Fantastical Ramblings Read online

  “Among my people, I am known as The Merlin.”

  Herakles halted in mid-step. “I know of you. Last of the Druid, gifted with power and wisdom. This was once the cave and altar of your people. But I thought you dead or a fanciful tale. Did your power draw me here?”

  “Possibly. The patterns of past and future create strange coincidences. You left a wondrous sword here. I—no, Britain—needs such a sword. You and the sword belonged together.”

  “You say the sword belonged with me?” Herakles found himself liking this old man. Not many mortals would face a man of Herakles’ size and appearance, an immortal, without any trace of fear.

  “Aye. Belonged. It will belong to another soon enough. One who can use it to save Britain.” The Merlin swung the unsheathed weapon testing its balance. It sang as it cleaved air. The crystals picked up the hum and passed it around the cavern.

  “The sword is too dangerous for an ordinary mortal.”

  “The man who will inherit this sword will have to earn it. And he will be no ordinary man. As you are no ordinary man, Herakles.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I learn many things. I know of your exploits, but I thought you dead, or a fanciful tale.” The Merlin yanked a hair from his long beard. He grimaced at the slight pain, then tested the edge of the sword by splitting the hair.

  “In many ways I am dead. In other ways I can never die. I cannot fully withdraw from life until humans are safe from the temptations of this sword.”

  “Agreed. But I have plans for the sword and the future that will fit your ideal.”

  “Such as?”

  “I have found a hero. A hero who will bring law, justice and peace to Britain. He will need a sword such as this.”

  “Who is this mighty man, and why have I not heard of one worthy of the sword and my trust?”

  “He hasn’t been born yet, in the time you came from. But he will be. Shortly. I know that he will be worthy of the sword and your trust, as well as mine.”

  “Even the gods of Olympus can’t see into the future.” If only the old man’s words were true. He wanted to believe The Merlin.

  “The future is a shadow among many shadows. Those who know how and where to look can catch glimpses of shapes and patterns. I saw a sword in the patchwork of time. Look into the crystals. I will show you.”

  Herakles looked. The lights and shadows from the candle shifted into symbolic shapes and rhythms. He recognized Hera’s peacock blue eyes, searching, ever searching. Another shadow, fleeing her. Fleeing toward something bright. A bright sword blade. He also saw a cloaked figure, prematurely grey of beard and hair, hiding a second sword in this very cave.

  Hastily, Herakles looked toward The Merlin to make sure the old man hadn’t tricked him with reflections and shadows. Merlin stood off to one side, head bowed, the sword resting quietly in his hands.

  “I sought the pattern,” The Merlin said, as if sensing Herakles’ gaze. “That is how I found your hiding place. I sought a place to secrete a different sword and found a better weapon for my purposes. But for its full potential to be unleashed and controlled, it must be given not stolen.”

  “I can’t allow the sword loose into the chaos that rules the world in the time I left. I do not foresee an early end to the swath of destruction left behind by the sea raiders.”

  “The sword does attract a great deal of notice.” The Merlin chuckled as he hefted the weapon, assessing its balance. “Clever of you to hide it in the future, at a time when it can be used for good. I sense someone seeking it even now. She? She has ties to you and through you to the sword. This power within the blade is easily recognizable. Reforging might shift the pattern enough to disrupt her search. Can you reshape the blade? Something longer and more slender? The kind of warfare my hero wages will require a longer reach and a shift of the balance.”

  “I have been many things, including a blacksmith. But this sword was forged by Hephaestus. I’m not certain anyone but a god could change it.”

  “Was it the forger or the nature of the star-iron itself that makes this weapon so formidable?” The Merlin asked, raising one white eyebrow. “You are Zeus’s son, the strongest man on Earth. If anyone can work this metal, it is you.”

  Reforging might alter the pattern of power within the blade enough to divert Hera for a little while, give him time to find a new hiding place. Or working the blade might show him a way to destroy it. “I will try, though I am but half a god. Do you have a forge?”

  “This altar stone will suffice for an anvil”

  “The altar will splinter at the first strike of a hammer.”

  The Merlin smiled with half his mouth. His eyes danced with mischief. He was younger than his white hair suggested. “I think not. I have hidden sea coal, tools, and water buckets deeper in the cave.”

  “Then let us to work.” Herakles stripped off his shirt and stretched in preparation of wielding hammer and fire.

  Very quickly, heat from the burning coals filled the cavern and coursed through Herakles’ veins. He thrust the sword into the brazier much as he had thrust the torch into the signal fire. Tiny flames licked at the black lumps of coal within the makeshift forge. He watched for what seemed an eternity. The sword was slow to take the heat. Its tip remained bright steel gray. He added more coal. The tiniest bit of red glowed at the sword point.

  “The fire has to be hotter,” he said. He couldn’t fail now.

  The Merlin knelt beside the brazier and blew at the base of the fire. His breath came longer and steadier than an ordinary man’s. A cloud of sparkling mist surrounded the coals then sank into them. Instantly the fire blazed hotter. The old man sat back on his heels, blinking tiredly. “That should help,” he said.

  The glow of red crept up the sword blade. The crystals reflected the heat and light, adding to the burning coal. Gradually the red blade turned white. A sense of triumph bloomed inside Herakles. With The Merlin’s magic and his strength, they just might achieve the impossible.

  He moved the sword onto the altar and raised the hammer. He closed his eyes as he swung, expecting the stone to shatter. He heard only the resounding ring of metal against metal.

  Another blow and another. He watched the sword carefully as the blade flattened, thinned. Each blow of the hammer changed the pitch of metal clanging against metal. Gradually the sound sweetened to a pure tone of music.

  Pound, reheat. Pound, reheat. Dust rose from the altar stone and filled the air under the force of Herakles’ blows, but still it did not shatter. Endlessly, Herakles worked the blade. Fatigue crept into his arms. His legs trembled from the strain. Dust clogged his senses. He hadn’t felt this tired since the twelve labors.

  At last the sword took shape, long and slender, folded and layered with tensile strength. The beauty of the blade took hold of his senses. Balanced, keen, perfectly proportioned. He couldn’t destroy it. He had to find another solution. Perhaps The Merlin’s hero was truly worthy of the blade.

  Herakles reached for the tongs, ready to plunge the blade into the lake outside the cave for the final cooling and tempering.

  “Let me finish this,” The Merlin said as he sloshed a bucket of water over the blade where it lay on the altar stone. Immediately, the cloud of dust swirled together and dropped onto the sword. It combined with the cold water, cloaking the sword in a sheath of white stone, only the grip remained free. The thin layer of dust hardened rapidly around the blade. The soft patina of dressed marble settled around it.

  “Don’t!” Herakles stayed The Merlin from dousing the altar with another bucket of water. “The blade is now part of the altar. It looks sculpted from the marble.”

  The Merlin smiled. Mischief brightened his eyes. “Now for the final deception.” He slid the metal blade out from beneath the marble casing. A perfect replica of a sword sheath lay atop the altar. Then the magician retrieved a second sword from the folds of his cloak. He slid this weapon under the marble sheath. “Uther Pendragon’s swor
d of state. The sword that other kings will recognize as belonging to the next High King. Our hero will be the only man among them who can draw it forth. A useful weapon, but not an artifact of power and destiny. Our sword will come to our hero later, when the time is right.”

  Another slosh of water extended the marble casing over the grip.

  “Where did you get Uther’s sword?” Herakles asked.

  “I have kept it safe during his last illness. It will be here, awaiting our hero when he is ready to claim his heritage. You almost hid the sword in this cave too late for him to claim it upon Uther’s death.”

  “Tell me, Merlin, how you work this magic. Are you a god?”

  “No. Every person can work magic if they want. Not all have the patience to bring it forth from the depths of their souls. Not every one has the courage to work magic only for good. Few have the wisdom to know the difference between good and evil.”

  Herakles looked from the true sword to the replica on the altar. Both resonated a kind of power, reflections of the original weapon. Had he diminished the sword?

  Hesitantly he touched the blade with one finger. Energy snaked up his arm to his shoulder, infusing him with new strength. Changed, not diminished. The lightning of Zeus and the invincibility of Hephaestus still resided in the metal.

  Together they hid the tools and other evidence of the transformation they had worked.

  “I must go now.” The Merlin tucked the sword within the voluminous folds of his cloak. “I have had the rearing of our hero. He will be worthy of this blade when it comes to him.”

  Herakles grasped the sword within The Merlin’s cloak one last time. “Promise me that he will know humility.”

  “I’ll do my best.” The Merlin bowed his head. “I would give him a perfect life if I could. But I can’t alter the future, only perceive it.”

  “I trust your promise, Merlin. Now I too must go.” He knew a satisfying sense of completion.

  Herakles looked up, startled by the sound of a determined step at the cave entrance. The Merlin seemed to fade into the shadows and reflections of the crystal as he took a step back toward the wall.

  “Looking for this?” Herakles asked Hera as she ducked into the cavern. He pointed to the sword replica upon the altar.

  “What have you done to it?” she screeched as she ran to the stone. She wrenched at the sword grip and guard, trying to free it from the marble.

  “Hera, the sword is beyond you.” Herakles chuckled. “The time has come for us to leave Earth to younger powers.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw The Merlin. No more than shadow, the old man seemed to flow toward the cave entrance.

  Hera looked only at the sword sculpture. Defeat dragged her shoulders down. She hung her head and dropped her hands away from the marble altar. “How did you make it more beautiful than Hephaestus could? I will find a way to retrieve it.”

  “No, Hera. Other powers govern it now.”

  “Who? Who dared help you deface the sword of a god?” Hera whipped her head around searching every corner. She spied the movement of shadow on shadow. “Stop!” She lunged for The Merlin. He evaded her grasp and ran.

  Hera followed. Herakles strode after.

  “I command you to stop!” Hera screamed.

  The Merlin continued running. He escaped the cave and dashed toward the lake. Dawn sent ripples of fiery light across the smooth water. The Merlin skidded to a stop at the water’s edge. He jumped back, just a little, as if the water were poison or he feared to trespass.

  Hera latched her hand around The Merlin’s wrist. She yanked at the sword.

  Herakles grabbed Hera around the waist, lifting her away from the magician. “Cease, Hera. You can’t win this battle,” Herakles said, keeping her arms pinioned and her feet off the ground. She kicked him. He tightened his grasp.

  “It takes a woman to keep an artifact away from a woman. I consign its care to the Lady of the Lake. It has been foretold that she will bestow this sword on the proper hero.” The Merlin laughed out loud as he raised the sword and invoked the Lady. He hurled it far out into the lake. It tumbled end over end, spinning in the growing sunlight, reflecting it back more brightly than any crystal in the cave.

  “Noooooooo!” Hera screeched. “You can’t! I need the sword.”

  A graceful feminine arm clothed in white samite, reached up from the depths of the sparkling water and grasped the grip of the sword. The delicate fingers wrapped possessively around it. “I name thee Excalibur!” The Lady of the Lake’s triumphant voice echoed up and out from her watery home. Then she pulled the sword beneath the surface of the lake.

  “It’s lost forever.” Hera sagged limply in Herakles’ arms. “She’ll never give it up.”

  “Not forever,” The Merlin said with a smile. “Only until the Lady finds a hero worthy of its power.”

  “That will be forever,” Hera sobbed.

  “Perhaps.” The Merlin smiled knowingly.

  “The Lady of the Lake alone will make that judgment.” Herakles stood between Hera and the lake, making sure she didn’t dive after the sword. “Go, Hera. Go home now. You have lost this battle.”

  “Hmf,” she snorted as she snapped her fingers and disappeared.

  “I’d better follow her. Someone has to keep her—and the others—from meddling where they don’t belong. Goodbye, Merlin.” Herakles wrapped the darkness of time and distance around himself and reached for Olympus. The sword was safe now, his work on Earth finished.

  ~THE END~

  The Final Choice

  Death sat at the bar wondering what he had forgotten to do. 11:02 P.M. December 31. There was something he had to do before midnight or the new year would not arrive. Time would stop. Life would be frozen in an endless cold sleep. Souls would have no home.

  Change would not continue to shape the universe.

  Fates would not be fulfilled.

  Death took a sip of his drink and concentrated on his duty.

  The potential suicide in the corner vacillated in her decision. Her well-cut red suit looked too bright and cheerful for her mood. She twisted a diamond wedding set around and around her heart finger. Death shouldn’t leave until she made up her mind.

  Suicides always disrupted the schedule of appointments. He didn’t like last minute changes.

  But there was something else....

  He checked his appointment book. The potential suicide wasn’t listed anywhere in the last few pages. In two minutes, a man with a heart condition would run out of time. Death grabbed his staff of office and left the bar. If the woman in the corner made her decision in the next two minutes, she’d still need two more to find a means and a place.

  The little black appointment book with magnificent gold calligraphy on the cover burned in the pocket of his flannel shirt beneath a down parka. His staff of office, half again as tall as he, shrank to the length of a walking stick. The ebony end that curved back on itself to form a window for a huge black crystal, dissolved into a knob with the winking crystal set into the end. No flowing black cape and skeletal hands for the heart attach victim. This candidate for death needed the reassurance of a familiar personage to make the transition quietly.

  Death sidled through crowded Times Square. He appeared to be just another reveler on New Year’s Eve.

  His candidate jumped up and down, waving to friends and strangers alike. He paused in his excited dance only long enough to chug-a-lug the whiskey in his hip flask.

  Death tapped his shoulder.

  “Hi! I’m George. Who are you?” The candidate greeted Death.

  “Hello, George. You have an appointment.”

  An over-weight, middle-aged body collapsed on the sidewalk. George turned to look at his former shell. “I guess I have to leave now. Before the New Year.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Pity. I’ve never actually been here on New Year’s Eve when the ball dropped.” He looked wistfully at the great ball of light atop a near-by building. “I guess now
I never will. Can’t I stay a little longer, just until the ball drops?”

  “Sorry, George. 11:07. You are precisely on time. You can’t linger, even to see the New Year.”

  George looked back at his former self, one last time. A Good Samaritan had already begun CPR on the limp body.

  “He might revive me.”

  An ambulance siren wailed in the distance.

  “He can’t revive you, I have touched you. Your Fate is determined. If you choose to wait, or refuse my escort now, you will wander aimlessly as a lost soul for all time. Your choice.”

  “Some choice.” George looked back on his body with longing in his eyes and posture. Then he nodded in quiet acquiescence. Death took George’s elbow and led him out of the crowd.

  Two minutes later, Death blinked his eyes and transported back to the bar. Little Miss Indecision was still dithering, still twisting her rings, occasionally tugging at them. They wouldn’t come off easily. She’d worn them long enough that her finger and knuckle had grown thicker. Death pulled out the appointment book once more. A little book now with only a few names left. The page with George’s name dissolved under his gaze.

  “Who’s next?” he asked the book.

  At year’s beginning the book had been a huge tome that had gradually dissipated to this thin reminder. Not many names left. Not much time before one year faded into the next. Choices and change had to continue. Unless....

  Death ordered a drink. He took a sip, remembering when alcohol tasted good; made him feel good.

  Strange, he wasn’t supposed to remember life, only his duties as Death.

  Time. 11:26. There was something he had to do. The appointment book heated up again. A child dying of cancer. A child ready for the release of pain. Too bad his parents weren’t ready to let him go. They had made all of the child’s decisions for him. This last choice had to be his alone.

  Death walked into Pediatric Intensive Care at Mercy Hospital dressed as a teenage candy-striper, the staff of office now only a small syringe on a tray with a black crystal plunger. The family of the candidate hovered around the bed. Tears and aching hearts filled the room with an aura of misery.