Nimue's Confession — Part Six
By Lorraine Schein
So I look at the most obvious map there--the tristate area road map --and sure enough, there was Avalon.
“Myrr,” I say gently. “It’s a town on the Jersey shore. Our Lord couldn’t be there.”
“And why not? Look where we landed! Anyhow, Arthur kept calling, ‘Come to Avalon…’ Then his voice faded, but a shaft of light like a sword beckoned me. As I neared it, the light grew brighter, and then swooped down like a comet toward the woods. I followed it, thinking it must be him--our King returned at last.”
“So you weren’t just trying to escape again.” I am silent for a minute, remembering that regal face again. “You saw something. But why didn’t Arthur just come here?”
“He’s stuck between dimensions--we have to help him get through,” Merlin says, rubbing his beard. “At least I know he’s still out there somewhere.”
“But there’s no way for him to get here--not without our help,” I say.
“Almost true,” grumbles Merlin.
“Almost? But you told me that there was no one else who knew the spell.”
“Well, except for the Ladies who taught me. A little white lie.” Merlin gives a sly smile. It’s my turn to glare.
He looks thoughtful, then climbs a ladder to his telescope. “The answer may lie in the stars,” he says, looking through the eyepiece.
I wonder what he means. “They are not as bright as the ones in our forest were. Pollution, I guess,” I say.
Merlin snorts at this. “True.” Then he looks at me, and his voice softens. “But none were as bright as your eyes, Nimue.”
He’s flattering me. That could be dangerous.
I sit for a while as he stargazes. Then he yawns and stretches.
“Bedtime,” I say. I kiss him good night. He kisses back--he doesn’t always do that. Merlin is good at kissing--he has a couple of centuries more experience than most men.
I say good night, and close a door behind me. A fine mist hangs over the building as I walk back through the forest. The moon is a brassy doorknob overhead.
Then I hear the thunder. But when no rain follows, I begin to worry. I look back. Lightning flashes in long green streaks over the observatory. What has he done now?
I rush back, tripping over stones and skinning my knee.
Lorraine Schein is a New York writer and poet. Her work has appeared in VICE Terraform, Strange Horizons, Scientific American, and Michigan Quarterly, and in the anthologies The Unbearables, Wild Women and Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana del Rey & Sylvia Plath. The Futurist’s Mistress, her poetry book, is available from Mayapple Press. Her newest book, The Lady Anarchist Cafe, was published by Autonomedia and available on Amazon.
Copyright © 2025 Lorraine Schein