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

Have a good life. I love you, too, Jacky. You’ll always be my hero. Never ever forget that.

Your best bud, Mark.

Lance’s eyes welled with grief. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry. We gotta tell Arthur.”

Jack nodded but didn’t move. Lance gently put a hand to his friend’s bare back to nudge him along, but Jack whirled and enveloped Lance in a crushing hug, sobbing into the smaller boy’s tunic, holding on as though fearful of falling. Lance held him and comforted him and allowed the tears to flow. His own regrets filled his heart and pressed him into Jack’s body more tightly, almost with desperation. Guilt washed over him in waves of anguish as Jack’s tears brushed against his neck and soaked into his tunic like rain.

Lance thought of Mark, of the boy’s gentle, shy little smile that had always tickled something deep within him; thought of the way Mark had so readily kept his secret, even from Jack. He’d come to love Mark for that loyalty, that goodness, but had never said it, had never truly made the blond boy a part of him.

So he stood, feeling empty and heartless, clutching tightly to Jack, supporting the boy’s profound sorrow, and allowing his friend some time to cry out the pain before they had to go and tell the others about Mark.

In The Hub, there was the usual bustling activity of boys rushing around, grabbing items of clothing, prepping their weapons, gathering supplies for the day’s march. A number of them were polishing armor or swords, while others hung wet laundry on the lines or took dry laundry down, folded it, and passed it out to those just emerging from the sleeping tunnels.

Arthur sat on his throne enjoying a calm moment, tossing a football to a delighted Chris.

Lance and Jack entered soberly, Jack still shirtless and tear-streaked, Lance rumpled and sorrowful and afraid.

“Arthur, Mark’s gone.” Lance announced.

Arthur’s face clouded at once and he handed the football to Chris. “Go on and get ready, Sir Christopher. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“Okay,” chirped the small boy. He looked at Jack and saw the boy crying. “It’s okay, Jack, I was just playing with Arthur ’cause I couldn’t find you. You’re still the best player I ever saw.”

Lance nodded to the little boy. “Thanks, Chris, but he’ll be okay. Go get ready now.”

“Sure, Lance.” And off he went.

Arthur eyed the two boys with concern. “What hath happened to Mark?”

Lance glanced at Jack, but the older boy remained silent. “He ran away. We found these letters this morning.” He held one of them out. “This one is for you.”

Arthur slipped out the paper and gazed a moment at the beautiful flowing script. He read the letter aloud,

“Dear Arthur,

I never met no one like you. You got me off a drugs, which I was glad about cause they really dragged me down. And I know you love me like a nephew or something. But I love you more than that, see, and it hurts so much to be around you knowing you can’t feel the same way. So I gotta bail, Arthur, an’ I’m sorry. Methinks thou hast been the best thing in my life, and the worst. I love you, Arthur, with all my heart. Farewell.

Your errant knight, Mark”

Jack broke down, and Lance reached out to enfold him.

Arthur dropped into his throne in shock. “Thou didst know of his feelings?” He looked at both boys. Lance shook his head, but Jack nodded weakly.

“Yeah.”

“Forsooth, Sir Jack, why did thou not tell me?” Arthur exclaimed, his voice tight with emotion. “Why did Mark not come to me? I would not condemn him for feeling love.”

“He was embarrassed, Arthur.” Jack sniffled. “He knew you couldn’t love him like he wanted, and he was afraid that… you might hate him. I told ’im you wouldn’t but….”

Arthur stood resolutely, his expression one of determination. “This cannot stand. I must find him.”

“You can’t, Arthur,” Lance insisted, still cradling the hopeless Jack. “You got the crusade ta run and all these other guys to watch over. The needs of the whole company, remember?”

Arthur sighed deeply, looking like he’d suddenly realized the flaw in that philosophy. “Thou art right, of course, Sir Lance. But at times like these, it be a difficult precept to hold fast to.”

Jack pulled his face away from Lance’s comforting shoulder and turned to the king. “I’ll go after him,” he said, releasing Lance and swiping tears away with the back of his hand. “I know the places he’d probably go. I’ll find him.”

“I’m going too,” Lance insisted, and Jack looked over at him, gratitude filling his poignant eyes. “If that’s all right with you, Arthur?”

Part of Lance hoped Arthur would say no, that he was much too valuable, that he was needed to lead. The selfish part, he told himself. No one is indispensable to the cause, Arthur had said before. Even me.

The king looked grave, his mind clearly distracted. “Of course, Sir Lance. Anyone can carry the banner.”

Lance flinched as though he’d been slapped and punched at the same time, and the blood drained from his face.

Is that what he’d been reduced to—banner carrier? After all he and Arthur had shared?

But Arthur was too distraught to notice Lance’s reaction. “Find him, my knights. That be thy quest. Find the lost sheep and return him to us.”

Jack padded quickly out of The Hub.

Bowing stiffly to Arthur, Lance haltingly followed.

That same morning, Gibson rose early, had breakfast, dressed casual for a change—just slacks and a pullover shirt and fancy basketball shoes—and hurried out of his one-bedroom apartment. He had to see Justin, and that was that. His ex-wife, Sandra, told him the boy was gone all day every day with “that pretty awesome King Arthur guy” and the only time she ever saw him was early in the morning. She didn’t even care that Justin was ditching all or part of school most days, along with hundreds of other teens, to work with Arthur on the clean-ups. That had started another argument.

“He didn’t do anything in school last year but sell drugs,” she’d told him pointedly over the phone, “and don’t tell me you had no idea.”

Actually, he had had no idea, not until he’d seen Justin admit it on television that day. How had he so lost touch with his own boy? Hell, he knew some criminals better’n he knew his own kid! Rather than argue, he sighed and said, “I just want to see my son.”

“Good luck with that,” Sandra had said and hung up abruptly.

Gibson stood beside his expensive BMW parked outside his former Hancock Park, two-story house and anxiously drummed his fingers on the dark blue roof of the car. He’d thought for weeks what he would say when finally he got together with Justin. He’d practiced, promising to listen and not argue and not lose his temper.

The front door opened, and Justin excitedly leapt down the brickwork stairs and headed for the street. He looks so happy, Gibson thought. I never saw him look happy to be up this early in his life. The boy’s hair had grown out, and he looked good, healthy, and content. But then Justin spotted his dad, and the smile dropped, the mood darkened.

Afraid the boy would take off, Gibson said, “’Morning, Justin.”

Justin frowned and gazed at his father, who stood stiffly with both hands thrust into his pockets. “I got things to do, Dad.”

“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, son. Please, let’s talk a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, but obviously curious at his nonthreatening tone, Justin strolled over and stood awkwardly before Gibson, shuffling his feet uneasily.

“Wow,” Gibson said with a whistle, “you’ve grown.”

Justin glanced away. “Yeah, thanks.”

Gibson eyed the boy’s attire: long-sleeved, black tunic, the standard brown leather pants and leather boots of Arthur’s army. “Changed your look,” he said conversationally, choosing his words with care so as not to anger the boy. “I like it better than the sagging style,” and then realized when Justin glared at him that it was a dig. Why did he always do that?

“Uh, listen, son, I thought we might do something today after school,” Gibson tried again, “but your mom tells me you haven’t been going to school.”

Justin laughed. “Good one, Dad. You already know I’m not ’cause you been seeing me on TV. Mom tole me. So just cut the crap and say what’s on yer mind. I got people waitin’ on me.”

Gibson frowned, his temper rising. “You mean him, that crazy-ass King Arthur?”

“Yeah, I mean King Arthur, a man who done more for this city in six months than you done your whole life!”

“You know that’s unfair, Justin. You know I became a cop to help people, to help kids stay outta gangs and drugs because I saw too many of my friends go down for that. I did it for you, son, and your generation.”

Justin sneered. “And how well did that work out for ya, huh, Dad?”

Gibson glared at him, and then relented. “I know about the drugs, and Dwayne. I did see that on TV.”

Justin laughed hollowly. “That when you finally figured it out? Some cop! I been sellin’ for almost a year, Dad, and hangin’ with the homies for three. Ever since you left!”

Gibson didn’t understand. “Son, if you needed money…,” he tried lamely.

Justin shook his head in frustration. “No, Dad, I didn’t need the money. I needed you! But all I heard my whole life was this gang member or that gang member and how I’d better never get involved. Hell, Dad, you knew them gangsters on the street better’n you ever knew me!”

Gibson tried to interrupt, but Justin put a hand on his chest.

“Let me finish, Dad. That’s the trouble—you never let me finish.” He lowered his hand slowly. “When you and mom split, and you kept missing your visits ’cause somethin’ came up at work—always an ‘emergency’. God, how I hated hearing that!” His young face blazed with pent-up anger.

“Finally, I figured the only way my dad would pay any attention was if I was a gang member too. Then at least you might arrest me, and I’d get five minutes with you while you booked me! But no, you’re such a fantastic cop, you couldn’t even see the gang member in your own family.”

He laughed bitterly. “You know why Arthur’s better than you and all the cops and all the mayors and lawmakers put together? Cause all you guys think up are ways to arrest us and lock us up for life after we join gangs or otherwise screw up. Arthur’s out there giving us a reason not to do those things.”

Gibson stood, stunned, for once in his life not angry at being criticized, not even embarrassed if any of the neighbors might be watching. But he did feel ashamed, because he saw the truth in Justin’s words. Every single word. He’d wanted so badly to be super cop that he’d dropped the ball where it counted most. His son was right, and he was wrong.

“I’m sorry, Justin.” It was practically a whisper. “You’re right.”

Justin looked stunned, but smiled cynically. “I know I am.”

Gibson bristled, recognizing that thread of arrogance as his own DNA in the boy. Sandra never had that quality. He cleared his throat. “So, uh, you’re… you’re not selling anymore, right?”

Justin’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “No, Dad, I’m not, ’cause I don’t