The
Return of Excalibur
Flash Fiction Story
by Sarah Das Gupta
Long ago far in the west was a mighty King, Arthur Pendragon who carried the great sword, Excalibur and the magic scabbard which protected the wearer from wounds. He gathered round him a group of knights who were the flower of chivalry and who sat at a round table so all were of equal status. All took a solemn oath to take part in knightly quests and oppose the power of evil. Yet it is hard to maintain this sense of humility among men trained from boyhood to compete in jousting, sword play and battle. Gradually the Round Table became divided by feuds, competition and jealousy. The company of knights was slowly divided into opposing factions and rival groups.
Rebellion eventually broke out, led by Mordred, with his rabble of treacherous followers. The two sides, finally faced each other in the last great Battle of the West. All day the noise and clamour of battle continued. Cavalry charges swept over the battle field like giant waves breaking on a rocky shore. Men fought in single combat, great battle axes falling on helmets and battered shields. The drums of war echoed and re-echoed among the mountains by a cold, grey sea. The field ran with the blood of the slain and a bitter wind blew from the east.
Near the end of the day, with the dead and the dying covering the field, Arthur stood face to face with Mordred.
‘You have avoided me in the fight. Is it death you fear at the hands of your rightful King?’ Arthur’s challenge rang out in the gloom. ’If a witch had not stolen the scabbard of Excalibur, I could not be wounded.’
‘Nothing, I fear nothing in Heaven nor Hell. Nothing at all,’ Mordred snarled and the word ‘nothing’ rang out across the field of the dead.
Arthur wasted no more words but charged with his lance which crashed against the black breastplate, shattering the metal and delivering a terrible wound in Mordred’s chest. In a last frenzied effort, Mordred thrust forward with his broadsword, striking the King with such power, his breastplate broke in two. Then forced to his knees, Mordred collapsed, impaled on Arthur’s lance. Dying, he cursed the King, ’Perish, Pendragon and let your name be for ever forgotten.’
Arthur, reeling from his wound, fell back into the arms of Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights.
‘Where are my knights?’ whispered Arthur, breathing heavily.
‘I am the only survivor, sire. But I will get help from the castle. You will, recover, my lord.’
‘No, I am weary. The end is near. Carry me on your shoulders into the forest, beyond this field of the dead.’
His eyes could still command obedience. Bedivere could not but obey the dying King.
Bedivere pulled Arthur onto his back and hurried towards the darkening edge of the forest; he could feel the breath of the King, growing weaker. ‘Hurry, hurry or I shall die.’
The knight hurried through the maze of dark trees which seemed to whisper, ‘Faster, faster.’
A full moon had risen and a silvery light shone between bare branches as he ran. Then suddenly the trees ended and a lake shimmering in the moonlight lay before Sir Bedivere.
‘Leave me here at the edge of the forest.’ Arthur’s breath was fast and shallow. It rose in the cold air, like incense drifting heavenwards in the moonlight. ‘Take Excalibur and throw it far into the lake. Then return and tell me what you saw.’
Bedivere hurried to the edge of the lake but when he lifted the sword, it was like lead in his hands. He looked at the jewelled hilt washed by moonlight. He was seduced by its beauty.
Hiding it in some bushes, he returned to the dying Arthur.
‘What did you see? Tell me quickly.’
‘I saw the water gleaming in the moonlight and heard the rushes whispering in the wind.’
‘Liar! Traitor!’ For all his weakness, the King half rose and gripped Bedivere round the neck.
‘Go again, Hurl Excalibur into the lake and tell me what you see.’
Bedivere ran back to the lake. His mail-clad feet rang out as they touched the pebbles on the shore. Again, he whirled the sword in the air. Emeralds and rubies flashed in the feathery moonbeams. His hands burnt as if the sword were welded to his palms. He hid the blade among the rocks and returned to the weakening King.
‘Leaning on one arm, Arthur asked,’ What did you see?’
‘I saw the wild geese fly across the moon’s face and I heard the bittern call from the salt sea marshes.’
‘Traitor! Liar’ Why do you deceive your true king? Go once more and keep the faith.’
Again, Bedivere ran over the stony foreshore. He held Excalibur high in the cold air. He whirled it three times round his head. He let it go. The great sword made a brilliant arc of colour. White diamonds, blood- red rubies, emeralds, sapphires, topaz, blazed in a glorious riot of colours. As it arched over the water, it flashed in the moonlight like the magic lights of the frozen North. From out of the lake rose a hand, dressed in white damask, mystical, wonderful it grasped Excalibur, waved it three times, before it vanished into the depths of the lake.
Despite his tiredness, Bedivere felt an inner joy as he returned to Arthur.
The knight heard the sound of oars striking the water. A boat made its way to the edge of the water. Inside three women veiled and dressed in fine, black silk walked silently up to the king.
Lifting him to his feet, they took him to the boat. Tears ran down Bedivere’s face as he watched the women pick up the oars.
‘Why do you weep? The King is not dead. We are taking him to Avalon to rest. Whenever the world is endangered, he will return, the once and future king.’
Bedivere watched the boat until it disappeared into the dawn mist rising from the water.
Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher from Cambridge UK.who has also lived and taught in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in many magazines/ journals, including: 'Lothlorian', 'American Writers Review', 'Songs of Eretz', 'Pure Haiku', ''Berlin Review', 'New English Review' among others. She is interested in folklore, mythology and history.
