“Nimue? As in the Lady of the Lake from the King Arthur legend?” I shake my head in disbelief. Kat has lost it. Seriously and utterly lost it.
“Yeah, her. She’s disguised as that gypsy we went to visit. The one who cast the spell on me to send me back in time to begin with. Just go and tell her that Lancelot, Guenevere and I are stuck in the 22nd century and we need to know how to get back. She’ll know what to do.
I roll my eyes. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go ask the medieval faire gypsy how you can travel back in time?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No way. Kat, just stop screwing around and meet me at the car.”
“I can’t, Chris!” Even through the static I can hear my coworker’s anguish. “You have no idea how much I wish I could.” However deranged she sounds, I can tell she seriously believes everything she’s saying. Which means she’s not joking. She’s simply snapped.
“Maybe you’ve had too much sun,” I suggest in my gentlest voice. The one I used as a child to talk my mom down from her bad acid trips. “Tell me where you are and I’ll send the medic. I’m sure there’s a first aid tent somewhere around here.”
“I don’t need first aid. I need Nimue. Find her, Chris. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll…I’ll give you all the shoes in my closet!” Even through the static I can hear her hard swallow on the other end of the line. “Even the limited edition gold Christian Louboutin I got at that sample sale last year.”
I raise an eyebrow. Even an insane Kat Jones wouldn’t give away those shoes.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But you owe me. Big time. And when the gypsy laughs me out of her tent, you’d better give up this act and meet me at the car.” I pause, then add, “And I’m holding you to that shoe promise.” Not that I’d ever wear such uncomfortable shoes, but surely there’s a market on eBay for them.
“She won’t laugh. Seriously. Just tell her.”
“Okay, okay. Call me back in ten.” I click the end button on the phone and trudge back to the faire. I reveal my wristband to the ticket taker, halfway hoping she’ll tell me there’s no readmission. But she simply waves me through. I push past the turnstile and take a left toward the gypsy tent.
Insane. Kat is truly insane. Either that or she’s playing some kind of mean trick on me. I should report her to our boss when we get back. In fact, I’m going to demand that I never have to work with her again. I’ll even volunteer to work with Talking Tabitha, the gossip editor. No one wants to work with Talking Tabitha. But I’ll do it. As long as I never have to cross paths with Kat again, it’ll be worth the risk of permanent Tabitha induced hearing loss.
I duck into the gypsy’s tent, blinking a few times, as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.
“May I read thy palm, milady?”
The gypsy is sitting at her little crystal ball table, right where we left her. A tiny gnarled woman, dressed in gaudy mauve robes and dripping with heavy gold jewelry. She’s hunched over, perhaps suffering from some serious rheumatoid arthritis. Poor soul. Hopefully she doesn’t have a heart condition or anything, because what I’m going to say next could stop an elephant’s heart.
“Um, hi.” I plop down on the stool across from her, trying to act casual. “I’m Chrissie. Remember me from before? I was with that other girl. The blonde, annoying one?”
The gypsy nods slowly. “Aye. Katherine Jones.”
“Uh, yeah. Right. Her.” Wait a sec. How does she know Kat’s name? I don’t remember Kat introducing herself when we were here before. She was too busy insulting the woman. Curiouser and curiouser. “Well, this is going to sound really crazy, but… Um, she called me and wanted me to give you a message…and… um.” I glance around the tent, sure I’ll locate hidden cameras. I’m being Punk’d, I know it. There’s no other explanation. At least this means I might get to meet Ashton Kutcher...
I glance up at the gypsy, searching for the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The smile that would give away the game. But I see no hidden amusement on her face. Instead, she’s peering back at me with great concern.
“What is the message?” she asks.
“She says…” Ah, what the hell. The sooner I get it out, the sooner I can meet Ashton. “She says that she and Lancelot and Guenevere are stuck in the future and they need your help to get back.” I can feel my face flush with embarrassment as I await her response. That’s one thing I hate about being a pale-faced, freckled redhead. Major blush’age at the drop of a hat. Well, that and all those Little Orphan Annie jokes I endured as a kid.
So I blush and I wait--expecting anything. Laughter, disbelief, anger for wasting her time even. Maybe all of the above. What I don’t expect is the sheer horror that washes over her wrinkled face.
“Thou art serious?” she asks in a trembling voice. “But that cannot be!” She stares at me, her eyes narrowed and her expression stormy.
Feeling a little uncomfortable under her intense gaze, I shrug. “Look, don’t kill the messenger. I have no idea. Kat just told me to tell you. That’s all I know.”
The gypsy seems to regain control, rising from her seat and making her way over to a small bookcase at the far end of the tent. For someone so hobbled and old, I’m surprised at how fast she moves. From my seated position at the table I can just make out her mutterings.
“I know I gave Queen Guenevere the correct spell… I am sure of it,” she’s saying to herself.
I glance around the tent, looking for those candid cameras again. I feel like I’m on a lost episode of the Twilight Zone. Or X-Files maybe. But unfortunately without sexy Agent Mulder. Mmm. Mulder. Move over Scully, The truth is out there and I’m sooo ready to believe.
The gypsy returns to the table with a dusty tome that looks a thousand years older than the Bible. Kind of reminds me of that Book of Shadows they have on Charmed. I watch, unsure what I’m supposed to do, as she flips through the book’s pages at a desperate pace. I contemplate leaving the tent, but it seems rude to simply walk, especially since I’m the one who’s apparently caused her this upset. Though technically it’s Kat’s fault.
After a moment of page flipping, she looks up from the book. “I fear something has gone dreadfully wrong for thy friend and her companions,” she informs me in a strained voice.
“Technically she’s my coworker, not my friend,” I say, not quite sure why I feel the strong need to remind her of this.
“I can get them back,” the gypsy continues, ignoring my correction. “But I will need thy help.”
Why does everyone suddenly seem to need my help? I mean, when did I draw the short straw in the Helper Girl lottery?
“Sorry,” I say, feeling kind of guilty for turning her down when she looks so upset. But really, I did my good deed of the day; I delivered Kat’s stupid message. And now, since it doesn’t appear Ashton’s going to popping out with a camera anytime soon, I’m so done with all the weirdness. “I can’t help. I need to get home. Got a cat to feed, you know? And there’s a new CSI on tonight.” Wow, my life sounds so pathetic. I rise from the table, preparing to leave. “So if you see Kat, tell her I’ll catch her at work on Monday morning, okay?”
I don’t know why, but something makes me pause, almost like I’m waiting for the gypsy to object. To force me to stay. Instead, her face softens.
“Thou art in pain,” she says simply.
“What?”
She reaches out and takes my hand in her gnarled one, tracing the lines of my palm with a bony finger. For some reason, I find I can’t pull away.
“Yes. I see. The man thou thought a lamb has been revealed as wolf,” she murmurs, almost under her breath, as she studies my palm.
I stare at her in disbelief. Is she talking about Danny? How the hell does she know about Danny? I haven’t told anyone about the waitress incident. I’ve been too embarrassed. I mean, getting cheated on by the only man you’ve ever slept with? Your childhood sweetheart who y
ou were supposed to live happily ever after with? Let me tell you, it doesn’t get more humiliating than that. My parents don’t even know.
The gypsy looks up, meeting my eyes with a piercing gaze so intense it’s as if she’s seeing into my soul. She knows, I realize with an odd certainty. I have no idea how, but she knows.
“I haven’t told anyone,” I whisper, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes. I brush them away with my free hand. The last thing I need is to start crying in front of a stranger. Especially since I’m still not quite convinced this isn’t some bizarre reality TV show. I can just imagine--my misery being broadcast to twenty million people. Danny and his waitress slut, on the couch, having a good laugh over my torment before jumping each other’s bones again. No thanks.
“Thou shouldst not fret, little one,” the gypsy says in a soothing voice. She squeezes my hand. “Like thy companion, perhaps thy destiny too lies elsewhere.” She opens my hand again and peers at it with her wizened eyes. “Yes. I see it. A lover true awaits thy gentle soul across the planes of time.” She looks up at me. “Thou alone can tame his unquenchable thirst for vengeance, I am sure of it.”
“Well, okay then. That’s good to know,” I stammer, not sure what to say. This has got to be without a doubt the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my whole life. Even weirder than the time I came across my mother’s stash of acid in high school and chatted with God for about six hours. Well, okay, maybe not quite that weird, but still.
I remember how freaked out Kat was when the gypsy read her palm. At the time I thought she was overreacting. Now I’m not so sure.
“The stars sometimes align themselves in mysterious ways,” the gypsy says, motioning for me to sit. I lower myself back into the chair, lightheaded, almost as if I’ve fallen into some kind of semi-conscious 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 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 of time. A spell requiring 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 coffers of 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 the annals of 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 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, 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, gypsy! I think, before coming to the realization that I’m now sitting in a gypsy’s tent arguing the technicalities of time travel. And here I was thinking Kat has lost it.
“When the physical body transcends another spoke in the wheel of time, a locator spell is needed before they can be pulled back to the fold.”
In plain English I believe that 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 to my Danny plight than she had been a few minutes ago. “I must return to Avalon. Will 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 21st century girls. Never spoke back, married the lords their fathers chose and wouldn’t ever even consider burning their undergarments in protest.”
“Hello?! You’re talking about sending me back in time 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 snarls. “This is for the best, my child. You will see.”
She suddenly waves her hands in the air and 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 consciousness.
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.
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 31