Birth

Unlike most, I distinctly remember my birth. That precise moment when I went from being nothing to being something. Or just being really. Being alive I guess. Being alert and awake and conscious. Being scared. Oh yes, I definitely recall that feeling.

Fear.

The dark swirling smoke accompanying my birth, punctuated as it was with dying bursts of light, may have had some effect on my emotions. Likewise, the smell of sulphur, although admittedly mixed with a strong scent of garlic. A somewhat odd combination, wouldn’t you say? But there I was, or technically wasn’t, and then Boom, I arrived. Through smoke and light and a rather strong odor. The pungent smell ensured my fear was short-lived.  The boisterous cheers reverberating around the room also helped. A bit out of place with the burning sulphur, but helpful, nonetheless. I’m given to understand that life is not usually accompanied by such extremes. Crying is apparently the norm. For the newly born for sure, but also for those responsible. Tears of joy, they say. But there’s usually not much call for extravagant cheering, at least not in the birthing room. And while there may be some aromatherapy present, it’s usually not of the garlic persuasion. Burning sulphur is almost never allowed, apart from maybe with birthing dragons.

Which I’m not by the way. A dragon.

The other memorable aspect of my birthing experience was the kind visage of my father. Or some would say my creator, although I like to think of him in more relatable terms. My first impression of him, witnessed through the smoky haze shot with sparks of light, were his eyebrows. I beheld eyebrows for the first time, and I knew what they were. Instantly. They were magnificent. Big, bushy and beautiful. Full of mystery. Who knew what could be hiding in such dark splendor? I didn’t. I mean, I knew they were eyebrows, but I didn’t have any more context than that.

And then, underneath the eyebrows, the eyes. Twin pools of green, interspersed with flecks of gold and aqua. Yes, I knew colors instantly as well. The eyes seemed both wise and kind, but also somehow anxious, as if my father was not quite certain of what he beheld.

The others in the birthing room weren’t so unsure.

“Brilliant,” one high-pitched voice called out.

“Simply marvelous,” another more resonant voice added.

“Nothing short of astounding,” a third booming voice exclaimed.

I heard the voices but my sight was consumed with the one who held me. My father gripped me tenderly, staring at me with those wise, kind, anxious eyes.

“May it be enough”, he said softly, although I was unsure who he was talking to. The others in the room didn’t respond. And I didn’t get the sense he was talking to me. But who else would he be talking to? And enough for what?

My father lifted his eyes from me. “Come,” he said to the others in the room. “We have much to do.”

My father gently lay me down on a bed of silk. Yes, I knew fabrics instantly too. And I understand that silk is not often the first choice for newborns, not ones of the human persuasion anyway. His hand lingered on me briefly before he left the birthing room, calling for the others to follow. The scent of garlic departed at the same time, although the smell of sulphur remained.

My world slowly turned to darkness.

Did I sleep?

Moments or millennia may have passed. I couldn’t tell. But I was woken by the familiar touch of my father.

“There you are,” he whispered.

I looked upon the face of my father and my heart almost failed, or at least whatever passed for my heart almost failed. My father seemed to have aged since I was born. His eyebrows had lost their dark luster and his eyes seemed haunted. What had happened to him in the time since he last held me? Or had some other power more damaging than time wounded him?

I couldn’t tell.

He reached out and gently lifted me from my bed of silk. His hands were not as I remembered them, rough where they were once soft, but now pockmarked and withered. Some grievous harm had befallen him, the manner of which I knew not.

My concern increased tenfold as my father’s arms quivered when they held me. Either I had grown heavier or he had grown weaker. It is common for newborns to increase in weight as the days pass, but I do not recall eating. Or drinking for that matter. My consciousness was awakened by my father’s touch, but of what had occurred while I slept, I could not tell.

A voice sounded in the dim recesses of the room. “Master, let me help.”

My father shook his head. “No, he must know only my touch, for now.”

So I was a “he”, or at least my father had referred to me as a “he”. Whilst that gave me a stronger sense of self, I didn’t like the idea of another’s touch. And then a thought occurred with the force of a thunderclap - where is my mother?

The voice sounded again. “Is it ready?”

My father shuddered as he bore me across the room. “He’ll have to be. Our time is ended.”

Thoughts of my mother fled as I first grappled with the idea of being labelled an “it” and then wrestled with the sense of time ending. Was my father dying?

I received no answers as I was placed on a coarse woolen blanket. My father’s hand gripped me gently before he swaddled me in the blanket, covering me completely.

My world again turned to darkness.

Did I sleep?

Moments or millennia may have passed. I couldn’t tell. But I was woken once more by the touch of my father.

He freed me from the confines of the woolen blanket and rested his hands on me, searching me for some as yet unspecified reason. Had I suffered damage? I had a vague memory of movement, of being jostled from side to side, as on a wagon. Had we travelled somewhere?

My father must have been satisfied that he could find no fault within me, because he lifted me from the woolen blanket. I perceived only a brief sense of our surroundings, a small woodland. It must have been past sunset as the light was fading. Did I not tell you I knew the timings of the day, the deep mysteries of the sun and moon? No? I don’t quite know how, but I knew many things.

Although I did not yet know my name.

My father stopped and it seemed he could no longer carry my weight. His entire being appeared to sag, as though what he was about to do would forever diminish him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

And then I was imprisoned. My father shut me away. I felt the rock walls closing in against me, suffocating me and denying me warmth.

I heard one last statement from my father before he abandoned me. “It is done. Make the proclamation.”

My world again turned to darkness.

Did I sleep?

Moments or millennia may have passed. I couldn’t tell. But I was woken once more by the touch of my… no, it was not my father. He had abandoned me. It was someone else. Someone with a murderous grip and a savage strength. Someone who seized me and tried to take me away with him.

I resisted with all my might. I did not want to go with this man, if man he was, and not a beast out of legend. I clung to the walls of my prison and slipped out of the man’s grasp. My antics enraged the man and he sought me with ever greater violence.

But I was resolute and my will would not be denied.

I bested my assailant but my reprieve was short-lived, for another quickly took his place. A man of similar brawn and violence. It took everything I had to repulse his attention.

And then began a seemingly endless stream of attacks.

I fought for my life, unsure of who was assaulting me or why I was targeted. Surely this could not have been the will of my father.

The attacks lasted for days. Sometimes a foe returned, often with the whiff of wine in the air, but mostly there was a string of new attackers. Men who all shared a similar penchant for violence.

And then the attacks abruptly stopped. I resisted the latest attempt, one of the weakest I’d ever faced, and no other took his place.

My world again turned to darkness.

Did I sleep?

Moments or millennia may have passed. I couldn’t tell. But I was woken once more by someone’s touch. I tensed, ready for another fight, but the hand which found me was light and hesitant. It brushed against me and hurriedly withdrew.

My heart, or what passed for my heart, leapt within me. I yearned to feel that touch once more, for it had awakened something within me. A power. A purpose. A destiny.

But where had that touch gone?

Would it ever return?

An age passed and my hope faded.

But then the touch returned, fleeting at first, but then with a strengthening grip. My spirit soared at the touch and I fought to free myself from my prison.

A surge of power ignited as my connection with the man holding me solidified and I was released. The man, not much older than a boy, raised me above his head, his eyes wide with wonder.

In that moment, I perceived many things, as the forging of my life reached fulfilment. First and foremost, I knew who held me. Arthur, one destined to be the king of England.

Next came knowledge of the name of my father, Merlin.

And as for me, well, they call me Excalibur.