The Admiral drove Gylain before him with a series of powerful side strokes, through which Gylain could not find an opening to strike. The two ran down the upper Treeway, their hearts a boiling pot of emotions. When they were out of sight, Meredith and Lorenzo took to their feet, flourishing their arms to signal the approaching fleet. The foremost ship spotted them and steered their way; the water level had risen enough that it could come alongside them.
“Come aboard, there,” Alfonzo called out as the boarding plank was extended. “Our reunion is that much merrier, for you survive.”
“Yes, we live,” Meredith panted. “But – by Beelzebub and the ten princes of the air – we cannot celebrate yet, my friends.”
“No, for the war is not yet over!” Lorenzo added. He pointed to the distant figures of the warring men, locked in a deadly combat. “William and Gylain yet live!”
“So it is!”
“Heave away, men,” the wind laughed, “Sail for the Admiral at once!” and Captain Koon turned the ship to the distant melee.
In a moment,
“Come aboard, for Atilta is sinking.”
The two men did not answer, nor did they hear. Their hearts were in the battle and the battle in their hearts. Gylain rendered William a vicious overhand blow. The latter could only block it by kneeling and holding his own sword above his head. He sank under the blow and Gylain lunged forward in hopes of spearing him to the ground.
“Our time is running down, but victory can yet be grasped. For God is not above me, nor his whittled pawn.”
“Whittled by the sea breeze, but not its God,” the Admiral returned, and he splashed through the water as he rolled beyond Gylain’s charge.
He regained his feet before the other’s lunge was finished. William fell upon his downed defenses with a series of powerful lashes. Gylain absorbed them with his sword, but his arms were shattered by their force. Yet desperation flooded his heart. He forced himself to his feet and with his last strength came at William with his sword extended.
“She was beauty and a vassal of desire; feudal fate could not be dodged,” and Gylain wept.
He flooded William with three left-handed blows, each ringing off the other’s sword.
Gylain continued, “Is it weakness to admit the ways of nature? Is it defeat to be undone by the face of beauty? For even hearts of war can feel love.”
His arm circled his head and struck William, who could not block it. His shoulder was badly wounded.
“Yet your weakness proved your madness,” William scorned, “For she rejected you even in her zeal.” He switched hands and charged Gylain.
“Madness? That is the hand that measures life,” and Gylain parried his advance.
William set his face against the wind and his heart against defeat, casting the parry aside with glowing eyes. The path to Gylain’s chest was opened. William ran him through. Gylain would have fallen to his knees, but the water covered his waist and supported his weight.
“If life is madness, it is only so in cause,” William lunged with his tongue, “Its effect for Casandra was love, and her love was for me.”
“But as you say, her love was but the offspring of madness,” Gylain raised his sword.
“As is your hate.”
“And yours as well.”
“That I do not deny.”
“Then you are as guilty as God.”
“A fool’s defense,” and William struck his opponent’s sword to the side.
“I, at least, do not defend my sins,” Gylain returned the blow. “For they are not mine to defend, but God’s. He had written them in bone and blood before time beget damnation.”
Their swords played in the water that now covered their chests, but slowed beyond damage.
“The end draws near,” William sighed.
His hands fought to lunge at Gylain. The water blocked the blow. It rose to their necks.
“It comes, yes, but it is not unexpected. It is only what has been declared long ago.”
They shared a final melee, but only of the eyes. For they were all that remained above the deluge. They looked to each other and to the shapeless void which was once Atilta. William stood with open eyes, raging in the storm that stole his face; his bearded lips sat open and his hands still gripped his sword. Gylain’s face had fallen into sleep and his spirit to defeat in the face of fate. His mouth spread in a barely perceptible smile, as did his troubled soul.
Then, with a final surge, the water swelled and covered them.
“It is finished!” cried William Stuart, and was gone. The water had consumed him.
The face of the water was void and nothing broke its surface save the ships. The rain dried up and the clouds departed; the winds fled and the waves ceased their beating. But there was nothing left, even in the sunlight. Far below, the last remnants of the island could be seen as they fled into the deep. The canopy still waved, though it was water, not wind, that threw it to confusion. The forest sank away like seaweed and the plain like siren’s reef; it passed away before their eyes into the nameless, faceless deep. It passed away like the departing dead, but it was Atilta that had died. Then – with a final, gasping breath – Atilta exhaled and forever sunk beneath the sea.
“So it is,” Willard turned to his silent comrades, “There will never again be a King of Atilta.” He turned his face to the north, his armor ablaze in the newfound sun, and pointed to the sky. “Set course for England. We have won its freedoms, even if we have lost our own. There is nowhere else left for us now.”
Vahan’s voice came from behind, “My lord, England and Hibernia are left without rulers, for theirs were taken or killed in the battle. By the power of the King of France, I hereby proclaim it ceded to Atilta, and thus to you,” and he raised several papers to show the signed treaty.
Silence came, then Patrick stepped forward and bowed reverently before Willard.
“Hail, Willard Plantagenet,” he said, “The King of England.”
THE END
About the Author
Dear Reader,
A book is a secret passageway that one finds in the attic, concealed behind an old bookshelf and leading into the hidden reaches of the author’s mind – the store room in which he keeps his eccentric thoughts in neatly wrapped bundles, arranged according to his own pedantic patterns. His imagination is his own personal retreat, his private library in his private castle on his private estate. A book, however, opens the door to this retreat and says, “Come in; but first take off your shoes.” It is the key which fits the lock, and its words the leather-bound chairs which skirt the room. But when you are in a secret chamber, you may happen to wonder what it is like from the outside, what it appears to be from afar. So it is customary for the gatekeeper to tell about himself in a short piece, that those who vacation on his estate can know what he would be like if they met him in the street.
I, myself, am an old, worn shoe: the man who walks the road with his shaman stick, captivated by the beauties around him. I am a student, a discoverer, soon to be enrolled at a certain Hillsdale College in Michigan, USA. I write for a living, and at the current rate will be dead tomorrow morning. I do not meddle with romance, for I am too much of a Romantic to be content with reality, and too much of a Realist to believe love could ever be romantic. Yet were I inclined that way I would meet with little success, for I am neither beautiful nor interesting. My only occupation is thinking, my only wage an observant smile in the face of conversation; for I shun idol speech, and am considered an idiot because of it. Yet, in all, I am a man like other men, and equally vain. If I was not, I don’t believe I would have written this.
Jonathan Dunn,
The Secret Room, July 2004
