Excerpted from Waiting
by Vince Adams
Now Available on Amazon Kindle
Lloyd Wyse
“No more stories for today, boys,” said the ageless and stooped figure cloaked in grays and tans. He shifted his weight to his gnarled ash staff as he pulled himself off the barstool at Glastonbury’s George and Pilgrims Inn. The day’s light was fading as Lloyd hoisted the strap of his old leather satchel over his head and dropped it onto his shoulder. A jumble of grey hair, haphazardly parted in the middle, framed his time-worn face. Combed, it might have reached his shoulders, but as was his norm, the hair extended in every direction but down.
“But what became of the bishop’s babies, Mr. Wyse?” the server asked from behind the bar as she scooped up the heavy coins Lloyd left for his beer.
“I’d be more concerned about your own babies, Mary,” his voice a gravelly echo of more tales left untold. The barmaid let out a gasp, then hurried over to the two beer-sloshing, red-faced young men leaning more against each other than the iron and leaded-glass wall on the far side of the room.
Lloyd Wyse shuffled into the fading light of the setting sun. He hitched the strap higher and took stock of the comings and goings of the local citizenry. All was as it should be. Slow and steady, he thought to himself as he turned west on High Street. He relied on his staff for balance and to avoid random puddles in the ancient cobbles. A rumble of thunder behind distant clouds prompted him to glance upwards, where he caught the slow circles of a falcon, silhouetted against the pink and gray sky. With a smile and a wink, he picked up the pace.
Lloyd kept his head down as he walked unnoticed up the busy street. He’d mastered the art of invisibility long ago. Unremarkable browns and grays made up most of his wardrobe. He favored baggy pants, shirts, and jackets with a plethora of deep pockets. Short of a bright red scarf of long-forgotten origin for special occasions, he cloaked himself in the same forgettable ensemble on all his trips to town. His mid-neck beard was, that day, shorter than he liked thanks to an unfortunate stovetop incident involving sausages and distracting thought. It would grow back fast; it always did.
The George and Pilgrim’s was his last stop for the day. No unusual visitors to town, a day like any other day. He’d best get home; a storm was coming.
Arthur Awakens
Arthur! Wake up!”
The command pierced his soul like a flaming arrow. The wizard Myrddin had shouted this at Camlann just before his fight with Mordred. Before I fell…
Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, sat up, eyes snapping open. At least he thought his eyes were open. He could see nothing through the stagnant blackness. He pulled his elbows tight, shrugged his shoulders, and twisted to stretch, welcoming the popping in his back like an old friend. A quieter crackling greeted him as he rolled and twisted his neck to its extremes. Hands flat on the hard surface underneath his legs, he struggled to make some sense of this space. Cool, smooth stone; a slab. Am I dead? Am I a spirit? Unlikely. He rotated his head again, searching for light or a breeze on his face. Nothing. But does a spirit feel the wind? Myrddin would know … Myrddin! He remembered being with the old wizard on a boat going … Morgana! He rode Morgana’s skiff to the island of Avalon. I was wounded. I should be dead, but…
Instinctively, his hands clutched his chest. No pain. Mordred stabbed me here; of that I am sure. He reached for his legs, flexed his feet, and registered the movement. He pulled his knees to his chest. The movement ignited dozens of tiny tears in time-frozen muscles. A clunk below his knees made him start - the sound of metal hitting stone. He reached out to the source of the sound, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword. The coarse leather wrappings of the grip and the cold stone pommel were instantly familiar. It was Excalibur, the ancient ceremonial sword of his father’s family. Myrddin had thrust it into his hands during the battle with Mordred. This sword alone checked Morgana’s attack. Pulling his legs into a crossed position, more to stretch than for comfort, he caressed the blade with his fingertips. “You saved me, old man,” not sure whether he was speaking to the sword or the wizard. Myrddin. He was with me. I remember his face close to mine, telling me to sleep.
The old sword brought him comfort and clarity. Before this, before the blackness, his army had fought Mordred on the plains below Camelot, in full view of his home. Guinevere! If his army had lost the battle, surely Mordred’s forces would have taken the castle. No… No… think! What happened? Resting the sword on his lap, he bowed his head into his hands. What magic does this place hold? Morgana’s sorcery on the fields of Camlann came back to him vividly. What had she done?
​
Meghan
Open the door, young one.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Of its own will, her finger squeezed. The metallic clank of the mechanism startled but didn’t deter her. Her grip tightened, and she pulled. The door resisted. Of course it did … it was an old door, a heavy door, an important and substantial gateway.
Consequences are for losers, little sister.
She gripped the ancient iron with both hands, set her feet, and yanked with all she had left. The hinges released from their teasing resistance with a snap, and the door swung towards her. Stepping back, she took in the portal, mesmerized by the emptiness. In that moment, she thought the vacuum of space couldn’t vie with the blackness that confronted her.
The physical clunk of the door hitting its stop broke her trance. The light in the church had changed. She looked back at the windows. The ghostly glow from outside sources was gone, but the flickering flames within the church were more pronounced. She scanned the room. Unblinkingly, unbelievingly, she saw substantial sputtering torches where the candles had been.
Panic was rising. She smashed her palms into her eyes. Think! Why was she still standing here? Her hands drifted from her face. Eyes wide and mouth agape, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Before her, two hooded figures leaned across a table where there should have been pews. A trio of candles illuminated lined faces, their cold eyes fixed on her. These specters - women, she realized, glowering with thin lips pressed together - didn’t mirror her look of surprise. Gaunt, stained faces, accentuated by the yellow candlelight, drew into tight lines of malevolence. Towards me?
She snapped her head back to the right and tried to re-establish normalcy - but nothing was normal any longer. Where the pulpit had been just moments before, a hunched, grizzled old man with a patchy beard and a pointed leather cap sat on a short stool. This troll of a man was bent over a half-barrel tub, scrubbing an animal carcass covered in - what are those, maggots? He was watching her as well, but instead of hate, she saw lust, hunger. His smile triggered shaking; vertigo distorted her vision.
Meghan’s hand shot out to the door frame for stability and reassurance. Why aren’t I running?
Nothing made sense. It couldn’t be a dream, but it felt like a nightmare. She straightened up, hands dropping to her side, and turned to face the portal. It was no longer empty. Staring back across the threshold were two pinpoints of black despair, somehow darker than the void. They reflected her fear, her insecurities, things she’d buried so deep even she’d forgotten. Frozen in place, she watched as the spots grew. They filled and then consumed the doorway.
Images of plague, death, and rage flooded her mind. She felt the last shred of sanity draining into this void, and she had no power to stop it.
Then, she lost her will to try.
At that moment, the abyss contracted back to points, then to eyes, the face of a woman. She was tall and timeless. Beautiful, Meghan thought, draped in layers of dark, shapeless fabric, a hood concealing most of her head. From this specter, a thin white hand floated up to touch her cheek.
Through blood-red lips on an otherwise colorless face, the woman said, “Welcome, little sister. Now we can begin.”
Meghan’s world spiraled as she dropped to the floor at the feet of this apparition, asleep yet aware.