Children of the Knight - Michael J. Bowler (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📗

his tired features dead serious, and handed Ryan the report. “I’m not. It’s all in here.”

Ryan gazed at the report a moment, and then looked his partner in the eye. “I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on, but I think you and I have an all-nighter to pull with Mr. Internet. We need to find out everything there is to know about King Arthur.”

Gibson’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a lot of information, Ry.”

Ryan tossed the report onto his desk and pointed at the next desk. “And there’s an awful lot of cyberspace right there on your computer, partner. Let’s get cracking.”

With a heavy sigh, Gibson rolled the chair over to his own immaculately organized desk and set to work.

The episode with Reyna had excited the boys more than usual. Some of the older ones, like Enrique and Luis, could talk of nothing else but “who she’s gonna like better, me or your fool ass?” while the youngsters were all excited that Lance had bested her. “We don’t need no girl anyways” was a common refrain among them.

It had taken Arthur and Lance much longer than usual to settle the in-house sleepers for the night. Speculation ran in whispers among the supposedly sleeping boys about what would happen next, and would she be back, and would she want to join, and how did she learn to shoot like that? Finally, silence punctuated by the ever-present dripping of water and the occasional echoing whinny from Llamrei wafting in from her tunnel, settled over the main hall.

Arthur and Lance sat side by side on the platform in front of the king’s throne, legs outstretched before them, enjoying a bit of downtime after such a tumultuous evening.

Lance pushed his hair back from his eyes and looked at Arthur. He’d removed his circlet, and his lengthening hair framed his soft features like twin waterfalls. “Can I ask you something, Arthur?”

“Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

“What was it like when you’s a kid? You know, way back in the day?”

“My childhood was magical, thanks to Merlin. But lonely, as well. There be only my foster brother, Kay, to play with, at least until Merlin came to tutor us.”

Lance pulled his legs up and under him, Indian style, and faced Arthur. “What was he like, Merlin? Was he really a powerful wizard?”

“Merlin did indeed possess powers above and beyond nature. Not in the way thy modern society hath created such magical inventions, no. Merlin was like a force of nature. He taught me about life, all life, and the precious nature of it, and why preserving it at all costs should be our primary aim. I owe much to Merlin, and to God, for granting me this second chance to make things right.”

Lance digested this new information, considering his own life. He supposed he believed in God, but had never given it much thought. He sure didn’t believe God had ever done anything for him. But then, he hadn’t done anything for God, either, so he supposed they were even. “What about your parents?”

Arthur sighed heavily, a twinge of sadness creeping like mist over his face. “I never know my sires, Lance, though I have oft been told of my mother’s great beauty. My foster father, Sir Ector, did his best to make me feel as one with his family, so much so that I did truly come to think of him as my father.”

Lance’s face clouded over at the mention of “foster father,” and he felt Arthur’s eyes scrutinizing him.

“Tell me of thy upbringing, Lance, if thou would have it so.”

Lance squirmed and allowed his flowing bangs to obscure half his face, a trick he always used when he wished to hide from others. Just the mention of his past squeezed his heart and sent a lump of anguish into his throat.

“There ain’t much to tell. My mother… she did drugs. And she….” He paused and sucked in a deep breath, fisting his tunic spasmodically. Then blurted, “She sold me to a stranger when I was one years old!” His breath lodged in his throat, and he began to sweat. “She sold me, Arthur, so she could buy crack cocaine!” He paused again, fought for air, struggling for control. His entire body had tensed up, ready for flight.

I can do this, he assured himself. I need to do this.

“I don’ even remember her face.” That last barely came out as a wisp of breath, and he looked at Arthur with abject pain welling within his sad green eyes.

“I be truly sorry, my boy.” The king’s voice was laced with deep sadness.

“I don’t even have a real last name, Arthur,” Lance went on quietly, fighting back the tears.

Be strong, Lance! You’re First Knight!

Arthur was confused. “But, did you not say thy name be—”

“Sepulveda?” Lance finished for him, nodding bitterly, eyes afire with lament. “Yeah, that’s the name they gave me at Children’s Services because….” His breathing almost stopped. “…That was the name of the street where I got left when that stranger didn’t wanna feed me no more.” His enflamed eyes brimmed with an impending flood, and his body began to tremble. “Arthur, I’m named after a street!”

The king’s body seemed to sag with pain, becoming smaller and so much less imposing than he always seemed to Lance. “Thy life hath been one I would not wish upon my fiercest enemy.”

Arthur reached out a comforting hand and placed it upon Lance’s shaking shoulder.

Lance recoiled at once, untangling his legs and leaping to his feet, almost falling back, eyes wide with terror, gasping for breath, shaking with fear, feeling like an animal caught in a trap.

“My apologies, Lance,” Arthur said, pulling his hand slowly back. “I had forgotten.”

Lance’s breathing gradually slowed, but his eyes never left Arthur’s hand, which now rested on the king’s own lap. “No, it ain’t you, Arthur, it’s me. I’m….”

“Doth thou wish to speak of it?”

“No!” Lance looked away and sat again on the platform, farther from Arthur this time. His heart remained in his throat, his stomach churning.

“As thou wish.”

Silence fell between them for a few moments, and then Lance began to cry, softly, and agonizingly. He struggled to hold back the tears, but they forced their way out. His voice felt raspy and rough, like air passing through bones.

“It ain’t just you, Arthur, I ain’t never told nobody. I been tryin’ to ferget it, ’cept I can’t.”

“Perhaps to speak openly of this pain may lay it to rest.”

Lance refused to look up. His hair covered his entire face now, and he sniffled and gave in to more tears. His legs splayed outward, and his hands were clenched into tight fists, gripping the folds of his tunic like a lifeline.

“It’s jus’ that… in this foster home when I’s small….”

“I am here, Lance.”

Lance fought his shivering body for control. His voice became small and uncertain, like the faintest whisper of wind through the leaves of a tree.

“I was six years old when it started… the man… my foster dad… he sometimes came to my room at night and… he tole me that this was what boys did together and that he was doing me a favor by teaching me.” He gulped and shuddered. “He, uh, he tole me I really wanted it even if I didn’t know I did….”

He glanced hesitantly into Arthur’s gentle face, his wide eyes seared and desperate and without hope. He saw the compassion and understanding and then broke.

“He raped me, Arthur! He did it a lot, for almost three years! And he made me do stuff, too, and… I… I wanted it to stop, but I didn’t stop it. He kept saying it was my fault, that I wanted it, and, oh God, Arthur, I must’ve liked it ’cause I never ran away, not till I was nine years old and…. Oh, Arthur, maybe I did want it, maybe I’m queer like Mark and Jack and that’s why they make me so nervous! I mean, I ain’t never even kissed a girl before, though some’s tried, but I’m scared of them too. When I’m around them gay boys I feel things I don’t wanna feel.” His eyes peeked through his hair beseechingly, revealing the guilt and the shame pouring forth from his soul. “Oh God, Arthur, I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know what I am!”

He leapt at Arthur like a wild animal on the attack and flung his arms around the man, sobbing uncontrollably into Arthur’s tunic, his body shaking violently with pain and humiliation. Arthur gently stroked his hair, held him tenderly, and spoke soothingly into his ear.

“But I know what thou art,” he began, cradling and rocking the sobbing child. “Thou art Lance, my chosen First Knight, who shalt lead the children of this city in a triumphant crusade to right the wrongs that have been done to them. You were not chosen because you favor girls or boys, but because you already possess the qualities that make a true man—honor, loyalty, faithfulness, and compassion. These be the measure of any man, and you are a better man at fourteen than many grown men I have known. That is what, and that is who you are, my Lance.”

Arthur’s words penetrated Lance’s deep and throbbing pain and warmed his heart with their sincerity, but the sobbing continued unabated.

They remained this way until Lance finally cried himself to sleep in Arthur’s strong, comforting embrace. Then the king gently laid the boy down, wiped the tears and snot from his face with one sleeve, and carefully covered him with several blankets.

As he sat and watched Lance’s breathing become smooth and even, he ever so softly brushed the damp hair off the boy’s face. There were still lines of anguish drawn across his unblemished features, but slowly these eased themselves away as deeper sleep grasped hold of the boy and carried him off to the necessary Land of Forget.

Arthur knelt and bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Lord, thank ye for delivering unto me this lost one, and all of these lost ones. May I do right by your faith in me. You have set unto me a great and noble task. I ask only the strength and humility to achieve it.”

Then he lay down close enough to Lance should the boy awaken and need him, but not so close as to stir the horrific memories he’d only just expunged. After a time he eased into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke early next morning—or what he surmised to be morning since no sunlight penetrated the storm drains—Arthur instantly noted that Lance was not beside him and leapt up in fright. Concerned about the boy’s state of mind, he hurried down the nearest tunnel and suddenly pulled up short. Lance was just ahead, sitting beside little Chris, who slept soundly and snugly, his breathing soft and even.

Arthur approached quietly and knelt beside Lance questioningly. “Does all be well?” he whispered so as to not wake the sleeping child.

Lance nodded, gently stroking Chris’s soft blond hair. Then he looked up at Arthur, his own hair tangled and matted with dried sweat, and met the king’s eyes with determination. “I’m gonna make sure what happened to me never happens to him.”

Arthur understood, and nodded, hesitantly reaching out to place his hand on Lance’s shoulder, pausing until the boy smiled gratefully. He lightly squeezed Lance’s shoulder to show his approval and then removed his hand.

“Thank you, Arthur, for last night, for listening, and for…,” Lance trailed off and looked away.

“For