That last part confused me. I wondered how Mr. Samson and his knights ended up with the sword if the Lady took it after Arthur left. If I ever saw Mr. Samson again, I was going to ask him about that.
I don’t know if it was that movie, which I saw about forty-nine times, that made me have the dreams. I always fell asleep while the credits rolled, and I would dream of a gleaming white castle on a mountainside, and from its rampart flew triangular flags of black and gold, and inside its outer wall a thousand knights were mustered in full armor. They carried long black swords and their faces were painted black and their expressions were terrible as they fought some guys who had breached the outer wall, men with flowing hair in brown robes, and their faces were covered with mud and grimly set. The men in robes followed a man with golden hair and somehow I knew this man was Mr. Samson, though in my dream he looked different than I remembered him. They were about ten against a thousand, they had no hope, but they fought until the last man fell, and this last man was the knight with the golden hair.
I woke after that dream with the word “Játiva” on my lips. I went to the school library and found Játiva in the atlas. It was a town in Spain, like Mr. Samson said, right at this mountain called Monte Bernisa.
I had another dream too, a terrible dream, the kind that makes you wish you could wake up. I was far above a great plain or field and saw a vast army, row upon row of blank-faced soldiers marching, stretching as far as I could see, a million or more men, and the tramp of their feet was like thunder. Warplanes screamed overhead, lines of tanks rumbled over the field, and the night sky was lit up from the concussions of long-range missiles. Before this army, on a dark horse, rode a big man holding Excalibur, his face hidden in shadow, and as the jets screamed overhead, he raised the Sword in defiance, and from the army behind him came a cry that drowned out the sound of the bombs.
The man leaped from the horse, brought the Sword high over his head, and slammed it into the ground. Brilliant white light exploded from that spot and planes fell burning from the sky, tanks erupted into flame, and whole divisions of his foes were consumed in fire or fled screaming from the flood of light.
The light slowly died away, and then I was walking in a wasteland of broken concrete, uprooted, leafless trees, crushed and twisted cars with their hazard lights blinking. Ash floated everywhere, clinging to my hair and making me cough. I was looking for someone, calling a name, but I couldn’t hear who I was calling for. I was desperate to find whoever it was; if I could just find them, everything would be all right. But I always woke up without finding them.
13
After Mogart took the Sword, my life followed the same pattern. I would stay up late watching the news or Excalibur, stumble off to school after two or three hours of sleep filled with bad dreams, read the newspaper in class, then come home and go straight to my room to wait for the beginning of the end of the world.
At supper, the Tuttles would start in on me.
“Look at you!” Horace shouted one night. “You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you mope around all day with your nose glued to the television screen or the newspaper—what’s the matter with you, you big-headed palooka?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it has something to do with my uncle dying.”
“Dear,” Betty said to Horace. “Maybe you shouldn’t bring up little Alfred’s uncle.”
“First of all, this kid is anything but little, and second of all, I didn’t bring up his uncle, he did!”
And he yelled, his pinched face puckered with rage: “Your problem is self-pity! You think you’re the only person on earth who’s ever lost somebody? The world is full of pain, Alfred, pain and big losers, and you’ve got to make up your mind to be a winner!”
“Like you?” I asked.
“Oh,” Betty gasped. “Oh, oh, oh!”
“That’s your other problem!” Horace screamed. “No gratitude! At least you’ve got a roof over your head and food for your big self! A lot of people in this world don’t even have that!”
And I couldn’t take any more. I left him sitting there, his thin lips moving silently, and locked myself in the bedroom. This got my roomies going, a thirteen-year-old greasy-haired thug named Dexter and his ten-year-old brother, Lester, who was also a thug, only not registering as high as Dexter on the thug-o-meter. They pounded on the door and yelled that it was their room too. I just turned the volume up on the news and pretended I didn’t hear them. Then Dexter began to shout he was going to cut me; he was going to cut me bad; and that reminded me of the scar on my thumb, which was an inch long and white as dental floss. Sometimes it ached and sometimes it burned and sometimes it just throbbed and tingled. I developed this nervous habit of running my index finger along it, feeling the little indent in my flesh, especially when I was nervous or thought I was going crazy.
I started skipping school. I didn’t see much point in an education when the world was about to end. I left in the mornings as if I was going to the bus stop, then cut through a side street to Broadway and walked all the way to the Old City, the historic section of downtown Knoxville. I hung out in the coffeehouses and used-book shops or paced up and down Jackson Street, looking at the homeless people or the long-haired college kids lounging in the sidewalk cafés.
Then, late one afternoon, I decided I just couldn’t go back and face the Tuttles, so I ate an early dinner at a place called McCallister’s. It was about five o’clock and the dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet, so I had the place mostly to myself.
Mostly, but not all. Across the room sat a tall man with long snow-white hair. He ate very slowly, carving his steak into razor-thin slices and chewing real slow. Every once in a while he lifted his eyes toward me. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen him before. His fingers wrapped around his wineglass were long and delicate. He had big hands, like a basketball player or a pianist.
He stood up and that’s when I saw how tall he was. He pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket as he sneezed loudly. Then he walked out of the room without looking in my direction, and I wondered why some old guy having dinner was making me so paranoid.
I was feeling guilty at about this point because now it was past six and the Tuttles were probably sitting down to dinner and Horace was probably shouting, “Where is that Kropp? Where is that big-headed palooka?” So I called their house from a pay phone.