The Calling

Francis stood on the soft beach and gazed over the sea and watched as the waves crashed against the beach. He was becoming increasingly concerned not over the condition of the sea, but also the dwindling light. He felt the large looming presence of the Fisher King by his side and felt the soft touch of his giant decaying hand press down against his shoulder, “follow the voice” he softly to Francis’ unspoken words.

“How did you...” his words trailed off as the Fisher King pressed a finger against his own parched lips then moved it up to the side of his head where he tapped gently. Francis turned back to the sea and continued to gaze out into the surf.

“My Lord...” the voice at his side broke his silent meanderings and he turned his attention to Galahad who had joined him at the edge of the water. “Tell me...” the Knight began uncertainly, “is this the time of restitution?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” blinked Francis.

“This time...this strange land, but is it the time...” his eyes looked sadly at Francis through his heavy visor, almost pleadingly.

“I don’t know” admitted Francis unsure of his answer. “what time?”

“The time” urged Galahad, “the time of the calling, when Excalibur calls for Arthur” Galahad struggled with his words as the other two watched with keen interest at the answer. Francis realised this whole thing hadn’t just affected him personally, but also had torn these Knights...no not Knights, but people from their own time and into a world not of their own making. He hadn’t considered anybody else’s feelings or thoughts during this, but now...here he was with their future in his hands as well as his own. The thought made him glanced down at the palms of his hands and he sadly shook his head.

“The weight if responsibility is a burden young Francis” whispered the Fisher King.

Francis gazed up at his ancient eyes, “I never realised that they were looking for me, or rather depending on me” he said.

“They simply seek restitution, and they hope that is what you can deliver them. Forgive them of their actions, as they are set in their ways, it is not of their making”

“But, what is this restitution, and can I help them?”

“The restitution is the call of Excalibur” explained the Fisher King, “the time for Arthur to rise from the ashes and lead the Britons in war”

“That’s not me” said Francis sadly averting his eyes to the sandy floor beneath his feet, almost feeling a wave of ashamed embarrassment wash over his body.

“Nobody said it was, young Francis” said the Fisher King, “but you must do what is expected” he said cryptically.

“I don’t understand” said Francis, “Shit! I don’t understand much of what is going on”

“The Lady will explain”

“Yes...you’ve said that, but how do I find her?” He followed the line of the Fisher King’s arm as the giant raised his decaying limb and pointed along the beach toward a small boat moored on the sand. “You’ve got to be kidding!” exclaimed Francis. “We’ll never find her in this light”

The Fisher King moved his hand to his waist, where he pulled at the scabbard which hung around his waist. He held it aloft before him and presented it to Francis, “you will need this” he said simply. Francis gingerly reached out for the object and took it and pressed it against his body. It was simple in appearance with small indentations running along the shaft of the leather bound sheave. Silver metal trim ran around the top and the bottom of the scabbard and Francis traced his fingers along the shaft of the object tracing the line of the pattern until finally touching the cold metal tip.

“The scabbard...” he breathed and looked up at the Fisher King who nodded toward Francis, “will this lead me to the Lady?” he asked.

“You do not need to find her, she will find you” The Fisher King turned and stalked slowly away, dragging his legs behind him as he pulled himself up the beach. “Follow the voice, young Francis”

“Wait! One more thing!” shouted Francis. The Fisher King paused and turned his head slightly, smiling down at the boy. “Do you know?” he asked, “what will happen?”

The Fisher King lowered his head and turned away, speaking into the night air as he continued to pull himself up the beach. “I see a choice...a terrible choice...decisions must be made” he stopped and paused before speaking a final time, “follow the voice” he said and disappeared into the night.

“It’s getting dark” commented Percival as he gazed through the netting over the window of the pub and out onto the street, “we should be going”

“Less haste” urged Bors as he pulled at the pump once again and stood watching the brown liquid flow into his glass. “We can use the cover of the night to our advantage”

“I do not like it” insisted Percival.

“You would be scared of your own shadow!” laughed Bors as he drained the contents of his glass and wiped his mouth free of the white froth, “the night will mask our flight through the forest”

“Aye...and conceal a number of things ready to attack”

“Your caution is almost as bitter as this ale” snapped Bors and slammed the glass heavily onto the wooden counter of the bar. The glass shattered in his hand and tiny shards cut into his skin and dug deep into his fingers. The tension between the two men grew over the accusations thrown into the room and it was Tristan who moved between the comrades.

“Hold thy selves!” he snapped, “we argue like washer women” he glanced from Bors, who stood nursing the small cuts on his hands and Percival who stared him down from his position at the window. “You both talk with wisdom, but we cannot hazard caution or haste where a life is in danger” The two Knights cast their gaze away from Tristan as shame descended over the pub, “Bors...you pour thyself another drink and you Percival take guard over yon window. Let us move soon, take care of the blue guard” he warned and moved to the fireplace and stared up at the scabbard which hung over the long dead fire. He listened as the other two Knights moved away, their feet crunching on the glass covered floor before running his fingers over the object on the wall.

“Tis not the scabbard” commented Bors from his position behind the bar as he pulled on the long white handle. He glanced toward the window briefly toward Percival as he directed his comment to Tristan.

“Nay” agreed Tristan who lifted the scabbard from the wall and weighed it in his hands. “tis a strange feel to it” he said as he moved his hands up and down. “It has a coldness across the body of the shaft and has a sheen” he brought it up to his eye line and stared down the body of the scabbard. “Tis hard, but not of metal, its soft but not of leather. Tis a strange substance”

Percival moved from the window to join Tristan at the fireplace and he took the scabbard from his hands, “I cannot see the blue guards” he said simply as he stared at the object in his hands, “what kind of fakery is this?” he asked as he looked at Tristan. He held the plastic scabbard out toward Bors who had moved into the main body of the room with his full glass of ale.

He moved through the tables, catching the edges as he moved, “there is much strange in this place” he commented as he stopped next to a large box like device by the wall. He peered inside the device through the clear Perspex covering and placed his palm flat on the cool covering, “tis not glass” he stated as he moved his face closer to the cover. “What is yon box?” he asked himself as Tristan moved to his side and peered inside.

“Tis for food” he stated as he too looked through the Perspex covering.

“How does thee know that?” demanded Bors.

“There...” Tristan jabbed his finger against the cover, “small plates” he said.

“I do not see” complained Bors.

“There” insisted Tristan, “look deep, rows of tiny silver plates”

“Hah!” exclaimed Bors, “what manner of eating is that? Those plates would not fill a gnat’s body let alone my own” he said slapping his hand against his rotund frame. He continued to peer through the Perspex glass covering the top of the box, “I see no food” he mused.

“It must be within” said Tristan.

Bors drained the remnants of his glass and threw it down on the floor where it shattered and mingled with the shards of others drinking vessels. “I see not how to obtain yon food” he complained and placed his hands on either side of the box and shook the device between his large hands. The device tremored in his hands for a moment before one of the silver discs slowly fell from its place and lay flat on the surface of the inside. Bors shook the device again as he watched the disc light up and spin persistently in place.

“...when I see your face. There’s not a thing that I would change, cause you’re amazing. Just the way you are...” the words erupted from the speakers mounted on the wall as the dulcet tone of Bruno Mars sparked from the Juke box.

The three Knights jumped at the sudden burst of music. They drew their swords and glanced around the room, “music!” snapped Bors, “I see no minstrel”. Their eyes flicked over the bar and out into the small foyer, their swords waving before them as the sound of music continued the play in the air.

“She’s so beautiful, and I tell her everyday” the sound of music continued as the Knights struggled to comprehend to source of the music.

“I understand not” complained Bors, “I see no minstrel” he waved his sword before him, swinging wildly at air.

“Wait!” exclaimed Tristan as he leant nearer to the box, pressing his hands against the cool Perspex as it vibrated beneath his fingers, he glanced upward toward a small box mounted on the wall above their heads. The raised his hand and placed his palm flat on the black mesh at the front of the speaker. It vibrated beneath his touch and he frowned, “yon music seems to emanate from this chest” he said as the music continued to play. He pointed toward the Juke Box and spoke carefully, “the music seems to start from this point...” his fingers traced an invisible line from the juke box to the speaker, “and end here”

“What magic is this?” queried Bors.

“Tis a strange contraption indeed”

“The whole world stops and stares for a while, cause your amazing. Just the way you are” the words continued from the speaker and Bors found himself smiling at the wall mounted speaker.

“Tis a marvel...” he said softly shaking his head, “it is becoming...”

“Take heed!” snapped Percival from the window, glancing back into the room, “blue guards approach” He peered through the netted curtains which covered the windows and stared out into the street where two uniformed police officers had stopped their patrol of the cordoned area and were now walking toward the pub, where the sounds of music spilled into the street.

“He is right” remarked Tristan peering past Percival into the street beyond the window. “Bors!” he snapped, “cease that prattling”

Bors looked about desperately unsure of what to do. He raised his hands to the juke box and brought them down onto the Perspex, which only made the track jump a groove and begin once again in an endless chant. “It won’t cease” he complained hitting the device once again.

“They are near” urged Percival.

Tristan moved toward the juke box and pushed Bors out of the way and stood for a moment staring at the device, “go and guard the entrance” he spoke softly, but forcefully enough for Bors to comply with his request. He watched briefly as Bors pushed his way past the tables toward the main door and thought if the music hadn’t attracted the guards, then the noise made by Bors would surely have done so. He returned his attention back to the music chest and examined it carefully, tracing the wires which ran from the back of the device into the wall. “How near?” he asked over his shoulder.

“They are on the threshold” whispered Percival, ducking low beneath the window. Tristan nodded and glanced toward Bors, who had drawn his sword from its scabbard and stood erect by the main door. He shook his head and placed a finger against his lips, then pointed toward the door. His attention returned to the wires and he gripped them firmly in his hands and pulled hard. The black cord paid no resistance to his efforts and fell away from the wall sending the room into a deafening silence. Light spilled into the bar from the crack in the door as the wooden barrier to the outside opened slightly.

“I tell you” came the voice, “I heard music”

“Well there’s nothing now” came a second voice. The Knights hid in the semi-gloom of the darkening room as the voices invaded the silence. Tristan signaled toward Bors who moved silently through the room to the edge of the bar, close to the door.

“I think we should take a look” commented the first voice. The door was pushed open and the first of two police officers stepped through the door into the bar. He cast a torch around the room and moved forward as his colleague followed cautiously behind. “Is there anybody here?” he asked into the room. Tristan ducked down low behind the juke box as the light from the torch swept across the room, he glanced toward Percival who was kneeling beneath the window, his face set into a determined look and his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Who’s there...” he said, “show yourself, it’s the police” The officer moved further into the room, followed by his comrade and Tristan watched as Bors moved from the shadows behind the policemen.

Slowly he stood from his position, “raise your hands where I can see them!” snapped the officer. Tristan pulled his arms slowly in the air, whilst paying attention to Bors as he stalked the officers from behind.

“I mean thee no harm” commented Tristan as he stepped forward.

“That may be, but keep your hands in the air where I can see them” ordered the first officer, “now then...why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting for me!” laughed Bors as he grabbed both officer’s heads at the same time and brought them crashing against each other. The Knights watched in unison as the Policemen fell to the ground in an unconscious heap.

“Well done” commented Tristan as he stepped over the bodies.

“Are they dead?” asked Percival as he moved from the window, looking down at the officers.

“Nay, but they will sleep for hours” laughed Bors, slapping him on the back as he stopped by the large Knight.

“Let us make haste” he said and glanced through the still open door into the darkening street.

“Aye...thoust is right, we should go” agreed Tristan, “for the castle”