A Knight Cometh At Night!

A year ago, in the dead of winter, I finished the last chapter, of the first book, of my Arthurian trilogy. It had been a long journey, with the past few months especially challenging ... my struggle ... where to end the first book. Finally, everything came together; I could feel Merlin hovering over my shoulder, as I frantically typed away that evening, he too appeared to be content in my decision. I was done, finished, the end. I crawled into bed that night, and fell into a deep sweet-dream slumber, completely void of antiquity.

At three in the morning, I felt a gentle bump on the bed. I thought little of the intrusion, as I am owned by two Labradors Retrievers and have become accustomed to nightly visitors, especially in the wee hours of the morning. Although my dogs do not have fleas (thus, the reason they are allowed on the bed) the movement was rather like a dog scratching; a steady thump, thump, thumping at my bedside. Inwardly growling, I opened one eye to see which hound’s name was going to get the cease-and-desist command and a pillow flung in their direction.

Much to my surprise, and dismay, next to me gently bouncing on the bed, sat a young knight. Even in the soft glow streaming from the bathroom’s nightlight I could see that he was dressed in battle garb. The chains of his mail rustled against the outer leather breastplate as he absentmindedly tapped the tip of his sword on the carpet. Sighing, he turned his head and wearily smiled.

Growling, aloud this time, I grabbed the pillow, shoved it over my head and tried to go back to sleep.

"You have only heard one-side of the tale," his voice was deep, crisp, with a slight Scottish accent.

"Go away, I am done," I protested, "Merlin told me all there is to know." Pulling the covers over the pillow it was soon becoming difficult to breathe. Images of the local obits danced in my head ... Death at night by knight!

"Merlin revealed his secrets, now it is time you listen to mine," his words flowed firm, calm, but with equal protest and passion.

Curiosity overruled frustration, and so began my relationship with a young Sir Lot of the Orkney Isles ... and yet another year worth of heavy rewrites to weave his tale into Merlin’s.

Dee-Marie

Time Waits For Merlin!

At dinner parties, when the question of "what do you do?" inevitably comes up, a small crowd always gathers when I answer that I am a writer. The group grows larger and the room hushes when I add that I am currently working on an Arthurian novel (after all, everyone grew up on tales of Camelot). Yet, how quickly the masses dwindle, returning to previous merry conversation, franticly remembering things they had forgotten to do when I add that I have been working on the book for over ten years.

Why has it taken so long to write a simple retelling of a story, retold hundreds of times over thousands of years? In the beginning, I too thought the process would be an easy endeavor ... a vehicle for Merlin to channel his stories, transcribing events straight from the source. I soon discovered Merlin works in mysterious (and frustrating) ways.

A prime example: while riding from a particularly gruesome battle, a young knight became extremely ill. His companion demanded that Merlin concoct a potion to ease his friend’s nausea. Before I could stop him, Merlin leaned in his saddle and grinned [I have grown to hate it when Merlin grins, it always means trouble], telling the knight not to worry, all would be well when they reached their destination.

"On the chalky hillside, above the rugged shores, grows an ancient herb that holds the properties to cure stomach ailments," even in his youth, Merlin’s words flowed with authority.

"No!" I groaned, wishing to reach in, grab Merlin off his pony and shake the smugness from his face.

"Excuse me?" blinking Merlin looked up, feigning confusion.

"I can’t take it any longer, I give up," frustrated I stopped just short of turning off the computer. Accustomed as I had become to Merlin's game of clue and quest, several of my deadlines had come and gone and I was becoming increasingly frustrated with his lackadaisical attitude toward my need to get on with my life.

Not unlike a movie director yelling, "Cut!" Merlin froze the action as he trotted his pony off the story set to have a private conversation with me.

"Merlin," I pleaded, "you have yet to disclose your final destination. I have just now found out that the knight is ill. And, no disrespect, but I wanted to reach through the computer screen and put my hand over your mouth when you boasted that you would cure the knight of a specific illness, with an ancient herb that only grew on a specific hill, in a specific coastal town."

"Is it lack of faith or lack of time that is frustrating you the most?" Without waiting for my reply, he slowly rejoined his men for the long trek to the seashore.

Without question, my faith in Merlin has been, is, and shall always be unconditional ... unlike Merlin, my life force is not ageless ... research takes times ... writing his story has taken ten long wonderful years of time!

Dee-Marie

To Avalon

How dare I, an American, connect myself with British lore? Let alone claim to have Merlin as a muse. Like all Americans, ancestry plays a big role. My father’s people were of Celtic decent, while my mother’s were French, not of Brittany, but not far from. They were a romantic people with a love of music, arts, a good tale and wine.

While I, my father’s firstborn, was coming into the world on the Pacific coast, my father, a career navy man, was sailing in the Atlantic waters. Soon after my birth, my mother took me to live with my grandparents, in the Avalon apartments atop Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, Washington.

The first two years of my life were spent in the loving care of a doting grandfather, a mystical grandmother, and an adoring mother … constantly bathed in a nurturing environment of love, laughter and music. Each night as my mother rocked me to sleep she would sing sweet Celtic lullabies, or tell wonderful tales of Merlin and King Arthur.

Is it possible for destiny to be imprinted before birth? Perhaps that is why I was whisked away to live at Avalon, secluded atop a Queen’s hill … to be contacted by Merlin so many years later … urged to write a story written a hundred times before? How totally arrogant of me, how absurd! I should re-title the novel “A Madwoman’s Musings.”

Yet, Merlin’s nightly whispers keep calling to me. I close my eyes and his words flow from lost memories of distance times, they summon me home to British shores, and I feel both blessed and humbled with any inadvertent connection to the lands of Merlin, to the lands of Arthurian Legends.

Dee-Marie

Merlin and the Quest

Ten years ago, while deep in slumber, I felt a gentle tug upon my nightgown, followed by whiskers tickling my ear. “Arise, I have a story to tell you,” an ancient voice whispered, upon his breath lingered the sweet scent of apples mixed with pipe tobacco. Like any rational person would do, I pulled the covers over my head, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Yet, Merlin was persistent, and for a week, he returned each evening awaking me in the predawn hours. I soon came to the realization that this was not merely a recurring dream, but somehow my bedroom had become a portal to the past. Over the next few years, the mystical gateway would allow access to wizards, fairies and knights in clanging armor.

That is how it all started … Merlin's quest for me to write Merlin's story!
Dee-Marie