Camelot & Vine (18 page)

Inside, it was cold and dark. “Not quite
ready for you yet. Here.” Myrddin gave me a two rocks, one with a
sharp edge. “Make a fire for tea.” He went off to shuffle amid the
minutiae on the shelves, mumbling to himself.

I took the rocks to the fire pit in the
corner and started scraping. I’d seen him do it. How hard could it
be? I scraped and scraped, but made no spark.

“That is pathetic,” he said, coming up
behind me.

“The king told me not to practice
magic.”

“Flint and steel is not magic,” he said,
grabbing the stones from my hands. “Watch.”

Myrddin picked up a clump of dried grass and
leaves from the fire pit. He held it against the lighter of the two
stones. A quick scrape of the dark stone against the light tossed a
spark onto the clump. Myrddin blew on it gently, moved it carefully
to the pit and added more tinder to it there.

“Put the tea on, then come to the table.” He
walked away, grumbling, “I’ve never met an adult, much less a
wizard, who hadn’t at least mastered the flint and steel.”

I filled the cauldron from the water barrel
and left the tea to brew. Across the room, Myrddin waited for me at
the table like a merchant with his wares set out before him. Odd
wares they were, too: a fist-sized black rock, a clay jug and a
length of wire. And Myrddin made a strange merchant: he wasn’t
going to attract many customers by glaring and tapping the
table-top with frustrated fingers.

“There will come a time, Casey, when you
will be required to prove yourself.”

I wished he was wrong. I was supposed to be
Arthur’s protector in battle, yet I couldn’t protect anyone
anywhere, and in a battle I’d be the first to die.

“I’m saving my strength.”

He frowned. “Perhaps you’re not afraid. But
I am. And as much as I like you, I’m not certain I believe in
you.”

I wanted to confide in Myrddin but if I did,
he’d either have to turn me in or lie to King Arthur to protect me.
Knowing the penalty I didn’t think he’d choose the latter, and I
didn’t want to put him in that position. I said nothing.

He sighed, and raised the jug from the
table. He held it high, showing it off like I used to do for the
cameras with the
Gone!
bottle. “Your moe-tor,” he said
smiling, his beige teeth glinting with pride.

Apparently I had not described it well.

“It runs not on gas-o-leen but on current.
Like lightning, only not as powerful. With this moe-tor, I intend
to make a car to send you back through the Gap.”

Any current he could get from a clay pot
wouldn’t propel a mouse, much less an automobile. I didn’t want to
hurt his feelings so I kept that to myself. “You said it wasn’t the
car that sent me here, but the power.”

“Correct.”

“So maybe I was struck by lightning.” That
must have been it. I’d been hit by lightning and I wasn’t really
talking to Myrddin, I was in an insane asylum somewhere doing
meticulous basket work.

“If lightning had struck you directly, you’d
be an ember. It might have struck
near
you. We shall
experiment with that later this morning.”

Lightning struck then, outside near the hut,
lifting the darkness for a second and giving me cause for concern
about the upcoming experiment. Rain began to fall outside, but
Myrddin paid no attention. He lifted the black rock and coiled the
wire around it, leaving the ends hanging loose. With a swatch of
wadded cloth, he twisted one end of the wire around a strip of
metal that poked out of the clay jar like a straw from a milkshake.
Then he held the other end of the wire between his fingers with the
cloth. “Observe,” he said.

He extracted a mouse from his pocket and
plopped it on the table. The mouse must have been newly dead,
because it was still floppy. I feared he’d killed it expressly for
the experiment. He tickled the mouse’s pink foot with the end of
the wire and the tiny body twitched.

I was wrong. His clay jug could indeed
propel a mouse. “Wow.”

“It’s an old trick,” said Myrddin. Pleased
with himself, he indicated each item as he described them to me.
“You need a lodestone and a bit of copper. You also need some wine
that’s been sitting out too long with the cork missing.”

“I think that’s like a battery.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, we use that kind of power to run cell
phones and laptops.”

“Are they moe-tors?”

“Sort of. But Myrddin, it would take a
thousand of those jars to move a car. Maybe more.”

“That many? Hmm.” He thought about it, but
not for long.

-----

Myrddin charged through the gloomy forest
ahead of me, carrying the clay pot. Wet branches, heavy with rain,
formed arches above us, turning the path into a dark hallway.
Trotting to keep up with his traveling stride, I carried the sodden
folds of my tunic. My muddy slippers splashed in cold puddles, and
kicked up the scent of life swarming in the underbrush. When at
last the woods thinned, the rain was free to make its freezing way
to my skin. We’d barely cleared the edge of the forest when
lightning flashed over the plains, renewing the storm’s vigor.

“There!” Myrddin shouted, pointing to the
split-second view of a crest of high ground a couple of hundred
yards away.

We waded out into the downpour through grass
as high as my hips. Grass tangled around our ankles as we crossed
the open field, grass grabbed at our legs as we climbed the
slippery sides of the rise. At the top we were just high enough to
gaze out over an ocean of grass and more grass.

Myrddin thrust the pot at me. “Hold
this!”

I almost dropped it.

“Hold it tight! Now raise it to the sky!” He
took the lodestone from his pouch.

“Are you kidding? I’ll be struck!” As if to
back me up, the heavens chose that moment to shout down their
loudest thunder yet.

“The lightning didn’t kill you,” Myrddin
yelled, “it sent you here!”

“You said it wasn’t the lightning!”

“I said it struck near you! I’m attempting
to send you home! Do you not wish to go?”

I hugged the jug to my chest. Myrddin spread
his arms, welcoming the rain like a priest welcomes the holy
spirit. Black clouds poured forth, opening like overturned urns of
ice water. I craved hot coffee. I wanted that coffee in a civilized
coffee shop with electric lighting and a flush toilet. I wanted
soft, dry fabric against my skin. I wanted more than one pair of
shoes and I wanted a decent, hot shower.

I also wanted Myrddin’s respect, Guinevere’s
friendship and King Arthur’s trust. And I wanted to live.

I held the jar out to Myrddin. “I’m
afraid.”

He reached for the jar. When his bony
fingers touched mine on the clay a crunching blast of thunder
smashed our ears, accompanied by lightning bright enough to blind
us. The jar exploded in our hands, shards striking our skin like
pelting rain.

I screamed. Myrddin roared. We tumbled down
the rise.

TWENTY-THREE

When I could see again, I noticed I was
still there.

Myrddin took my hand and helped me to my
feet. Leaving the shards of the broken jar behind, we returned to
the forest. I no longer cared how cold and wet I was until we got
back to the hut. Drostan, Myrddin’s hefty aide, had tended the fire
and brought biscuits, and the place felt plenty civilized. As much
as I wanted coffee, Myrddin’s tea sufficed. I stood by the fire to
let my tunic dry.

Myrddin went off to change and came back in
a dry robe. His long hair became frizzy in the moist air, a detail
he obviously cared nothing about. “They say wizards can’t cross
water, you know.”

“I’ve heard it said, yes.”

“You did fine in the rain.”

“I didn’t have to cross it, did I?”

“Ah,” he said. “You’ve got me there.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“One must be physically the most powerful,”
said King Cadwy of Cornwall, a slim, elderly man whose lack of chin
could not be disguised by his thin beard. He leaned back in his
chair after dinner, satisfied to have ended the conversation with
his pronouncement.

“Not necessarily,” said King Arthur, raising
his goblet to call for more wine. “A soldier may succeed by being
deft even if he’s the smaller man.”

I avoided such conversations. It was easy
enough to do at my end of the table. Rarely did Myrddin show up for
the evening meal, and as Elaine wasn’t much of a talker, it was
relatively quiet where I sat. I could watch and listen.

At the center of the table, Kings Arthur and
Cadwy continued while the priest nodded agreement no matter what
anyone said, and Owain of Corinium Dobunnorum continued to drink as
much wine as he could.

“But,” said Cadwy, waving his hand so the
jewel he wore on his finger caught the flicker of firelight, “one
big soldier, like Lancelot for example, can crush two smaller,
agile men. I’ve seen him do it.”

“An unfair example. Lancelot is our
champion. He’s powerful, and deft as well.”

“You’re too kind, Sire,” said Lancelot. He’d
stayed out of the discussion for the most part, but he was nothing
if not gracious.

“Let the wizard solve the argument,” said
the king.

For him, it was a bit of a brag. Among his
colleagues, King Arthur was the only one to have two wizards and,
for all we knew, I was the only female wizard in Britain. I
enhanced his prestige. We both liked that.

“Mistress Casey, what’s the best defense
when fighting hand-to-hand?”

I thought about it. “I suppose it’s ideal to
be invisible, Your Grace.”

King Arthur laughed, but Cadwy didn’t like
the joke. “Where’s the honour in that? If your opponent can’t see
you, how can he strike you?”

“The honor’s in protecting one’s people from
the enemy,” I said. I should have said, “I was only kidding.”

“I believe the wizard’s got something,” said
King Arthur.

Cadwy said, “Hmmph.” He opened his mouth to
argue further but I pretended not to notice and rose to leave,
thinking it best to quit the conversation before I got deeper into
it. The queen had long since excused herself and it was time I
sought my opportunity as well. “Thank you, Your Grace, for
including me at your table once again.” I bowed a little. I was
picking up courtly manners, or what passed for such at Cadebir. The
king nodded, his lids heavy with drink and argument.

The other women tended to excuse themselves
early for the same reasons I did. Even when sober, the men loved
arguing for the sake of it. Once they got drunk the logical next
step was fighting or sex. On a good night they tore up the hall. On
a bad night it was best to stay out of their way.

It was too early to go to my hut. With no
books or magazines to read, when I couldn’t go to sleep all I ever
did was sit in the dark and ponder my state. My presence at Cadebir
and the stupendous unfeasibility of my return to the twenty-first
century made it impossible to lie still most nights. I didn’t know
if it was reality or unreality I was facing, and I couldn’t sort it
out. Restless, I often wrapped myself in Sagramore’s cloak and
walked the wall, gazing out over the blackness of Myrddin’s woods
or the twinkling candles of Cadebir town.

I left the hall and climbed the nearest
ladderway at the southwest gate. I wanted to walk, and to think
about Myrddin’s experiment. The rain had cleared, leaving a
sparkling night. With the woods below me I walked north, letting
the plains and then the marshes beyond reveal themselves as I
approached the northern part of the wall. I wondered what I’d do if
Myrddin found a way to send me back to the twenty-first century.
I’d thought it was impossible, but there I was in the sixth
century, possible or not. If Myrddin could send me back to
Hollywood, I didn’t know if I’d want to go. Yes, I missed coffee
and plumbing and electricity. But the future didn’t hold much else
for me.

The day’s work had been put to bed, leaving
the night quiet and clear, with stars bright enough to light the
plains. The sentries noted my passing but left me to myself.
Illogical as it was, I felt safe on the wall. My whole life lacked
logic: the future, Hollywood, was behind me and an ancient war was
coming. The world I walked in was imaginary or at least tenuous, a
bubble. I had to figure out what to do before it burst. I searched
the sky but whatever gap I’d come through wasn’t in the stars.

I pulled the cloak tighter and stopped to
watch a small blaze atop the Tor at Ynys Witrin. The priestesses
must have been having a bonfire. Their island existence was
presumably more primitive even than life at Cadebir. How impossibly
distant from LA I was. I hardly remembered it, though at Cadebir I
was more of an actor than I’d ever been in Hollywood. Had the
people there once meant something to me? They had, so much so that
I’d run away from them, feeling—what? Grief? More like fear, or
desperation, or shame. But those were feelings about myself.

I’d once had feelings about other people,
especially as a child. Something had happened to my sympathy along
the way. Maybe I’d given up on it when my dad died because I gave
up on my mom then.

But sympathy was coming back to me. I felt
it for Guinevere, though I could see her feelings for me ran hot
and cold. For one so young, her pressures were great. When I was
her age I was drinking my way through college. In my clumsy hands,
the responsibilities of a barbarian queen would have been worse
than bungled. If I’d been forced to marry an older man I didn’t
love, I’d have cheated on him, too.

My sympathy for Arthur was even stronger. He
wasn’t the handsome romantic of my fantasies, though he had a rough
charm. But a cheating wife on his mind and the weight of Britain on
his shoulders made me want to step in, hold him up, be more than a
friend to him.