Then Bennacio turned away and I was sad to see him turn away, because I think I missed him most of all.
Then I saw the Lady in White sitting beneath the yew tree, and I felt no wind, but her dark hair was flowing behind her and the folds of her white robe were rippling like waves.
She didn’t look at me as I stopped under the tree beside her. Her cheeks were wet.
“Am I dead?” I asked.
Do you wish to be?
“I think so. I’m awfully tired.” More than anything, I wanted to lie down with my head in her lap and feel her stroke my brow.
A tear rolled down her cheek and I said, “Please don’t. It’s not like I didn’t try. From the beginning I did what anybody asked. Uncle Farrell asked me to help him get the Sword, and I did. Bennacio asked me to help him get it back, and I did. Mogart asked me to bring it to him, and I did. But every time I did what they asked, somebody got killed. Uncle Farrell, Bennacio, and now Natalia. So, you see, Lady, there’s nobody left now. Nobody left for to me help and nobody left to die because I tried. There’s no reason for me to go back.”
I turned away because I couldn’t bear to see her cry. She was still there, only I couldn’t see her, but I could see the memory of her and the memory of the yew and the long grasses and the glittering shards like teeth in the slag heap below. And, over my head, the butterflies.
The hour has come. Do you remember, now, Alfred Kropp, what has been forgotten?
Then there was nothing. Even the blackness wasn’t black, because my memory of black was gone. No light, no sound, no sensation or memory—there wasn’t even any me anymore. Alfred Kropp was gone.
And when the last of me was gone, I remembered what I had forgotten.
I reached into the yew tree and pulled a silver pin from the body of a butterfly. Freed, it burst into flight, black and red and gold against the bright blue sky, soaring higher and higher, until it was gone.
Darkness came back, but this time only because my eyes were closed.
So I opened them.
I was back in Merlin’s cave, with the silver Sword of Kings jutting from my stomach.
And I knew, I finally knew, who the master of the Sword was.
51
Mogart came toward me, the black dagger in his hand, but he stopped when he heard the sound of my voice.
“The master . . .” I gasped. “The master of the Sword is . . . the one . . .” I coughed and blood filled my mouth and ran down my chin. “The one . . . who claims it.”
I brought my hands up and wrapped my fingers around the hilt. Behind me, metal screeched against the rock as I pulled the Sword from my body. Mogart was opening his mouth to either scream or say something, I’ll never know, because I was free of the Sword now—or it was free of me— and, free, I swung the Sword around in one gigantic arc, my own blood flying from the blade, and I cut off his goddamned head.
I dropped to the cold stone floor. I realized I might die again, but I had already died once and I wasn’t worried about it anymore, at least not once I finished what I had started.
I started to crawl toward Natalia, but my arms gave out and I flopped onto my belly on the cold stone. I let go of the Sword; I needed both my hands to push myself along the floor.
There was a soft white glow surrounding her and through my tears, in the trick of the light, I thought I saw a shadow hovering over her and the shape of wings.
My head felt hollow and black stars began to bloom before my eyes. I would never make it to her in time, but I told myself I could go one more inch. One more inch, Kropp, I told myself. One more inch. And after that inch, another inch.
My teeth chattered and I was very cold, colder than I ever remember being. The soft light around her burned my eyes to look at, so I closed my eyes and felt something warm around me, as if someone had wrapped me in a blanket.
There was a rushing sound and I thought of a great river running to the sea. Hundreds of years, thousands, whole centuries passed, and I still didn’t know how close I was or if I was even close at all.
Then I breathed in the scent of peaches.
I opened my eyes and saw the face of the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
I whispered in her ear, “By the power of the Sword, Natalia . . . in the name of the Archangel Michael . . .”
Dipping my fingers into the wound in my stomach, I brought the blood to her side where Mogart had stabbed her.
I bathed her wound in my blood, whispering in her ear, “See, I remembered. I remembered what I had forgotten. I was going to stay dead, mostly because I was just so darned tired, but then I remembered what I’d forgotten, which is the power to heal as well as to rend . . . so get up, Natalia, get up, because I am the master now and you have to do what I say.”
I smoothed her hair and stroked her forehead with my other hand. “Live,” I said. “Live.”
And after what seemed a very long time, her eyes opened, she took a deep breath, and I knew I had saved her.
52
I guess after all that, I would have bled to death beside her, but Mike came to and found us inside the cave. Soon we were loaded onto stretchers and men carried us up the path to the top of the cliff, where a helicopter was waiting. We were flown to a hospital in London.
After a couple of weeks I was able to sit up and eat some solid food, though hospital food in the best of circumstances isn’t that good, and this was England, after all, so the food was really lousy.
They did two operations on me to remove part of my lower intestines and fix up my left lung, which Mogart had torn with his final thrust. After another couple of weeks I could walk around, and sometimes Natalia would walk with me in the hallway. We didn’t talk much on these walks, though she did thank me for saving her life. Once I asked her if she believed in angels.
“As a little girl I thought I had a guardian angel.”
“That doesn’t count,” I told her. “Little kids believe in Santa Claus too. Your father said the angels live whether we believe in them or not.”
She looked away then. I could have kicked myself for mentioning her father. For once she was actually talking to me as if I were a halfway normal person.
“I guess it would be tough for you to forgive me,” I said. “I can’t seem to, no matter how hard I try.”
“You should have left me to die,” she said. “It would be better. Why didn’t you leave me to die?” She began to cry.
I had apologized, but that only made it worse for her. I was beginning to think that was my special gift: taking something bad and making it worse. I tried to hold her hand while she cried, but she turned away from me. I could save her life but not her broken heart.