The Widening Gyre Book One of The Unbroken Circle By John Adcox Representation: Philippa Burgess (310) 926-0290 [email protected] Bradley Kushner (310) 739-1480 [email protected] CREATIVE CONVERGENCE 4055 Tujunga Ave., Ste. 200 Studio City, CA 91604 http://www.creativecvg.com © Copyright 2010 by John Adcox The Widening Gyre Author’s Note This is a sequel of sorts to the Arthurian legends. If you know the Arthur story, you’ll start to recognize patterns and characters pretty soon. If not, don’t worry. You’ll be able to follow along well enough. For example, Arthurian enthusiasts will almost certainly guess the identities of the three characters we meet in the prologue. The rest of you will simply know that they are very old, that they share a common history that has often been bitter, and they are privy to a great secret. That’s enough, at least in the beginning. After all, most of the main characters don’t know the Arthur stories either. You’ll learn as they do, as the story moves along. A problem with writing a sequel to a story that’s been told and retold so many times is obvious—which version is this book a sequel to? That’s a tough one. The truth is, there are many versions that I love dearly, and I’ve tried to at least acknowledge as many as I can—from the Welsh poems and the Vulgate cycles all the way through Mallory and the modern novelists. For example? In a “memory” chapter, Sir Cei calls Arthur the Wart, which I mean as a tribute to T. H. White, author of The Once and Future King, the first Arthur book I fell in love with all the way back in elementary school. The opening paragraph of the first chapter narrated by the character Susan Myers is a deliberate homage to Marion Zimmer Bradley, author of The Mists of Avalon. The character Phyllis Ann Twelvetrees is named for Phyllis Ann Karr, whose Arthurian Companion, a guidebook to the legends of Camelot, was an invaluable resource. When in doubt about a name, I always deferred to her preference, even when it was one she coined herself. The character Madeleine is named for Madeleine L’Engle, whose wonderful A Swiftly Tilting Planet first introduced me to Prince Madoc and his journey to Mobile, Alabama. But it’s impossible to be faithful to the continuity of both The Once and Future King and The Mists of Avalon, not to mention The Spoils of Annwn, The Hollow Hills, Le Morte d’Arthur, The Idylls of the King, and all the hundreds of others. So I’ve tried to at least pay respect to as many as I can, and I hope the fans of any one version won’t be offended too terribly much. I hope there will be enough resonance to please everyone at some point or another. By the way, I’ve tried to “hide” the titles of some of my favorites, like The Hollow Hills and The Sword at Sunset, in the text of the story itself. See how many you can find. As for the names, I have followed one simple rule when choosing which spelling to use—I used my favorites. In most cases, I went with the most familiar, or the ones in Mallory. However, I happen to like Cei for Kay and Gwenhwyfar for Guinevere. On the other hand, I prefer Morgan le Fay and Mordred to other variations. I’m afraid there’s really no more rhyme or reason than that. Speaking of names, some of the characters are named for friends of mine, many of whom I lost contact with long ago. Alas, the characters bear little resemblance to the people they’re named for. But I wanted a way to remind them of the love we shared and to say thank you one more time. This book was written before the events of September 11, 2001. In the original 2 John Adcox manuscript, I referred to terrorist attacks on the New York stock Exchange and the Pentagon that were factors in the creation of a new cabinet position, which I originally called the Secretary of Internal Defense. I later modified the manuscript to reflect history, and the Secretary of Internal Defense became the Secretary of Homeland Security. However, I’m sure that the real Secretary and the individuals under his command will be much less ominous than the ones presented here. No offense or criticism is intended. This is fantasy, after all. Needless to say, a book of this size requires a great many “thank yous,” far more than I can express in a few short pages. I am so very grateful to my family for their love and heroic encouragement. I placed a few early versions of the opening chapters on my Web site (http://www.johnadcox.com), and many, many kind Internet surfers took time to write me with encouraging words and criticism. They were a constant source of energy and inspiration. I am most especially grateful to James Lock, Michele A. Cappel, Keith Winkler (who read the entire manuscript in a day), Charles de Lint, MaryAnn Harris, Missy Lee Cox, Leona Wisoker, Bill Bridges, John Bridges, Jolie Simmons, Gillian Doran, Ilana Halupovich, Susan L. Graham, Andrew Greenberg, John Burnet, Jim Summers, Caroline Dunn, Philippa Burges, Brad Kushner, and most especially to Carol Bales. Thank you all so very, very much. I couldn’t have done it without you. 3 The Widening Gyre For Clif Murphey 4 John Adcox The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 5 The Widening Gyre Prologue: Meetings Taliesin: wilight faded slowly to darkness. Cold fingers of fog crept across the park, but the pale flickering glow from a low street lamp provided enough light for the grey man to see his T newspaper. I wondered if he was actually bothering to read it. I doubted it. It made a good enough mask without the effort. I could tell he sensed my presence, that he felt me watching, but he made no sign. So be it, I decided. We'll wait then, together, for a bit. No one could have read his age, obviously considerable, in the lines and shadows on his face. Not even me, who saw more than most, and who knew him better than anyone. His features might have been handsome, even dashing, had there been anything, any hint of colour or life, to break the monotony of the grey that clung to him like the swirling blanket of heavy winter mist itself. After all the years, nothing had changed. He wore a silk tie and carried a neatly folded handkerchief in his jacket pocket, both intricately patterned, both grey. He seemed strong and fit, and he still sat tall in spite of the weight of time. His powerful and callused hands hid wrists crisscrossed with thin white scars. His hair, precisely groomed, showed no hint of either black or white, merely grey, very nearly the exact shade of his perfectly tailored wool suit and overcoat. That much at least seemed different; I remembered his hair being a brilliant, flashing white in the old days. So perhaps even he changes after all. And with his kind, appearance is less a function of years or an accident of physical characteristics than the state of the soul. Oh, how that thought pierced me like cold iron. My guitar, a good twelve-string worn smooth by age, hung heavy on my back, so I slung it down. Not to play, just to hold. My fingers touched the silver strings, so familiar like those of a harp, and I found the contact comforting. Thanks, old friend. We’d come together in Woodruff Park, near Five Points in the stilled urban heart of Atlanta. I didn’t like the place; I never had. Atlanta is a city of greenery and life; its hills teem with tall oaks and wildflowers, lush, sleeping azaleas and stately magnolias, and those beloved, ubiquitous, southern dogwoods waiting for spring to display their subtle and fleeting beauty, breathtaking and gone in a wink. For some reason, though, most of this park had been paved over with bricks, leaving only a few begrudged patchwork squares of neatly kept grass and stunted trees. This was not a park where people lingered, except to wolf down hurried bites of unsavored lunch before fleeting moments of a stolen break bled away. It was a place people passed through, hurrying, shoulders hunched and heads down. It was a between place, like twilight.