A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "Why are you helping me?" I'm suddenly desperate to know.

  "You needn't ask that, lady."

  "Yes, I do need to. I've got to know," I insist. "I've been nothing but an embarrassment and problem since I arrived."

  " ‘Tis untrue."

  " ‘Tis very, very true," I cry, suddenly feeling quite sorry for myself. "In fact, I'm willing to bet you've never, ever had to deal with a drunk, table-dancing damsel in distress in all your years as a knight. I bet everyone you've rescued before has been sweet and demure and nice and thankful for your help." I'm practically shouting at him now, I'm so worked up. I can't believe how pathetic I am, how pathetic I must seem to him. "You should be running in the other direction instead of going out of your way to help me out. If I were you—"

  Out of nowhere roughened hands cup my chin, and desperate lips crush my own. I gasp in surprise—lost in my self-pity, I didn't even hear him approach. I can't see him, even with my eyes wide-open. The mists have robbed me of my vision, the rest of my senses conquered by him alone. His hands find my waist and yank me closer. His mouth, his lips, demand total submission. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the silence of the lake. His scent, patchouli, mixes with musky desire. I'm weak. Powerless. Overwhelmed. Breathless. All at once. Can't explain. Don't want to.

  Just want to feel...

  Like this…

  Forever…

  So I kiss him back.

  Remember Titanic? The sweaty palm pressed against the glass after Rose and Jack make love? A simple symbol, wordlessly capturing ultimate desire. I thought it beautiful then. It's the only thing I can compare this to now.

  What happened to the cynical, self-absorbed girl who thinks romance was invented to sell chocolates and sappy cards? The girl who has sex, but doesn't make love? The girl who abhors public displays of affection, and believes marriage is an evil institution thought up by misogynistic men who want to control women? Well, at this moment she's taking a little time off. Some well-deserved R-and-R. The new and improved romanticized version of Katherine Alyssa Jones is presently lost in the ecstasy of it all, and no, I don't think I should have to apologize for it!

  The barge hits land and I'm jarred forward into Lancelot's arms. For a moment he holds me, as if physically unable to let go. I am his willing captive. Then his hands drop. His lips pull away from mine. I am alone once again. An emptiness—an extreme loneliness—shoots a torturous ache through my stomach.

  "I am sorry, milady," his voice stammers through the fog. "I—I shouldn't have.... I forget myself. Please forgive me. That should not have happened."

  Yes, it should have! That was, like, the most romantic thing that ever happened to me. I mean, I've had my fair share of passionate moments. But none can top an invisible kiss by a valiant knight in the middle of a mist-shrouded lake. Suddenly I see why medieval literature and movies are so popular. There's something about knights—this one in particular—that is so damn appealing, so freaking romantic I can barely stand it.

  My legs are still unsteady as we step off the barge and onto the mossy ground. I look up and see a light piercing through the mists. A woman dressed in a simple white, beltless gown and no shoes stands on the shore, holding a lantern. Her long blond hair falls to her lower back, and her eyes, reflected in the lantern's dancing light, shine with an unnatural glow.

  "Welcome to Avalon," she says in a voice of tinkling Christmas bells that you could very well imagine belonging to a fairy. "My lady has been expecting you."

  Chapter 8

  Expecting us? How can she be expecting us? We certainly haven't called to make an appointment. And considering we decided to make this trek only, like, twenty-four hours ago, I don't think anyone's had time to warn her.

  Lancelot doesn't seem surprised at all by the white-robed maiden's words. Like, duh, he thinks she's magical. Of course he'd buy into the idea that she knew we were coming. But really, for all we know, this greeter priestess has been hanging out for days on end, under strict orders from her mistress to pretend to recognize any and all visitors and let them know they were expected, even though they weren't.

  The girl (for she is, I realize after taking a closer look, only about fourteen years old) turns and starts walking up a mossy incline, her long blond hair swishing behind her. I glance at Lance, who motions that we should follow.

  She doesn't say a word as she leads us into swirling white mist, guided only by her single candle lantern. It's kind of scary, to tell the truth—the darkness, the spooky owls hooting in the trees. My pulse is racing, and I long for the modern wonders of street lamps and neon lights. Even Vegas, in all its tacky glory, would look good to me right about now.

  It seems like we walk for hours, but maybe it's because I have no point of reference. My quad muscles tell me I'm climbing up and up a huge hill, like on one of those never-ending StairMaster things. Lancelot informs me they call it the Tor, a magical hill, evidently. Surprise, surprise. Like everything else in this freaking place.

  The mists pull back, and we reach a circle of thatched huts sitting in a grassy clearing, surrounded by dense forest. Nothing glamorous like a castle for the lake lady, I guess. Poor thing. I can't imagine living my whole life on a Starbucks-free deserted hill in the middle of nowhere. Especially with no TV. What does she do in her spare time? Magic tricks can entertain someone for only so long.

  The maiden stops and points to one of the nondescript huts. "Thou may enter there."

  Lancelot nods and thanks the woman. "Blessings of the goddess be upon thee," he says.

  "As on thee, master," the girl returns with a small smile. I see her give my knight the once-over. Another total knight groupie. Add druidic girls on magical islands to the list of Lancelot fans. If this guy lived in the twenty-first century, I swear he'd have to be an actor or rock star. I guess knights were the rock stars of their time. Or maybe sports hero would be a better comparison, on account of the jousting matches.

  Lance pulls open the slatted wooden door and gestures for me to follow him as he steps into the one-room hut. Inside, tiny dragon-shaped candle lamps scattered around the floor give off minimal light, their flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. (Pretty, but a total fire hazard.) Other than that, the room is empty. Not a single piece of furniture. How does the lake lady live with no furniture? I can understand going with a minimalist decor, seeing as she's like a druid chick and they're all one with nature and stuff. But you'd think she'd at least need a bed, a chair. A kitchen table.

  "Why dost thou seek audience with our lady?"

  The voice startles me. In my lack-of-furniture musings, I hadn't noticed anyone there. But yes, another white-robed girl, nearly identical to the first one, stands at the back of the hut, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Okay, here's a thought: If the lady's been expecting us, wouldn't she already know the reason for our visit, too? Still, I'm determined to keep my mouth shut. Let the natives believe whatever it is they want to believe. As long as I get home in the end, that's all that matters.

  Home? Am I starting to delude myself into thinking that this lady can help me? More likely this whole thing is a big waste of time. On the other hand, I guess it's pretty cool coming here, seeing this Avalon place with my own eyes and all. And let's face it; I've got nothing better to do.

  "We have come to seek the lady's wisdom on the matter of traveling through time," Lancelot explains.

  Well, all right. Guess we're not being subtle about our mission. I wait for the girl to hide a laugh or at least look vaguely amused, but she never loses her serious expression. I should be used to it by now, but it still amazes me that these people believe this stuff without even the slightest doubt.

  "Wait here. I will inform the lady that thou seekest an audience." With that she disappears, slipping behind a crimson velvet curtain at the far end of the hut. Oh, so there is another room. Maybe her furniture is there. This place is a lot bigger than it looks from the outside.

  Lancelot reaches ov
er and squeezes my hand in reassurance, an intimate gesture that implies that we're in this together. "You needn't worry," he says in a low voice. "The lady is as kind as she is wise. She will be able to help you; I am sure of it."

  I steal a peek at his handsome face, and realize he's watching me with those eyes of his. He smiles tenderly, sending my pulse racing once again.

  Maybe it's because I'm so out of my element, lost and alone, that I feel this close to him so soon. I'm usually more of the "keep my distance" type of girl. I mean, I'll sleep with guys, no prob. In fact, I really like sex. However, I'm so not into the unpack-all-emotional-baggage-the-second-you-meet-the-guy style of dating. My friend Lucy meets a guy, and after the first date she's already poured out her soul and picked out china patterns. Scares a lot of guys off. I, on the other hand, am first out of bed and first out the door the next morning, my lover literally begging me to return his phone calls. Don't know why; it's not, like, premeditated or anything. I just feel the need to leave. Fast. My shrink says it's due to the whole absentee-father thing. Thanks a lot, Dad.

  Anyway, to get back on topic, around Lancelot I already feel very vulnerable, very involved, even though all we've done is kiss. I wonder why. The only thing I can blame it on is the circumstances. He's saved my life, and I am stupefied to think what would have become of me without his involvement. If he hadn't rescued me from Lot, I'd have been raped and killed. If he hadn't guided me to Cameliard, I'd be still wandering around lost in the woods. Probably would have ended up as lunch for a grizzly bear,

  I owe him everything, and have given him nothing, and still he holds my hand in reassurance that everything is going to be okay. It's like I can—and this is too weird to even mention ... in fact, I never use the phrase—but I really, really think I do this time, and I'm not afraid to say it for once in my life....

  World hear me now. Kat Jones, about to say three words she never, ever says.

  I trust him.

  I know, I know, for a moment there it sounded like I was going to say I loved him. But I'm not going to get carried away here. This is real life, not some fantasy romance novel. And after all, I barely know the guy.

  Returning, the girl pulls aside the curtain and steps into the room. "The lady will see thee now," she says. "Lancelot, I trust thou still knowest the way?"

  He nods and expresses his thanks with another goddess-blessing-type remark. Since I don't know any goddess blessings, I simply say, "Thanks and ditto," to which, of course, the girl responds with a confused look. Man, I've got to get Lance to teach me the medieval lingo so I don't appear to be such a tacky American tourist all the time.

  Keeping hold of my hand, the knight slips behind the curtain, and I follow into a darkened hallway. A secret passage! Cool. I always loved the idea of secret passages. When I was growing up, my friend Donna lived in this old Victorian house from the 1800s, and at the back of her bedroom closet there was this tiny secret crawl space we used to play in. It led to her mother's room, but we used to pretend it was the doorway to Narnia, like in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.

  Lancelot pulls a flaming torch out of a wall bracket, and we start walking downward. It's like a mineshaft, with earthen walls and floors supported by wooden beams. Yikes. Is this safe? As much as I like secret passages, I've never really dug caves. A bit claustrophobic, I think. Plus, it smells pretty musty in here. Needs a good dousing with Lysol.

  Having no choice but to keep going, I buck up, squeeze Lance's hand a little tighter, and start down into the darkness. This is turning out to be quite the adventure.

  The path eventually evens out. We're deep underground now, walking in a long corridor, the torch providing the only light. I pray it doesn't blow out—I'd be truly freaked if we had to find our way in pitch-blackness. Why didn't I stick a flashlight in my purse? Oh, yeah: I assumed I'd be surrounded by electricity all day. Go figure. It's funny, really, the modern conveniences one takes for granted in the twenty-first century.

  The passage finally ends at a small, nondescript wooden door. Lancelot lets go of my hand and turns to face me. "Behind this entrance lives Nimue, Lady of the Lake. Go through. Tell her everything you have experienced. Then ask if she can help you."

  "Wait, you're not coming with me?" Suddenly I'm a little more scared, and I realize my hands are trembling. I shove them behind my back. Be brave, Kat. After all, I'm the girl who once walked through Central Park barefoot at one in the morning wearing a red party dress and carrying broken heels. Of course, I was sixteen then, and wasted with liquid courage.

  "No. I would be a distraction to you both. But do not fear: I will not leave you. I will remain outside this door, waiting for you to return, no matter how long you take."

  "Okay." I sigh as I try to muster up some bravery. My heart's slamming against my rib cage. What am I afraid of, anyway? Compared to everything else I've faced in the last days—capture, near rape, a hangover from hell—this is totally minor.

  Lancelot nods and opens the door for me. As I step through, I gasp out loud. I can't help it. I've entered a huge—I mean absolutely mammoth—cavern, and it's beautiful. More than beautiful. There are no words to describe its majesty. The ceiling drips with rainbow stalactites. Light refracted from billions of crystals almost seems alive as it dances throughout the cave.

  But the thing I notice the most is the treasure: gold coins, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, crowns, necklaces, jewel-hilted swords, all piled high, spilling over their chests. Everywhere I turn there are more priceless items. I've never seen anything like it. Not even on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney. Man, this lake-lady character is filthy rich! I wonder if it's too vulgar to ask for a souvenir to put one of these pieces up for auction on eBay ...

  "Welcome, Lady Katherine."

  The low, purring voice startles me from my treasure gazing. I look over and see a dark-haired woman sitting beside a deep, sea green pool of swirling water that matches her emerald eyes. She wears the same type of white, beltless robe as the other girls, but there is something different about her. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but she has, like, this aura around her. She practically glows. And her face, so unlined, so beautiful... it's hard to look at. She could be a thousand years old or a girl of eighteen. It's impossible to tell.

  "How did you know my name?" I ask, feeling suddenly very, very afraid. I haven't introduced myself. And I'm almost positive Lance hasn't called me by name since we arrived on the island.

  "I know many things," she says in her hypnotic voice. She's like one of the Sirens, the supernatural beings who lure men to crash their boats on the rocks in that Odyssey book. Good thing I hate sailing. "I am Nimue, Lady of the Lake."

  "I'm, er ... Kat Jones. Lady of the twenty-first century. But I guess you already know that."

  I feel like I should be bowing or something. She's so beautiful—she looks like a goddess. Not that I've ever seen one, but if I imagine what one would look like, she'd be it. I'm trying to think of what movie star I can compare her to, but she's so much more striking than any of them it would be an unfair comparison to make. Maybe multiplying Angelina Jolie's looks by about a million would come close. She has the same huge, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, and long hair. But while Angelina can look bratty and pissed-off, Nimue radiates inner peace.

  "Yes," she agrees, nodding her dark head. "But what I do not know is how thou found thyself in our time."

  I shrug, absently kicking my foot against a gold chest. How can I explain it? I really have no idea myself. "Some gypsy put a curse on me. Don't know if that has anything to do with it." I tell her the whole story, trying hard not to use any slang (since she wouldn't understand) or say like between every other word (since she would, like, probably find it, like, annoying).

  "I see." Nimue is silent for a moment after I've finished. "Come; sit by me," she says at last, as if she's made a tough decision. She pats a spot beside the pool. I walk over and park myself where she directs. I can feel heat rising from the
green pool and breathe in a distinct sulfuric odor. Must be like one of those hot mineral springs they have at Yellowstone Park.

  " Tis a reflecting pool," she explains, as if hearing my thoughts. "Some call it the Pool of Dreams." She dips her white hand into its waters and stirs. "Gaze into it, and tell me what thou seest."

  Leaning forward I'm immediately mesmerized by its whirlpooling currents.

  "Uh, green water?"

  "Look deeper. Much, much deeper." Nimue's voice seems very far away, her words ... almost hypnotic. I stare harder and find my eyelids suddenly unbearably heavy. I shouldn't be tired.

  Must keep looking at pool.

  My vision blurs.

  When it clears I'm not in the cavern anymore, but outside in the open air. The open air of Times Square, in fact, which, if you take into account the skyscrapers and people, isn't really that open after all.

  Am I home? Was it that quick? I feel a twinge of regret as I realize I never got to say good-bye to Lancelot. Will Nimue at least let him know I've gone so he doesn't stand at the doorway waiting for me?

  Stop thinking of Lancelot, Kat. You're home!

  I can't believe it. I look around, trying to shake the weird feeling that's come over me. What now? Maybe I should head over to Grand Central Station and catch a bus to Connecticut. I can have my car towed back from the medieval fair, I guess.

  It all sounds like a lot of work. And for some reason I feel very tired, drained, almost... depressed. Weird. I should be dancing for joy, not moping about. I got what I wanted.

  Still, she should have at least given me some warning, maybe rename the Pool of Dreams "the Pool of Traveling Back to the Twenty-first Century Without Telling You First." At least then people will know what to expect when they look into its depths.

  But I'm back! Back, back, back. No need to try to look at the cup as half-full, because the cup is more than half-full. In fact, it's overflowing with fullness.

  Speaking of cups, I could really do with a cup of coffee. A triple venti nonfat latte from Starbucks will wake me up. I look around. There's a Starbucks on every corner, they say. Well, maybe every other corner. None on this one. I walk down the street. It feels weird to be back. Weird to see people dressed in normal, everyday twenty-first-century clothes. Weird for me to be wearing ordinary twenty-first-century clothes. What am I wearing, anyway? I look down at myself. Yikes. Have I gained weight? And what's with the frumpy turtleneck?