I stepped back.
The wound in his stomach had healed shut, leaving behind a raw, blazing red scar. He looked up at me briefly, but he seemed confused and not entirely all there. His eyes were crazed and full of fear and something else.
Perhaps even someone else.
Amazingly, Merlin stood. He did so on shaky, unsure legs. Even more amazingly, he took a step forward...and nearly fell. In fact, he should have fallen, had something unseen not held him up, something supernatural. He took another awkward step and this time I was reminded of a marionette puppet being controlled by a puppet master.
Merlin turned, staggered away, splashing through the shallow puddles, his long legs moving seemingly independent of his body. His men watched in stunned silence as he stumbled through the exit, still holding his wounded stomach. They ignored me and followed him out, and shortly the church was empty. The magical orb of light above winked out. And all would have been dark again if not for the Godfire torches.
So who had been the puppet master?
I didn't know.
I quickly grabbed my torch, still sizzling in one of the puddles, and rushed over to Arthur's side.
Chapter Forty-six
The rain drove into the exposed chapel, churning the many dark puddles into boiling, frothing cauldrons. Water dripped off my cheeks, my nose, soaking my tee shirt.
Marion and I were alone with Arthur at the back of the church, kneeling next to the once and future king. He was still alive, but just barely.
As she had done for me, Marion now cradled Arthur's head in her lap, stroking his cheek tenderly. His breathing was labored. Marion's breathing was labored, too. This wasn't easy to watch.
My cell phone had been crushed to bits and Marion's wasn't getting any reception, of course. It appeared Arthur was destined to die. I knew it and Marion knew it. Still, weeping hysterically, she begged him over and over to hang on.
I had staunched the wound in his chest with my sweatshirt, but more blood poured from the opening in his back. Arthur was a dead man. No man could survive such a devastating injury.
Then again, Arthur wasn't just any man, was he? Couldn't he perform just one more miracle?
"Arthur," I said desperately. "Arthur, can you hear me?"
He cracked open his eyes. "You don't have to shout, old boy," he said weakly. "I'm right here."
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "Arthur, we need a miracle."
"You could say that again," he said.
"Then do it," said Marion urgently. "Please, do it."
Arthur smiled, and some of the dried blood that had collected in the corners of his mouth cracked.
"Even death is a miracle," he said. "Moving from one stage to the next. It's a beautiful thing."
"Enough, Arthur," I said. "Please, please heal yourself!"
The rain, if possible, angled down even harder. I did my best to shield the king's upturned face from the brunt of it, but droplets still found his forehead, sliding down his cheeks and neck to disappear into his bloodied sweatshirt. He smiled at me again.
"There's only one way into the Underworld, my friend," he said, his voice weakening.
Marion buried her face in his neck. Crap. The man could be so damn stubborn.
"Please, Arthur..." I begged.
"Aren't you going to ask me how, my old friend?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," I said. My mind was going a hundred different directions at once. "How, how does one get into the Underworld?"
"I don't know," he said, laughing. The laughing turned into a wet cough and blood bubbled up from his lungs, which he turned his head and spat away. When he regained control of himself, he added, "But the greatest swordsman in the history of the world surely knows how."
I said, "Arthur, there's no time for games."
"This isn't a game, old boy, although it has been quite fun."
"Arthur, please...."
"Love always, James. Love thy enemies, love thyself, love the life God has given you. Oh, and love our sweet Marion. Please take care of her. She means so much to me."
At the sound of her name, Marion cried even harder. The sound of it reminded me of a mortally wounded animal. Arthur coughed again. Harder. Blood and mucous and something yellow came up. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath.
He said, "You have much to learn, my friend, but don't we all? Trust your instincts. Always."
"I will," I said.
"We will meet again," he said. "We always do."
"I love you, Arthur," I said.
He reached out with his free hand, took my own, and placed it carefully around the pommel of Excalibur. The sword, which had been pulsating weakly, flared to life, virtually humming in my hands.
"It likes you," said Arthur. "You will need it in the days to come."
He held up three bloodied fingers, touched them to my lips, and the life drained from his battered body.
Chapter Forty-seven
We found a shovel in the storage shed behind the open-roofed abbey, and spent the next few hours digging a shallow grave beside the same little sapling I had seen the fairies singing and dancing around earlier.
Marion stood in the rain by my side the whole time. She seemed incapable of doing anything more than just standing there, weeping. When I was finished, she snapped out of her funk and together we carefully positioned Arthur within the shallow grave. With me using the shovel and Marion her hands, we buried our friend, the one-time King of Britain.
"Goodbye, old boy," I whispered.
In that moment, I had a flashing vision of Arthur riding off on a white stallion, down a leaf-strewn forest path bathed in golden light, a path that led straight into the golden sun.
I sucked in some air, and the vision faded away.
Marion and I stepped back under the branches of a nearby oak tree. And as the rain pummeled the freshly turned soil, and as a thick fog rolled in over the grounds, four small bodies appeared at the crest of the grassy slope, skipping and dancing and holding hands.
Marion gasped when she saw the wee folk.
Somehow, I expected them.
They skipped down the slope and stopped at Arthur's grave. There, they formed a small circle around the dark soil and bowed their heads deeply. Then, after a long moment, they danced again, encircling the grave, holding hands. When their small, angelic voices reached us, Marion wept hard and rested her head on my shoulder. Shortly, a fog moved in over the grounds, enveloping the little folk, and when it dissipated a few minutes later, they were gone, too, along with their tiny, haunting voices.
Left behind in their place was another tree sapling, this one planted squarely in the center of Arthur's grave.