"The Camelot Plot"
It's been awhile since we looked in on the latest doings of our adventurous
trio, Tim, Dix and Rowan, probably because they have been so diligent in
slipping beneath the Timbo radar to avoid the usual interruptions...
Looking over my notes, I find that they had decided to take a long summer off
on a walking tour of the British Isles. Their itinerary would include such
lovely spots as Wales and Cornwall so that Tim might be able to soak in the
atmosphere in preparation for his new Broadway role in Spamalot. Dix and Rowan
wanted to sample the local foods and relax for a bit, far from the stresses of
public life. All three agreed that the unspoiled ancient surroundings were
just the place for an innocent and problem-free holiday. Alas...
At this very moment, our friends are barricaded in the Great Hall of Camelot
while the massive double hewn-oak doors are shuddering under the thunderous
blows of a battering-ram wielded by a large and angry force of Arthurian
knights...
Tim: "So much for realism in the theatre. I should have stayed home and
re-read 'Idylls of the King.'"
Dix: "Yes. At least your Kinsey part was much more fun to research..."
Rowan: "Stop reminiscing and help me look for the back door to this place.
It must have one!"
Oak splinters fly as the head of the battering ram begins to break through.
Rowan [pulling aside hanging tapestries in a fruitless quest for another
exit:] "On the other hand, Freud would have felt a certain deja vu in this
scene."
* * *
How did our intrepid trio travel backwards in time? Why are they being
hunted by the Knights of the Round Table, whose object is to burn them at a
stake in the courtyard? Whose fault is this whole mess anyway?
Yes, Baldrick, that's your cue.
It all began when our friends had halted in a small off-the-beaten-track
Welsh town last Thursday. After a sojourn in the small eating-house, they were
strolling the cobbled streets and examining the quaint old buildings. In the
center of the town's lone square stood a 15-foot-tall weirdly gnarled and
blackened tree trunk with a lightning-struck aspect. Its base was set in a
cairn of rock and a wrought-iron spiked fence encircled it. A small plaque
set in the rock read: "When Myrddin's Tree Shall Tumble Down, Then Shall Fall
Carmarthen Town."
Dix: "Cute."
Tim: "Why, that must be Merlin's Tree. That's the old Welsh form of his
name."
Rowan [yawning:] "And there's no fool like an old fool. Letting that nymph
Nimue coax him into the tree and closing it behind him. 'Oooo, look,
Merlin,--acorns! Get me one.'"
Tim: "I think it's actually an ash."
Dix: "Whatever it is, it's had a hard life."
As they walk on, Baldrick, who has been trotting after them, notices a plump
furry gray squirrel near the tree. The squirrel notices Baldrick too, and
scampers to the topmost withered branch...
Behind Tim, Dix and Rowan all hell breaks loose: a rending crash and the
clanging of metal rods against the cobblestones, followed by the indignant
high-pitched chitterings of the gray squirrel in headlong flight.
Rowan: "Baldrick! What have I told you about National Monuments?"
Baldrick [picking himself up from under the ruins of the tree and removing a
branch from his hair:] "Not to walk under them when there's men working on
them?"
Dix: "He was after that squirrel; he was probably hungry."
Rowan: "Baldrick is ALWAYS hungry. I don't believe in pampering the help.
And I use the term loosely."
Tim: "Pampering?"
Rowan: "No, 'help'. God knows he isn't any."
As they speak, our friends are walking briskly down the little street to put
some distance between themselves and the new brush pile, formerly Merlin's
Tree. And they now notice that the cobblestones beneath their feet are
trembling and vibrating...a row of cottages nearby suddenly begins to
collapse, sod roofs sagging as they fall inwards.
Tim: "Run!"
They do. As they crest the ridge of a nearby hill, they look back at the
little town. Its last few buildings are slowly settling into a foggy mist that
has gradually arisen and is filtering through the stunted trees on the hill.
A deep melodious voice with an ancient but not unpleasant burr speaks
sonorously out of the mist:
"Thrice welcome art thee...for thou art the Foretold Three!"
* * *
Our intrepid trio of adventurers, suddenly accosted by a disembodied voice on
the lonely hill, gaze around with slight feelings of trepidation. A tall
form rises out of the swirling mists, shrouded in gray fluttering robes. Gray
hair and beard shimmering with mist droplets are visible too, but it is the
figure's eyes that hypnotize our friends. They are piercing bright silver with
tiny black pupils and they gleam through the fog like the headlights of an
approaching train.
Dix [whispering:] "Merlin!"
The cloaked figure bows regally. "Your servant, Lady."
Rowan: "Oh, grand. Wait till I get you alone, Baldrick; you're for it this
time."
Tim: "No, wait. This is a wonderful opportunity to get first-hand
information on King Arthur; I can use it in my characterization."
Merlin [looking at him benevolently:] "Indeed. You shall have all the
information you desire. At first hand, as you say."
Dix: "Why don't I like the way he said that?"
Rowan [glancing at his wristwatch:] "Early Britain was filled to the brim
with battle, murder, sudden death and picturesque disease. I move that we
continue on our walking tour immediately."
Merlin raises one hand slightly and with a negligent gesture points in the
direction of a great boulder half-visible through the fog. There is a pale
green flash and the rock disintegrates into gravel.
Tim, Dix and Rowan exchange glances.
Merlin: "To put not too fine a point upon it, as ye are aware there came
upon Arthur's kingdom a black curse which crushed Camelot and dispersed the
noble knights into a long and perilous eclipse. That which ye know as the
Age of Chivalry was most wickedly destroyed and demolished, and the Dark Age
of Rapine and Slaughter rushed upon the land to her grievous travail."
Dix: "Sounds like the 20th century."
Tim: "Yes, the age of romance is nothing but a dim memory these days."
Baldrick: "What's romance?"
Rowan: "Never mind; it will never concern you."
Merlin [ominously:] "It is in your power to restore the glories of our
greatest estate, to rewind the skein of time and relimn the pages of history in
all the colours of her high honor and destiny! And ye shall do the same."
Tim: "Excuse me? I don't quite follow your reasoning here..."
Merlin [wrapping his cloak around him with a sweeping gesture:] "Come!"
Darkness fall suddenly, and our friends begin to grope for each other.
Dix: "Is that you, Rowan? Yes, I thought I knew your touch."
Rowan: "Something wet and slimy is creeping up behind us...oh, never mind,
it's Baldrick."
Tim: "Baldrick, let go of my ankle!"
All at once a pale pearly light grows around them, and they find themselves
in a large cave-like grotto. The floor is covered with dry rushes and there
are hollowed rocks for seats, with figured tapestries as wall hangings. Merlin
is sitting at a large wooden table, a flickering glass bowl before him. He
beckons.
Merlin: "Here before you is the pretty play, the dance of knights and ladies
and all good jollity in the days of Arthur's high reign."
Colorful little figures are moving in the bowl, a tournament of knights is in
progress and the tiny ladies in the stands are waving brightly-tinted scarves
and pennants. A knight in black armour has just unhorsed three opponents
with a single pass.
Merlin: "There rides Lancelot of the lake."
In the center of the stands, a tall crowned figure with red-gold hair and
beard sits serenely smiling.
Merlin: "Our noble Liege, Arthur."
Beside the king is a slender crowned porcelain lady with white-blond looped
braids and jeweled fingers.
Merlin: "Arthur's queen, Guinevere."
Dix: "The fatal triangle."
Merlin: "Not at all. Three friends, betrayed. The poisonous spider at the
center of the web is there..." (he points to a woman in black with red
streamers of silk floating in the wind; she sits sidesaddle on a black mare
at the far end of the jousting field) "...Morgan le Fay, half-sister to the
King, aunt of his nephew Mordred...who shall be called Mordre or Murder in
times to come."
The last scene shows a furtive-looking fat young man seated alone at a long
wooden table laden with the remains of a feast. He is swigging wine from a
boar's tusk and grease shines on his pock-marked features with the tiny piggy
eyes. He sets down the empty tusk and picks up a half-gnawed beef bone.
Dix: "Hmm. Short, fat and repulsive...reminds me of someone."
Rowan: "Yes, that film director who choked to death on a double cheeseburger
last month."
Tim: "I heard that it was the jumbo fries that finished him off."
Merlin: "Quite. Now ye, my friends, shall replace destiny on its
foreordained track and set to naught the tragedy of Camelot which should never
have
occured."
* * *
It looks as if our friends are about to be unwillingly drawn into some
as-yet-unspecified intrigue by that master intriguer of them all, Merlin.
As they watch nervously, he passes a long-fingered white hand across the
glowing bowl and the surface glows and swirls with phantom figures.
Dix: "I don't want to be too inquisitive, but how on earth do you think we
could possibly help to change ancient history?"
Tim: "Yes, and if we could, wouldn't that cause a rift in the space-time
continuum that might drastically alter the future? Can you assure us that
there wouldn't be horrendously bad results of any actions we were to take?"
Merlin: "No. Now is the time to grasp the nettle. My Lady shall be first,
as is the custom of all chivalry." He spreads both hands toward Dix and begins
to weave strange patterns in the air.
A fall of shimmering silver beads like tiny bubbles appears around Dix,
closing her off like a curtain, and a humming sound as of far-off singing
fills the air. Before Tim and Rowan can protest, the misty beads disperse
and Dix reappears. But how changed! Her hair is braided into a silver-gilt
coronet above a delicately pale profile; a low crown set with pearls and
uncut rubies encircles her head and she is wearing a medieval robe of pale
blue edged with miniver fur.
Before our friends can register a protest, Merlin's hypnotic hands are busy
tracing patterns in the air before Tim; the silvery bead mist encloses him and
the faint music teases their ears again...
Tim's transformation is even more stunning: he is now six feet three with
flowing red-gold hair, a short beard and moustache to match. His eyes flash
blue sparks as he raises a hand to his brow to touch a golden crown studded
with sapphires and pearls. His own robes are royal purple edged in ermine
and he is unwittingly clutching a sceptre which he nearly drops on his foot.
Rowan has arisen from his seat and is about to edge away, but a glance from
Merlin convinces him that he wouldn't get far. Merlin now points again to the
magic bowl.
A face is swimming upward through the liquid: a man with dark hair and eyes,
wearing a silver helmet with a black plume. The face is strangely familiar.
Dix: "It's Rowan!"
Merlin: "Lancelot. It will only be necessary to grow your hair longer and
remove that mole,-" he points to Rowan's cheek,-"so, let it be done!"
Rowan's hair immediately grows to shoulder-length and his mole disappears.
Rowan: "Now, see here! A joke is a joke, but if you think I'm going to
appear in this Froggy hairdo,--"
Merlin [ignoring him:] "Now ye must know, the spells will last for only a
se'nnight. After that, ye shall return to thy natural shapes. So it will be
well that ye accomplish thy task in good order before that witching time
occurs."
Tim [speaking in King Arthur's deep voice:] "Task? What task?"
Merlin [giving him a long, level look:] "To slay Sir Mordred ere he destroy
Camelot."
Dix: "Ummm, 'slay'? We have this little rule where we don't actually slay
anyone...not even Timbos, as a rule. We may cripple them a little, but it's
all in fun. Usually."
Rowan: "Besides, what will Mordred be doing all the while? I mean, he
probably has a broadsword and a mace and no objection to using them."
Tim: "So you see, we probably aren't the ideal choices to help further your
aims. Why don't we just sort of pretend this never happened and go on with our
walking tour?"
Merlin: "The charm is wound up and the spells are cast. If ye three are
unsuccessful, it is thy lives that will pay the forfeit. For now ye shall take
the places of Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot while they are borne to Avalon and
are placed in an enchanted sleep!"
* * *
When we left off (before the Christmas/New Year festivities) Tim, Dix and
Rowan had just experienced the mother of all make-overs. In fact, their own
mothers wouldn't recognize them now (except for Rowan, who is still sulking
over his page-boy hair style).
Rowan: "Excuse me, your Wizardship; unless I also have Lancelot's skill with
the lance, I won't last out the week."
Dix [giving him a lingering glance from her azure blue eyes:] "You haven't
had any complaints up to now."
Tim [giving Dix a meaningful flash of regal fury from HIS now sapphire blue
eyes:] "Fine talk from my lady queen! Beware the fury of a patient king."
Rowan: "Didn't Emerson say that, in another context?"
Merlin [to Rowan:] "Fear nothing. Thy skills shall sweep the field at
tomorrow's tourney; no man can stand against the arms of Lancelot."
Dix [sotto voce:] "No, I'd better not comment..."
Merlin: "The real danger will proceed from the sorceress le Fay. Accept no
gifts from her, neither meat nor drink. Yet take every care to do her no
offense; all smiling be, yet know that at her heart lurks black death."
Tim: "Right. So we should 'look like the innocent flower, but be the
serpent under it'?"
Merlin: "That's it exactly. A goodly phrase; I shall save it for my own
uses." He flicks his fingers upward and a golden quill appears above his wrist
and industriously scribbles upon his cuff. Another flick, and the quill
disappears. "Is it original with thee?"
Tim: "Actually, Shakespeare will say it in a few centuries when he writes
the Scottish play."
Rowan: "'Macbeth,' for God's sake; are we a bunch of lily-livered
superstition-ridden poltroons?"
Baldrick: "Yes, my lord."
Rowan raps him over the head and he smiles and slips to the floor, nearly
knocking the magic bowl off the table.
Merlin: "And as thou speaks of serpents, it mindeth me to caution thee also
against coming into contact with any form of these. Let no snake approach
thee; neither do ye seek them out."
Dix: "No need to worry. The only serpent of my acquaintance is a certain
Black Adder, and I never have to seek him out."
Tim [ominously:] "That's exactly the problem. Remember the cause of
Camelot's original destruction? The relationship between the king's wife
and his best friend sowed the seeds; and if we aren't VERY careful, history
could repeat itself."
Rowan [examining his fingernails in a nonchalant way:] "Oh, well, it's only
for a week..."
* * *
Meanwhile, in a gloomy room in the west wing of the castle, a fat and
discontented plotter is plotting as usual with three yawning henchmen. They
sit around a wooden table laden with half-empty trenchers: any time is
mealtime for Mordred.
Mordred [wiping porkchop grease off his blubbery lips on the sleeve of his
equally greasy robe:] "This time we shall not fail!" From his other hand
dangles a glittering golden garter, which he swings suggestively. "This pretty
bauble will convince the king of our lady queen's light behaviour with Lancelot!
I shall tell him that it was found among the knight's bed-hangings and then
will Arthur's royal rage burst forth and consume his kingdom!"
First Lout [in bored tones:] "Fat chance. He'll just say 'honi soit qui mal
y pense,' same like he always does." At Mordred's uncomprehending glare, he
translates: "'Evil to him what evil thinks,' ain't it?"
Second Lout: "Too right he will. He just smiled gracious-like when her
Majesty tossed Lancelot her glove to wear for a favour when he slain that
Hapless Knight. And his fourteen retainers. That was some fight."
Third Lout: "And her wimple next day, when Lancey snicked off the heads of
them six Saracen knights what come to protest the new tax on stoat-breeding.
Ah, 'twas a rare sight, that."
First Lout [sighing:] "And yesterday, she threw 'im 'er smallclothes..."
Mordred [grinding his teeth:] "One of these fine days, she'll exhaust her
wardrobe. Then Milday,--thy doings shall be laid bare for all to see!!"
Tableaux: Three louts with a wild and hopeful light dawning in their eyes.
Mordred, in disgust, throws the garter aside and reaches for another platter
of porkchops.
* * *
While our friends still have one or two niggling little doubts about the
wisdom of their impersonations of King Arthur, Lancelot and Guinevere at
Merlin's command (not to mention his arbitrary transformation of them into
the royal trio), they are becoming more accustomed to their new milieu...
Rowan: "Not to mention the absolute power! I've always liked that."
Dix [running her hands over Guinevere's many silken gowns hanging on wooden
pegs on the walls of the queen's tiring room:] "These medieval fashions are
beginning to grow on me...it looks as if she spares no expense."
Rowan [not paying attention:] "Did you watch the tournament this afternoon?
I was stacking them up like cordwood out there,--couldn't put a foot wrong."
Dix [wrapping herself in a very fetching full-length ermine cloak:] "The
only thing is, that I haven't found any dainty undergarments. Do you suppose
that they didn't wear them?"
Rowan [his attention attracted:] "Odd. Lancelot's locker is chock-a-block
with silky bits and pieces." [Catching Dix's expression],-- "No! They're far
too small for me,--I mean, him, blast it! They must be knightly favours.
Anyway they have Guinevere's monograms all over them..."
Dix: "Uh-oh. Better sneak them back here; that's the sort of thing we're
supposed to be preventing if we want to save Camelot."
The hall door pops open and Tim (as King Arthur) bursts in, out of breath and
all smiles.
Tim: "Did I hear someone mention Camelot, my hereditary kingdom?"
Dix: "My Liege...don't tell me you're starting to believe in Merlin's
harebrained little scheme?"
Tim [tossing his gauntlets on a wooden stool and brandishing his gleaming
sword magnificently:] "Don't be silly. WHAT a day I've had!! First thing this
morning I looked out of my arrow apertures and noticed a series of small
black hills leading toward the forest. I immediately leapt into my armor,
grabbed Excalibur (flourishing the sword ) and called for my favourite steed,--"
Rowan [bored:] "Yes, those little hills need a great deal of subduing."
Tim: "Dragon droppings! Spotted them at once. To make a long saga brief,--"
Rowan: "Obvious rejoinder here."
Dix [suspiciously:] "I don't suppose the thought of a possible
beautiful-maiden-to-be-rescued entered your mind."
Tim: "Anyway, there were three of them. Big ones." [Modestly:] "Their
heads are out on the greensward; too big to get through the doors of the Great
Hall. I'm going to have them stuffed."
Rowan: "And while you're about it, why don't YOU,--"
He feels something tugging at his elbow and looks down to see Baldrick
smiling up at him.
Rowan: "Have you finished polishing my armor?"
Baldrick: "Yes, my lord."
Rowan: "Well, where is it then?"
Baldrick [shyly not meeting his eyes:] "My lord, you know those loose boards
in the big plank thing that goes across the deep brook around the castle?"
Dix: "You mean...the drawbridge over the moat?"
Baldrick looks blank, shakes his head, nods and fidgets. "Ummm, that's where
I slipped an' dropped a piece of your armor."
Rowan: "A piece?"
Baldrick: "An' when I was reaching for it, the rest fell in too."
Rowan looks at his fist and at Baldrick, then picks up a nearby vase and
breaks it over Baldrick's unkempt head. "Go down to the scullery and tell the
cook that you are to be on K. P. from now on."
Baldrick: "'K. P.', my lord? Is that like cleaning the privies again?"
Rowan: "No. Go."
Tim: "Now, I approached the monsters cautiously, wending my way among the
trees and slipping up silently before they could take alarm..."
* * *
Meanwhile in a hidden room of the great Castle, Morgan le Fay is at work on
her own project. She reclines gracefully on a fur pelt-strewn couch and
occasionally gestures with her snow-white fingers toward an ebony loom nearby.
On the loom is a beautiful fabric, gold with colorful small flowers gradually
appearing...for invisible fingers are warping the warps and woofing the woofs
of the fabric as it grows without the touch of human hands. Or those of
Morgan le Fay. Nearly hidden among the blossoms is the slender rippling form
of a small green snake...
To Be Continued,
Y(procrastinatin')FT,
Dix
* * *