King Arthur Is Dead by Kathryn Hatchett

My father used to tell me, ‘One day, my sweet, King Arthur will return to save the kingdom from peril, and all will be right again.’ Clasping blankets up to my chin in the dim twilight of a bedroom lit only by the light in the hallway, I’d drift off to sleep, dreaming of the mighty King’s return. There was a location of his reappearance too – Cadbury Castle – though when I went there in my preteen years, I was sad to find no castle. Any evidence beyond the mounds and ditches of prehistoric civilisation had gone, and nothing sparkled enough to grasp my interest. Despite this, I hoped for his return. A wish, like believing in the tooth fairy or Father Christmas, that this being, just this one mythical being, would be real.

My nan told me stories from when she’d lived in Cadbury many years ago, of the superstitions and practices she had to stick to. The village well was for the horses belonging to the Knights of the Round Table and on All Hallows’ Eve the curtains would be drawn tight. At midnight, hoofbeats and battle cries would pass. I never believed her until I stayed the night there determined to scare myself silly with my friend.

We camped out on the sofa, blankets covering us like cartoon ghosts. We had sweets splayed on the coffee table and mugs of hot chocolate to fuel us into the night. The thrill of seeing the clock chime midnight would have been enough to power us, but the sweets made our hunt feel official.

We’d never stayed up to midnight before and kept catching each other glancing at the clock. If we caught the other, we’d admonish her for slacking, even though we both knew we were doing it. The combination of the late night and sugar would send us into fits of giggles where we’d shove our faces into pillows to muffle the noise. I’m sure Nan heard it all anyway. We hedged our bets and decided to watch the clock, promising we’d keep an ear out for any horse-like noises. We weren’t allowed to look out there, of course, Nan had been very clear about that.

‘Do not open the curtains and don’t go outside. It isn’t only Arthur’s men out roaming tonight,’ Nan had said. She’d worn her old nightgown under a dressing gown she’d been gifted for Christmas; it was a rich ruby colour that matched her nail polish alarmingly well.

We agreed to listen only. It was easy to agree when we believed we’d be too scared to look out if we heard noises. As we waited, the scrawling bark of a fox sent us jumping into each other.

‘They found a silver horseshoe up there. Nobody but a King would shoe their horse with pure silver,’ my friend, Abbie, said. We regaled stories and myths of the fort amongst gossiping and debating the aeons of drama existing in our teenage lives.

‘At Midsummer, they were spotted galloping around the ramparts,’ I told her.

‘Spotted by who?’ Abbie laughed. She knew the answer.

‘Old Tom from down the road and my Nan, and half the village I’d say.’

‘They really should take photos next year,’ Abbie said.

‘You know if you try to take a photo they hide,’ I said, remembering what my nan had taught me. We’d left our phones in the kitchen so we wouldn’t even be tempted.

‘How can they see a phone from all the way up there?’ Abbie, though she was my best friend was always a sceptic when it came to these things. Always nitpicking in her fun, curious way. Every detail of life was an avalanche of possible information for her, and I admired her thirst for it greatly. She was the person I knew would do the stake out with me; the only person I knew who would stay up late in the hopes of seeing a ghost.

‘They don’t need to see it to know you’re there trying to capture them,’ I said.

‘So, they won’t come tonight then?’

‘They will. We aren’t trying to capture them. We’ll just happen to look upon them as they pass – a complete coincidence.’ My speech sent us into more fits of giggles as we looked at the carnage of sweet wrappers around us.

The clock began to chime – or chirp, as it was a clock that chimed a different bird song every hour – and we held our breath. I shifted my weight on the sofa leaning towards the window and crinkling a sweet wrapper in the process earning a glare from Abbie. I tried not to laugh letting it bubble into a smile instead.

The clock finished chiming without so much as a rustle of leaves outside. It was meant to be midnight; everyone always said it was at midnight.

‘Maybe it’s a little later,’ Abbie said. ‘It isn’t as easy or mysterious sounding to say he rides past at seven minutes past twelve, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ I whispered back, eyes fixed on the curtains.

Each gradual rotation of the minute hand grew more annoying and spine-twitching. The sound grew louder as we focused, intent on hearing something that wasn’t there.

‘Maybe we should give up,’ Abbie whispered.

‘Don’t they always say the moment you stop looking, whatever it is will find you.’

‘Sod’s law I think that’s called,’ she replied.

‘Let’s go to bed then.’

We collected the sweet wrappers into the sticky lemonade glasses and hurried them into the kitchen, leaving them beside the sink to deal with in the morning, knowing Nan would beat us to it.

As we reached the stairs, Abbie paused eyes fixed on the blank wall. I tilted my head at her, begging to hear whatever had startled her. She gestured for me to follow, and we returned to our perch on the sofa.

‘What did you? -.’

‘Shhh,’ she snapped. Abbie wasn’t someone who snapped.

She was right to shush me. The unmistakable sound of hooves was coming down the road, the jangle of metal and sounds of beasts breathing growing. My hand twitched on the curtain, desperate to pull it back, but Abbie steadied my hand.

The sound grew louder, horseshoes striking tarmac in trot. A cavalcade of horses – a troop of knights. Jeers from the men and snorting horses began to ring out as the first hooves passed our window. The hoofbeats echoed around the room deafening us like a thousand cymbals crashing against the walls. We shared a look, mouthed oh my gosh to each other. Our hands still gripping the curtain.

The sound of incoming hooves was growing fainter as they rode away. We were still, frozen and statuesque with our hands clutching the curtain willing ourselves to not look. There must’ve been two, maybe four horses left when Abbie ripped the curtain back.

Silver knights. Silver horses with dappled moon-like rumps covered in tack that shone like ebony, adorned with gleaming metalwork. They went past. Eyes fixed on the horizon. All but the last who looked up toward the roof of the house and I swear he winked. Abbie saw it too. He winked at the house. At the upstairs windows or the roof.

It was years later when boys became of interest to me that I realised who the knight had been winking at.

From the night, I believed that King Arthur would save us when the country fell into peril. I’d seen his knights, perhaps even heard him ride past. The prophecy echoed in my head as I watched the country fall into my definition of peril. When will he come? When is the amount of peril sufficient for him to wake from his undead state and save us?

I began to doubt that he’d return when the world seemed to go crazy. My nan and my father departed this realm. I hoped they’d find answers in the Otherworld and send a signal. He’s coming, they’d call, and I’d wait and rejoice. Silence met me instead. My job slipped from under my feet, and King Arthur didn’t catch me. The house I’d bought with my then fiancé flooded, but once more King Arthur didn’t come to save me, or the many others flooded. Then a pandemic came, and we stayed inside fixing the water damage, but even a pandemic, a situation of global strife wasn’t enough for him to bring aid.

Nobody was coming to save us and the dark vortex that I’d been skipping over grew in strength to swallow me. Abbie moved on in life, as we all did willingly or not. We stayed friends, bonded forever over what we’d both seen that night. We didn’t tell anyone, apart from our partners what we’d seen. Bless them, they believed us without question, even promising we’d have to return to see if the miracle would repeat.

Deep down I knew it would be fruitless going back. King Arthur is dead. I’d cried it over my father’s grave, angry and tired that I’d believed someone would help. Frustrated that I could never do enough to save the realm. Guilty for being angry and angry that I felt guilt for my feelings. A twisted knot of fiction and reality. As is everything. The memories I hold I may have imagined, but they are as real as the things I saw.

Kathryn Hatchett

Banner Image: Stormy clouds in black and white from Pixabay.com

Post Image: Image by Monika from Pixabay. The metal statue of King Arthur – Gallos is an 8-foot-tall (2.4 m) bronze sculpture by Rubin Eynon located at Tintagel Castle, a medieval fortification located on the peninsula of Tintagel …