Page 19 of The Quest for Excalibur
Merlin’s clever eyes stared back at me.
“Nimuë.” Her name came on a breath, as though I’d known it all my life. I had.
Pale face, porcelain skin, small bare feet, long-fingered hands resting on knees covered by a simple shift. So much in her of Merlin, so little of her mother.
She glanced over her shoulder as though fearing someone might overhear, then leaned toward me. “Do not believe your dreams,” she whispered, her voice low and melodic. “You are the Ring Maiden. You must take him to the sword and fulfill the prophecy.” She pointed. “Set Excalibur in his hands.”
Entranced, I followed her finger. The ethereal shape rising from the depths had drawn closer. The water rippled. The shining tip of a sword broke the surface, rising out of the darkness. Higher, higher, until the hand that held it emerged as well, water running off in rivulets. Right beside my boat.
Unsure what to do, I turned back to Nimuë.
The front of the little boat was empty.
Beside me, within touching distance, the sword glimmered like a fairy blade, drinking all the misty light, soaking it up, until all else was darkness. I reached out my hand and took it.
*
“Gwen? Gwen?” Avoice I ought to know.
I opened sticky eyes a crack. “Arthur?”
A fuzzy shape filled my vision. I blinked and another shape replaced it. “Gwen? Miss Fry?” A different voice.
“The sword,” I mumbled, my mouth parchment dry.
“What’s she talking about?”
“She’s confused.”
I tried to wet my papery lips but failed. “Water…”
Flashing lights. Blurry flashing lights. And pain.
“Don’t knock her. Be careful.”
Bumping. Was I being carried? On some kind of stretcher?
“D’you want to come with her?”
“Yes.”
“In you get then.”
Bang. I screwed my eyes shut.
“Let’s give her some intravenous paracetamol.”
Paracetamol?
Distant rumbling. Movement. Bouncing. Smooth again. My fingers clutched the softness of a blanket.
A siren.
What?
“Here, sip this.” Someone gently pushed a straw into my mouth, and I sucked water, cool and refreshing, lubricating the dryness.
I spat the straw out. “Arthur?” My voice sounded croaky and wrong.
