I remember how freaked out Kat was when the gypsy read her palm. At the time I'd thought she was overreacting. Now I'm not so sure.
"The stars sometimes align themselves in mysterious ways," the gypsy continues, motioning for me to sit. I lower myself onto the stool, lightheaded, almost as if I've fallen into some kind of semiconscious trance. "I think we can—how do you say it in your world? Kill two birds with a single stone?"
"Huh?"
"Listen carefully and I will explain," the old woman says, her eyes shining with a new enthusiasm. "Time is a slippery slope. A wheel, ever turning. To bring Kat and her companions back from the future requires a complicated spell to bend the wheel. The spell requires many a rare ingredient, including the rarest of all—a drop of pure blood from the cup of the Christ.''
I raise an eyebrow. "The cup of Christ? You mean, like, the Holy Grail?"
"Aye," the gypsy agrees. "A vessel long lost to this world. The last time it was seen was when Richard the Lionhearted, King of England, secretly brought it back from the Holy Land when he returned from the Crusades."
I frown. What, does she think I was born yesterday? I mean, someone ignorant like Kat might buy such a fantastical tale, but not me.
"No offense, but I must have missed that day in history class. Sure, I know the English knights went to the Holy Land to seek the Grail and all, but as far as I've read no one ever found it. In fact, I'm pretty sure its whole existence is a myth created by the Catholic Church."
"History is but an abridged record of truth," the gypsy responds patiently, "and only reveals what its writers have knowledge of. I tell thee true. King Richard did bring back the Grail. But, deciding he cared not to donate it to the Church, he hoarded it secretly in his castle and spoke not of it until his dying day."
"Okay, fine. I suppose that's possible," I grudgingly agree. "But what does this have to do with me?"
"I need thee to traverse time to the day Richard comes back from his crusade. Thou must convince him to give thee a single drop of blood from the Grail. Put it in this." From her robe, she pulls out a glass vial hanging from a golden chain, and she hands it to me.
"Even if I believed you, which I'm not saying I do," I say, still completely skeptical, "why me? Why not just go yourself?"
"Travel through time can be harsh on one's physical body. I have already traveled far to be here today, and I must travel back to mine own time before I am missed. Another voyage would likely be the end of me."
"Okay, fine," I say. I sympathized. I was tired from my trip from the city, and if she believed she'd traveled through time she'd be exhausted. Besides, I was quite ready to throw question number two at her. "So then, how come if you're so good at sending people through time, you can't just get Kat back on your own? I don't remember you using some random Grail blood to cast your spell the first time around."
Ah-ha! Answer that! I think, before coming to the realization that I'm actually sitting in a gypsy tent arguing the technicalities of time travel. And here I was thinking Kat had lost it.
"When the physical body traverses a spoke in the wheel of time, a locator spell is needed before they can be pulled back to the hub."
In plain English, I believe this means time travel doesn't work via remote control. Jeez Louise. This woman's got an answer for everything!
"Well, then how come you can't just—"
"My time grows short, little one," the gypsy interrupts, sounding decidedly less sympathetic than she had been a few minutes before. "I must return to Avalon. Wilt thou question me to death, or accept thy destiny and retrieve the Grail?"
"Well, since you're giving me the choice, I think I'll go with door number one," I say. " 'Cause you haven't exactly convinced me of the whole destiny thing. Or the time-travel thing, if it comes to that."
The gypsy shakes her head. "In my day, women were much less difficult than you twenty-first century girls. We never spoke back, always married the lords our fathers chose and wouldn't ever even consider burning our undergarments in protest."
"Hello? You're talking about sending me back in rime on some ridiculous quest to save a person I don't even like! That’s a little different than lighting my bra on fire, don't you think?"
"I grow tired of thy resistance," the gypsy snaps. " ‘Tis for the best, my child. You will see." And she suddenly waves her hands in the air. I leap back, but there's no avoiding her spell. "Abu Solstice Nottingham!" she cries in a loud, overly dramatic voice.
Thunder cracks in the sky, shaking the very ground. The already dim tent lanterns fade into gray shadows, and I blink my eyes in an attempt to keep conscious. What has she done to me? Am I going back in time?
"Wait!" I cry, fading fast. I suddenly realize I've forgotten the most important question of all. "If I do get the Grail, how do I get back?"
I black out before she can answer.
Chapter Two
When I open my eyes, I realize I'm lying flat on my back in the middle of a dense forest. For a moment I don't move, staring up at the tall oak trees, whose leafy green branches provide a tattered canopy from the bright sunshine. Could make a pretty photo with the right Instagram filter.
Then I remember what happened, and sit up with a start. King Arthur's Faire. The gypsy. The command to go back in time to find the Grail. The quest to rescue Kat Jones, who for some inexplicable reason is supposedly stuck a thousand years in the future.
At this moment, major freak-outage takes hold and my heart starts pounding way too fast against my ribcage. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the breathing exercises I learned in yoga to steady my pulse. Panic-induced heart attacks, however justified, are not going to help me at this juncture.
I scramble to my feet and take stock of my surroundings. Where am I? Have I really been sent back in time? Or did I only pass out and get dumped in an area that's supposed to represent Sherwood Forest in my reality TV nightmare? Either scenario seems farfetched, but they're all my frazzled brain can come up with on short notice. Of course, since there's nothing but trees as far as my eyes can see, I don't have much to go on. My only options appear to be two footpaths headed in opposite directions.
If I'd known this morning I'd have to go back in time to save a girl I don't even like, I'd definitely have worn better shoes. These satin slippers may scream medieval maiden, but they aren't exactly forest friendly. Neither is this stupid medieval dress, for that matter. I unlace the corset and let it fall to the ground. It's way too hard to breathe with that thing crushing my ribs. Then I pull the gown over my head to reveal my much more practical yoga Capri pants and long thermal undershirt. Thank God I decided to wear real clothes under my costume.
I roll up the gown and corset and set them behind a tree—too bulky to walk around in, I'll have to come back for them later. I scan the area. Now that I'm properly outfitted for traveling, which way should I go? I scratch my head. I guess since I'm supposed to be looking for King Richard, I should try to find a castle. That, at least, seems obvious. But where the heck do I even begin?
Man, Danny's portable GPS sure would come in handy right about now. So would Danny himself, for that matter. He's so good with all these nature things—and at taking control when life goes all crazy.
Oh, why did I have go start thinking about Danny?
As always happens when my thoughts wander into the "closed for construction" part of my brain, tears start to threaten. No matter how much I try not to care, I always end up a total basket case when I think about my soon-to-be-ex husband. I always start missing the bastard with a vengeance.
I swallow hard and tell myself to stop being such a dumbass. After all, he betrayed me. The only man I ever loved. My high school sweetheart. The one I gave up my virginity to in the back of his mother's station wagon. The one who ditched me like a bad habit after seven years of marriage for a slut with big boobs. I hate him. And I have to keep hating him if I want to respect myself in the morning.
Forcing thoughts of Danny from my mind, I tr
y to replace the void by drawing on lessons I learned at Camp Fireside back in elementary school days. Which side of the tree did they say moss grew on again?
Then I realize sadly that it doesn't matter. Knowing which way is north doesn't make a bit of difference when you have no idea if your objective is north, south, east or west from your current position.
The whole scenario strikes me as rather unorganized. I mean, if I were going to send a girl back in time, I'd definitely have done a better job prepping her beforehand. "Go find the Holy Grail" isn't exactly a step-by-step procedural, now is it? Not to mention I have no idea how I'm going to get back if/when I find the thing. That in itself is more than a bit frightening.
Of course, this is all if indeed I really am back in time to begin with. It's much more likely that this whole scenario is part of some freakish reality show. One of the more out-there ones, to be sure. It's probably airing on Fox.
"Long live Hillary Clinton!" I cry, hoping to flush one of the Fox News producers out of hiding.
Nothing. Complete silence. Maybe it's airing on Bravo.
I look up and down the path. Should I go left or right? I kind of feel like Jennifer Connelly's character in that movie Labyrinth, when she's trying to get to the Goblin King's castle, except in my adventure there's no cockney-accented Muppet worm to ask for directions.
Okay, Chrissie, enough with the pop culture references. Decision time. Pick a path.
Hmm. Well, I know Robert Frost would prefer the one less traveled, but most likely he had on better shoes. I have no interest in twisting my ankle on an uprooted tree stump, so I make the executive decision to go the wide grassy path instead. Besides, with great respect to Mr. Frost, in my opinion it's much more likely that wide grassy paths lead to castles, even if they don't make all the difference.
I saunter down the path, constantly on the lookout for TV cameras. If this is a reality show, the producers really need to up the drama factor. I mean, walking down a path—how boring can you get? And since it appears I'm the only castaway in shouting distance, how does one get voted off the island?
The further down the trail I go, the more worried I become. Reality shows don't usually hide the cameras, do they? In fact, I bet that could lead to some kind of lawsuit.
"I don't consent to be videotaped!" I cry. "So you're wasting your time filming me."
No answer. Only the whistling wind through the oak trees, creeping me out. I swallow hard and force myself to keep moving. At this point, that's all I can do.
The trees thin and I come to a rushing river. While it's not that wide, it appears pretty deep and the current seems strong. From the looks of it, there used to be a crude wooden bridge, but it's been destroyed. Wonderful. Luck is so not being a lady to me tonight. The wide, grassy path continues on the other side, mocking me from a distance.
Against my better judgment, I decide to leave the path and head upriver, searching for another way across. The underbrush thickens and bramble bushes scrape at my skin as I weed-whack through. Oh, my kingdom for some bug spray. I'm getting eaten alive by midges.
Several yards away, I come to an enormously wide log lying lengthways across the river. Saved! But before I can rejoice in my fortune and make the journey to the other side, a male voice stops me dead in my tracks.
"Who dares cross my bridge?" it calls out in a strong English accent.
For some reason all I can think of is that story about the Billy Goats Gruff trying to cross the bridge owned by the evil troll. Problem is, I can't remember how the whole thing played out, so I have no way to apply fairy-tale wisdom to my current situation. Which, now that I think about it, is probably not a bad thing.
Before I can answer, a man leaps from the bushes on the other side of the river and nimbly hops onto the log bridge. My eyes widen as I stare in disbelief. The man is dressed almost entirely in green. Green tunic, belted and hanging to mid thigh. Tight leather leggings. A green cap with a green feather. He's carrying a long wooden pole in his hands and has another strapped to his back.
Let me tell you, he's certainly no troll. With thick chestnut-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail and a strong, chiseled jaw, he's quite possibly the most stunning man I've ever laid eyes on. And as a fashion photographer, I've checked out more than my share of male models. The man is ripped under his costume, and I can clearly see his impressive thigh muscles under his tights.
Could it be...? No, that's crazy. There's no way this man could be who I'm thinking he is. Could there? Of course, if I'm here to hang with King Richard, then I am in the right time period, but still... what are the chances I've stumbled upon the legendary Robin Hood in the flesh? Maybe Kat's wild talk of hanging around with Lancelot and Guenevere wasn't so crazy after all....
"Um," I say, not knowing how to begin. "I think I'm lost. Is there a castle around here by any chance?"
The man nods. "Castle? Aye, of course. " ‘Tis not a quarter day's walk down yonder path, on the far side of this river."
"Oh. Okay." I pause, assuming he'll step out of the way and let me across. But he simply stands there, studying me with cool eyes. "Um, do you mind if I cross over this log then?" I add at last, realizing he's not going to move.
"I'm afraid 'tis impossible," the man says, a solemn look on his face. "Unless you are willing to pay the tax."
I raise an eyebrow. "You've imposed a tax on a log? Jeez. Where are we, Sherwood, Massachusetts?"
He frowns. "My good sir, if you refuse to pay, then I am afraid I must challenge you to a match of skill."
A match of...? Hold on a sec. Sir? Did he just call me sir? He thinks I'm a guy? Man! I mean, I know I'm a bit flat-chested, but give me a freaking break! Does he not notice my ponytail of red curly hair? Then again, he has long hair too, so I guess that doesn't mean much. Sigh. And I do have on pants. If he's really from the twelfth century, or pretending to be, he may think girls all dress in satin gowns and stuff.
I consider using defensive tactic number one—my feminine charm—to win an instant victory, then quickly reconsider. Let's say for a moment that I'm really (gulp!) back in time. Who knows what this man could do to me if he finds out I'm a girl? After everything that's already happened today, I'm so not interested in getting ravaged to top it off. Even if the potential ravager is sexy as hell.
"What kind of a match of skill?" I ask, giving in to my curiosity.
He waves the staff he’s carrying. “ ‘Tis simple,” he says. "If you are able to knock me off the log with this staff, I will reward you with the right of passage, along with my utmost respect. If you cannot, I dare say, my fine sir, you are likely to get rather wet."
He wants to have a staff duel? He's got to be kidding!
"Come on, man," I plead. "Can't you just let me cross?"
He shakes his head and I notice a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He's toying with me. He thinks he'll easily knock me off the log. I can feel my hackles rise to the challenge. What he doesn't know is that I used to be a champion gymnast in high school. And I'm pretty nimble on narrow surfaces like that log. Maybe I have a chance to take him. And I do need to cross the river....
"All right, I accept your challenge," I say. "Give me your staff."
Heh heh, the Beavis and Butthead voices in my head chuckle. She wants his staff.
The man tosses the long piece of wood at me, and I almost fall backwards under its weight. It's a little heavier than I'd thought. And with this guy outweighing me by about seventy pounds he definitely has the advantage. But I'm determined not to let him get the best of me. After all, this could very likely be the first challenge in the reality show And if I am stuck on a reality show, I'm so not going to suffer the embarrassment of being kicked off on the first day.
I nimbly hop onto the log, all my gymnastic training coming back to me. Mr. I-Challenge-You looks surprised as I twirl my staff and move toward him as best I can. Then he smiles wickedly, as if looking forward to the fight, and pulls out the second staff that was strapped t
o his back. He swings it back and forth with ease, looking pretty darn comfortable navigating the log's width himself. Suddenly I feel more than a little nervous. Now that I think about it, I've always been way too brave for my own good.
Oh well, too late now.
The man darts forward and I thrust my staff in front of my face to block his charge. Then I swing at him and he deftly parries.
Hey, I'm pretty good at this!
He swings again, and I imagine he's Darth Vader and I, the brave Luke Skywalker, must resist turning to the Dark Side. I block him, then dance forward two steps and swing again. He deflects my pole and follows up with a swing so hard I nearly lose my balance. Summoning all my gymnastics training, I take a few steps back to center myself.
I realize if I'm going to beat this guy, I'll need to use some unconventional methodology. He's way too good with his staff, and too strong. I'll have to use my brains to combat his brawn. As he waits, urging me on with a smirk, I formulate a plan and take action.
I toss my stick to the side and leap into a cartwheel, just like I used to do on the balance beam during gymnastics meets. The moment my feet touch the log, I swing them backward, launching into a back-handspring. I haven't done this move for a few years and my muscles strain in protest.
But it's worth it. My feet smack into flesh as I make contact and I hear him cry out as he loses his balance. Next thing I feel is a splash as he falls into the water, followed by piercing pain as my feet miss the log and I slam chest first into the wood. The wind knocked out of me, I grip the log with all my might to keep from falling off.
Woohoo! I won!
Once I've regained my balance and breath, I look around, watching and waiting for the reality TV EMTs to pop out of the bushes and rescue my vanquished foe. I wonder what luxury item I'll get for this challenge. Bug spray or a pillow would be nice.
Um, why isn't anyone coming to rescue him?
I watch, growing concerned as the man thrashes around in the raging river, helplessly dragged down by the current. My heart leaps into my throat. I didn't want the poor guy dead! What if he can't swim? What if he hit his head and is unconscious?
A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest Page 2