The Magic Tree House - An Hour for Oblivion

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It was Morgan who spoke first, retelling the amazing story of Jack and Annie and how they helped to keep Camelot alive by collecting books. As the Arthurian library grew, so did it’s strength and influence.

“On several occasions, I tried to explain to your parents that Camelot was special and different. Although based on a real place in your world, this Camelot has been molded by fiction, changing throughout the years as its story was passed down from generation to generation.”

“So this place isn’t real?” Malcolm asked.

“In your world, no,” Merlin rasped. “But your world, to us, is only a story. A fiction.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to understand.

Julia leaned forward. “Is this like alternate realities? We watched a science program about that once.”

“Yes,” Morgan said, her eyes sparkling. “You are as clever as your father, dear. When a story is told, the writer is tapping into the fabric of another world and a connection is made. There are endless, infinite worlds just as the possibilities of stories are infinite. When a new story is told or written, it is brought to the awareness of others.”

“We believed,” Merlin added, “that our Camelot was to be a Master Library. A place out of space and time where all stories written, representing many worlds, would be safe.”

“But why would any reality have to be safe?” Malcolm asked. “What put Camelot in danger?”

Morgan stood and began to pace. “As far as we can tell, it goes back to your parents’ final mission in the tree house. They were to bring back a very special book. A book that would guarantee our story, our world, would never die.”

There was silence.

“They never found that book,” Julia said.

“No,” Merlin said softly. “It was the only time they failed to complete a mission. Morgan and I…”

“We decided to end it,” Morgan said grimly, finishing his thought. “Things were simply getting too dangerous. Jack and Annie had helped many times over the years. It would have been unfair to expose them to further peril.”

“It was that nasty man who brought us here, wasn’t it?” Malcolm asked. “Vortigo.”

“Yes,” Morgan sighed. “Though his name is Vortigern. And you are correct in calling him nasty. His only goal is to extinguish Arthur’s realm, even though he himself will be destroyed along with it.”

"I fear he blames me," Merlin said. "When I was much younger and Vortigern was king, he believed I collapsed his fortress by commanding a red and white dragon. The dragons, however, were sent by others. Many magicians were killed after the event, though I alone escaped."

There was a long, dark silence.

From somewhere above their prison came a deep, thunderous blast.

Morgan sighed.

“He’s gone,” Merlin said, both relieved and saddened at the same time.

“What was that?” Malcolm asked.

“Vortigern is no more,” Morgan said. “His magic no longer weighs us down.”

Raising her arms, she whispered something under her breath and the bars of the cell exploded in soft puffs of powder. Together, they ducked out of the prison and began the long walk upward to the surface.

“Who killed Vortigern?” Julia asked.

“He doomed himself,” Merlin said in his gravelly voice. “Just as all of Camelot will soon disappear. Vortigern’s story is not as well known as ours. Only the strongest elements of our plot with make it to the end.”

Just as Julia was about to ask another question, they came out into the dusky light of day. The roiling clouds above seemed low enough to touch, though it was only an illusion. Malcolm couldn’t resist going up on his toes, but his fingers only wiggled in the cold air.

Merlin stopped and they waited as he searched inside his robes for something. Pulling out two long, woolen cloaks, he handed them to Julia and Malcolm. The children thanked him and wrapped the warm fabric around their shoulders.

They continued on, despair growing with each step. At one point, they moved across a flat area coated in a thick layer of grey ash. Merlin turned to them and said, softly, “This was Morgan’s library.”

Eventually, they made it to the center of Camelot. One building remained, though it appeared as if it, too, would soon collapse.

“What’s that?” Malcolm asked.

“It is the castle keep,” Morgan said sadly. “I believe it’s time we said our goodbyes.”

The moment they passed through the tilting archway, Malcolm jumped in shock. A group of people sat around a low, round table, each staring off at some unknown point.

“Is that King Arthur?” Julia whispered.

“Yes,” Morgan said. “Though you need not whisper, child. King Arthur, his wife Gwenivere and the twelve Knights cannot hear you. They have all given up and await the hour of oblivion.”

A thought came to Malcolm, something he couldn’t hold back. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Putting an arm around his shoulders, Morgan said, “Do not fear, for you are not a part of this story. Merlin and I will make sure you return to Frog Creek and your parents. We shall go to the tree house at once. When you return, no time will have passed and all will be as it was.”

“But we’ll remember you,” Julia said. “We can help you keep Camelot alive.”

“That’s right,” Malcolm said. “I can even write a story about you so no one will forget!”

Smiling, the enchantress said, “You are as kind and brave as Jack and Annie, but I’m afraid it will not be enough. Our sphere of influence beyond this world has withered.”

Merlin cleared his throat and said, “There does remain one person who could save us all, but, alas, she has given up. She has turned her back on the dream of Camelot.”

“Who?” Julia inquired.

“Come,” Morgan said, glancing from Julia to Malcolm. “It’s time.”

They followed Morgan and Merlin from the keep and back across the embattled landscape. Crossing the moat, a veil of mist rose from the ground and their pace slowed with caution.

“I still think we can help,” Malcolm whispered to Julia. His cousin took his hand and squeezed it gently.

Then they stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Julia asked.

Morgan took a few tentative steps forward, then knelt to the remains of a large campfire. Scattered among the ashes were splintery bits of knotty wood charred to carbon. Reaching into the soot, she pulled out the fragment of a flat, blackened board.

Merlin, who stood a few feet away, dropped his head into both hands.

Morgan stood, dropping the board. When she looked up at them, her eyes were grey and forlorn.

“It’s gone,” she said. “The tree house is gone.”