Which Road to Camelot?

Uther was angry. Again. When he spotted me, he stomped in my direction and bellowed, “Where have you been?”

I kept walking, forcing him to match my lengthy strides. Allowing my own anger to show, I replied, “I have walked my way since the beginning of time. Sometimes I give, sometimes I take. It is mine to know which and when!”

That stopped his bellowing, at least, but he turned to pleading. “You must help me, Merlin!”

I kept walking. “Must I?”

Naturally, he decided to appeal to authority. “I am your king!”

Like I care about that! I let him have it. “So you need me again, now that my truce is wrecked. Years to build and moments to ruin, and all for lust!”

“For Igrayne! One night with her!” He shook his head, baffled at his inability to communicate what seemed to him to be self-evident. “You don't understand. You're not a man!”

I looked at him with a level of disgust I hadn’t felt since the Romans had first shown their clean-shaven faces on Britain’s shores, all those centuries before.

He was undeterred. Probably undeterrable, at this point, so consumed was he by passion. “Use the magic! Do it!” he commanded.

I looked up at the castle, seeing evidence of Uther’s futile siege. The Dukes of Cornwall had sited it beautifully, and the likelihood that the King’s forces would see the inside of Tintagel before the coming of winter seemed remote indeed. Good! I thought spitefully.

But the delphic gods whom I serve are not always creatures of logic. I do not understand their ways, but I follow where they lead me. And suddenly, the sights and sounds of battle faded as my masters stirred within me.

“Igrayne.” I must have spoken aloud, though softly. Whatever the gods demand, Igrayne is central to it.

Turning to Uther, I said, “You will swear by your true kingship to grant me what I wish. Then you shall have it.”

His face shone with barely contained anticipation and lust. “By Excalibur, I swear it!”

“Good! That’s good,” I said, pleased. “Then here is what shall happen. Assemble your troops. Pack up your engines, and depart.”

“What trickery . . . .”

“Silence! The Duke shall follow, to attack your troops by night. While he is gone, I shall spirit you into Tintagel, and there you shall have your desire.”

He glared at me, looking for some sign of trickery. But his lust commanded him, and he spun ‘round to give his orders.

Many hours later, as the sun was setting, Uther and I watched from a high promontory as the Duke sallied from Tintagel with his men, intent on teaching the King a lesson that would keep him far from Cornwall ever after. Having seen to his camp’s defenses personally, Uther was unworried.

“That’s it!” I said. “Now. You must rest, while I prepare the magic.”

Uther shook his head, eager to be off. “I cannot rest, while Igrayne lies within!”

“You must,” I admonished. “I have powers to summon, and your thoughts will only interfere. Rest. Sleep!”

As I spoke, the King’s eyes grew heavy, and he lay down upon the ground, the last rays of the sun catching his armor and causing it to glow . . . .

The sun dipped below the horizon and the King lay in slumber. I felt the powers stirring, and drew them to myself with the charm of making. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!” The ground rumbled, and I felt the steam rise. The power that I alone could summon. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!”

The art of summoning is a hard one. Oh, hard indeed! For one such as me, long years are needed to recover from such a spell. Hours I wrestled with it, coaxing, urging, commanding . . . until at last, the moon rose high above the castle and all around was covered in a dense and deep mist.

Uther startled awake. “I dreamt of the Dragon!”

I looked down on his frightened face and replied, “I have awoken him. Can't you see, all around you, the Dragon's breath?”

Uther scrambled to his feet, looking startled, frightened, but still eager. The mist completely filled the valley between the promontory where we stood and the castle.

“Mount your horse,” I commanded, in no mood to be deferential after my hours of labor. “I will transform you, and Igrayne will think her husband has returned.”

He mounted, then looked down at me. “But the cliff, the sea?”

“Your lust will hold you up.” I told him. “You will float on the Dragon's breath!” Slapping his horses flank, I cried, “Ride! Ride!”

His horse leapt forward, down the slope and full onto the mist. Rather than sinking into it, the dragon’s mist bore horse and rider up, as I had known it would. “Ride!”

As he reached the midpoint, I called out, “Change! Transform! Now!” Once more, I summoned the power and unleashed it. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!”

I looked out across the mist, and it was as if I was soaring above horse and rider, close enough to touch them. Close enough to see the transformation and discern, at the last moment, the fickle gods’ true intent. “What’s this? I didn’t expect this!”

The horse clattered up out of the mist and onto the drawbridge. Above the gate, the Duke’s men gawked. “It’s the Duchess! When did she depart?”

A captain in the Duke’s livery appeared on the walls. “What trickery is this?”

The door to the central keep opened, and a man stepped out. Golden hair, a fine beard and kind eyes. “Open for the Duchess, Brithael,” he called to the Captain.

“Aye, my lord,” the Captain of the Gate responded, and gave the command.

The gate opened, and the horse crossed into the central courtyard, stopping before the figure of the Duke.

The Duchess appeared completely lost . . . disoriented, uncertain, and deeply confused. Her Duke held out his arms, and she sank into them, frightened and unsure.

“My dear,” the Duke said. “You’ve suffered such a fright. Come. Let me see to you.” He lifted her easily in strong arms and carried her back into the keep, the edge of her gown almost kissing the ground.

My spirit vision blurred, and I returned to my high perch above the castle. Oh, I didn’t need to see the rest. The gods had shown me enough.

I knew that, on the battlefield five miles away, the body in the Duke’s armor, pierced by a dozen spears, would no longer look like the Duke. A ruse, they would say. In the castle, a strong and kind young woman, born with a face and form that drove men to madness, would now have peace and the chance to forge a better world. And a lust-maddened King would have opportunities of a different kind. The chance to learn, at last, how to love, how to give, and how to nurture.

Sometimes I give, sometimes I take.

And sometimes, I do both.

Another vision came to me, caught in a golden glow. A land at peace, the crops ripening in the sunlight . . . a man with a fair beard, resting a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder . . . her perfect face is suffused with tenderness as she gazes upon the infant suckling at her swollen breast . . . . Maybe – just maybe – the gods got it right this time.

The end.

Author's Note: "Excalibur" is a bit of a cult classic, with cast members like Helen Mirren and Liam Neeson, who later became quite famous. But Nicole Williamson's Merlin stole every single scene he was in, an absolutely perfect portrayal of the legend. Quite a bit of the early dialogue in this story is taken straight from the movie, but . . . yeah. It kind of veers off into new territory. Maybe better territory.

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