, I saw that the rain had started again. Crooked fingers of smoke filled the afternoon sky, puffing from dozens of chimneys.


    I was suddenly reminded of the smoke trailing out of the dragon''s mouth. Not a pleasant memory.


    "Guys," I said. "I''m not feeling well."


    "Hang in there, sport," said Arthur.


    Outside, a haggard-looking yellowish dog passed in front of our window, paused, looked longingly into the warmth within, and then continued on. I could have used some puppy love right now. Nothing beats a fuzzy muzzle resting on your lap.


    The hot cocoa was piled high with homemade whipped cream and white chocolate shavings. I was never much of a white chocolate guy, but, damn, this hot cocoa was to die for.


    Unfortunate choice of words.


    I had rested my sword on the floor by my feet. Arthur had shoved his through the wide hammer loop of his cargo shorts. A very unceremonious berth for a magical sword, to say the least. So far, the bartender hadn''t noticed the weapons. His hump didn''t appear to notice, either.


    The rain came steadily down, drumming against the windows and partially closed front door. Somewhere in the far distance I heard the roar of the dragon. I assumed it was the same dragon. Maybe there were more.


    "Any chance that roar was a figment of my imagination?" I said to no one in particular.


    "Sorry, old boy," said Arthur. "But, no."


    Arthur was currently sporting a whipped cream mustache, which kind of made him hard to take too seriously. Very unkingly. Luckily Marion was there to save the day. She wiped it away carefully, wetting the napkin with the tip of her tongue.


    "So what''s next?" I asked, suddenly glum.


    "Glastonbury Abbey," said Arthur brightly. "But first, I think we need to catch our breaths a little, and maybe answer a few of your questions. I''m sure you have many."


    Many hundreds, I thought.


    The fire crackled and snapped, much like the fire had crackled and snapped from the dragon''s gullet. Speaking of which, the great flying lizard was thankfully silent for the moment. We were silent too. I could hear my own heart beating. Every now and then I pinched my arm.


    I drank some hot cocoa, suddenly wishing it was something a little stronger. Of course, I was in a bar, and there were ways of making a drink stronger in here. But the humpbacked, old bartender was nowhere to be found. Just my luck.


    So I started things off. "That wasn''t a real dragon, right?" I asked.


    "If it wasn''t a dragon, old boy, then what do you suppose it was?" asked Arthur jovially. More whipped cream in his mustache. More wiping from Marion.


    Luckily, I was too confused and frightened to care much about her puppy dog crush on the king.


    "I don''t know," I said. "Maybe I''m on a film set. Maybe they''re filming Jurassic Park Six or Seven, or whatever the hell number they''re on now."


    "I think they''ve made three," said Arthur.


    "And they''re making the fourth," said Marion.


    "Big picture, guys. Whatever number they''re on doesn''t really matter, does it?"


    "And what does matter, my friend?" asked Arthur.


    "Oh, I don''t know," I said. "Maybe explaining why the hell there''s a flying dragon at all. Or maybe why there''s real knights out there trying to skewer me on their lances, or how the hell you pulled that sword free when no one else could? Or why I was suddenly able to use the sword with my right hand, when I''m left-handed? Oh, and who the hell was that man standing in the middle of the street, watching us?"


    "That''s a lot of hells," said Arthur. "Fair enough. Let''s start with the first question. But first, anyone up for more hot cocoa?"

 Page 13

    Chapter Twenty-five


    As if on cue, the old bartender appeared from the back room with a tray of hot cocoa. Arthur, it seemed, had a knack for getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.


    Must be nice.


    Arthur thanked the man profusely and gave him a wad of cash, then slapped him heartily on the back. Almost too heartily. The bent figure nearly pitched forward.


    When he was gone, I found myself wondering where Arthur had gotten the cash. Perhaps Maid Marion had given her beloved some spending money.


    Or maybe he created it out of thin air.


    "The dragon," said Arthur. "Yes, I can imagine such a thing is a difficult concept to accept."


    "It''s a bit more than a concept at this point," I said drily.


    Arthur sipped his hot cocoa, watching me. "James," he said. "Do you believe in other worlds?"


    "Other worlds? Like planets?"


    "Not just planets, but living, thriving worlds where life exists, much like this one."


    My head was swimming. All over again. Seriously, how much could one guy take in a day? "Well, I''m aware that there might be other planets out there that might be conducive to some very rudimentary life forms - "


    Arthur looked at Marion. "What''s he saying?"


    "He''s reiterating the scientific community''s rather shortsighted view on the probability of life on other planets."


    "That''s what I thought he meant," said Arthur, then looked back at me. "Your scientists will come to think differently very soon."


    "What does that mean?"


    "Changes are afoot."


    "What kind of changes?"


    He winked. "Now is not the time."


    I sat back and blew air rudely out the corner of my mouth. "Must be nice knowing everything."


    "Don''t sound so discouraged, my friend," said Arthur. "Half the fun is re-remembering who you are. Indeed, half the fun is reinventing who you are. So do that. Every day. Reinvent yourself. Change something about yourself. Create something new. Remember, God''s greatest gift to us is our imagination and our ability to create."


    "Only God can create," I said. Next to us, the fire crackled and popped loudly.


    "Oh?" said Arthur, raising an eyebrow. "Our friend the pub owner created this fire. Someone created this building. Someone created the clothing on your back." He paused and leaned across the table, and I found myself looking deep into his aquamarine eyes. His stare was unwavering and calm, his eyes friendly but passionate. "And you, my friend, create your books."


    "That''s a little different than creating something out of thin air."


    "Oh, really?" he asked.


    "Yes, really," I said. "Take this building, for example. It didn''t just appear. It took some time to build. Many men, with many skills worked on it for many months."


    "So you equate creative powers with time?" asked Arthur.


    "Sure," I said.


    "So if I asked you to build a fire, and it took you five to ten minutes to do so, you would consider that less a creative accomplishment than someone who could start the fire instantly?"


    "Yes, that''s right," I said. "Exactly."


    "I see," said Arthur. "And the fact that the end result is the same means nothing?"


    "Exactly. God does it with a snap of His fingers; I have to do it with a snap of a match. There''s a difference."


    "And who created the match?"


    "Someone smarter than me," I said.


    "Or perhaps God gave you yet another tool to create."


    "By giving me a match?"


    "Sure," said Arthur.


    "And God gave it to me?"


    "Of course! God has given you everything in your life."


    "Then why doesn''t God give me a little more?"


    "God," said Arthur, "has given you the tools to ask for more. To create more. These tools are in you, waiting. In fact, you are constantly using them, whether you realize it or not."


    "What does that mean?" I asked.


    "You are always attracting. You are always creating. It happens by default whether you want it to or not. It is the way. It is the process that governs everything around you. You create by thinking about an object. It is as simple as that. That object will then come into your experience. The clearer you can think about the subject, the faster it will come. The more often you think about the subject, the faster it will be become. The more excited you think about the object..."


    "The faster it will come," I finished.


    "Right. But the reverse is true, too. So diligently teach yourself to think only upon that which you want. It''s as easy as that. And in the process, train yourself to direct your thoughts away from that which you don''t want."


    "I''ve heard all of this before. It''s the Law of Attraction. Hippie crap."


    "Hippie crap or not, it''s the law that runs your universe. There have been many teachers sent to your earth to teach you these very principles. And there will be more, hundreds more, thousands more, until your kind finally gets it right."


    I shook my head. I needed an aspirin. "But aren''t most people clear about the things they want?"


    Arthur sipped his cocoa. "Not as clear as you think."


    "How do people become more clear?"


    "Tell yourself daily that you are becoming clearer and clearer in what you want, in what you seek, and clarity will come. And once it comes, I would suggest that you think often and speak often of this thing that you want. Do so every day, many times a day. And the more you think and speak upon this thing, the faster it will manifest into your experience."


    "The Secret, and all that."


    Arthur nodded. "The Law of Attraction is real, James. You are using it everyday whether you mean to or not. Most people on this planet are creating by default. So, then, why not create with intention?"


    "Then why not tell us that from the beginning?" I said. "I mean, why keep people in the dark about all this for so long?"


    "Your world is a slow learner," said Arthur with a gentle smile. "Many teachers have come to you to teach these very laws."


    "Are you such a teacher?" I asked.


    "No," he said. "I am just here for fun. You, my friend, are such a teacher."


    "No," I said. "I''m just a mystery author."


    "Unless you choose differently," he said.


    I thought about that. The fire crackled. My cocoa sat forgotten in front of me. "So what is the spirit world like?" I asked.


    "Full of love and peace. A beautiful place. You know this already."


    "But I have forgotten."


    Arthur smiled kindly. "Yes."


    "So there are no challenges in the spirit world? Is that why we incarnate on earth? To face challenges?"


    "And to grow, yes. You are most correct, James. The challenge in the spirit world is not in the creating, for creation there is instant. Indeed, the challenge in the spirit world is to gain wisdom from our lives spent in the physical world."


    "So we need to reincarnate to gain wisdom?"


    "''Tis the surest path to enlightenment."


    "We are talking about enlightenment when there''s a dragon circling above," I pointed out, rather astutely.


    "Life is funny, is it not?"


    "A real riot," I said. "So creation in the spirit world is instant?"


    "Yes," said Arthur.


    "But not so much in this world?"


    "Not necessarily. There are a few who have mastered instant creation in your world."


    "Ascended masters?"


    Arthur winked at me and snapped his fingers. The fire in the fireplace instantly disappeared, replaced by billowing black smoke that rose crazily up into the stone chimney. Arthur held my gaze a moment longer, then said, "For some of us, creation can be in an instant."


    And he snapped his fingers again, and the fire roared back to life.


    Chapter Twenty-six


    I stared down into my cocoa.


    I had seen a dragon. I had seen a dragon breathe fire. I had even seen a dragon obliterate a hot dog stand -


    But Arthur''s fire trick really freaked me out.


    He continued, "You can build a fire slow, or you can build it in an instant," said Arthur, snapping his fingers again, although this time the fire didn''t wink out. Thank God. "The ability to do what I just did is in everyone."


    I was really, truly, feeling ill. And a little dizzy, and there was a distinct pounding at the back of my head.


    Marion leaned forward over the table a little. "Remember, James, Arthur is a master. To him, instantly starting and stopping a fire is expected."


    "She is correct in one sense, James. True, masters can routinely perform what many consider miracles. However, she seemed to imply that only masters can perform miracles, and that is not correct. Anyone can perform miracles. In fact, you are performing many miracles right now, as we speak."


    "Not likely," I said.


    "Is it not a miracle that life infuses the dust and clay that surrounds your bones?"


    "Anyone can do that," I said. "It just happens. Most people, however, do not expect a fire to do their bidding. It''s beyond their realm of - " I searched for a word, "expectations."


    "And so it is," he said. "If they believe that. I would suggest for most people to not limit themselves. Ever."


    Arthur lapsed into silence and began whistling a haunting tune, a tune that awakened something very old within me, the tattered fragments of a long-lost memory. Suddenly, in my mind''s eye, I saw forested lands and verdant green hills; I saw distant castles and villagers dancing merrily around a roaring campfire. I ached for it. Longed for it. I knew this place; it had once been home. I was sure of it. How I knew this, I did not know. Where it was, I did not know. But I suspected it was close. Very close....


    I took in some air and the memory faded. I felt weirdly homesick. After a moment, I found my voice. "But how did you do it? How did you make a fire go out and then come back?"


    Arthur stopped whistling and nodded, as if he was waiting for this question. "First, I feel a deep connection with our Creator. I feel His love and strength and warmth course through me. I feel God in every cell of my body. And second, I thank Him for providing me with whatever I want."


    "You thank Him before He gives it to you?" I said.


    "Of course," said Arthur.


    "And you thanked Him for putting out the fire?"


    "Yes."


    "And it just happened?"


    "Yes."


    "And you thanked Him for starting the fire again?"


    "Yes."


    "And it just happened?"


    Arthur looked at me kindly and smiled deeply. "Yes, my friend. It just happened."


    I took all of this in. It made sense on a very basic level, granted, but how did real people in their real lives put any of this to good use?


    "And you''re saying I could do that, too?" I asked.


    "Of course," he said. "And the more you want something, the more you believe you will have it, the faster it will come."


    "Sweet Jesus," I said.


    "Yeah," said Arthur, "He is pretty sweet."

 Page 14

    Chapter Twenty-seven


    The tavern door swung open and a man and woman swept in out of the cold and sat opposite the central hearth, talking excitedly. I could only imagine what they were talking excitedly about. Dragons were, after all, big news. Bigger even than Charlie Sheen.


    "Back to the dragon," I said.


    Arthur nodded. "Yes, the dragon is from elsewhere, James. Much like those knights we fought in the streets."


    "Elsewhere?"


    "Yes."


    "And where is elsewhere?"


    "Another world," said Arthur, flipping his wrist absently. He seemed amused by the gesture and did it again, as if he was still getting used to his physical body. "Another world, another time."


    "Then why are they here in our world at this time?" I asked.


    "They were summoned," said Arthur. "By the man in black you saw earlier."


    "And who is he?"


    "A magician."


    I had been about to take a sip from my cocoa, but stopped the mug halfway up to my lips. Some of it sloshed over the rim and made a brown and white foaming mess on the scarred wooden table.


    I looked at Arthur.


    He looked back at me.


    I started shaking my head.


    "No...." I said.


    He winked. "Yes," he said. "That magician."


    A single name appeared in my thoughts: Merlin.


    I mulled the name over. Heck, I was mulling a lot over. If there was a land of Mull, I would surely be king.


    Above the nearby rooftops, a section of the darkening sky glowed orange. Perhaps a fire. Perhaps the source of the sirens I had heard earlier. Dragon fire?


    I had never seen the Disney movie "The Sword in the Stone," although I had read Steinbeck''s little-known and wonderfully written The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights. I had never read Mallory''s Le Morte d''Arthur, nor had I read Mary Stewart''s classic trilogy plus one. But I had seen Richard Gere playing the role of Sir Lancelot in First Knight, and I was fairly certain I had seen King Arthur with Sean Connery. Granted, I had done some research on Glastonbury prior to coming here, and so I knew the "official" history of Arthur. But I realized then, as I sat there with Arthur reborn, that I had scant knowledge of Merlin himself. I knew Merlin had been a friend of Arthur''s, a wizarding aide, so to speak. A confidant. And I seem to recall - and perhaps I had read this in Steinbeck''s book - that Merlin was last seen trapped inside a magical tree, betrayed by the woman he loved. But I do not recall Merlin turning bad. Then again, with wizards, one never knew, right?


    "You have surprising scant little knowledge of my old friend Merlin," said Arthur.


    "And you know this how?" I asked, suddenly suspicious.


    Marion said, "He''s reading your aura, James. Even I can see the confusion surrounding you."


    "I want to go home," I said.


    "Those who want, never receive," said Arthur.


    My head hurt again. "Um, what?" I asked.


    "Instead of wanting, you must choose. You must proclaim. And then you must thank, and then you shall receive your heart''s greatest and smallest desires."


    "Then I choose to go home," I said, my voice rising. "I proclaim that I am going home. And thank you God for sending me home."


    "Much better," said Arthur, grinning and sitting back. "So, then, why are you still here?"


    "You tell me," I said.


    "You are here," said Arthur, "because I suspect you truly don''t want to leave."


    "Oh, really?" I said.


    "I suspect you want to see this adventure through to the end, James, even though you might be afraid now. I suspect you want to experience the thrill of the quest, and to see distant lands, and have the adventure of a lifetime. And, being a true bard at heart, I suspect you want to tell this tale to the world."


    "I want," I said, "to go pee."


    And I got up and left.


    I did my business in a very small, archaic bathroom, and shortly found myself at the end of a slightly crooked hallway. The back door was open, and I stood there looking up into the rain as it drummed the lids of some nearby metal trashcans. I wondered what was really keeping me here in Glastonbury. I could easily leave now and try to forget I ever came here.


    Try was the operative word here.


    The stench of garbage was strong on the air. The rain was coming down harder, driving straight into the alley, pounding some of the smell into submission. Just some of it.


    But Arthur was right, dammit. I indeed wanted to see this thing through to the end. I indeed wanted to see what my dreams were all about. I mean, how often does one get to traipse through England with King Arthur himself?


    Yes, I wanted to see this through to the end, as long as it didn''t kill me.


    What had Arthur said about wanting?


    Oh yeah, something about choosing.


    And so, as I stood there with my face halfway out into the night, with a small wind making its way down the narrow alley, I silently proclaimed:


    I choose to see this through to the end.


    Now what the heck was I thinking?


    Chapter Twenty-eight


    "We need to leave soon, James," said Marion when I returned.


    "I don''t want to," I said. "Not yet. Please. I like it in here. It''s warm and cozy and there''s no one chasing us with swords. Besides, I''m just working up an appetite to try some of this sticky pudding." I pointed to the menu where there was a picture of something gooey covered in cream.


    I reached for my hot cocoa, but it was gone.


    "Sorry, old boy," said Arthur sheepishly, wiping his mouth. There was still some whipped cream in his mustache. "I assumed you didn''t want it, and, well, we really should be going." He motioned to the table where the couple had been sitting. The table was now empty. "I''m fairly certain our friends here have reported us to the proper authorities."


    "And why would they report us to the proper authorities?" I asked, except I knew the answer the moment the words left my mouth.


    Arthur said, "No doubt a fair amount of people have reported seeing knights wielding swords." He pointed to his hip where Excalibur was hanging from the hammer loop of his cargo shorts. "We fit that description. At least the sword part."


    "Maybe the authorities are too busy running down a fire-breathing dragon to worry about us."


    "For now, the dragon is gone," said Arthur. "It served its purpose."


    I blinked. "Its purpose?"


    "Yes, to strike fear in the hearts of those who saw it. Fear is a valuable weapon for those who wish to control others."


    "And Merlin seeks to control others?"


    "Yes, apparently."


    "Why?"


    "That," said Arthur, "remains to be seen."


    "You don''t know?" I asked, surprised.


    "I don''t know everything, my friend. I am but a spirit, a soul, like yourself. Neither greater nor less."


    "Just more highly evolved," piped in Marion.


    "Oh, thank you for reminding me of that," I snapped at her. I turned back to Arthur. "So you know some things, but don''t know others? That''s convenient."


    "Merlin''s plan will be revealed to me at the appropriate time. Then again, it may not."


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means you may desire everything in the world, but you may not always be given everything in the world. That is the great paradox we talked about before. Appreciate the paradox, and appreciate what you are given, and always thank God for what you already have."


    "And so you have not been given Merlin''s plans?" I asked.


    And for the first time - the very first time - I saw a dent in Arthur''s invincibility. "No," he said, looking away. "I have not."


    "And how do you know our friends over there called the police?" I asked, looking at Marion. "Did you read their auras?"


    "No," said Marion. "I overheard one of them calling the operator."


    "Oh," I said.


    And, as if on cue, I heard the sound of approaching sirens.


    "I suggest," said Arthur. "We find a back exit."

 Page 15

    Chapter Twenty-nine


    We had just exited the alley and were making our way down a side street when a wailing police cruiser skidded around a corner, lights flashing. Arthur yanked Marion and I back into a recessed doorway, where we stayed until the police cruiser had passed us by.


    I almost - almost - wished we had been pulled over. Jail, I figured, had to be safer than this.


    We continued on, and as the sky darkened into late evening, we soon found ourselves huddled together in a copse of trees across the street from the Glastonbury Abbey.


    The abbey was relatively famous. After all, it was the legendary final resting place of King Arthur himself, who had supposedly been buried in a tomb beneath the high altar. That is, until the tomb was excavated and found to be empty. I glanced at Arthur crouched next to me. Go figure.


    "So what''s the game plan?" I asked to no one in particular.


    "Game plan?" asked Arthur.


    "You know, the plan," I said, surprised again that some American idioms were lost in translation while others he seemed to grasp instantly.


    "The plan. Yes, the plan. Hmm." Arthur scratched his beard. "You see the nearby hill?" Arthur pointed to Glastonbury Tor, of course, with its single, solitary tower prominent against the cloud-filled evening skies. The tower, a phallic symbol if ever there was one, was all that was left of an ancient church, and was visible for many dozens of miles in every direction. Perhaps even hundreds of miles.


    I nodded. "Yes."


    "That, my friend, is our destination."


    "Then why are we hiding here?"


    "Because our destination, in fact, lies under the hill."


    "Under?"


    "Indeed, and the secret entrance is found here in the Abbey. More precisely, in my tomb."


    I found it a bit disconcerting at best listening to someone talking about their now empty tomb. I said, "And why would we want to go under the hill?"


    The wind was picking up now, moaning through the copse and whipping branches. I also might have heard the sounds of distant hoof beats. Might have. It was hard to tell with all the rustling leaves.


    Arthur said, "Because under the hill is where the Grail is hidden."


    "Of course," I said, perhaps more sarcastically than I had meant. "I should have known."


    Arthur put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder affectionately. I could feel his electric energy. "Relax, James. Don''t look so worried. You''ve been there before, my friend. After all, you helped me hide it. Now, let''s get out of here. Time is of the essence!"


    I helped him hide it?


    "Come along, James," he said, taking hold of Marion''s hand and leading her across the street. "The game is afoot!"


    I sure as hell didn''t think this was a game, and if it was, I certainly wasn''t winning.


    I dashed off after them.


    Chapter Thirty


    Much of the Glastonbury Abbey had crumbled away, and no one, seemingly, cared much about putting it back together again.


    Where were all the king''s men when you needed them?


    The Abbey was part of a larger network of buildings that all sat on many acres of idyllic park grounds. Except now, under the bright full moon that appeared in a break in the clouds, the grounds didn''t seem so idyllic. They seemed downright creepy. In a world where fire-breathing dragons existed, I was fully aware that anything could be out there, watching us. There could even be smaller things, things with sharp teeth and long claws and evil in their hearts.


    But, alas, nothing stirred or slithered or crept. Nothing, that is, that I could see.


    Arthur and Marion had disappeared into what appeared to be the main entrance into the abbey. I was about to follow when I did indeed catch some movement. My heart skipped. Maybe it had just been my imagination. I peered through the darkening gloom into a shifting mist that had appeared over the sweeping grounds.


    Some of the mist parted, and I could barely believe what I was seeing.


    Four small figures were holding hands and dancing around a tiny tree sapling. My first thought was that these were children, but I knew in my heart that they were much smaller than children.


    Much, much smaller.


    Besides, they didn''t really look like kids, did they? They looked like, well, little people.


    I stood there unmovingly, entranced, watching this strange dance and wondering what I was witnessing, when next a haunting melody reached my ears. I knew instinctively that this song was being sung by the four dancing figures.


    And I knew they were singing to the tree.


    What is happening?


    I heard the sound of grass crunching behind me. I whirled around, jumpy as hell, raising the sword. Arthur was calmly standing there with his hands clutched behind his back. He neither moved nor flinched, although he did nod and give me a crooked smile. "Your reflexes are getting better, my friend. I suspect that soon you will be back to your old self."


    My old self?


    I opened my mouth to ask what that meant, but promptly closed it again when the singing reached my ears again. I turned back to the dancing figures as Arthur stepped next to me.


    "You appear to have found the wee folk," he said. "Or, more accurately, they have found you, since they do not often reveal themselves to humans."


    "The wee folk?" I asked. I found myself whispering, lest I disturb the dancing and singing.


    "Faeries, James. Or, as some call them, earth angels."


    "But what are they doing?" I asked. The four figures continued dancing and singing, their small voices so heartbreakingly beautiful that I wanted to weep.


    "They are welcoming new life into the world, James. Celebrating it, lifting its spirit."


    "They are dancing around a tree," I pointed out.


    "Ah," said Arthur. "Life is life, my friend. Small, medium or large, we are all creatures of God. We are all from the One. We are all celebrated and lifted up. We are all loved and exalted. Even the smallest sapling. Never forget that."


    The singing and dancing stopped and now the wee folk were bowing toward the sapling. Then they bowed to each other, and then, surprisingly, they turned and bowed toward us. Next to me, Arthur bowed deeply in return. I watched him, utterly amazed, and when I looked back down the grassy slope, the little ones were gone. All that remained was the tiny sapling, now standing alone, and looking somehow taller and stronger. The wee folk''s haunting melody seemed to linger over mist-covered grounds, but that could have been my imagination.


    Hell, all of this could have been my imagination.


    To my surprise, I found tears on my cheeks. Weird and strange as the scene had been, it had also been beautiful and oddly touching.


    "Come, my friend," said Arthur, squeezing my shoulder affectionately. "I need your help. And quickly."

 Page 16

    Chapter Thirty-one


    I followed Arthur up a flight of roughly hewn stone stairs, and found myself in what had once been a church, except there was no roof and most of the four walls had crumbled.


    Arthur paused just inside the abbey entrance and seemed to be looking for something. He suddenly said, "Ah ha!" and strode into a dark corner and came back with, of all things, a common garden rake.


    I wasn''t sure a common garden rake was "Ah ha" worthy, but it seemed to excite the once and future king. At any rate, he leaned the garden tool against a stone wall and did something that should have surprised me, but didn''t. Arthur lifted his foot and stepped down hard on the rake, snapping off its metal teeth. Now the rake was nothing more than a long wooden pole with a broken end. Marion moved over to my side and we watched together as Arthur next brought the wooden pole crashing down over his uplifted knee. Now the broken pole was two smaller broken poles.


    I whispered to Marion, "Do you have any idea what he''s doing?"


    "No clue," she whispered back.


    "Is there a chance he''s completely lost it?"


    She frowned at me, the severe look in her eyes somehow reflecting whatever light there was in the cloud-filled late evening sky, which was damn little. Obviously, she didn''t like me questioning her man.


    Now holding a shaft in each hand, Arthur turned to us and raised them high. He knocked the poles together once, twice, and by the third time, twin flames appeared, burning furiously along the upper halves. What had once been a common garden rake was now two not-so-common torches. He handed one to me.


    "Godfire," he said casually. "Will burn forever, if you so desire."


    "And who wouldn''t?" I said.


    He grinned and the three of us proceeded deeper into the damaged church. The wind poured through the open roof and whipped our torches into a frenzy. Shadows skip-jumped around us, and something scurried over the floor nearby. In the near distance, I heard the distinct sounds of galloping horses.


    They''re coming.


    We pushed on and soon came upon a raised platform made of huge stone blocks.


    "The high altar," said Marion. Her breathing, I noticed, was sounding raspier and raspier. Indeed, she was also looking frail, hunched, and far older than her years. My heart broke seeing her like this.


    And that''s when something snapped inside me. Still holding the torch, I grabbed Arthur by his shoulders and yanked him around to face me. "You call yourself a master, and yet you do nothing to help your friend, Marion. She is dying. Her breaths are numbered and yet you snap your fingers and create fire like a Vegas magician. Why don''t you snap your fingers and heal her lungs, godammit?"


    Arthur said nothing, did nothing. He only looked at me patiently, his eyes impossibly wide in the torchlight, his irises seemingly on fire themselves. Marion touched my shoulder lightly behind me, her breathing harder than ever.


    "He never called himself a master," said Marion. "I did. Whether or not he is a master, I do not know. I think he is, and that''s enough for me."


    "Are you a master?" I asked him. I did not release his shoulders.


    "I still have much to learn," said Arthur calmly, watching me closely, his eyes searching my face.


    I turned to Marion. "Why do you call him a master?"


    "A master is a highly evolved being who''s lived many lives - sometimes many hundreds of lives. A master has, in fact, mastered the art of living, the art of being, and has raised his vibration to the highest possible level; nirvana, as some would call it. A master is one who knows God on a very personal level, and one who can, and does, perform miracles, but only if such miracles are for the highest good of those around him."


    "Highest good?" I asked, confused. Arthur was still silently searching my face with his eyes. I sensed his powerful love for me.


    "Yes, our highest good," said Marion. "Meaning, that which is for your soul''s ultimate benefit. Some of us are aware of our highest good. Others are not. Arthur, I believe, is not only aware of his own highest good, but the highest good of those around him."


    I looked at her. "And it is your highest good to not be healed?"


    "I don''t know," said Marion quietly. "Maybe it is, maybe it''s not."


    "She has the power to heal herself," said Arthur, speaking now for the first time. Still, he did not take his eyes off me. "We all have the power to heal ourselves, James. We all have the power to perform miracles. You and I," said Arthur, reaching up and gently taking hold of my hand and removing it from his shoulder, "are the same. We are not different. We are both loved equally by God. We are both, in fact, of God. God lives in both us. God is always there, waiting for you to come back to Him."


    "And why did I leave Him?"


    "To experience not knowing Him."


    "But now it''s time to come back?" I asked.


    "That is only for you to decide, James."


    I took in some air. "Still, why don''t you heal Marion?"


    The sound of approaching horses was very loud now. I could even hear the shouts and grunts of men.


    "I have not asked him to, James," said Marion.


    I turned to her, stunned. "Why not?"


    Arthur cast his eyes away from me and looked up toward the sky. It had begun to rain. Also, a black shadow passed beneath the clouds, its massive underbelly catching some of Glastonbury''s ambient light. The dragon was back.


    "Is she supposed to die?" I asked Arthur, spinning on him again. "Answer me, godammit!"


    "God never damns. God only loves," said Arthur. "And her soul''s path is neither for me nor you to decide. Only Marion and God know what''s best for her."


    "She''s suffocating to death," I said. "To death. Why would she not want to be healed?"


    "Death is not permanent, my friend. Death is just the end of this cycle, and the beginning of another."


    "Well, I don''t want her cycle to end."


    "Sometimes, such things are out of - "


    "Heal her, dammit!" I jumped back and raised my sword, pointing the tip at Arthur''s throat. "Please," I said, my voice cracking. The heavy sword was surprisingly steady in my hand. "Heal her."


    "James, no!" said Marion. "Please, it''s okay."


    "It''s not okay, Marion. He can help you. Instead, he''s letting you die."


    Arthur just stood before me, holding his torch in one hand and Excalibur in the other. Probably not the best idea to draw one''s weapon against someone holding what might be the world''s most magical sword. Especially since I knew next to nothing about what I was doing.


    But I didn''t give a damn.


    Arthur''s sword remained pointing down, although it seemed to have awakened somehow, pulsating in his hand as if it sensed danger to its owner. I continued holding my sword out before me, the sword somehow lighter than I remembered. I knew I had no intention of using it on Arthur, but I was royally pissed off.


    "James, no one''s letting me die. If I am to be healed it must be on my terms. It must be my decision, my doing. Not the actions of someone else. Especially not the violent actions of someone else."


    "That doesn''t make sense, Marion. Maybe God sent Arthur to heal you, and you are refusing - "


    Marion was now breathing harder than ever, her every breath rattling in her lungs as if something had broken loose inside her.


    "I have been angry with God for a long, long time, James. I have cursed God. I have hated God for allowing this to happen to me. I am only just now coming to peace with everything, forgiving and loving again. I still have much to learn. I need to grow. I am not there yet. I am beginning to understand that I might have attracted this illness to myself. I am learning to deal with that realization."


    "I don''t understand," I said.


    "It''s okay if you don''t understand, James. I understand, and it''s my journey. Not yours. But thank you for caring. I appreciate it more than you know."


    I dropped the point of the sword and hung my head down. What the hell had come over me? Now, from beyond the church walls, I heard guttural commands being shouted.


    "I''m sorry," I said to no one in particular.


    Arthur stepped around Marion and came over to me. I looked up, suddenly ashamed. He sheathed his sword in his hammer loop and threw his arms around me. Hard. He hugged me tighter than I''d ever been hugged in my life. Love emanated from him in wave after powerful wave. Love like a father. Love like my greatest friend.


    Lord, what was going on with me?


    "Why didn''t you protect yourself?" I asked, speaking into his ear. He smelled of sweat and soil, and of life and vitality.


    "I was going to give you my life," he said. "If you wanted it."


    "No. I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to help her."


    "Forcing someone to help is never the way, my friend. Violence is never the answer."


    "But we are carrying swords," I said, pulling away from him. "We just fought a battle in the street, for God''s sake."


    "That wasn''t violence, James."


    "What was it then?"


    His eyes gleamed brightly. "That was fun."


    "You''re making fun of me." I said.


    "Yes and no. Yes, there is an acceptable time for violence. Sometimes one must go to war, to have peace. Do you understand this concept?"


    I nodded; I did.


    "But solve your differences with kindness," he said.


    "I don''t want her to die," I said.


    Arthur turned and looked at Marion for a heartbeat or two. There were tears in his eyes. "I don''t either, my friend. More than you know."


    I took a deep breath. "So you were going to give your life to me?"


    "Of course," he said. "You have given your life to me, James. More than once."


    "I don''t understand."


    "It''s okay if you don''t understand everything now. There is much to learn. But now, though, can we put all this behind us and get some work done?"


    I nodded.


    "Come," he said. "Then we must hurry!"


    Chapter Thirty-two


    The rain, cold and persistent, drove straight down through the roofless church as lightning flickered over the nearby hills. That is, I hoped it was lightning. Thunder followed a few seconds later. That is, I hoped it was thunder. Either way, the ground seemed to shake and the broken walls of the church rattled.


    Not to mention I was cold as hell.


    Cold as Heaven, I thought, catching myself. Was Heaven ever cold, anyway? Or too hot? Or was it always just right?


    Focus, James.


    Right.


    With Excalibur hanging haphazardly from his hammer loop, Arthur stood on the platform, hands on his hips, frowning. In all, we were a motley crew. Well, except for Marion. Somehow, she still managed to look ravishingly beautiful, even in the wavering torchlight.


    "It''s around here somewhere," he said again.


    "What''s around here?" I asked again.


    Through the broken, open entrance, I could see perhaps twenty men gathering outside the church, many with their own torches.


    Probably didn''t have cool Godfire torches, though.


    Focus, James.


    Right.


    Anyway, the men seemed to be milling about, as if waiting for someone or for some sort of command. I adjusted my own grip on my broadsword.


    "The entrance," said Arthur.


    "The entrance to what?"


    "The Underworld," he said patiently, and stopped before a flat, massive stone in the center of the raised platform. "Here," he said.


    "Doesn''t look like much of an entrance, Arthur," I said.


    "Exactly," he said. "No one suspects it."


    "Does Merlin know of it?"


    "Of course," said Arthur. "He helped me seal the doorway, of course."


    "Yes, of course. Silly of me to ask. Here''s another obvious question: If Merlin knows where the doorway is, then why did he wait until now to open it?"


    "Two reasons," said Arthur. "First, he has always been one to make a dramatic entrance."


    Arthur knelt down, blew dust away and ran a finger along the seam of the fitted boulder''s edge.


    "And the second?" I prompted.


    He looked up at me from the floor, torchlight flickering in his round eyes. He grinned.


    "He needs you, of course."

 Page 17

    Chapter Thirty-three


    "Yes, of course," I said. "And why would he be waiting for me?"


    "Because you are very much a part of this, James."


    "A part of what?"


    Arthur looked up from the floor, rain hitting him full in the face. "Why, the search for the Holy Grail, old boy, and the ushering in of the New Age of Enlightenment for all mankind."


    "I need a drink," I said.


    Marion suddenly touched my forearm. "Guys," she said, "I think they''re coming."


    I looked out through the broken front entrance. A steady stream of torches were coming our way. I suddenly felt like Frankenstein''s monster.


    I wheeled around to Arthur. "Can''t you stop them?"


    "And how do you propose I stop them?" he asked, somewhat jovially, perhaps too jovially for my taste.


    "With one of your miracles," I said. "You know, pray. Or something. Thank God for kicking their asses."


    "I can''t do that, James."


    I stood, pissed off as hell all over again. Arthur unsheathed his sword. By unsheathed, I mean he took it out of his cargo shorts. Excalibur glowed softly in his hands. I could almost hear it humming, a sort of subsonic metallic ringing.


    "And why not, dammit?"


    Through the front entrance, I saw some of the men spread out, probably to surround the entire stone chapel and seal us in.


    Arthur said, "Some things must happen, James, for growth to occur."


    "And being attacked by a dozen or so armed crazies from Narnia is one of them?"


    "Apparently so," said Arthur.


    "You mean, you don''t know?" I asked, suddenly realizing that I was, in all probability, about to die.


    "Not necessarily," he said, and I looked over at him curiously and saw something disturbing in his green eyes: excitement. I realized then that Arthur wanted this to happen. That he was having fun. Arthur continued, "It means, I don''t want to know just yet."


    "I don''t understand," I said.


    "It''s called living, James. You should try it some time."


    I saw that all exits were now blocked, with men even standing outside the open windows.


    "But can''t you just turn us invisible or something?" Lord, what was I saying?


    "Perhaps, my friend. But I won''t. Some things must be played out. Some things must first happen before other, greater things, can follow. Life must be lived. Life must be experienced."


    "Well, I don''t want to experience having a sword run through my gut," I said.


    Outside, the men had parted to allow a tall figure to pass between them. A tall figure dressed entirely in black.


    "Then I suggest you choose not to," said Arthur, his eyes fastened on the man in black. "I suggest you thank God in advance for seeing you through this night, so that the three of us can journey on into the Underworld."


    "Why the Underworld?"


    "Because we must first pass through the Underworld, my friend, before we can continue on into the Land of Faery."


    My head was swimming. I needed someone to slap me. Hard. "And what''s in the Land of Faery?" I asked.


    "The Holy Grail, of course."


    "And why is it there?" I asked.


    "For safekeeping," said Arthur.


    "Yes, of course," I said. "Why didn''t I think of that?"


    "You did," said Arthur, winking. "It was your idea a long time ago."


    The figure dressed in black moved swiftly through the column of men, his dark robe swirling about his ankles. One of his men held out a torch for him, but he waved it off. Instead, he snapped his fingers once, and a ball of yellow fire rose up from his palm and drifted over the stone chapel, lighting his way as he approached.


    I choose to live, I heard myself thinking desperately. I choose to make it out of this alive. I choose to continue on to the Underworld, whatever the heck that is. I choose to continue on to the Land of Faery, whatever the heck that is. I choose not to be impaled by a sword, or smashed by a blunt object, or caused any sort of major bodily harm. Okay, any sort of minor bodily harm, too - but, yeah, that might be asking for too much. Heck, there are twenty some odd guys surrounding us -


    Focus, James.


    Okay, okay.


    Thank you, God, for getting us through the night alive. Thank you, God, for protecting us. Thank you, God, for leading us to the Holy Grail and back home again safely.


    And thank you, God, for saving Marion.


    The man in black stopped a few dozen feet away and pushed back his black hood, and I found myself staring at the very man I had seen in my dreams, the man trapped inside the cave.


    Chapter Thirty-four


    "I know you," I said.


    He flicked an icy gaze at me. "As well you should," he said. His eyes slid off me and took in the ancient stone chapel, which was now lit rather nicely by his enchanted ball of light. Pointless now, I tossed aside my own torch. It landed in a puddle of rain water but still continued to burn. Godfire.


    "You were in my dreams," I said.


    "As you were in mine," he said easily.


    "You were trapped in a cave," I said. "Screaming."


    "I have screamed for a very long time, knight," said the man. He completed his survey of the broken church and returned his cold gaze to me. "Now I scream no more."


    His eyes reminded me of shark eyes. Dead shark eyes. As he carefully approached me, his bare feet poked out from beneath his long black robe. At least, what I thought were his feet.


    My God, are those -


    Instead of toenails, long black claws curled over the stone floor, clicking as he went. Click, click.


    My stomach turned, roiled.


    To my surprise, he stopped in front of me, his dead eyes searching. Behind me, I sensed Arthur shifting. I also sensed Marion moving closer to Arthur. I''m not sure how I sensed this, but I did. More importantly, I sensed waves of darkness emanating from the man in front of me. Wave after repulsive wave. I had the very real sense that I was looking at a living corpse. He stared at me for a long moment, dark eyes hidden in shadow, skin stretched tight over his skull. Shaggy, bone-white hair hung limply over his forehead and down his neck.


    He flicked his gaze over my shoulder. "He does not remember, Arthur."


    "No, not yet," said Arthur. "Perhaps he never will."


    Merlin said, "I assume he understands his role in opening the Way."


    "Hey, I''m standing right here, you know," I said. "I can hear you two talking about me." And to Merlin I added, "And if you need me to open this Way, then why did you try to kill me earlier?"


    "You are helpful, true," said the wizard easily. "But not necessary." He looked over my shoulder. "I sense his disbelief, Arthur."


    "You could say that again," I said, deciding to impose myself. "A few days ago I was in Seattle, working on my latest novel, dating occasionally, wondering who was playing football this weekend, living a simple, easy life."


    "What''s he saying?" said the man in black.


    "I have no idea," said Arthur behind me. "I think he''s complaining."


    "Complaining?" said the man in black, his mouth twisting into a bloodless smile. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.


    "You are Merlin," I said. "I think."


    "You think correctly."


    "And you''re going to say something to the effect of: What the hell do I have to complain about since you were the one trapped in a cave for the last fifteen hundred years."


    His lips stretched again into a thin, wavering, humorless smile. He looked uncomfortable smiling. As if he''d forgotten how to do it. "Amusing," he said. "And, yes, I was trapped. Not quite fifteen hundred years, but for a very long time."


    "Too long," said Arthur.


    Merlin again flicked his gaze over my shoulder, and then strode past me, his claws clicking sickeningly on the stone floor. He stepped before Arthur, and I found myself studying his black robe, which seemed the blackest thing I had ever seen in my life. And as I gazed upon it...something astonishing happened.


    It moved.


    Well, sort of. A shadow passed just under the surface of the robe. Something black. Something blacker than black. Something eternally devoid of color and light.


    I knew then it wasn''t a shadow.


    No, it was a soul, a very dark soul. Something twisted and evil and not very nice. And it wasn''t just one soul. It was hundreds of souls, thousands perhaps, each flitting in and out of the robe as if the garment was their personal hell.


    Maybe it was.


    Now I could make out faces - contorted faces, hideous faces. They appeared briefly on the surface of the robe, churning and roiling, mouths open in silent screams, only to be replaced by other such screaming faces, each more horrific and distorted than the next.


    Sweet Jesus.


    "Yes," said Merlin to Arthur. "Too long. An inhuman punishment. An inhuman existence."


    "There are consequences to all actions, my friend," said Arthur easily, although his words, I thought, were filled with deep love and compassion.


    And in stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded Merlin, Arthur seemed to shine brighter than ever. Indeed, I could just make out a silver halo that surrounded him.


    In that instant, I suddenly heard Arthur''s voice in my head, clear as day, somehow whispered just behind my eardrum: I am shielding myself with God''s love, James. You should try it.


    Great, now you can use telepathy, too?


    When necessary.


    Except I had no idea how to shield myself with God''s love, that is, until I had another very simple thought, a thought that might not have been my own. Thank God in advance.


    And so I tried it: Thank you, God, for shielding me with Your Love and Light.


    And the moment I thought those words, a dark shadow rose up from the floor near my feet and disappeared into the depths of Merlin''s black robe.


    I looked over at Arthur, and he winked at me.

 Page 18

    Chapter Thirty-five


    "I was betrayed," said Merlin, circling Arthur. His black robe seemed to lift and fall on unseen currents of air. "I was betrayed by a woman I loved."


    "The two of you sought a shortcut to magic," said Arthur, turning his head, following the dark magician. "There is no shortcut, Merlin. There is living. There is life. There are lessons to be learned. The soul''s progress is a slow one, too slow, apparently, for you."


    "So I deserved to waste away in eternal solitude?"


    "What you deserve is what you asked for," said Arthur.


    "I asked for magic. I asked for the ability to perform miracles. Jesus performed miracles. Why shouldn''t I?"


    "With practice, with care, we can all perform our own miracles," said Arthur. "However, you chose not to see it that way. You chose to accept a different way. A faster way. A darker way."


    "Magic is magic, is it not?" asked Merlin. Now he began circling Marion, studying her closely, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.


    "Except you were not performing miracles," said Arthur.


    "And what was I performing?" Merlin asked, genuinely interested.


    "Cheap parlor tricks, nothing more than the spiritual equivalent of slight of hand." Arthur''s voice suddenly turned somber. "You are a puppet to the darkness that lives within you, my old friend, a darkness you have invited in to serve you. Or so you think. In reality, you serve the darkness."


    And as Arthur uttered those words, a very hideous and foul creature rose up from the swirling depths of Merlin''s robe and opened its mouth impossibly wide in a silent scream, revealing long, curved teeth. Arthur flicked his wrist once and the creature recoiled instantly, disappearing into the churning depths of the robe.


    "Well, old friend," said Merlin, "I performed the greatest trick of all: I escaped."


    "And so you have," said Arthur. The two men were now cautiously circling each other. Between them was Marion. She didn''t seem too enthused about being the hub of two old foes. "But at what price?" asked Arthur.


    Merlin hissed, "At any price, you fool. You, too, would have paid any price to escape my living hell."


    Marion took this opportunity to step away from the circling men - and stepped toward me. I took her hand and pulled her to me.


    "Perhaps," said Arthur, still focused on Merlin. "But perhaps there was another way, too. There is always another way."


    "You are speaking of God," said the wizard. "I assure you, He wants nothing to do with me."


    I had the distinct feeling that I should not be here, that I was eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for my mundane ears.


    "On the contrary," said Arthur. "He loves you very much. More than you know. You have strayed far, old friend. Very, very far. But you are never too far from God. He will always, always let you back in. And you will always be His son."


    "You sound like a priest, my lord. And since when did you become so holy?"


    "I have lived many lifetimes since our days together," said Arthur. "I have learned much. I have grown much."


    "All while I have wasted away."


    "All while you contemplated the results of your actions. All while you were given every chance to return home with God. But you chose another path."


    "I escaped," said Merlin.


    "And sold your soul."


    "A small price to pay."


    "No," said Arthur. "The ultimate price to pay. But I am here to tell you that God can redeem your soul. You can still go home if you choose to."


    Merlin seemed to falter. He paused, opened his mouth. His lips were impossibly red and full, as if coated in fresh blood.


    "To go home," Merlin said, "is to die."


    I found myself wondering what the heck that meant, until an answer appeared in my thoughts, an answer, I realized, that was from Arthur:


    Dark magic, or dark energy, is keeping his body alive, James. These energies have, in effect, taken him over. After all, he is over fifteen hundred years old, and the moment he drives these low-level energies away from him, his body will shortly die, as it should have done centuries ago.


    Arthur, what the hell are you doing in my head?


    Oh, hi, James. Thought it might be easier this way.


    Well, you could have warned me or something.


    Sorry, old boy.


    "To die," said Arthur now to Merlin, "is to be re-born in God''s presence. You will be home with Him, and He will love you and heal you."


    "No," said Merlin, pulling back his red lips. "I''m afraid you lie, or purposely deceive me. To die is to go to hell. To die is to return to the cave. And I will never - never! - return to that rocky hell."


    "But you are in hell now, my friend," said Arthur.


    Merlin was no longer listening. He stopped in front of Marion and cocked his head a little.


    "She is very beautiful," he said, reaching out and taking hold of a lock of her hair, letting it fall between his long, skeletal fingers. Marion shrank away, clearly revolted. "Ah. She is dying, I see. A pity. A waste."


    He moved to touch her face, and Marion promptly smacked his hand away.


    Merlin didn''t react at first, although his coat seemed to come to life, swirling and fluttering in obvious agitation. And then the immortal wizard did something he would forever regret:


    He slapped Marion hard across the face.


    Chapter Thirty-six


    Without thinking and in a blind rage, I threw myself at Merlin, heaving my left fist as hard as I could.


    Something within his coat shrieked, a supernatural warning system, and the wizard turned his face just as my knuckles grazed his chin. Still, the force of the blow sent him spinning away, stumbling across the raised platform.


    And then all hell broke loose.


    Men poured into the stone chapel. Through broken doorways, over broken walls, and even through the open windows. Men from another world, another time. How Merlin recruited them, I didn''t know. Who they were, I didn''t know. Why they were here, I didn''t know. What I did know was this: they were all brandishing very real weapons, and they all looked like they knew how to use them.


    And while the men poured in, Merlin did something that made me question my sanity all over again. He levitated straight up from the floor, up above everyone''s heads. Indeed, he would have hit his own head on the ceiling had there been a ceiling. Instead, he hovered above us like a weather balloon from hell.


    But I didn''t have much time to gawk at this, because a very large red-haired man appeared before me, yelling like a madman and swinging a heavy mace straight at my face.


    I was a poet and didn''t know it.


    So what rhymes with dead?


    Easy, my busted head.


    And since I happened to like my head where it belonged, I ducked and heard a thunderous whoosh of air pass over me.


    Holy, sweet Jesus.


    Red Hair had another go at me, heaving the weapon with both hands, but this time aiming for my torso region. Instinctively, I brought my sword up and, with a resounding clang and enough force to knock me sideways, I somehow managed to keep myself alive for the next few minutes.


    Lucky me.


    We slowly circled. Surrounding us was a motley crew of a dozen or so heavily armed men. Some wore armor, others didn''t. Some had light skin, others dark. Some had pointed ears, others had the more traditional round ears.


    Lord help me.


    All of them, however, seemed intent on one thing: hurting me very badly.


    And so I raised my sword and kept an eye on those who had also crept behind me. Red Hair apparently took my raised sword as a challenge and lunged at me again, swinging his mace wildly.


    And just to keep me on my toes, another man from my left attacked, aiming a long knife straight for my heart.

 Page 19

    Chapter Thirty-seven


    I let instinct take over. Whether or not that was a good thing, I didn''t know. But I was about to find out.


    As the two came at me, I flopped straight to my back and watched as the very knife that had been intended for me, drove straight through the thigh of Red Hair. He screamed and dropped his mace and reached for his leg. Blood sprang from between his fingers.


    Ignoring his wounded friend, the short guy with the knife, which now gleamed crimson, threw himself at me recklessly. I rolled to my left and his blade slammed into the stone next to me. It snapped in half and, in a bizarre stroke of luck, the broken blade ricocheted back and lodged deep into his neck. The short guy screamed and rolled away as blood pumped from a severed jugular.


    I almost vomited, and probably would have if not for a guy on my left charging at me with a raised sword. A sword that appeared much longer than mine.


    I hate when that happens.


    The new guy lowered the sword point and aimed it straight for my heart. Okay, I really hate when that happens. In the world of sword fighting, they would call what I did next a "parry." Trust me, there was no "parrying" about it. It was just dumb luck and good fortune that when I raised my sword to block his attack that his own blade slid off mine and promptly skewered the guy sneaking up behind me.


    Guess his luck ran out. The sword lodged itself into his side and he screamed like it hurt. I had no reason to doubt him.


    With his point still lodged into his friend''s side, Long Sword found himself at an awkward angle in front of me, and so I took advantage of his awkward angle and punched him as hard as I could in the face. I think I broke a knuckle in the process. Still, the punch did the trick: he went tumbling off the platform, to land in a motionless heap.


    The instant he was gone, another replaced him. Another sword, another bad attitude. Another lucky punch, followed by another lucky last-second repartee. The bastards continued coming, and I continued getting lucky. Too lucky. I should have been dead a hundred times over.


    After a surprising number of my attackers had fallen away, I saw that only two remained. Unfortunately, the two that remained were bigger and badder than all the others combined. The trouble with this scenario was that I was neither big nor bad. I was medium-sized and fairly good-natured.


    I was out of breath. My arms felt leaden. My legs felt leaden, too. Heck, even the sword felt leaden.


    They circled me slowly. Neither seemed very interested in giving me a chance to catch my breath. Not very sporting of them, if you ask me.


    One wore a sort of leather body armor, the kind of thing you''d find on Brad Pitt in Troy - if Brad Pitt had been a hulking freak covered with curly body hair. The other wore only a filthy loin-cloth, Conan-style. Both were roped with muscle, covered in scars and stood a head taller than me.


    I wanted to go home.


    Now.


    Next to me, Arthur was fighting two men at once. And floating high above, Merlin safely watched everything down below.


    Troy Boy attacked first, using a ball and chain, snapping it out like a whip. How the thing missed my head, I don''t know. We circled; he snapped. I raised my sword and this time the spiked iron ball slammed hard into the flat of my sword, which, in turn, slammed hard against the flat of my forehead. I saw stars instantly.


    I also saw the second man coming at me, swinging his huge broadsword in a great chopping motion.


    I slid under the chopping motion, and did something that surprised even me: I smashed his face with the pommel of my sword. And I mean smashed it. His nose shattered, blood spurted, and down he went like a rag doll in loin-cloth.


    Jesus, what a lucky hit.


    Ball and Chain wasn''t done with me, though, and he attacked furiously. Relying on a steady diet of near misses and extremely lucky parries, I somehow managed to stave off the brunt of his fury.


    I also somehow managed to end up behind him.


    Not exactly sure how that happened, but I tossed aside my sword, leaped onto his back, and got him in the mother of all choke holds. I held on with all my strength as he stumbled back and smashed me hard against a stone wall. He smashed again and again. But still I held tight, choking the life out of him.


    He dropped his ball and chain and reached back for me, swinging at me with ham-sized fists. But his strength was giving way, fast. He dropped to a knee, wavered, and just as I was sure he was about to topple over, two things happened simultaneously:


    First, a flash of light exploded in my head. And second, something grabbed hold of my shoulders, lifted me free, and carried me out of the church and into the night air.


    Chapter Thirty-eight


    The dragon was monstrous up close. Admittedly, it was monstrous from far away, too.


    Still, from my perspective hanging beneath it, the dragon''s wide scaly underbelly seemed to span from horizon to horizon. Its massive black talons, long and sharp as swords, grasped me just under my arm pits. I was reduced to nothing more than a hanging piece of meat. From somewhere above, I could hear the beating of its powerful wings against the whoosh of the cool night air.


    I was well aware that the dragon could have easily pierced my chest with those curved talons. Then again, maybe the dragon enjoyed playing with its food, the way a killer whale played with a dying seal before consuming it.


    Not quite.


    The words appeared directly in my thoughts, much the way Arthur''s had. Except these words were loud enough to rattle my skull, and seemed to echo between my ears.


    This isn''t Arthur, is it? I asked, thinking the words rather than speaking them.


    No, it''s not, came the answer.


    We continued flying. Cold wind whipped through my hair, rippled my bloodied sweatshirt. A smattering of rain slapped hard across my face. The dragon''s right talon hung back a little, sort of tucked under the great expanse of its underbelly, itself covered in what appeared to be thick, clay roofing tiles. I reached up to touch one.


    I wouldn''t do that if I were you, came the voice again.


    Why not?


    A dragon''s scales are sharp as razors.


    Oh. I didn''t know that.


    Now you do.


    Who are you? I asked. Who''s talking to me?


    There wasn''t an immediate answer. I found the steady beat of the dragon''s powerful wings oddly comforting. My first thought was that my sweatshirt was doing a remarkable job of keeping me warm, until I realized that there was a great deal of heat coming from the dragon itself. Like flying beneath the sun.


    Finally the deep voice answered me: To answer your question, little one, look no further than above.


    Above? The dragon? No....


    In that moment, the creature''s great triangular head swung down on a surprisingly pliant neck, and I found myself staring straight into those black, bowling ball-sized eyes I had seen earlier. Long, white fangs, each the size of my arm, hung outside its black upper lip. It looked like a dog on steroids. A lot of steroids. Like twin caves of fire, its flared nostrils emanated a red hot glow. Smoke trailed up from its partially opened mouth.


    Although easily the most frightening creature I had ever seen or imagined, the dragon had an odd sort of grace to it. I sensed it had seen much, done much, and that it had been around a very, very long time.


    And then it did something I was entirely unprepared for.


    The dragon winked at me.

 Page 20

    Chapter Thirty-nine


    The massive head swung back around and pointed forward again.


    I continued to hang from its black claws. My hair continued flapping in the wind. Heat continued rolling off the great beast''s underbelly.


    I wondered again when I would wake up.


    Why the heaven would you want to wake up? asked the dragon, as it turned slightly to port, bringing me with it.


    I don''t know, I answered.


    Are you afraid? the dragon asked.


    Yes, a little.


    Do you think I might eat you?


    Yes, I do.


    Hmm. I didn''t think of that. I wonder how you would taste.


    I hoped that was a rhetorical question. Below, pinpoints of lights came and went as we soared from town to town. The air turned colder. And as it did, the heat in the dragon''s belly increased, counteracting the cold. My arms were hurting, but not unbearably so.


    Don''t think about it, said the voice deep within my head.


    Easy for you to say, you''re not the one hanging five hundred feet above the ground.


    The sound of chuckling in my head. We continued flying steadily north.


    Thank you, I thought, for keeping me warm.


    My pleasure.


    Where are you taking me? I asked.


    The Council of Elders. They have requested your presence.


    Okay, I thought, that means nothing to me.


    It soon will.


    So you''re not going to eat me?


    Not this time.


    Then why did you attack us earlier?


    That was hardly an attack.


    Then what was it? I asked.


    I was just having some fun. In fact, I haven''t raided a village in quite some time. Life should be fun, should it not?


    I was beginning to sense a common theme here. I thought: Sure, but you could have killed someone.


    Nonsense. I aimed to miss.


    You destroyed someone''s livelihood, then.


    The food vending stand? He was selling processed animal parts. Heavens, even I wouldn''t eat that crap. You humans have atrocious eating habits.


    I agree, I thought. Which is why I''m a vegetarian.


    Well, I wouldn''t go that far, said the dragon, chuckling deeply.


    We continued due north; the temperature continued to drop. The dragon''s belly warmed accordingly.


    Where are you from? I asked.


    Nearby.


    On earth?


    Heavens, no. Another world.


    But you said nearby.


    It is nearby.


    Another planet?


    Sure, it said. Sort of.


    One of those parallel world deals?


    That''s a little closer to the truth.


    So how did you get here?


    How do you know I''m really here?


    What do you mean?


    Perhaps you''re dreaming.


    I don''t think so. For one, my arms are hurting.


    Perhaps that is all in your mind. Perhaps you only think your arms should be hurting, and so therefore they are.


    So am I dreaming?


    Not really. I really am here, and I really am taking you to the Council of Elders.


    I remembered something then. The flash of light in my head, just prior to the dragon''s appearance.


    I was hurt in battle, wasn''t I?


    Perhaps.


    So am I dead?


    I don''t think so.


    So am I in spirit? You know, is my body back in the church?


    Perhaps.


    If so, couldn''t I fly, too?


    Indeed. Would you like to try?


    Will I fall?


    That is up to you, my little friend.


    So it is my decision?


    Always.


    The wind was blowing cold and hard. The lights below had winked out completely, and I suspected we were now in the empty far north. Below, I could see the foaming outline of crashing waves.


    Was I dead? I didn''t know. Was this really happening to me? I didn''t know that either. Did I want to fly?


    Oh, yes.


    Let go of me, I thought.


    The dragon did, and I dropped like a rock.


    Chapter Forty


    The dragon dropped with me.


    It tucked in its massive wings and streaked along by my side. Below, the crashing waves rushed up to meet me, and if I was dreaming, now would be a really good time to wake up.


    Choose to fly, said the dragon. Choose to fly now, James!


    I choose to fly, I thought. I choose to fly!


    Finally, I screamed: "I choose to fly!"


    And I stopped falling, instantly. The dragon stopped plummeting as well, swooping forward, flapping its massive wings.


    Good boy. Now follow me.


    How?


    Choose to.


    And so I did. I chose to follow him, and soon I was whipping through the air, my arms outstretched. I must have looked like a middle-aged Peter Pan. I hovered beneath the dragon''s belly for warmth.


    You don''t need to fly beneath me for warmth.


    But -


    Choose warmth.


    And so I did. Warmth spread instantly through me, from head to toe. And now I dashed out in front of the dragon, my arms still outstretched, wind blasting my hair. It was raining again, and I seemed to feel each freezing drop on my face.


    I found myself laughing. Never had I felt such freedom. I did one big loop, soaring up and over the dragon, and ended up behind it. The dragon continued forward majestically, its impossibly wide wingspan flapping only occasionally.


    Having fun?


    Oh, yes!


    Good. Because we''re almost there.


    Will I ever see you again? I asked.


    There was a pause, and then its deep voice resounded in my head: I expect so, my young friend.


    And now the dragon angled up through the clouds, cutting a wide swath, and I followed behind it, temporarily blinded by the thick fog vapor. And when I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in a great hall, surrounded by five ethereal figures, all watching me expectantly.


    The dragon was gone.

 Page 21

    Chapter Forty-one


    The hall was majestic, stretching as far as the eye could see.


    Its walls were composed of what appeared to be semi-transparent stones. Correction, jewels. Indeed, hundreds upon thousands of diamonds and rubies and emeralds were embedded in the walls, creating prisms of light that were nothing short of spectacular. Placed along the hall were many tables, and seated around these tables were many people. Many bright people. People who were literally glowing. Spirits, I realized. Those who had recently passed over from the flesh.


    How I knew this, I did not know. Why I was here, I still did not know.


    My attention turned to the group of five men and women who were seated in front of me around a rectangular table. All were watching me expectantly. All radiated warmth and love. All looked hauntingly familiar.


    "Welcome," said a voice. I wasn''t sure who had spoken.


    "Um, hi," I said.


    "Please, James, have a seat." Again, I had no idea who was talking. In fact, I didn''t see any of their lips moving.


    So I sat in a plush red chair that had been waiting for me, a chair I literally sank into, easily the greatest sitting experience I had ever had. Heck, I never wanted to get up.


    Anyway, I found myself seated at the head of the long table. To my left was a man and woman. To my right were two women and one man. All seemed ageless. All seemed wise. All were beautiful in unique ways. And all were watching me as if I were the most fascinating man they''d ever seen.


    Go figure.


    "Where am I?" I asked, and with a start I realized I had not opened my mouth to speak, that I was instead speaking telepathically again. I hadn''t meant to, it just...happened.


    "You are in the Hall of Knowledge, James," said a voice in my head.


    "And which of you is speaking?" I asked.


    "We are speaking to you from the One Mind," said the genderless voice, and everyone at the long table nodded together, once.


    "But how do you all agree what to say?" I blurted out.


    They smiled collectively. "We have worked with each other for a very long time, James."


    "Am I dead?" I asked.


    There was a pause. "In the physical world, you are very near death, James. But as you can see, in the spiritual world, you are very much alive."


    Good job, James. Two days in England and you''re already dead.


    "No, James, you are not dead," said the One Voice, obviously hearing my thoughts.


    "Who, exactly, are you?" But the moment I asked the question, I knew the answer. The more I looked into their faces, the more I began to recognize them.


    "Yes, James. We are your friends."


    And then it all came back. In a glorious, furious rush. Yes, I knew these people. I had known them all along. I had known them from time immemorial. I had known them through many lifetimes. In fact, through all my lifetimes.


    "Welcome back, James."


    "Am I in heaven?"


    "Yes," said my guides. "You''re always in heaven."


    We spent what might have been many hours - or perhaps even days - discussing my physical life up to this point. We discussed the development of my soul: my failed marriage, my writing, my schooling, my many thousands of life choices. We discussed my childhood, my influence on others, the ramifications of every choice I had ever made. I saw how one single act of love could spread throughout the world. I saw how one single act of anger or hate could crush the human spirit. I saw that I was on earth to continue my spiritual lessons, to continue growing, and that I had chosen to come to earth. I learned that the council watched over me as similar councils watched over other spirits. No one was alone, ever. I learned that some spirits made great leaps forward in their evolutionary progress, while others floundered, crushed by circumstances on earth. And still others made very poor decisions, choices that hurt others, hurt themselves, choices that actually stunted their spiritual development. But no spirit was lost, I learned. There is always hope. There is always another lifetime to learn and to grow.


    After much discussion, the council grew quiet and I sensed that they had something important to tell me. "We do, James," said the One Voice. "Your work on earth is incomplete."


    "What do you mean?"


    Another pause. The council members looked at each other, then back to me. "We want you to return to your physical body, James."


    "Return? Why?"


    "You came to earth for a very specific reason. That reason has not been completed."


    "But I thought I was dead."


    "No, James. You were badly wounded in battle, but you have not died. At least not yet."


    I felt a mild sense of panic. I liked it here. It was peaceful here. "Do I have a choice?"


    "Always."


    "Then I choose to stay."


    The council grew quiet again, and I sensed their overwhelming love for me. I also sensed their deep respect for any decision I should make. They knew life was not always easy in the flesh and presented many challenges. They also knew that life presented many wonderful opportunities for real growth, too, but they would never force me to return, ever, and respected my decision to stay.


    I looked at each of them. They looked at me. I felt an overwhelming, inexplicable love for these five spirits. I knew in my heart that I had loved them for eons upon eons.


    "Fine," I said. "I''ll bite. What''s the purpose?"


    They smiled at me compassionately, collectively. "We cannot tell you, James. Part of the growing process is to make certain choices at certain times."


    "And this is one of those times?"


    They smiled again. "Your path cannot be revealed, James. You understand this concept on some level. It is upon this path that the spirit evolves."


    "And why do I need to evolve?"


    "You don''t. It has always been your choice to evolve," said the council. They paused, looked at each other again, and then looked back at me. "We do, however, have a compromise. Are you interested in hearing it?"


    "Very much," I said.


    They explained the compromise: my specific purpose would be revealed to me now, and if I decided that it was a worthy purpose, the memory of it would be removed from my memory.


    "Fair enough," I said. "But if I return to earth, how will I ever know what my purpose is?"


    The council smiled gently. "We will remind you, James. We will not let you stray far from the path."


    "Unless I choose to stray far from the path."


    "Exactly," they said.


    "Okay," I said, clapping my hands. "Lay it on me."


    And they did, and it must have been one heck of a purpose to complete, because when they were finished, I found myself agreeing instantly to return to the flesh.


    What I agreed to, I may never know.


    Beyond the transparent bejeweled walls were blue skies and white clouds. Birds flew over distant tree tops. High above, a single source of light shone brightly down, touching everything, infusing everything. But it was more than just light.


    It was everything.


    And from this light I sensed the greatest of love, a love so powerful that I began to weep. And as I wept, the light in the sky pulsated and grew in size, spreading across the heavens, streaming in through the transparent walls, surrounding me. As it enveloped me, I heard singing - beautiful, sweet singing - and I knew that all the angels of heaven were praising God, and that I was home.


    Finally home.


    But I wasn''t ready to stay.


    No, not yet.


    Chapter Forty-two


    I awoke slowly to the sounds of clashing swords.


    Someone shouted something angrily. Someone answered, although much more calmly. I wanted both of them to shut the hell up and give my aching head a break.


    I tried opening my eyes but they didn''t want to work. I tried again - and this time piercing light stabbed straight through to the back of my skull. I groaned.


    God, my head hurt.


    Movement just above me. A shadow passing before the light. Something touching my face. Something soft and tender.


    Fingers.


    More fighting. More shouts. More pain in my head. I heard many voices. Metal clanging against metal. My brain clanging against my skull.


    The Hall of Enlightenment. My new friends. My old friends. The dragon. Flying. It all came rushing back to me.


    They - my guides and friends - were going to tell me something. Something important. A secret. The reason for my entire existence. And, yes, they had indeed told me. I know they had, but...nothing. The memory was gone.


    I groaned.


    "Come back to me, James," said a voice over me. A female voice. A soft voice. A voice full of warmth and love and...panic.


    I shifted my focus to her.


    "Come on, James. You can do it."


    Something was hovering above me. Something oval and white and damn beautiful.


    I blinked and refocused and then I saw that it was Marion. There was blood on her face. She tried to smile down at me, but she was too distracted by something going on nearby.


    And then she turned to her right and screamed.

 Page 22

    Chapter Forty-three


    Yeah, my head hurt. Yeah, I was still confused as hell. Yeah, I wished I was still surrounded in that loving warm light. And, yeah, I even wished I was still flying in blissful tranquility side by side with the dragon, crazy as that sounds.


    But with Marion''s scream, well, that all went out the window.


    I bolted upright and immediately fought a sickening wave of nausea. I forced my eyes to work, forced them to adjust to my surroundings. Blurry images came into view. Two hazy figures were currently engaged in a strange sort of give-and-take dance: spinning, lunging, swinging.


    Metal clashed; sparks erupted.


    No, not a dance. Swordplay. Ferocious swordplay. And as I thought this, my memory came rushing back to me: the chapel, Arthur, Excalibur, Merlin.


    Metal clashed again. Someone grunted and Marion screamed again. I ignored the pain in my head, leaped to my feet, and promptly vomited.


    When I was done retching, I finally saw who was fighting whom.


    Arthur and Merlin were in the middle of what could only be described as an epic battle.


    Swords flashed and blurred. Bodies spun, contorted, and moved in mind-boggling ways. Arthur, I saw, was cut in many places and covered in his own blood; he seemed to be weakening. Merlin, unscathed, was grinning and full of confidence.


    Although Arthur fought with the great Excalibur, it was Merlin who clearly had the upper hand. Upper hand, of course, was used figuratively here, since no hand appeared to be holding Merlin''s sword.


    Indeed, his sword hovered before him, flashing impossibly fast. Nearly too fast for my eyes to follow. How Arthur kept up with the sword, I had no idea.


    Merlin himself was able to keep out of harm''s way by being physically unattached to his sword. A neat trick. Arthur wasn''t so lucky. His face and arms were crisscrossed with fresh wounds.


    The fighting continued across the chapel. Sparks showered down in a brilliant display. Merlin''s men watched from the dark corners of the abbey. Many were wounded, the result of Arthur''s prowess with the sword, no doubt, and perhaps my own blind luck from earlier.


    Marion and I stood together upon the raised altar. Or, more accurately, she stood and I leaned against her. She covered her mouth as she watched the fighting, screaming each time Arthur was slashed.


    My strength was returning, quickly, although a lot of good that did Arthur. Still, I might be useful as a diversion perhaps. Something, anything.


    A break in the fighting, both fighters pausing. Arthur seemed relieved and sucked in great lungsful of air, oblivious to his own wounds, which streamed blood down his arms, chest and torso. His shoes, I saw, were spilling over in his own blood, sloshing as if he had come in from the rain.


    I took in some air, felt a curious strength radiate from the floor and up along my spine. I found my own sword, although I doubted it would be of any use against Merlin''s own enchanted sword.


    Still, I had to do something. I couldn''t let my new friend die.


    Both men were now circling each other. Merlin had a whimsical smile on his face, humor in his eyes. Arthur, to my shock, had the same expression, although much bloodier.


    My God, he is having fun!


    Arthur glanced my way and saw me for the first time. He gave me a small, imperceptible nod.


    Welcome back, James. Have a nice nap?


    You''re hurt, I thought.


    Nonsense. Just having a little fun.


    Arthur turned back to Merlin. As he did so, the two fighters picked up on a conversation that I had obviously missed a part of, a conversation that I suspected Arthur wanted me to hear.


    "Like I was saying, my old friend," he was saying to Merlin. "You have life backward."


    "Oh? How so?" asked the wizard. Merlin kept his hands angled down, palms open, perhaps a wizarding method of controlling the enchanted sword. I sensed, though, that one of the dark creatures contained within his black cloak was handling the sword. Perhaps many such dark creatures.


    "You seek to take from life," said Arthur, keeping his sword steady before him. Considering all of his injuries, I wondered how steady his sword would have been if it hadn''t been Excalibur. "When, in fact, you should give to life."


    The two men turned again. Parry, block, counter-parry. Spin. Slash. A dance of death.


    "And what do you suggest I give?"


    "Anything. Time. Energy. Money. But most of all your love."


    "You forgot to mention life," said Merlin.


    "How so?"


    Merlin''s eyes narrowed. "Would you give your life, my king?"


    The moment he uttered this question, a sickening feeling arose within me. A feeling that wasn''t due to my head injury. I knew that Arthur would, in fact, give up his life. He was just crazy enough to do it.


    Arthur stopped fighting and stepped back. Merlin paused as well, watching him curiously, his bedeviled sword still flashing back and forth in front of him. I watched Arthur, as well. But I wasn''t curious. I was suddenly horror-stricken. What was he going to do?


    "If someone desired my life," said Arthur, looking over at us with a hint of what might have been sadness crossing his face, "then I would give it to him."


    Merlin laughed. "That is not the king I remember."


    "The king you remember has changed much, old friend."


    "Then let''s test your new-found resolve," said Merlin. "May I have your life, my lord?"


    Arthur took in some air. Blood dribbled out of his many wounds. He was leaving a slick swath of crimson across the stone floor. He looked at me again...and winked.


    Then he lowered his sword and looked Merlin in the eye. "Of course, old friend."


    "No!" I screamed, lunging forward, stumbling.


    Merlin''s sword, in a heartbeat, lashed out and drove deep into Arthur''s chest.


    Chapter Forty-four


    The bloodied point of the disembodied sword slid out.


    Arthur dropped to his knees, and a great fountain of blood gushed from his heart.


    Merlin stood over him, seemingly incapable of moving, mouth open in what appeared to be shock and horror. For a brief instant I saw a real man with real emotions. His enchanted sword still hovered before him, but it had stopped flashing back and forth.


    Next, Arthur pitched forward and lay facedown in a pool of his own spreading blood, Excalibur still gripped in his hand, glowing dully.


    A strange sound came from my lungs, something primal and hurt and furious, and I turned on Merlin, swinging my sword hard. And for the first time in my life, I meant to kill another man.


    Merlin''s disembodied sword came to life in an instant and reparteed, but I was already swinging hard again, my own sword shockingly light and surprisingly easy to maneuver.


    I swung low, a slashing movement, but the enchanted sword was there, waiting. I advanced. My footwork sure and confident. My hatred pure. My adrenaline pumping.


    I attacked again and again: wild over the top swings, thrusts, lunges, anything and everything I could think of. I was sweating, panting. Furious tears streamed down my face. I occasionally caught a curious look in Merlin''s own eyes: Fear.


    We moved across the raised platform, from wall to wall. At some point I saw that Merlin was even floating a few feet above the ground.


    And still I attacked. And still his sword countered my every move. I realized my problem immediately, of course: Merlin was too far removed from his sword. He was nearly impossible to get close to. As we fought, I also caught the faces of his merry band of bandits, all crowding the doorway, watching the fight. Watching, no doubt, a man gone mad with rage.


    So far, Merlin had only defended himself. It would be only a matter of moments before he decided to go on the offensive. If so, I knew I would be done. My blind rage could only get me so far. My pumping adrenaline could only stave off the enchanted skill of his sword for so long. There would come a point when I would be exposed, and run through much like Arthur had been.


    I had to find a way to finish this now.


    And as we fought, as the rain continued to fall through the open roof, as we moved across the church, our swords clashing and spitting fire, we stepped across a deep puddle that had formed in the center of the roofless church. In that puddle I caught a bizarre reflection: our movements were nearly a blur, our swords flashing at an incomprehensible rate.


    Only then did I realize the speed at which I was fighting.


    The incredible speed.


    But I had looked down for too long and was not fast enough to parry Merlin''s next thrust. The point of his sword reached my throat, punching through and spilling my own blood down the center of my sweatshirt.


    It wasn''t fatal. Another fraction of an inch, and I would be choking on my own blood.


    Focus, James.


    The sword came again, meaning to finish the job, but this time I did parry. The force of the mighty blow caused me to lose my footing in the water. My right foot slid out from under me and I fell with a splash. His magical sword pounced, coming at me quickly, a big, swiping movement meant to disembowel me. But I was already moving, flipping from my back in an acrobatic movement that surprised the hell out of me. Merlin''s sword passed beneath my leaping feet, just missing me, and I next found myself between Merlin and his blade.


    Face-to-face with the great wizard.


    His eyes opened in astonishment, then fluttered wildly. His mouth opened next as he tried to speak, but no words came out.


    Behind me, his sword clattered harmlessly to the floor.


    Merlin''s eyes bulged out, and now blood spilled out from the corners of his mouth. I slowly looked down and saw that my own sword had gone through his stomach and out his back.


    I pulled it free, and he dropped to his knees.

 Page 23

    Chapter Forty-five


    I staggered back, horrified, exhausted.


    Merlin held his stomach with both hands. Blood dribbled between his fingers. Black blood. Blood that smoked and hissed.


    I sucked wind. The fight with Merlin had depleted me more than anything in recent memory. Dazed, I watched in sick fascination as the liquid darkness continued to ooze from his wound.


    And then something strange happened.


    The hem of his black robe, which had been lying flat on the wet stones, slowly rose up on its own. It briefly hovered around Merlin like a jellyfish adrift in the ocean.


    And then something really strange happened.


    The robe began rotating around Merlin''s hunched frame, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, until finally the thing seemed to separate at the seams, exploding away from his body in a black vortex of screaming shadows. I could see many faces within the vortex. Many haunted faces. Anguished faces. Evil faces. Faces not of this earth. I saw forked tongues and empty eye sockets. Long-fingered claws and razor-sharp teeth.


    I saw things I wish I had never seen. Things that I would never forget.


    The robe spun faster and faster, nearly swallowing the wizard in a dizzying blur of claws and fangs and hatred.


    Now some of the shadows broke away from the spinning vortex - and funneled straight into Merlin''s sword wound. The wizard convulsed. More and more shadows poured in, and when they had all disappeared inside him, Merlin''s eyes popped open and he looked at me.


    I stepped back.


    The wound in his stomach had healed shut, leaving behind a raw, blazing red scar. He looked up at me briefly, but he seemed confused and not entirely all there. His eyes were crazed and full of fear and something else.


    Perhaps even someone else.


    Amazingly, Merlin stood. He did so on shaky, unsure legs. Even more amazingly, he took a step forward...and nearly fell. In fact, he should have fallen, had something unseen not held him up, something supernatural. He took another awkward step and this time I was reminded of a marionette puppet being controlled by a puppet master.


    Merlin turned, staggered away, splashing through the shallow puddles, his long legs moving seemingly independent of his body. His men watched in stunned silence as he stumbled through the exit, still holding his wounded stomach. They ignored me and followed him out, and shortly the church was empty. The magical orb of light above winked out. And all would have been dark again if not for the Godfire torches.


    So who had been the puppet master?


    I didn''t know.


    I quickly grabbed my torch, still sizzling in one of the puddles, and rushed over to Arthur''s side.


    Chapter Forty-six


    The rain drove into the exposed chapel, churning the many dark puddles into boiling, frothing cauldrons. Water dripped off my cheeks, my nose, soaking my tee shirt.


    Marion and I were alone with Arthur at the back of the church, kneeling next to the once and future king. He was still alive, but just barely.


    As she had done for me, Marion now cradled Arthur''s head in her lap, stroking his cheek tenderly. His breathing was labored. Marion''s breathing was labored, too. This wasn''t easy to watch.


    My cell phone had been crushed to bits and Marion''s wasn''t getting any reception, of course. It appeared Arthur was destined to die. I knew it and Marion knew it. Still, weeping hysterically, she begged him over and over to hang on.


    I had staunched the wound in his chest with my sweatshirt, but more blood poured from the opening in his back. Arthur was a dead man. No man could survive such a devastating injury.


    Then again, Arthur wasn''t just any man, was he? Couldn''t he perform just one more miracle?


    "Arthur," I said desperately. "Arthur, can you hear me?"


    He cracked open his eyes. "You don''t have to shout, old boy," he said weakly. "I''m right here."


    "Sorry," I said sheepishly. "Arthur, we need a miracle."


    "You could say that again," he said.


    "Then do it," said Marion urgently. "Please, do it."


    Arthur smiled, and some of the dried blood that had collected in the corners of his mouth cracked.


    "Even death is a miracle," he said. "Moving from one stage to the next. It''s a beautiful thing."


    "Enough, Arthur," I said. "Please, please heal yourself!"


    The rain, if possible, angled down even harder. I did my best to shield the king''s upturned face from the brunt of it, but droplets still found his forehead, sliding down his cheeks and neck to disappear into his bloodied sweatshirt. He smiled at me again.


    "There''s only one way into the Underworld, my friend," he said, his voice weakening.


    Marion buried her face in his neck. Crap. The man could be so damn stubborn.


    "Please, Arthur..." I begged.


    "Aren''t you going to ask me how, my old friend?" he asked.


    "Yes, of course," I said. My mind was going a hundred different directions at once. "How, how does one get into the Underworld?"


    "I don''t know," he said, laughing. The laughing turned into a wet cough and blood bubbled up from his lungs, which he turned his head and spat away. When he regained control of himself, he added, "But the greatest swordsman in the history of the world surely knows how."


    I said, "Arthur, there''s no time for games."


    "This isn''t a game, old boy, although it has been quite fun."


    "Arthur, please...."


    "Love always, James. Love thy enemies, love thyself, love the life God has given you. Oh, and love our sweet Marion. Please take care of her. She means so much to me."


    At the sound of her name, Marion cried even harder. The sound of it reminded me of a mortally wounded animal. Arthur coughed again. Harder. Blood and mucous and something yellow came up. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath.


    He said, "You have much to learn, my friend, but don''t we all? Trust your instincts. Always."


    "I will," I said.


    "We will meet again," he said. "We always do."


    "I love you, Arthur," I said.


    He reached out with his free hand, took my own, and placed it carefully around the pommel of Excalibur. The sword, which had been pulsating weakly, flared to life, virtually humming in my hands.


    "It likes you," said Arthur. "You will need it in the days to come."


    He held up three bloodied fingers, touched them to my lips, and the life drained from his battered body.

 Page 24

    Chapter Forty-seven


    We found a shovel in the storage shed behind the open-roofed abbey, and spent the next few hours digging a shallow grave beside the same little sapling I had seen the fairies singing and dancing around earlier.


    Marion stood in the rain by my side the whole time. She seemed incapable of doing anything more than just standing there, weeping. When I was finished, she snapped out of her funk and together we carefully positioned Arthur within the shallow grave. With me using the shovel and Marion her hands, we buried our friend, the one-time King of Britain.


    "Goodbye, old boy," I whispered.


    In that moment, I had a flashing vision of Arthur riding off on a white stallion, down a leaf-strewn forest path bathed in golden light, a path that led straight into the golden sun.


    I sucked in some air, and the vision faded away.


    Marion and I stepped back under the branches of a nearby oak tree. And as the rain pummeled the freshly turned soil, and as a thick fog rolled in over the grounds, four small bodies appeared at the crest of the grassy slope, skipping and dancing and holding hands.


    Marion gasped when she saw the wee folk.


    Somehow, I expected them.


    They skipped down the slope and stopped at Arthur''s grave. There, they formed a small circle around the dark soil and bowed their heads deeply. Then, after a long moment, they danced again, encircling the grave, holding hands. When their small, angelic voices reached us, Marion wept hard and rested her head on my shoulder. Shortly, a fog moved in over the grounds, enveloping the little folk, and when it dissipated a few minutes later, they were gone, too, along with their tiny, haunting voices.


    Left behind in their place was another tree sapling, this one planted squarely in the center of Arthur''s grave.


    A tiny oak tree.


    Chapter Forty-eight


    We were back in the open air chapel.


    "We must go on, you know," said Marion, her voice flat, emotionless. She looked like she had lost a son.


    "Yeah," I said. "The Underworld, or something. Got to tell you, Marion, I''m not looking forward to that."


    "It''s not as bad as you think, James," she said, standing over the very stone Arthur had indicated earlier. We were each holding a Godfire torch.


    "Oh?" I said. "You know something I don''t?"


    "I''ve been dreaming of it," she said.


    I was holding Excalibur in my right hand. Amazingly, the grip seemed custom-made for my hand, a perfect fit. I didn''t recall it fitting this well earlier today inside the tent.


    "Fine. Then how do we enter the Underworld?" I asked. And hearing the strange words issuing from my mouth nearly sent me into hysterics. I was doing all I could to remain calm and salvage what sanity I had left.


    "That was not revealed to me in my dreams," she said. "Sorry."


    "Of course not," I said. "That would have been too easy, right? Hey, let''s blow off this whole Underworld thing and go get something to eat. I''m hungry. Is there a Denny''s in Glastonbury?"


    "I''m not very hungry, James," she said, cutting me off.


    "Neither am I," I admitted, exhaling. "Well, Arthur said something about the greatest swordsman in the history of the world knowing a way in."


    "Indeed he did."


    "Any idea who he''s talking about?"


    "Some," she said, pursing her perfect lips. "Many consider Sir Lancelot the greatest swordsman in the history of the world."


    Like I said, I didn''t know much about Arthurian legends, but I certainly knew that one. Sir Lancelot of the Lake. The greatest knight. Ever.


    "Well, maybe he''ll come out of the woods naked, too," I said.


    "Maybe," she said, and might have grinned.


    To take some of the weight off my exhausted legs, I rested the tip of the sword on the wide, flat stone, the same stone Arthur had indicated earlier. And the moment the sword tip touched the stone, the chapel came alive.


    Literally.


    Four glowing knights appeared in the four corners of the abbey hall, all dressed in full medieval armor. All wielding swords of fire, which they raised high.


    And charged me.

 Page 25

    Chapter Forty-nine


    "Ah, hell," I said.


    They came at me fast, converging together. I jumped down from the raised altar, away from Marion. I instinctively knew they weren''t coming for her. They were coming for me.


    The guy with Excalibur.


    And they weren''t real knights, I was sure of it. At least not living knights. They were magical enchantments, perhaps akin to holograms, activated somehow by pressing the very stone Arthur had been interested in earlier.


    As they came, Excalibur jolted in my hands. Crackling energy sealed the grip to my hand. The sword and I were one.


    The four entities were upon me, all heaving their fiery swords at once, leaving behind burning contrails of wispy black smoke.


    I had been lucky tonight. Indeed, I had been lucky enough for ten men tonight. But I suspected my luck was about to run out.


    But until that happened, I did the only thing I could think of: I raised Excalibur and fought back.


    And I fought like I had never fought before.


    I fought like a cornered hellcat.


    The four knights were inhuman, I knew that much, and each of their strikes was more powerful than anything I had yet to encounter tonight. More powerful, even, than Merlin''s enchanted sword.


    They took turns raining devastating blows down upon me, and I did all I could to ward off their hammer strikes. Any other sword, I knew, would have shattered under such a ferocious onslaught, but Excalibur wasn''t just any other sword.


    It was the sword.


    One such blow hurled me back into the church wall. Air exploded from my lungs. Okay, this sucked. I needed to do something, and fast. Excalibur or not, they were going to wear me down.


    And as I stood there with my back to the wall and the rain in my face, the four knights turned toward me as one, moving in choreographed unison.


    Perfect unison.


    Indeed, the enchantments had also attacked in a choreographed pattern, as well. I knew instinctively that I had to exploit the pattern if I hoped to live.


    And I hoped to live.


    Oh, yeah.


    So I pushed off the wall and met them in a pool of inch deep water. They formed a circle around me and attacked viciously, same as before, each blow seemingly harder than the one before it. Sparks showered down. My world was a blur of fiery swords, repartees and grunts. Of course, I was the one doing all the grunting.


    Most important, they fell into a pattern. And despite the awesome strength of their combined attack, I began predicting their movements. In particular, I noticed that when one spirit knight lunged at me, the knight opposite would step back.


    So when one lunged, I stepped back.


    And so on, and we did this until I saw that if I stepped back soon enough, the enchanted knight to my right was briefly exposed.


    We did this some more. My strength was weakening. Sweat stung my eyes. Marion gasped behind me. I gasped, too.


    And so I gathered my wits, focused my strength, and as the next lunge came, I anticipated it and stepped back into the vacated spot - and drove Excalibur deep into the side of the knight to my right.


    It shrieked and threw back its head, and then disappeared in a puff of black smoke.


    Sweet Jesus.


    The remaining fighters immediately altered their choreographed attack to adjust to the remaining three knights. As they did so, their tempo seemed to increase, too, their strikes raining down upon me like the Hammer of Thor itself.


    I staggered, my legs weakening under the onslaught. One particular chop caught me off-guard and drove me to the ground. One of the knights immediately pounced on me, swinging his fiery sword straight for my head. I met it with Excalibur and kicked the knight up and over me. It sprawled across the floor and slid against the stone wall, crashing in a heap.


    I scrabbled to my feet, spun away from another strike, and was soon met by all three enchantments in the center of church.


    Parrying and stepping, I finally got the hang of their new, ferocious pattern. And when I parried and stepped again, I drove my sword deep into the side of the knight closest to me. Screeching, it, too, disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.


    And that''s when the two remaining knights went berserk.


    They attacked with unholy ferocity. Their strikes were a blur. Furious. Harder than ever, desperate. How Excalibur held up under the onslaught, I don''t know. How I held up under the attack, I''ll never know.


    Blow after blow rained relentlessly down upon me. There was no pattern. Nothing but a relentless beating. I parried one and then the other, moving faster than I thought I could ever move. I found myself in a rhythm, but I was weakening fast. I had to end this, and I had to end this now.


    Without thinking or forethought, as neither was possible, I dropped to my back and rolled. A sword crashed behind me, reverberating through the stones. I kept rolling as another crashed next to me.


    I hit the wall and sprang to my feet.


    Like demon cats, the two knights pounced. I saw the smallest of an opening and lunged forward -


    And drove my sword deep into the stomach of the knight to the left. He threw back his head and let out an agonized cry, then disappeared in a puff of curling black smoke.


    The last knight stopped dead in its tracks, facing me.


    Oh, crap.


    I was drained. I had nothing left. I stood before the last knight, keenly aware that I might very well die in the next few moments. After all, I could only imagine the hellish fury that awaited me from this one remaining knight.


    And then the glowing entity did something I would be eternally grateful for. It lowered its sword and kneeled to one knee.


    I was too exhausted to breathe a sigh of relief.


    From that position, it disappeared, leaving behind a black, churning mist...and a hole in the center of the floor. A hole that revealed a narrow staircase that led down to depths unknown.


    Chapter Fifty


    The rain had stopped, and in the far distance, through the missing roof, the sky was brightening.


    Morning. It had been a long, long night.


    Marion and I stood next to the hole in the floor, staring down, each holding a Godfire torch. Her hand was looped inside my arm, leaning on me physically and emotionally.


    The faint moon shone down from above, through a break in the clouds. A small wind found its way into the open church, lifting Marion''s long hair from her shoulders.


    The stairs led down into impenetrable blackness. I could only imagine what awaited us below.


    "Do we have to go?" I asked again.


    "It''s the only way to the Grail," said Marion.


    "And what''s so great about the Holy Grail?" I asked.


    She didn''t answer at first. I continued staring down into the pit. I thought I could just make out a very faint glow coming from its black depths, but that could have just been my imagination.


    "They say the Cup of Christ gives eternal life," she said. "And eternal healing."


    And I caught her meaning. Her sick lungs. I tore my gaze from the floor. "If there''s one thing I''ve learned tonight," I said, "it''s that the Holy Grail is not the only path to healing."


    "It''s the only way I believe," she said with such conviction that I let the conversation drop.


    We were silent some more. I wondered how the town of Glastonbury was getting along the morning after an honest to God dragon attack. I wondered how the attack would be explained away, if at all. I also wondered what happened to Merlin, and if he would be back. Somehow, I knew we had not seen the last of him.


    I was quiet. I thought back to the many battles tonight. The many battles I had no business winning. I should have been dead a hundred times over.


    "I''m just a writer from Seattle," I said. "A writer who had some strange dreams, a writer who might now be in the middle of the strangest dream of all."


    "You are many things, James. And you have been many people. But always, always you have remained one soul."


    "Arthur kept calling me his old friend."


    "Indeed," she said.


    "Merlin asked Arthur if I remembered who I was."


    "So he did," she said.


    "I''m just a writer," I said.


    "You are many things, James. Many, many things."


    I lived in the real world. Real people with real problems. In my world, people didn''t bury their friends with their own two hands. People didn''t fly with dragons. And they certainly didn''t fight magical knights.


    "What''s happening to me?" I said. "Am I going crazy?"


    "No," she said. "You are simply remembering."


    "Remembering what?" I asked.


    "That remains to be seen, James."


    I stared down into the dark hole, at stone steps that curved away into blackness. I could not imagine a more uninviting flight of stairs.


    I sighed deeply. "I guess we should get on with it, then?"


    "Yes," she said, looking at me with big, round eyes, and then adding, "My knight."


    With Excalibur sheathed unceremoniously in my belt loop, I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back, and a thrill ran through me all over again.


    I took a deep breath and stepped down into the pit, holding my torch out before me. I took another breath and took another step, and Marion followed right behind me. The steps seemed carved from solid rock. Who carved it and why, I did not know.


    When we were a dozen or so steps down, I looked up and watched with some degree of panic as the opening in the floor above shimmered briefly and then solidified into solid rock.


    Torches in hand, our footfalls echoing loudly, I led the way down into the darkness. To where, I did not know.


    But I was about to find out.