Over the course of the next few days while he healed from his attack, Thom had stayed in the fabled isle of Avalon and listened to Merlin’s stories of Arthur and his knights.
But more than that, he’d seen them. At least those who still lived. There for a week, he’d walked amongst the legends and shaken the hands of fables. He’d learned that Merlin was only one of her kind. Others like her had been sent out into the world of man to be hidden from Morgan who wanted to use those Merlins, and the sacred objects they protected, for evil.
It was a frightening battle they waged. One that held no regard for time or beings. And in the end, the very fate of the world rested in the hands of the victor.
“I wish to be one of you,” Thom had finally confessed to Merlin on the evening of his eighth day. “I want to help save the world.”
Her eyes had turned dull. “That isn’t your destiny, Thom. You must return to the world of man and be as you were.”
She made that sound simple enough, but he wasn’t the same man who had come to Avalon. His time here had changed him. “How can I ever be as I was now that I know the truth?”
She’d stepped away from him. “You will be as you were, Thom ... I promise.”
And then everything had gone blurry. His eyesight had failed until he found himself encased in darkness.
Thom awakened the next morning to find himself back in England, in his own house . . . his own bed.
He’d tried desperately to return to Avalon, only to have everyone tell him that’d he’d dreamed it all.
“You’ve been here the whole time,” his housekeeper had sworn.
But he hadn’t believed it. How could he? This wasn’t some illness that had befallen him. It wasn’t.
It was real (another four-letter word that often led men to disaster).
Eventually Thom had convinced himself that they were right and he’d dreamed it all. The land of Merlins had only existed in his mind. Where else could it have been?
And so he’d returned to his old ways. He’d gambled, he’d fought, he’d wenched, and most of all he’d drunk and drunk and drunk.
Until that night.
It was a night (another noun that was five letters in English and four in French. There were times when the French were greatly astute). Thom had wandered off to his favourite tavern that was filled with many of his less than proper friends. As the night passed, and they’d fallen deep into their cups, Geoffrey or maybe it’d been Henry or Richard had begun to place a wager.
He who told the best tale would win a purse of coin (note the four letters here).
No one knew how much coin was in the purse because they were all too drunk to care. Instead they had begun with their stories before a small group of wenches who were their judges. Thorn, too drunk to notice that a man had drawn near their table, had fondled his wench while the others went on before him.
“That’s all well and nice,” he’d said as Richard finished up some retelling of one of Chaucer’s tales (the man was far from original). “But I, Thomas Malory . . . Sir Thomas Malory can beat you all.”
“Of course you can, Thorn,” Geoffrey had said with a laugh and a belch. “You always think you can.”
“No, no, there is no think . . .I’m too drunk for that. This is all about doing.” He’d held his cup out to be refilled before he’d started the story. At first he’d meant to tell the story of a farming mishap his father had told him of, but before he could think better of it (drinking usually had this effect), out had come the whole matter of the King Arthur that Merlin had told him about.
Or at least some of it. Being Thom, who liked to embellish all truth, he’d taken some liberties. He’d changed a few things, but basically he’d kept to the story. After all, what harm could come of it? He’d dreamed it all anyway, and it was an interesting tale.
And the next thing he’d known, he’d won that wager and taken home a purse which later proved to only contain two rocks and some lint. A paltry prize indeed.
Then, before he’d even known what had happened, pe
ople had starting coming up to him and speaking of a book he’d written. Thom, not being a fool to let such fame bypass him, had played along at first. Until he’d seen the book himself. There it was, in all its beautiful glory. His name.
No man had ever destroyed his life more quickly than Thom did the instant that book became commonly available.
One instant he’d been in his own bed and the next he’d been in a small, tiny, infinitesimal cell with an angry blonde angel glaring at him.
“Do I know you?” he’d asked her.
She’d glared at him. Out of nowhere, the book had appeared. “How could you do this?”