In a medieval town centre in the heart of Olde England, a couple of burly young men have just taken their turn in trying to pull a huge, ornate sword from a stone, to no avail. Next in line is a bent old man, using a tree branch to support himself as he shuffles slowly forward. Behind him in the queue, a teenage boy stamps his foot and huffs; next to him, Merlin, an old, wise wizard says:
“You must learn patience, Arthur. Fear not: it is your destiny; only you can claim the sword and then the throne of all England.”
“Where’s that potion you were brewing?” The youth turned to face the old man, his arms folded.
“What potion?” asked Merlin, cagily.
“The purple one in the titchy green bottle.” Arthur’s voice rose an octave.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Unfortunately, it’s impossible for a knowledgeable man of that age to feign innocence.
“I knew this would happen!”
“Knew what …”
“Oh, don’t give me that, you old fraud. You’re gonna take it yourself, aren’t you? No intention of letting me pull that stupid thing out from there.”
“You’re being ridiculous. I promised your father …”
“Pfffft!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gimme the potion …”
A scuffle ensues, Arthur succeeds in knocking the wizard to the ground and sits on him, while searching through the many deep pockets in Merlin’s robes, pulling coloured scarves from one and releasing a white dove from another.
The old man finally reaches the stone. He looks quizzically at the ground around it and stoops to retrieve something he sees there. With a surreptitious glance towards the two fellows arguing behind him, he fumbles with a small, green bottle before finally loosing the stopper. He holds it shakily to his lips and allows a few purplish drops to splash onto his tongue, which erupts into fizzy white froth. He staggers momentarily. Then he throws aside his tree branch. Grasping the sword with both hands, he pulls it cleanly from the stone, its blade long and carved with runes. The assembled gathering clap and cheer - and drop to their knees reverentially. Merlin and Arthur stop struggling to stare in astonishment.
The old man tries the sword out for size - it’s almost at tall as he - sparring an imaginary enemy, before he turns to accept the crowds’ adulation and cries of ‘Your Majesty!’ Then he fits the hilt snugly under one arm as a crutch, and uses it to limp away a helluva lot quicker than he arrived.
“That was your fault, you imbecile.“ snarls Merlin and waves his hand in a complex sigil.
“Baa!” said Arthur.
2 comments:
Hi Jaye - thanks for leaving a message on my blog about my story. I liked this piece of yours too. Have finished a draft of the story now, in case you want to read the whole thing - Edinho :)
I'd love to, thanks Edinho.
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