Knight Life (14 page)

    
“Screw you,” called someone. And someone else shouted, “Who told you to get up there and be insulting?”

    
Arthur laughed. “I? When I am treated as if I was a nonentity, to be snubbed and ignored at their discretion? I merely call a halt to the insults that have been dealt me this day.” He held up a clipboard, and the sheets of paper affixed to it rustled noisily in the breeze. “Do you see these?” Without pausing for a response he continued, “These are petitions. In this free society not just anyone can declare himself a candidate for office. I have to obtain ten thousand signatures, which actually means that I have to have twice that number, since it is generally assumed that half of you will be bloody liars. So I'm going to want
every one of you to affix your signature to this most noble document. Is that clear?”

    
And suddenly a strong, clear female voice—Gwen's voice—called, “Why should we vote for you?”

    
Arthur was caught completely off guard. Gwen was now standing a few feet away, and he stared at her in utter befuddlement. Why in the world would she be challenging him? “What?” was all he managed to get out. There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd at his bewilderment. He was garnering attention, but he couldn't exactly say he liked the way it was happening. He was going from being ignored to being considered a joke. That was hardly an improvement.

    
“You haven't even told us your name!” It was Gwen again, and there was something in her voice other than mockery, if mockery had ever been her intent. It was ... it was prompting. She was ... prompting him ...

    
Of course. Oh, of course.

    
“I am Arthur. Arthur Penn.” He could have kicked himself for the brainless oversight. Quickly, though, he rallied, and continued, “If you wish to make your mark on history, no matter what else you fail to accomplish, know this: Sign your name here, and someday you will be able to balance your grandchildren on your knees and say, ‘Yes, I mattered. I accomplished something, because I helped Arthur Penn become Mayor of New York.'”

    
“Why should we vote for you, Arthur Penn?” said Gwen, and now he fully understood. She was serving as a sort of patsy in the crowd, one who would put forward questions that would allow him to grab people's attention, speak of things that might be of interest to them.

    
Except that it couldn't all remain in Gwen's control, for now someone else shouted, “Yeah, you get up there, call us ants and stuff. Who are you, hot shit?”

    
“Why should we vote for you?” Gwen said again, with even more urgency in her voice, trying to get a usable answer out of him.

    
“Because ...” he began, wishing frantically that Merlin had tutored him better. But then Merlin had not been aware that Arthur was going to take his first shot at addressing crowds at a completely impromptu political rally.

A
T THAT MOMENT
Merlin was not too far away. At Bryant Park, behind the Forty-second Street Library, the wizard was watching an old drunk, watching as he rocked slowly back and forth against the cold, his coat pulled tightly around him.

    
Merlin shook his head. “Pitiful. Simply pitiful.” Hands buried deep in his New York Mets sweat jacket, Merlin walked over to the derelict and dropped down onto the cold stone step beside him. He wrinkled his nose at the stench. At first the drunk didn't even notice him, but was content to rub the bottle with his cracked and blistered hands. Eventually, however, he became aware of a presence next to him, and he turned bleary eyes on Merlin. It took him several moments to focus, and when he did, he snorted.

    
He was a black man of indeterminate age. His wool cap obscured much of his head, although a few tufts of curly white hair stuck out. Much of his face was likewise hidden behind the turned up collar of his coat. His eyes were bloodshot.

    
“You a kid.” Three words into one.

    
After a moment of meeting his gaze, Merlin turned and looked straight ahead. “Looks can be deceiving,” he observed.

    
“You got money on you?”

    
“No.”

    
“Parents care where y'are?”

    
Again he shook his head, although feeling somewhat amused at the question. “No,” he said again.

    
The black man snorted. “You a kid, all right. Ain't no doubt.”

    
Merlin winced. “Why must you talk like that? You're perfectly capable of proper grammar if you so desire.”

    
This time the drunk looked at him more carefully. “You're a smartass kid, besides,” he finally concluded.

    
“Probably.” His bottom becoming chilled by the cold stone, Merlin shifted his position and sat on his gloved hands. “My name is Merlin. The wizard.”

    
At this, the drunk snorted. “Believe it or not, kiddo ... I knew Merlin. I worked with Merlin. And you're no Merlin. Although I'll say this for you ... you've got enough sass to be him, sure as anything.” The drunk proffered his almost empty bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag. “You want some lifeblood, little wizard? Not much left, I'm sorry to say.”

    
“It's full,” said Merlin quietly.

    
The drunk laughed, a wheezy, phlegm-filled laugh that became a hacking cough within moments. When the fit subsided he told Merlin, “If there's something I always know, little wizard, it's how much I got in this here—”

    
He hesitated, because suddenly the bottle felt heavy. He slid the bag down and saw the top of the liquid sloshing about less than an inch from the mouth of the bottle. Then, ever so slowly, he refocused his eyes, as if seeing the mage for the first time.

    
“You little shite,” he said slowly. “Where the hell have you been?”

    
At this Merlin truly did laugh, out loud. He stepped down two steps so that he was on eye level with the drunk. His thick brown hair blew in the wind. “Enjoy it, Percival. Or do you prefer ‘Parsifal,' as in the old times?”

    
The drunk's eyes narrowed. “Percival is fine,” he said slowly.

    
“Either way,” continued Merlin, “it's the last drink you're going to be having for a time—ever, with any luck. We're going to sober you up and put you back in harness.”

    
“After all this time ... now you come to me? Talk about putting me in harness like I'm some kind of beast of burden? A horse?”

    
“No. If you were a horse, we'd simply shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

    
“What the hell happened to you?” Percival was looking at him wonderingly. “I mean, I know what happened to me ... but what happened to you?”

    
He wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his sweat jacket. “You will not find this simple to comprehend, Percival, but I live backward in time. In another fifteen centuries—by my reckoning, not yours—I shall be an old man. The price of immortality. It's difficult to maintain the form of an old man for an excessively long time, which is what would have been required had I aged as other men—had I been spawned as other men, Mary Stewart notwithstanding. But to age backward, to be forever becoming younger—I can maintain this body for decades, centuries to come. When I said fifteen centuries by my reckoning, I meant backward to the fifth century. Forward into the twenty-fifth century I shall be much as you see me now ... if not a tad younger.” He saw the blank look in Percival's face, and didn't wonder at the puzzlement there. There was really no point in dwelling on it to excess. He held out a hand. “Come with me, Percival. Let's go somewhere and talk. We can use you.”

    
“Now you can use me. Now.” Percival shook his head. “After all this ... after I gave away my life. You never told me, never warned me ... gods, you are evil, Merlin. You must know that.”

    
“Yes. I know that. Now tell me something I do not know ... such as, for instance, how long we're going to have to sit here while you wallow in your misery.” When Percival didn't respond immediately, he said, “Percival, look around you. Look at this place. The leaves have disappeared from the trees. Winter is hard upon us. All that's left for you to do is huddle and shiver on cold, uncaring
stone stairs. And when the winds blow hard, the best you can hope for is to find shelter in some pile of garbage. Human refuse blending in with the rest of the trash.” He leaned forward, his small fists clenched and his voice pleading. “Whatever resentment you may have for me, Percival ... you were great once.”

    
“None of them made mention of my skin color ... did you notice that?” Percival spoke as if he was talking from very far away. “None of those who wrote about the Grail quest. None of them mentioned I was a moor. As if ... as if it was some sort of dirty secret that the court of Camelot numbered a dark skinned man among its membership.”

    
Merlin sniffed disdainfully. “Is that what you're stewing about?”

    
“I'm not stewing ...”

    
“Your story transcends race, Percival. The Grail—”

    
Percival spoke with sudden urgency, the first time in years he had felt such a drive. He gripped at Merlin's outer garment and said in a voice low and filled with tragedy, “In my hand, Merlin ... it was in my hand ... the water from it passed through my lips, and now ... now ...” Tears started to fill his eyes.
“Now I am this? This was my reward?
”

    
“No. This is.” And Merlin hauled back a hand and slapped the startled Grail knight across the face. His brow was dark, his voice impatient and with an undertone of threat. “Now stop feeling sorry for yourself just because you consider to be a curse what others would consider a blessing.”

    
Percival said, in a low and resigned voice, rubbing his cheek, “It's my life, little wizard. Why not let me live it?”

    
“Because it's not a life. And it's not living. I need someone with your skills, Percival. You were among the best. I know what you were, Percival. Before the Grail.” He
rose and extended a hand. “Come,” said Merlin. “We'll talk.”

    
The silence seemed to extend forever. Finally:

    
“Okay.”

    
They left the park together.

“A
RE YOU DEMOCRAT
or GOP?” Gwen called.

    
Arthur felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, up high on the statue in Duffy Square. “I'm an Independent,” he called. “I subscribe to no party line save for the dictates of my conscience.”

    
Several people nodded in approval, but others smirked or snorted or said things like, “Great, someone else to waste a vote on.”

    
And suddenly yet another voice, depressingly familiar, called out, “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, not
you
again.”

    
Arthur turned, knowing whom he was going to see before he even saw him. “Officer ... Owens, wasn't it?”

    
“Yeah,” said the self-proclaimed Iron-Spine Owens. He was shaking his head, looking amazed that he had run into this same nutcase again. “You just can't keep out of trouble, can you.”

    
“I'm afraid I have a history of being rather in the middle of it,” Arthur said, although he didn't sound especially apologetic about it.

    
“And what do you think you're doing here?”

    
Gwen looked worried, her gaze darting from Arthur to the policeman and back. But Arthur didn't lose his equanimity for a moment. “Why ... I'm simply taking your advice, officer. About politicking. I'm endeavoring to run for mayor of this city. Will I be able to still count on your vote?”

    
A small crowd was gathering. Apparently, Arthur reasoned, this was the way to garner attention: be challenged by a police officer. People were always willing to stop whatever they were doing if it meant getting to see someone
being dragged off by a uniformed law enforcer. That was when he suddenly recalled a headline he had read the other day. He read so many newspapers and continued to do so, aided by a memory retention potion that Merlin had cooked up for him. He'd have been lost without it, since there was so much to remember. “I read recently one of your number was slain,” Arthur said to Owens, genuine sympathy in his voice. “My deepest condolences. The loss of a fellow blue knight is always difficult.”

    
Owens shrugged stoically. “Unfortunately, cops are targets. It comes with the shield,” and he tapped his badge.

    
This ...
this
was what was considered a shield for knights of this day and age? Arthur looked at it, not with derision, but with sadness. Was this the best that they had to offer their defenders? “A shield should provide protection,” Arthur noted.

    
“Go talk to the judges,” Owens said with a long-suffering air. “Guys know you can kill a cop and walk.” Then he eyed Arthur curiously. “Okay, Mr. Politician ... where do you stand on capital punishment? There are some people who are making noises we should get rid of it again. What do you think?”