Lost in Camelot

One

You know you lost your mind when it's past midnight, you're hiding in your father's study, and arguing with an inanimate drawing. The woman with white hair and pale skin lifts a shiny sword above her head and watches me from her spot on the desk, as I throw down another book in frustration. I return her stare and whisper, "Stop judging me." She's been my company for the last two months, as I rummaged through drawers, cabinets, and books. A cheery samba tune travels from the bar at the end of the street, the familiar sound of a typical Friday night in Rio—the liveliest city in all of Brazil. I shut the window, blocking the sound so I can focus on my research instead.

I sit in my dad's chair, resting my back against the worn-out leather and pull out the chain around my neck. The peculiar key he gave me the day he died dangles from it. My vision blurs as I attempt to read for the hundredth time the strange words inscribed in tiny, curvy letters on the golden key. The clock on the wall strikes one in the morning. It reminds me that in a few hours, I'll be embarking on a trip to Wales to see a special exhibit I've been begging my family to take me for the last two years.

But before I go, I need to understand the key's meaning. There are thirty locked wooden cabinets in this room. And a different key opens each cabinet. Since I was five, every year for my birthday he gave me one key, which opened one cabinet with a hidden birthday present. I stand up, determined to open one of them with the last key he gave me. I ignore the sixteen opened cabinets from my past birthdays. Even though I've already tried before, I push the key through each one of the ones left. But again, nothing opens. I grunt and shake the one I just tried. The keyhole is scratched from all of my previous attempts.

Dad, this isn't funny anymore.

My newfound mythical friend, The Lady of the Lake, stares at me from the desk. I grab her drawing and say, "You probably would know what this writing means, right?" I lift the key to her eyes and wait a few beats. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for.

The writing on the key is foreign, a mix of Celtic with something else. Dad always loved his mysteries, so I started reading his research looking for a clue to the key's inscription. I was able to translate one word only—time. But it still means nothing to me. I just want to find my last hidden birthday present. I need this remaining piece of him.

I plop myself on the chair, ignoring the tight feeling in my stomach, and grab the closest notebook, reading the last lines he wrote.

Whether the Lady of the Lake existed or not, the modern world benefited from imagining her. Once she lives in our collective unconscious, she is more real than many of us.

I contemplate her image again, her ethereal gaze, lips raised in a gentle smile. As I analyze the details in the drawing, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I instantly regret ever watching Paranormal Activity. I feel as if I'm being watched. I search the room, but I'm alone. Mom and my sister are both asleep.

My skin tingles, but I shudder at the feeling and return my attention to the drawing. The second I look at her, she blinks and a woman's voice, close to my ear, whispers, "Olivia."

I gasp, dropping the drawing as if it's contagious. After my heart stops drumming in my ears, I look down again, but her face is unmoving as before. The door creaks, and I jump, swallowing a scream as I realize that Ana, my little sister, opened it. She enters with heavy lids, yawning when she sees me.

"Olivia?" she whispers.

"What are you doing up?" I ask.

She stops, her eyes scanning the room, but she doesn't go any further. Ana avoids entering Dad's study. Mom hasn't been here since the funeral either. "I went to your room, but you weren't there."

"Did you have a nightmare again?" I ask, pushing the notebook away and walking up to her. Beads of sweat shine on her forehead. She nods. "Come sleep with me," I say.

She takes my hand, and I lead us out of the study and into my room next door. I tuck her in my bed, wrapping her with the duvet cover like a cocoon. Moonlight pools in through the open curtains. A soft breeze fills the room with sea mist. She turns to watch me, her soft face glowing with a bluish light.

"Want to talk about the nightmare?" I ask.

She purses her lips. "Not really."

"You know what Dad used to tell me when I had nightmares?" She shifts her body toward me, leaning closer. "He used to say, 'Filha, whenever a monster comes after you, you just raise your Excalibur and slice them in two."

"He did not!" She raises her voice a pitch higher.

I put my hand over her mouth. "Quiet or you'll wake Mom. I'm telling you the truth."

"Did it work?" she whispers, her eyes widen with childish curiosity.

"After a while when I learned I was in control of my nightmares. And anytime they got too scary, a sword would materialize, and I would slice up the beasts like there was no tomorrow."

She chews the inside of her lip, lost in thought. "Will you tell me a King Arthur story?" She looks down, and when her eyes meet mine, they're wet. "The way you tell stories reminds me of Dad," she murmurs.

My throat thickens, feeling guilty that I had more time with him than she ever will. I swallow the feeling and start, "Once upon a time there was a King, Uther Pendragon, who was about to have a son. The Kingdom of Camelot was a powerful one, the greatest of the vast land of Albion. But greatness also came with a lot of enemies..." She smiles distractedly as her eyelids droop.

After each line, the sleep takes her away from me more and more, until she is breathing deep and resonant.

When I'm sure she's out, I start checking if I packed everything I need. Until Ana starts quivering, moaning words I can't understand. I stroke her shoulder, trying to calm her, but she is still dreaming. Her eyebrows furrow, forming two sharp lines in the middle of her forehead.

"Peanut, you're safe," I whisper, trying to wake her gently.

She thrashes, before jolting upright and opening her eyes, swallowing deep gulps of air. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and she turns to me wide eyed.

"Honey, it was just a dream," I tell her, caressing her long hair.

"But it felt so...real." She rests her forehead on her palm. "I could hear and taste and feel everything."

"Want to tell me what you saw? Maybe I can help you realize it's nothing to be afraid of."

She shakes her head no, and I pull her in an embrace.

Drawing a hollow breath, she says, "I don't know what I would do if..,if I ever los—"

I hug her tight, stopping her before she can finish her thought. "Don't even think about it. I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, for good, okay?"

I wipe her tears with the sleeve of my pajama and give her a small smile.

"You promise?" She asks.

"Pinky promise."

I fondle her hair until she falls back into sleep again. When I'm sure she's out, I get up and turn on my computer. The Oxford application I filled with Dad four months ago greets me when the screen lights up. My fingers hover hesitantly above the keypad. I won't leave you, peanut. You can count on that. I drag the file to the trash and shut my computer off.