Excalibur Rising (12 page)

     “What did you tell him?” Violet asked Molly.
     “A year or so ago,” she said, “Taras acquired enough money to reopen his family’s ancestral home in Shropshire.  It had been shut up for years because no one could afford to run the place, and he’d never lived there himself.  He inherited it from a great uncle, or some such relative.  It’s a manor house with some ancient ruins attached.”
     Clemma handed Violet a slice of lemon sponge cake.  Violet tried not to let the excellence of the cake distract her from what Molly was saying. She could see that Ryan was hanging on Molly’s every word.
     “Griffinwood Manor,” Ryan said.
     “Yes,” said Molly. “Apparently there’s a library; not an important collection, but a few interesting bits and pieces came to light.  Taras found an interesting old manuscript in a language he didn’t recognize.”
     Ryan leaned forward.  “Taras was fluent in a number of ancient languages,” he said, “and he had a passing acquaintance with quite a few others.  Are you saying that he didn’t recognize the language at all?”
     “No,” said Molly, “not at all. That’s why he brought the manuscript to us.”
      “Why you?” Ryan asked. “Why not the British Museum?”
     “ Oh dear,” said Molly,” you really don’t have any respect for us, do you?  He brought it to us because it was illustrated, and there were a couple of drawings of what looked like knights sitting at a round table.  He thought we might find it interesting, and that we might have someone to translate it.”
     “And did you?”
     “Not exactly,” said Molly. “We are certain that it is earlier than the  fourteenth century, but we don’t know how much earlier.  We thought we had found someone but__”
     Violet was seized with a sudden desire to take hold of Molly’s hand.  The sensation was new and unexpected.  Her gift had never expressed itself this way before. 
     “There was a girl__” Molly said.
     Violet set the cake plate on the table and gave way to her impulse.  She reached out for Molly’s hand.  Molly looked at her in astonishment.
      “Oh don’t do this,” Ryan said.
     “Leave her alone,” Clemma hissed.
     Violet grasped Molly’s hand and closed her eyes.  A new world opened in front of her.  She saw a room with stone walls, and candles in sconces.  It was the same room that she had glimpsed in her restless dreams two days ago in Key West. A young woman, a novice in a grey robe and brief white veil, sat at a table.  In front of her were sheets of parchment, a quill pen, and a pot of ink. Violet sensed that the young woman was there against her will; that she had been brought from some other place and that the clothes she wore offended her in some way.  Someone else stepped into the pool of light thrown by the guttering candles; a tall woman in a black robe, her face framed by a white wimple beneath a black veil.  She wore a large jewel-encrusted gold cross around her neck.
      “Write,” said the nun to the novice.
      The novice hesitated.  Violet could feel the young woman’s fear and her sense of outrage.  “What should I write, Majesty?” she said, looking up at the nun.
     The nun smiled, more of a grimace than a signal of joy. “You know where he is,” she said. 
     The novice nodded her head although the remark had been more of a statement than a question. “Yes, Majesty, I know.”
     “Generations will forget,” said the nun.  “You must write for future generations.” 
     The novice hesitatingly selected a sheet of parchment.  She looked up at the other woman.  The tall nun had turned away.  With a quick gesture the novice pulled another sheet of parchment towards herself, tucking it under the first one.  She picked up the pen and dipped it into the ink.
     Just as suddenly as it had come, the vision departed. Violet released Molly’s hand. “It’s gone, “she said.
     “That’s alright, dear,” Clemma said. “Sit down.  Here, sit in the armchair.  Give it a few minutes.  Maybe something else will come to you.”
     “Did I speak? “Violet asked.
     “Yeah,” said Ryan. “You spoke.  Novice, nun, candlelight.”
     Violet’s strange behavior didn’t seem to have disturbed Molly at all.  She looked at Violet enquiringly and then asked, as though nothing unusual had occurred, “Shall I continue?”
     “Yes, please go on,” Violet said.
     “Of course,” said Molly, “when Carlton came to me, I told him about the manuscript.  We hadn’t managed to translate it; in fact we had not even managed to identify the root of the language.  We had given the document as much attention as we could, and then we locked it away for safe keeping, until we could find another expert.  Naturally Carlton asked to see it.  We both thought it was more than a coincidence that Taras would find this document which was obviously something to do with Arthur, and then he would announce to you that he had found Excalibur.  So I went to the safe to get the document, and it wasn’t there. Gone.  Stolen!”
     Words formed themselves in Violet’s head, and came out of her mouth, very much against her will. “The novice is afraid,” she said. “Her loyalties are divided, but the other woman will not be denied.” 
     Ryan looked at Violet angrily, obviously resenting the interruption.
     “What do you mean by gone?” he asked Molly.
     “Oh for goodness sake, be quiet,” Clemma hissed to him. “Let Violet speak.”
     The cat rose slowly to his feet, slithered from the sofa and crossed the room to stand at Violet’s feet.  His ears were back and his tail was lashing furiously.  His head was up and he stared at Violet with ferocious intensity. 
     The cottage room faded again and Violet was back in the nun’s small room.
      “I have no skill in the language of this world,” the novice protested.
     “Write in your own language,” said the nun.  “Show me where he sleeps.”
     The novice began to write.  Violet saw the letters forming on the page in some ancient runic language. The nun watched for a few moments, staring down at the bent head of the novice, then she turned away to look at the small fire smoldering on the hearth.
     “Will we ever be warm again?” she asked.  “Why do these Christian sisters of ours believe that lack of heat will lead us to their promised salvation?”
        The novice glanced up, and, seeing that the nun’s attention was concentrated on poking peevishly at the smoldering logs, she lifted the first sheet of parchment and began to write rapidly on the second sheet. 
     “Hah,” said the nun, as the logs burst into flames, “we shall be warm now, if only for a few minutes.”
     She sat on a low stool by the fire extending her hands to the flames. “Keep writing,” she said.
      “Yes, Majesty,” said the novice.  Her pen moved ever more rapidly and Violet could sense the urgency in the young woman.  This second document must be completed in secret. 
        The nun rose to her feet.  Before she had reached the table, the novice had concealed the secret writing and returned to her laborious penmanship on the first document.  Violet tried to memorize the shapes as they were formed but the vision was fading rapidly and then she was back in Glebe Cottage with Toby the cat rubbing himself against her legs and purring.
     “Astonishing,” said Clemma. “Violet, my dear, you are quite astonishing.”
     “Oh yes,” said Ryan, “she is definitely astonishing.  Can we get back to the question of the missing document?”
      “We called it the Griffinwood Document because it was found at Griffinwood Manor,” said Molly.
     “Two sheets of parchment,” said Violet.
     “No,” said Molly, “only one.”
     “Whatever,” said Ryan impatiently, “one sheet, two sheets, that’s not important.  Do you have any idea who took it? Did you call the police?”
     “Well,” said Molly, “we think it’s more than a coincidence that a young woman who was working as a temporary in our office also vanished just before we found the document was missing.  We were so pleased with her work.  She was quick and she was quiet.”
     “And light fingered,” Ryan said.
     Molly nodded. “Apparently so,” she said. “She was a pretty little thing in a rather underfed way.  Big blue eyes, a whole lot of blonde hair.  I suppose you might describe her as somewhat Bohemian, you know, droopy skirts and lots of scarves.”
     Ryan looked at Violet. They both knew who she was describing.
     “One day she didn’t show up for work,” Molly said. “We phoned the number she had given us, but it was out of service.  Of course we didn’t know the document had also gone missing; that never occurred to us.  We just wanted to know what had happened to her.  Everyone liked her.  We wanted to know she was okay.”
     “And when did you open the safe? “Ryan asked.
     “Just a few days ago, when Carlton came to see me.”
     “So it could have been missing for a while.”
     “Not too long,” said Molly.  “Taras gave it to us just before Christmas.  It’s not as though it’s been lying around our office for years and years.”
     “What do you think the Griffinwood Document was?” Violet asked, still thinking of the runic characters that the nun had been writing.
     “We don’t know,” Molly said.  “We had made no progress with the translations.  All we had to go on were the illustrations.”
     Something in her tone told Violet that Molly wasn’t telling her everything. “Do you have a theory?” she asked.
     “We all had theories,” Molly said. She hesitated and looked around the room as though she suspected someone might be eavesdropping and then she seemed to make up her mind.  She lumbered over to the sofa and sat down heavily next to Ryan, who moved over to accommodate her bulk.    “It’s just a wild theory,” she said, “and it wouldn’t stand up under academic scrutiny. “
     “I won’t give it academic scrutiny,” Ryan assured her.
     “I have my reputation to consider,” Molly said.
     “Oh for God’s sake Molly,” Clemma said suddenly, tears welling in her eyes again. “Just tell us what you think; anything; anything at all.  We’re not getting anywhere like this.”
     “All right,” said Molly, “but it’s just a theory.”
      “We’ve got that,” said Ryan.
     “Well,” said Molly, “I think that the drawings indicated Arthur’s burial site.”
     “I thought you said he wasn’t real,” Violet said.
      Molly continued as if Violet had not spoken. “I think that the manuscript describes the place where Arthur was taken by the Lady of the Lake and where he now lies sleeping.”
      “Sleeping?” Ryan repeated.
     “According to most versions of the legend,” Molly said, “Arthur did not die.  He was taken to the Isle of Avalon to be healed of his wounds.  He’s sleeping now and when Britain needs him again, he’ll be woken from his sleep.”
     Violet heard Molly’s words and somewhere deep inside her brain, or maybe her soul, a bell chimed. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that whatever disclaimers she might make later, at that moment Molly wanted to believe that King Arthur was not dead, and that he would return.  Molly wanted to believe it, and so did Violet.
     “That’s nonsense,” said Ryan who obviously had not heard any bell chiming in his soul, but, nonetheless, he looked distracted, as though maybe he knew something that he hadn’t told anyone else in the room.
     “The theme of Arthur’s return appears in most of the earliest version of the story,” Molly said. “Mallory used it in Morte d’Arthur.”
     “Then why hasn’t he come back already?” Clemma asked. “I can think of dozens of times when we’ve needed him.  What about the Blitz?  If Arthur was going to help us, he could have helped us with Hitler, couldn’t he?”
     “He doesn’t have his sword,” Violet said with sudden intuition.
     Molly looked at her, and nodded. “You know something,” she said.
      Violet shook her head. “No, I don’t know anything.”
     “But you feel something,” said Clemma.
     “Maybe,” Violet said. “I really don’t know.”
     She had no idea where the words had come from, or why she felt them to be true.  Her heart was pounding, her mind was racing.  She had to get out of the room; she had to leave Glebe Cottage.  The heat of the fire, the patterned chintz, the knowing green eyes of the cat, the dirty dishes all seemed to be screaming at her to leave.  She felt overheated, overdressed, over stimulated. 
     “I have to get out of here and clear my head,” she said abruptly. “I have to go back to London.”
     “The answer’s not in London,” said Molly. “The answer’s in your head.”
      Violet ignored her. “Dr. Ryan,” she said, “we have to go.” 
     Ryan rose to his feet.  Violet thought that he as eager as she was to be away from the cluttered room, and the two demanding women.
     “You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?” Clemma pleaded, looking so stricken that Violet wished she could bring herself to stay.
     “Oh, yes, as soon as we know anything,” Violet said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
     Molly extended her hand but Violet was afraid to take it in case the room disappeared again.  She could not cope with any more visions.       
     Molly turned her attention to Ryan. “I don’t really believe it,” she said. “I don’t even know why I said it.  I know it’s a myth.”
     Ryan nodded. “It’s a myth,” he agreed.
     Violet saw a look pass between them.   She assumed that they had now established academic equilibrium, with each of them having said something wildly speculative, and each of them having then denied their belief in myths and legends.
     They walked outside to the car and the ever patient driver.  Violet was surprised to find that night had fallen and the flowers in the cottage garden were dark shadows under a starry sky and a quarter moon.
     They rode in silence for some miles, and then Ryan said. “What happened in there?”
     “I don’t know,” Violet said.  I’ve never experienced it like that before.  It’s been different since that girl touched me.”
     “Yes,” said Ryan, “blonde hair, blue eyes, floaty scarves.”
     “It has to be something to do with her,” said Violet.
     “But what?”
      She didn’t want to answer.  She did not even want to think.  She especially did not want to think about an ancient king in full armor sleeping through the ages in a cave; not dead, only sleeping.       
      They left the dark Surrey lanes and headed towards London on brightly lit streets that blotted out the starry sky and the magic moon under which Violet’s dreams and Molly’s speculation had seemed possible.
     “We’re not really getting anywhere,” Ryan said, “unless we believe that girl knows something, and that your visions are true.”