By: James Aitchison

        Loyal Sir Bedivere gazed upon the broad water.  In his hand was the great sword Excalibur, encrusted with diamond sparks and topaz, its jacinth stones bestowing wisdom on its owner and protecting him for evil.  His dying king had ordered him to discard it twice.  Twice he had failed.  But now, Arthur’s harsh admonition ringing in his ears, he lifted his arm and hurled the sword with all his might.

        It arced through the air, precious gems glinting with every turn.

        No sooner had it dipped towards the water than a hand arose from beneath the surface.  Its owner’s arm was clad in a sleeve of white samite, the most luxurious silk threaded with gold and silver. 

        Bedivere fell to a knee.  Three times the hand circled the sword in the air.  Bedivere’s mind was smitten with confusion.  Is this how the legend of Excalibur would end?  Torn from a stone then thrust into a lake?  A mystic hand pulling his king’s sword beneath the dead water?  Lost forever as Camelot itself was lost?

        Bedivere’s cry burst from his lips. 

        What folly was this?

        The hand rose higher and hurled the sword across the water to where a man stood on the opposite shore.  Such a strange figure, old, stooped, so unknightly, wearing garments unfamiliar to Bedivere’s startled gaze.  The hairless man had an ugly black object in his mouth and sucked gratefully upon it. 

        Despite his age and obvious unworthiness, he caught the sword easily and held it high.

        “Nay, thief!”  Bedivere’s fury echoed over the water.  “That sword is not meant for the likes of you!”

        “Fear not,” the stranger replied, clutching the sword with reverence.  “Tell your king I will use it wisely.  For aided by this faithful weapon, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills … we shall never surrender.”