Knight Life (36 page)

    
“Time, I'm afraid,” Shukin interrupted him, sounding a bit apologetic. “Mr. Penn?”

    
Arthur looked from Taylor to Keating and back again, and there was undisguised incredulity on his face. “You didn't answer the ques ... they didn't answer the question.” He looked to Baumann for confirmation, since he could clearly scarcely believe it. “Am I losing my mind? They didn't answer the bloody question. This is madness! No wonder young people don't want to vote. You're both idiots!”

    
“Mr. Penn!” Shukin objected, over an outroar of laughter from the audience.

    
Arthur paid him no mind. “Of course young people don't vote. It's a right that was handed to them, and therefore they don't appreciate it. Young people care about two things, and two things only: Those things they have to fight for, and those things they're told not to do. Going around and telling teens to vote: That's your problem right there. You're telling them
to do
something. All you have to do to engender resistance in a young person is to tell them they should do something. That it's their responsibility. That automatically means you've lumped voting in with taking out the garbage. You want to get them to vote? Here's what you do,” and Arthur looked straight into camera and, wagging a finger, said, “Every young person hearing this or watching this, listen to me now and tell all your friends I said this: Don't vote! Come election day, you are absolutely
not
to vote! I forbid it! I flatly
forbid it!
”

    
The laughter was louder now, drowning out the sputtering Shukin, who was trying to tell Arthur he had run overtime. Arthur continued, “Do you hear me, young people? Listen to me, girls: Boys hate girls who vote. It shows they have an opinion and spunk and know their mind! Boys, girls hate boys who vote! It shows maturity and
makes you attractive to them! And any adults who are listening, march straight up to your children's rooms right now and tell them in no uncertain terms: You are not to vote! If you were even
thinking
about voting, put that notion straight out of your head! Listen to your music, talk on the telephone, play your video games, and chat on computer boards, but take no, absolutely no interest at all in politics! Send the message out to every teen in the land:
Don't vote, because adults don't want you to!
” He leaned back and folded his arms, obviously satisfied. “There. That should do it.”

    
It took a full minute to restore composure to the proceedings, and all during that time, Keating glowered more and more fiercely. When the next question, from Owsley, came to Keating, he was ready.

    
“Mr. Keating,” Owsley said, glancing down at his notes, “incidents of police violence, particularly in the course of arrests, seem to be on the rise. These incidents occur particularly in the apprehension of African-Americans, I have noticed. Yet in the overwhelming number of instances, subsequent investigations by the police have exonerated the officers who have committed the violence. Are you satisfied with the manner in which these internal investigations are being performed, or do you intend to try and have stricter procedures implemented?”

    
Bernie paused a moment. His eye caught Moe in the corner, who gave him a thumbs up and a slow nod. Taking a deep breath, Bernie turned slowly to face Arthur and said, “Before we go any further, I'd like to clear up something, Mr. Penn.”

    
Quick off the mark, Shukin jumped in and said, “Mr. Keating, you are supposed to be addressing the questioners, not the other candidates.”

    
“Oh, this is just something very minor. Mr. Penn, who are you, really?”

    
There was a confused silence as the three reporters looked at each other. Taylor, obviously not wanting to be
left out of the unscheduled exchange, cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. Keating, I don't understand. Are you claiming this is not Arthur Penn?”

    
“No, no, no,” said Bernie quickly. “I am asking him to answer a simple question ... is your name Arthur Penn?”

    
Arthur smiled ingratiatingly. “Don't you like my name, Mr. Keating?”

    
But Bernie would not be dissuaded. “No, that's not the question. Is your name really Arthur Penn?”

    
Percival felt a cold sweat breaking on his forehead. Buddy and Elvis were exchanging worried glances. Ronnie Cordoba was completely confused.

    
But Arthur did not flinch. “Is that really of interest?”

    
Shukin, a veteran reporter, clearly sensed that there was something brewing. “Mr. Penn,” he said carefully, “you're not required to answer that. You're certainly not on any sort of trial here. But if it will,” he chuckled pleasantly, “keep peace in the family ...”

    
“Oh, very well. If you must uncover my deep, dark secret,” said Arthur, “No. That is not my real name. It's shortened. My full name is Arthur Pendragon.”

    
There was a mild laugh from the audience as Arthur said easily, “There, Mr. Keating. Are you quite satisfied?”

    
Baumann from the
Daily News
said, “Whoa! Great name! Any relation to
the
Arthur Pendragon?” When he received blank stares from all around, he said helpfully, “You know. King Arthur. Camelot. That stuff. Sue me, I majored in English lit.”

    
Taylor said, “If we could get back to the issue at hand—”

    
But Bernie's voice rang out. “Why don't you answer him, sir? Why don't you tell him? You
are
King Arthur, aren't you? You believe yourself to be the original Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, son of Luther—”

    
“Uther,” corrected Arthur.

    
“Thank you. Uther. You are him, aren't you? Aren't you?”

    
Shukin rapped with his knuckles on the podium and
wished that he had brought a gavel. “Mr. Keating, you can't be serious—”

    
But Bernie wouldn't ease up. He leaned forward, closer to the microphone, his voice lowering in intensity, and said, “He's the one who's serious. Go ahead. Look me straight in the eye and deny that you are the one, the only, the original King Arthur of Camelot. That you're over a thousand years old. That you've been in a cave all this time, and that you've returned to us because ‘you're needed.' Deny it!”

    
There was a long silence. Arthur and Bernie stared at each other. Each trying to stare down the other. And Bernard Keating felt the full intensity of the man who
was
King Arthur Pendragon, felt the strength of his anger, the power of his spirit and grim determination. And he lowered his gaze.

    
And slowly Arthur looked straight into the camera, and in a tone as reasonable as if he were announcing the weather, he said, “It's true.”

    
Percival closed his eyes. Ronnie muttered to himself, “It figures.” And Buddy turned to Elvis and said, “You mean everybody doesn't know that?”

    
“Yes,” said Arthur. “I am everything Mr. Keating says. I was trying to keep it quiet because, frankly, I didn't want to use unfair advantage.” He stepped to the side of the podium, interlaced his fingers and leaned on one elbow as if he were standing next to a fireplace mantle in his study. “I mean, after all ... a cheap politician is a cheap politician. But a king ... good Lord! How could
anyone
possibly fight competition like that? And a legendary king to boot! No, my friends. I felt it best to keep my true identity a low profile, so as to give Messrs. Keating and Taylor a sporting chance.”

    
The audience members looked at each other, unsure yet of exactly how they were supposed to react.

    
“But the word is out,” said Arthur morosely. “Mr.
Keating, for whatever reason, has decided to slit his own throat at this late date by guaranteeing the election for me. Ladies and gentlemen, it is I, King Arthur who stand before you.” His mood shifted and he smiled broadly. “But perhaps it's better this way, for now I do not have to make pretense of being a man from this day and age. I can speak to you as a man from the past. A man who has seen what the world was, and who has watched what the world has grown into.” There was genuine wonderment in his voice. “Good Lord, when I think what life was like in the old days. Only a few piddling centuries ago, my friends! A mere droplet in the great flood that is time, and yet look how far that droplet called humanity has gone! It's incredible. Look at yourselves! By and large you're better fed than my people were. Better dressed. Healthier. Longer lived. Smarter. Taller,” he said, with some regret.

    
“Yes. I have returned. Some of you, such as Mr. Baumann here, might be familiar with the legends. That I would return when the world needed me. But you've taken that to mean that it would be in your world's darkest hours. Well, I'm here, my friends, to tell you that is not the case. I am here to tell you that you stand on the brink of a golden age. A time of potential learning and growth that could make all your previous achievements look like mud on an anthill by comparison. And I think that perhaps you're all afraid of what you can accomplish.” He paused, searching for the right words. It would have been an ideal moment for Shukin to jump in, to stop him from continuing on the totally against-the-rules monologue. Instead he seemed as spellbound as the rest of them.

    
“It's more than you can believe,” Arthur said finally. “And so you toy with the concept of self-destruction on a global scale. But I am here to lead you away from that. You have all the answers you need, right within your grasp. And I'm here to bring a fresh perspective, and a
fresh understanding, and the knowledge to help you pick and choose the right way to go. And together, my friends, together ... we can make it work. No, I recant that. Because I've seen what was, and I've seen what is, and I tell you that it is working. We can make it work better.”

    
The words had not been delivered in a Bible-thumping style. Instead they had been said with the quiet conviction of a man who sincerely believed every syllable of what he was saying.

    
Slowly, Elvis stood up and started to clap. Buddy joined him. And then someone who wasn't part of Arthur's group, and then another, and within seconds the entire studio was filled with the thunderous sound of applause. It lasted for a solid minute, and Arthur smiled through it. He didn't look at Bernie Keating or Kent Taylor or anyone at all in particular. He was looking at his mind's-eye image of Merlin and thinking,
Bloody hell, I should have done this months ago, eh, Merlin?

M
ILES AWAY, IN
New Jersey, Morgan Le Fey fumed as she stared at the TV screen. “I don't understand. It was perfect. My ploy of stealing Excalibur, that useless hunk of metal, succeeded in netting me my true goal, Merlin. Then with Merlin gone, Arthur should have become dispirited, demoralized. I even had a glorious fantasy that he would simply throw himself on his thrice-damned sword and end it all. Then the truth of his identity would be revealed on television before his precious voters, and he would be laughed out of politics as a total lunatic.” She screamed at the television, “Stop your damned clapping! You're supposed to think he's crackers!”

    
Unsurprisingly, the TV paid no attention to Morgan.

    
“All right, fine,” she said. “You want to build up your hopes, Arthur? Fine. I'll build them up even higher, then, and that way they'll make an even louder crash when they
fall! And nothing will distract me from my purpose! Nothing!”

    
“Morgan?” Lance inquired, wandering in. “Will you spank me?”

    
She considered it. “Well, five minutes of fun wouldn't hurt ...”

Y
E
O
EDE
S
OUND
B
ITE

“One can see, Larry, from Penn's presentation that he is using the King Arthur Camelot Scenario as a metaphor for all he intends to achieve. He has locked onto this ‘view from another era' to help clarify and lend a certain degree of validity to his unorthodox approach to politics and issues. And it certainly seems to be working with the electorate who are
—
frankly
—
so desperate to have their attentions and imaginations engaged by the political arena that they are eagerly embracing his man. After years of bull
—
pardon my French
—
the people of New York have been handed someone who seems both genuine and mythic, all at the same time. One can only wonder what heroic proportions he might achieve should he, in a few years, go national ...”