King Arthur, Early Riser
Arthur awakens in Glastonbury.
This short story was originally scribbled on the bus back from a particularly lacklustre trip to Glastonbury. I never intended for it to see the light of day but I had great fun writing it as a silly break from my research.
Arthur comes back on a Bank Holiday Monday, which all things considered, is the single worst possible day for historical returns. He claws up through several eras of consecrated turf, past a packet of quavers and promptly heaves up about 1,400 years of soil.
The Once and Future King lifts his gaze towards the gauzy sky, preparing to feel the singular glory of prophesised resurrection. The singular glory of prophesied resurrection turns out to smell strongly of a bin lorry, three streets over, starting its round. Shaking a few disgruntled worms from his kingly mane, Arthur stumbles (in a kingly fashion) through the abbey gates.
Reaching the top of the high street he stands there a while, one boot sole already coming loose and flapping faintly with each step. He takes it in, the heartland of his kingdom: the puzzling shoppes promising puzzling wares, boards scrawled with prices for some witchery called a ‘smoothie,’ a banner still up from festivities, seemingly long-since past, sagging between two great metal posts, topped with a sort of captive fire.
The feeble wash of a mid-march dawn is struggling to brighten the street. Buildings flatten in the half-hearted light, their colours gone soft and apologetic, the kind of grey-pinks, grey-blues one might turn away from in mild embarrassment. A grotty fox skitters over strange flagstones lumped with roots that no longer end in trees. It pauses in its flight to cast a one eyed glance of reprove at its startler, who is irritably contending with the sole of his fine leather boot, when a resounding clang announces coronet meeting tarmac.
Arthur pauses, looks around expectantly. Any minute now, at least thirty squires will come rushing from these strange dwellings, scrambling over one another to assist their liege with the holy, holy repositioning of holy, holy crown. A pigeon mewls pityingly from a porch that offers something called ‘a Righteous Reckoning of Root Vegetables.’ Nice to see the kingdom’s herbalists are still plying their trade.
