Melvin made sure all of his five tourists were present and standing by. The last time he had lost the lady from Durham who had wandered into the loos and had missed the talk at that very point, and she had complained. This was the bit that everyone came for!
Everyone was here. He launched himself into the usual King Arthur and Guinevere speech: "And here, ladies and gentlemen, you can see what was once the resting place of King Arthur and Queen Gwenivere...well at least, according to the monks who claimed to have found this at the start of the 12th century..." he gestured towards site. The outline of the grave site was marked by a black cross with a plaque describing how the Monks had found the remains after a fire had destroyed most of the Abbey in 1191.
The short plump woman wearing a red riding coat and red- rimmed glasses put up her hand.
"Are you contending, sir, that this is not the burial place of Arthur and Guinevere?"
Mel smiled patiently "I am merely pointing out that the Monks claimed to have found this grave with two skeletons inside after a fire had ravaged the Abbey, but that no remains were ever located - or if they were, we don't know where they are" he shrugged. "Scholars agree that the monks probably tried to exploit a legend to attract funds to restore the Abbey. And the publicity after the claim certainly attracted pilgrims and tourists as well as wealthy sponsors... it all helped to rebuild the site!"
The woman's companion, who was tall and thin and bold on top of his head, with a long mane of sparse greasy looking hair hanging from half way down his pate, harrumphed in mock triumph. "So, you will agree, Sir, that Arthur and Gwenivere's bodies are nowhere to be found... is this so?"
Mel widened his condescending smile. "Arthur and Gwenivere are legendary figures, sir, and there are many versions of these legends. One of them, the most... well, esoteric if you wish, is that Arthur, having been mortally wounded, was brought to Avalon to rest until the land would need him to take up arms and rise again ... to defend the realm! So technically, he would not be dead... he would be sleeping somewhere in the Summerland, ready to awaken and walk the Earth again...." Mel gave his most dramatic flourish and dazzling grin.
"But is that what YOU believe, Sir?" insisted the plump lady. Mel sighed. Another deluded self-styled historical mystery detective believing they were going to discover King Arthur's secret.
This type always believed they were about to make the greatest historical discovery since the Rosetta Stone just because they had visited the empty grave at Glastonbury Abbey. The truth was, the grave was a clever hoax devised by cash-strapped monks in the 12th century. And it still worked, thank goodness. Tourists still flocked to Glastonbury. The truth, however, as Melvin knew only too well, was far more complex.
He cleared his throat. "Sir, I said they are legendary figures, and, as such, they would not be anywhere because .... Well, they are a legend."
The two made Mel uncomfortable. He was pretty certain they were the sort who believe that King Arthur is still alive and about to step out of the mists of Avalon clutching Excalibur at any moment, but that the government and the United Nations are keeping it a secret because it would stop alien lizards taking over the world and then everyone would realize that the Earth is flat. Or something like that. There were always those who joined his tour because they actually believed Arthur was alive. This was Glastonbury after all - the town was full of esoteric shops selling anything from yoga pants to witches and wizards' paraphernalia, magical attire such as goblets, cloaks, brooms, tarot cards, plus books about spells, crystal and wands. Just to mention some of the items. Built on leylines, Glastonbury was the home of the Tor, one of the most intriguing Pagan landmarks alongside Stonehenge, Avebury, and the Huffington Horse. It had been dubbed the esoteric capital of England. A town steeped in myth and magic, so a bit of mystical legend was necessary for business and the reason visitors came. But those two were especially keen. And creepy. And, what's more, certain things were meant to stay hidden.
"Some secrets are best left to the Mists of Avalon!" Melvin waved his arm in the air in front of him again, in another grand gesture. It was the end of the tour, and he could murder a pint of cider. And a pie. He waited for his charges to take some photographs, then he turned to the rest of the group and put on his best and loudest solemn mysterious Glastonbury tour guide voice : "If you are drawn to the Arthurian mystery and the Abbey, ladies and gentleman, I suggest that you visit the shop at the end of the grounds. They have an excellent selection of books about the history and mythology of Glastonbury and the site. There are also two well stocked bookshops on the high street, as you leave the Abbey. " Melvin gave the group the farewell speech. He thanked them for visiting Glastonbury Abbey, hoped they enjoyed their tour, asked them to come again, etc etc. He proceeded to guide them to the café and shop, stopped outside the entrance, and tipped his wide brimmed hat. The tourists scattered, some milling about back in the grounds, some headed towards the café and the shop. The annoying pair were nowhere to be seen. Evidently, they had wandered off searching for King Arthur clues. Or to the loos. Or both.
Mel exited the Abbey grounds, and stepped onto Magdalene street. It was a lovely warm afternoon, the sun blazed high in the sky. He crossed the road. He could not wait to sit in the garden of the King Arthur Inn.
#
He entered the dark, dank bar area. It smelled of beer and sweat but it was cool and oddly comforting. It was almost empty. On the other side of the saloon, by the garden door, two long-haired, bearded men drank beer and played chess, watched by another sporting a green Mohican, torn jeans and wellies. A huge, silver-grey coloured dog lay on the floor beside him. A woman snoozed in the corner by the fireplace on the right. She was drunk already, by the looks of it. Her head lolled forward, and a purple dreadlock hung over her face. She snored very lightly, like a gentle breeze, and dribbled a little. He rolled his eyes. Behind the bar, a middle-aged woman, immaculately dressed, her hair a cloud of silver-white curls, her eyes a piercing blue, greeted him with a smile. "Afternoon Mel. Usual?"
"Yes please Marge".
The woman nodded approvingly, her smile just marginally wider, and proceeded to pull a pint of Scrumpy. With her mature, pristine and dignified appearance, Marge was the exact opposite of the drunken woman by the fireplace.
The latter shifted and snored a bit louder. She was quite young, and not bad looking, but very unkempt and rather smelly. She had tawny skin and her long hair was matted and dyed many different colours. Her attire, like her hairstyle, was flamboyant, a mixture of hippy and medieval. Her mishmash of an outfit looked like it had been put together from items from the sale rails at different charity shops. She wore a long multicoloured flamingo-patterned skirt, and a green faux fur waistcoat slung over a filthy, once-white PVC vest. The garments looked well-worn and in need of a good wash, like their owner. Her arms and neck were adorned with cheap costume jewellery, plastic beads and pieces of wood hung on woollen string. There were bits of dirt and dried grass and leaves stuck in her hair and in the folds of her skirts, indicating that she may have been sleeping rough or at the very least spending time sitting or lying on the ground. Her nails were ingrained with dirt.
"She is getting more noisy, don't you think?" Melvin muttered.
"She is just resting, Mel. She has a lot to deal with." Marge spoke in a mild, matter of fact way. She was still smiling. Marge wore her kindly, reassuring smile most of the time. She was a sunbeam. She hardly ever got fazed or cross. She was an oasis of calm and safety. If ever Marge's smiled faded, even slightly, one knew that matters had to be pretty serious.
Melvin made his way to the bar, sat on a stool and sipped his cider. He closed his eyes. A magical nectar indeed!
He heard the door open again, and footsteps. Someone spoke behind him.
"Greetings, Mel, Sir." that voice! It grated so much. He did not turn around but he knew who it was.
"Nice, quaint little pub. What do you recommend, sir?" The plump lady in the red coat asked in an oily tone as she stood next to him. He still did not turn to look at her, but just stared ahead and grimaced. Marge stepped forward wearing her kindly smile.
"We do a nice scrumpy, it is brewed locally. Would you like to try some?"
The tall skinny man answered before his companion had the chance.
"Yes please." Marge poured them both small measures in half pint glasses. The man guzzled it down eagerly. He smiled. "Lovely, I would like a pint"
Marge nodded gracefully and obliged. "And for you, ma'am?" The woman in red scowled. She sipped the drink reluctantly.
"Yes, not bad, I will take a half, thank you."
Marge continued to smile as she pulled the drinks.
"It is a lovely one. It is called Morgana's Draught."
The other woman shot her a glare, but it was met by Marge's piercing blue gaze like a steely shield, and she was forced to look away.
"Interesting name" was all she managed to say.
Marge placed the drinks in front of them. She kept her eyes fixed on them the entire time. And although her mouth was set in her amiable expression, the smile stopped above her lips.
The youngster in the corner stirred, snored and shifted onto her side. The two visitors looked at her, and the woman in red wrinkled her nose.
They went and sat down at a table further down the pub, still shooting glances at Melvin at the bar, and muttering inaudibly to each other. Eventually he looked back at them. It was impossible to ignore their burning stares.
"You seem like you might have some further questions to ask me, perhaps?" Asked Melvin, as politely as he could.
The other man beckoned to him. He gestured to Marge and asked her to pour another pint for Melvin. He protested, but the skinny man smiled endearingly.
"Please let us buy you a drink, we realize we have really taken advantage of your professional skills and kindness. You see, we are both history lecturers at Bristol University. My name is Professor Dormer and my colleague Professor Moragues here is just very very keen on British myths and history and in particular on Arthurian legend. She is researching the death of King Arthur. She does get slightly... well, excited by it all. " He bared his teeth with an oily smile. Marge knew that Mel could not resist the prospect of a free pint. He went and sat with the pair. She took the drink to their table.
The woman now spoke, keeping her chin up and her eyes on Mel in a sidelong glance as she did so "The focus of my research is the legend that Arthur and Guinevere are still alive and well and slumbering somewhere in Glastonbury. What do you think about this myth?" Melvin turned and looked at Marge. She placed the drink in front of him and smirked. If they could have a penny for each time someone had asked them that question!
"And what is the purpose of this research?" Asked Melvin, his eyes narrow.
"A book. An exploration of British myths and legends. Aimed at visitors who enjoy the traditional stories of Old England" replied the woman in red, quickly.
Mel nodded. "I see.. of course. The American tourist market is very lucrative. They all think we live in castles and that royalty and old ghosts walk amongst us." he chuckled at his own joke. Marge, from behind the bar, noticed that both their faces seemed to stiffen slightly at this. Melvin looked around at his companions "But of course I do not mind answering your questions".
The guide raised his pint and gestured towards theirs. They lifted their glasses in response and clinked them as Mel spoke :
"The myth is what keeps a certain kind of tourist coming to Glastonbury, for sure!" He paused and sipped the cider. "You must drink immediately after a toast before putting your glass down, by the way. It is an Arthurian custom!" He urged his companions, and winked. The skinny man and plump woman grimaced politely, paused their glasses in mid air and took a swig of their drinks. "While it is of course preposterous to contend that someone might be alive after a thousand years or so, the myth of Arhtur's and Guinevere's immortality is a metaphor for the human need for a saviour - the ultimate, perfect ruler and power couple who will rescue the land in our hour of need. It is something designed to give us hope. The ultimate superhero! Let us not forget, lady and gentleman, that Arthur is a figure of legend, not a real King. A mythical figure. "
Professor Moragues looked unimpressed.
"And who would be responsible for such a myth? Where would it come from? Who invented this mythical figure and why?" She asked, almost aggressively, taking another sip of her drink.
Marge answered this time: "Perhaps there was someone like Arthur once, or someone with Arthur's qualities was needed at some point, and over the years people made up this imaginary ideal person... Perhaps there were lots of different heroes over the decades and centuries, and it all became rolled into one figure... I mean, heroes come in all shapes and sizes."
Melvin nodded "It would explain why the grave was empty. There was never one Arthur or one Guinevere."
He gave his companions a sidelong look. They, however, appeared to have lost interest. There was a distant, vacant look in their eyes, almost as if they were going to drift off.
"It's been a long day" drawled the plump woman in red. Her tone was much softer and more relaxed.
"It certainly has" answered the skinny man, absent-mindedly. His eyes were fixed on a point just above Marge's head. Melvin gave Marge a knowing look, then they heard a loud sneeze.
The young woman at the other end of the pub had woken herself up and staggered up to the bar, and, seeing that there was nobody there, had walked around to where they were all sitting. She looked blearily at the Professors' and Melvin's table. Her gaze fixed on the two visitors, first on the woman, then it settled on Professor Dormer, and her huge hazel eyes widened with regained focus and awareness, as if she had suddenly awakened from a long slumber. She straightened her back, and her facial expression changed from slack drunken haze to full, lucid alert. Her muscles tightened and her jaw set. She strode towards their table, her left hand reaching towards her hip.
Marge clocked her, and moved swiftly across the bar. "Mel" she whispered urgently. Her amiable smile had gone.
Her friend turned towards the bar and the advancing woman. The two professors now sat motionless, with fixed, unseeing eyes.
The young hippy was next to them. A flash of steel, and, from the folds of her bright, flamingo patterned skirt, she pulled a sharp, enormous sword which glinted under the chintzy lampshades of the King Arthur Inn. She brandished the sword straight up with just one hand, arm outstretched, her body still and strong like a statue, locks flying wildly about her head, all signs of inebriation disappeared. In place of the wasted, drunken snoring crustie stood a fearsome shield maiden and warrior with the head of Medusa and eyes of blazing, molten amber.
"Mordred... Morgause" She hissed through clenched teeth "How dare you show your faces here!" She spat in incredulous fury.
"Artie! Milady!" Marge moved swiftly between the dreadlocked avenger and the hypnotized figures sat next to Mel. The young woman did not move her eyes from the two, but spoke to Marge "Pray tell Lady of Avalon, why I should stay Excalibur and spare these two miserable lives. Give me just one reason. Traitors. They mortally wounded me, and caused my banishment here."
"Yes well but Merlin and I saved you, we took you on the barge, and one of the conditions for your immortality is that you keep things quiet.. until you are really needed. You aren't needed yet. Nobody knows you are here, or who you are. If they find out who you are ahead of time, you will lose your immortality. You know this" Marge spoke patiently and kindly, in her charming auntie manner.
"These traitors have found me." Artie's eyes widened, but she never took them off her targets.
Melvin shook his head "They haven't, your Majesty. They are just tourists. Well.. they will be after they wake up from Morgana's Draught, guaranteed to wipe your memory of all previous lifetimes. As well as the last 45 minutes of this present one." He glanced up at Marge and winked. The two figures sat motionless in front of their drinks, their unseeing eyes still fixed on a point above Artie's head.
Marge took their glasses and poured out what was left of the drink, then put them back on the table, empty.
"Here Marge, can we get another round in?" called out a male voice in a broad West Country accent.
Marge could not see who it was where she was standing, but she knew all her regulars. "Won't be a moment, my dear" she responded, then moved her face close to Artie's ear and lowered her voice to a commanding whisper: "They will not remember anything about the real reason for their coming here., or who they really are. They will just know that they are two ageing University lecturers who visited Glastonbury Abbey, they have finished their pints and now they are about to get on the 6 o'clock bus back to Bristol. You, on the other hand, must not blow your cover. Once discovered, you cannot hide again. But the time is not right for you to reveal yourself. It would be all wrong. It would cause mayhem in divine timing." Artie did not move, but flashed Marge a very brief sidelong look through her knotted purple dreadlocks. Marge's face and voice hardened, her usual serene demeanour giving way to hardly contained wrath. She spat the words out like shards of glass:" Put that accursed sword away before someone calls the police, and the time and space continuum is rent beyond repair. Do you want us all to disappear in a giant sink hole? Be turned to ash by a dragon from another dimension? Shatter in an apocalyptic quantum storm? Pull yourself together, your Majesty! Common anger doesn't become you. You are not a drunken peasant. You are Artana, the She-Bear, Once and Future Queen!"
A bead of sweat tricked down Artie's temple. She swallowed hard. "Give me your word that the potion will silence these felons, Sorceress." She hissed.
Marge straightened her back "You have the word of Morgana, Lady of Avalon, and your mother. You know I cannot lie to you Artie, or I will lose my magick."
Artie sighed, then shut her eyes and slowly lowered the sword. She opened her eyes again, looked from Mel to the two motionless figures to Marge and back, and sheathed the weapon back through the folds of her technicolour skirt. It seemed to disappear beneath them.
"Oi, Marge, shall I help meself then?" The male voice called out again from the front of the bar. There was some laughter and a dog barked.
Mel stood up, stood in front of Artie, and waved his arm above his head in an arch, as if to swat a fly. "Forgive me, Milady" he muttered. Her eyes rolled back inside her head and she swayed slightly, but did not fall immediately. Her body went limp, arms hung by her side, and slowly her legs began to buckle. Marge made as if to move forward to stop her from crashing to the floor, when a figure darted between them and two strong, muscly tattoed arms caught the floppy mass of long skirts, tassels, dreadlocks and beads. The young man in the green Mohican and the check shirt, stood holding the bundle that was Artie, a broad grin on his sun-baked face "I was wondering what all the commotion was. Marge, has she had too much to drink again?"
Behind him appeared the huge silver dog, panting a little and wagging his tail. He was probably a mix of German Shepherd and Huski, He had odd eyes, one blue and one brown. It was a beautiful creature.
"Yes, dear, she rather has. Would you mind just carrying her to her usual spot, by the fireplace please? Thank you dear." Marge's reassuring, charming, calm smile had returned. The young lad obliged. He looked only about 20.
"That was a close call" whispered Melvin when the young man was out of earshot. Marge nodded "Indeed. Dormer and Moragues my foot- Mordred and Morgause! " She snorted.
"Not very original either" Agreed Melvin. "Well done with the Draught, Marge"
She nodded "Well done with the quick spell to put Artie back to sleep, Mel.. "
Melvin sighed.
"At least we know the protection spell we cast worked on her - it must have been what woke her up!"
The young lad in the Mohican went back to the saloon area and placed the bundle of rags back on the battered sofa between the fireplace and the door, delicately, as if she was made of glass.
His drinking buddies who were sat two tables away looked towards him and pulled faces. They worked together at Vikram's Nirvana Clothing around the corner, and often came for a pint after work. "I don't know how you can stand touching her and being that close, Lance. I feel like gagging even from here. She stinks. She snores. She even farts sometimes!" Said one.
He looked down at the sleeping figure, a gentle, caring expression on his farmer's ruddy face.
"Dunno guys, I think she's ok. She seems quite endearing. I just have a soft spot for her. I think she needs looking after." They rolled her eyes, two of them laughed, the third guy shook his head and shrugged under his long hair and beard.
As he sat next to the sleeping bundle by the fireplace, a tall, gaunt, skinny man and a short, plump woman dressed in red walked past them, in a slight daze, bid them good afternoon, and headed outside.
"Must be that kind of evening! It's Friday after all." He laughed his deep, infectious laugh and turned to face Marge behind the bar. She grinned back at him.
"Let me offer you a drink on the house. To thank you for saving poor Artie from falling and cracking her head open. I have a special mead that I only keep for special occasions. And a special glass." She winked. "And of course some water for lovely Gringolet." The dog heard his name and wagged his tail again. The woman handed a big metal bowl full of water to the young lad. He placed it on the floor for his dog.
Marge took a bottle from under the counter and poured a generous measure. When she gave him the drink, he noticed the glass: a large goblet made of thick, rough blue glass, dotted with faded silver stars, as if it had been blown and painted by hand. He held it up to the light, and turned it in his hand. "That is quite fancy" said the young man, impressed.
Marge nodded and spoke in a conspiratorial tone: "A special treat. I only use it for special customers on special occasions. And I feel that this evening is one of those. I feel like anything could happen."
He laughed again "Looks like I'm drinking out of the Holy Grail. Who knew you had it hidden under the bar there, Marge?"
Marge and Melvin exchanged conspiratorial glances. Their smiles broadened.
"Who knew indeed, Lance. But then again, we are in Glastonbury. Anything is possible." Said the older man.
Lance examined the unusual vessel again and grinned before he took a sip and sat down by the fireplace near the sleeping figure, loyal Gringolet curled at his feet. Together, they looked as if they were guarding her.
Anything was possible in Glastonbury. And the night was young. Who knew what could happen?