My brothers walk

quickly ahead,

Lavain’s strides thunderous and

harsh. Tirry’s only

slightly softer.

The circle of men

is at least three deep.

An amber halo

encircles the camp,

as the flames from the

central bonfire and

surrounding smaller fires

leap and dance, shining

on the nearby tents.

My stomach begins to

feel strange, as though a

small bird has found its way

inside me,

and flies around,

frightened.

The smell of fetid yeast,

ale, and earth

fills my nostrils, and

the sparrow in my stomach

surges upward.

I swallow her back down.

Stay calm, I warn myself,

and quiet, so no one

will think to send

you back to the tent.

I spot three golden-haired

bears of men beside Arthur,

near the top of the circle.

Gawain and his younger brothers,

Gareth and Gaheris,

stand at Arthur’s right side,

tall and blond, each

with a neck as thick as a

small tree trunk.

And Morgan,

her silhouette unmistakable,

in spite of loose robes,

with her long curly brown hair

flowing to her waist.

She is at Arthur’s

left hand.

And there is Lancelot,

his red tunic glowing

in the firelight,

beside her.

The sparrow quivers.

Perhaps tonight I shall talk

with him, of things that need telling….

Wait.

There he is.

Against the light of the

flames,

he stands,

as though he, too,

were composed of

smoke and air.

A wraith.

But no —

Closer now, Father and I step;

he is solid and covered with flesh.

As we are.

A man.

Grey hair,

matted and wild,

falls to his shoulders.

The eyes of a predator,

an eagle,

surveying a field of mice,

or men.

I can find no kindness

in his eyes.

Two blue stripes

in the fashion of the Picts,

are painted over each cheek.

And he wears a robe

of grey twilight.

He certainly does

look like a wild man.

Could Morgan be wrong about him?

Suddenly an elbow

digs into my side.

Let us sit here, child.

My father motions

to an empty bench.

As I watch Lavain join Arthur

and his knights, I think how remarkable

it is to have watched all these men grow

from boys into men.

And now they lead.

No, you cannot turn back time.

And now Arthur

plans to initiate an attack?

Does this make the men

murderers? I wonder.

My father and brothers

murderers?

Lancelot,

a murderer?

In the name of preservation,

we must defend ourselves,

our people, our land, is how

my father has always explained

away,

brushed aside,

my worries.

But now, his

explaining, his smoothing

away will not work.

The stink of sweat mixes

with that of ale now,

and roasting meat.

There are dozens of

men here, some I do not

recognize from our camp.

Maybe other clans, other armies

have traveled here

to witness this occasion?

I count quickly,

the men number,

it seems,

near three hundred

and sixty in all.

And two women,

myself and Morgan,

of course.

I wonder, how many

have left behind wives and

daughters, to mind the farms

and animals and land?

Not knowing whether

they live or not.

And I am so glad

not to have been

left.

I have only been

to the Round Table four

or five times before.

And then I was

too young to understand

the words and meanings.

When Ambrosius Aurelius lived,

he led small

armies of Briton men

from all over the land.

We, Arthur’s followers,

were just one finger

of Aurelius’s hand.

But now that Arthur

leads in Aurelius’s place,

I wonder what shall

become not only of

us, but of all the armies.

Will they follow Arthur?

Or disband,

as some of Arthur’s

chieftains already have?

Many men around the

circle are

so familiar.

Most of them,

as my brothers are.

Soot traces the

lines and grooves

of all these faces.

Warm spring air provides

nary a breeze.

I can feel the eyes

of some of the men

on me, tracing my shape

beneath my gown.

Lately there is

a change.

Does Lancelot look too?

I wonder.

Secretly, ashamedly,

I hope he does.

No, we cannot go

back.

We cannot turn back

time.

The Merlin steps forward

into the middle of the

circle, in front of Arthur.

He is like a lion.

Tirry passes a plate of

lamb to Father and me.

Britons! the Merlin shouts.

There is the rustle of

settling, then, quiet.

Britons, he repeats,

I, Taliesin, Merlin

of the Celyddon Woode,

stand before you

now, with this sword

that was forged in the fires

of Avalon, the very

beating heart

of Britain,

to proclaim Arthur,

son of the Pendragon,

dux bellorum,

defender of the land,

protector of all of Britain!

His voice booms

like thunder.

The men are rapt,

eyes wide.

Taliesin, the Merlin, is no beast —

such grace and passion form his words.

There could be no

better instrument

with which to fight,

to defend our land,

no better emblem to

stand under, to

follow, than this

sword, Excalibur,

crafted from this earth

in the sacred fires.

He thrusts the sword, point

down, into the ground, and there

is a sharp clanging sound,

as though it has struck

a rock. The sword

stands upright,

waving slightly from

the force of the Merlin’s hand.

And now, Arthur, you will

draw the sword from the womb

of this land,

taking from it

that which shall

protect it.

Arthur comes to kneel

before the Merlin,

who closes his eyes

and places his hand

on Arthur’s forehead,

fingers like a crown.

The Merlin’s lips move,

murmuring the secret oaths

and prayers of the Old Ways.

As Arthur rises to his feet,

he wraps his palm around the

hilt of the magnificent sword,

the rubies and gold of the handle

glittering in the firelight.

Slowly, so slowly, Arthur draws

the sword forth

from the earth, and

I sense

that all the men around

me are holding their breath.

As the sword leaps

free of the soil, the

Merlin stretches out his

hands, and the men

jump to their feet as one,

and hold their own

swords aloft,

blades pointing

toward the sky.

It is as though the heavens

are thundering in answer,

the moonlight washing over

us, painting Arthur and

the Merlin in ghostly silver

light, and I swear that

there is magic at work.

A roar rises from our midst.

Arthorius, the men chant,

calling him by his Roman name,

recalling those days

of glory past,

and Arthur has

never looked so

handsome or strong.

His fingers are pocked

by tiny white scars

I imagine he received in battle.

Fight with me,

beside me,

under the sword

Excalibur.

For Britain, he roars.

For Britain, everyone

echoes.

And my voice joins those of the men.