by J. R. Rain
“You’re probably wondering what’s going on,” she said, tucking her long, black hair behind her ears.
“Not at all,” I said. “I rather enjoyed running for my life through the deep, dark woods.”
She snorted. “These are not the woods, James. This is a city park.”
“Yeah, well, it feels like the woods to me.”
And just as I said that, something crashed through the undergrowth nearby. I gasped. Marion put her hand on my thigh. I looked at her hand on my thigh and nearly forgot about the thing crashing in the undergrowth.
Nearly.
The sound came again. And again. And that’s when I realized it wasn’t so much a crashing as a scurrying. I relaxed. Just some critter.
I hoped.
We sat in silence some more. She took her hand off my thigh, and I was sad all over again.
“I was told to expect a writer,” said Marion suddenly.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came immediately to mind. At least, no rational words. So I closed my mouth and let her words sink in a little more. And the more they sank in, the less sane they seemed.
Finally, I gave it a shot. “A writer?”
“Yes.”
“When were you told this?”
“Months ago.”
“But I only decided to come here a few days ago,” I said.
“You only consciously decided to come here a few days ago. Deep down, you knew all along you would come.”
I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing.
“You can close your mouth, James. You know what I’m talking about.”
Crazy as her statement was, a part of me, a part that I was beginning to hate and fear, knew exactly what she was talking about.
I found my voice. “Who, exactly, told you to expect me?”
A strong gust of wind rattled the branches above us, shaking loose a shower of water over us. I shivered. I could feel the nearly physical touch of Marion’s eyes on my face.
“The who isn’t important, James,” she said. “If I had to guess, there are many who’s—that is, many people and beings and entities—that worked hard to get you here today.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Not now you don’t, James. But you will. Soon.”
“Am I dreaming?” I asked.
“No, James. But you are here because of your dreams.”
Her words might as well have been an arrow. I gasped and swung my head around, thunderstruck. “How did you—”
She reached out and touched my thigh again, sending a shiver of pleasure coursing through me.
“Because I’m here because of my dreams, too,” she said.
Chapter Ten
“What sort of...” I stopped, swallowed, and tried my best to collect my thoughts. I tried again, and heard myself ask: “What sort of dreams?”
“Dreams of the Holy Grail. Dreams of Christ hanging from the cross, dreams of Glastonbury, dreams of this night, dreams of this park, dreams of this very hollow.”
“Which is how you knew to find it.”
“Exactly. But mostly I dream of a writer. A handsome, blue-eyed, blond-haired mystery writer.”
“I’m afraid I’m the one dreaming now,” I said.
She reached out and pinched me. Hard. I was about to yelp but she promptly clamped her hand over my mouth.
“Shh,” she said, then slowly removed her hand. “Still think you’re dreaming?”
I rubbed my arm. “No, but now I don’t like you as much.”
She giggled. Her giggle said that she didn’t believe a word of it. She was right, of course. I liked everything about her. Except for maybe the crazy part.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “So I’m not dreaming. Then can I ask what the heck is going on?”
“What the heck do you think is going on?”
I thought I might know the answer, but I didn’t want to admit it. Admitting it to another person would positively prove that I had lost my mind.
Marion was watching me. She was taking short, sharp breaths. My breathing had leveled off, but not hers. She seemed to be having a problem. The rain picked up, tattering the overhead canopy.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“I think...I think I might be here to find the Holy Grail,” I said. “And, if I’m correct, you’re here to help me.”
“I think,” she said, grinning, “that you might be right.”
* * *
The harder the rain came down, the worse Marion’s breathing seemed to get. It was to the point where she was making a conscious effort to breathe.
“It’s called LAM disease,” she said, turning to me. “In case you’re wondering.”
“Lamb?” I asked, frowning.
“LAM,” she said, spelling it out for me. “It’s a disease that strikes the lungs, among other things.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Strikes one in a million,” she said, looking away. “Lucky me.”
I didn’t think she was so lucky.
“And once diagnosed, a woman is given about ten years to live.”
“A woman?”
“Yeah,” she said. “As in female. It’s a disease that strikes only women, and only in their child-bearing years.”
I was silent, digesting this. “So how long ago—” I began, but couldn’t bring myself to finish.
She finished for me: “How long ago was I diagnosed?”
I nodded.
“Ten years ago, James. I guess you could say I’m living on borrowed time.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I am, too.”
“What is LAM disease?” I asked.
“Something cruel and not very nice,” she said, and actually smiled at her own play on words. “LAM disease attacks the lungs, lymph nodes and liver. In my case, it attacked my lungs, forming cysts that restrict breathing.”
“Is there a cure?” I asked, but I already knew the answer and felt like crap asking the question.
“No,” she said. “And there’s far too little research being done to find one.”
We were silent some more. My heart rate finally—finally—seemed to be settling into a normal rhythm after all that running. “So they can do nothing for you?” I finally asked. Normal rhythm or not, I could practically hear my heart breaking.
“There is something,” she said. “But it’s risky and there’s only an eighty-percent survival after the first year.”
“That’s not too bad.”
She looked away. “Survival drops to fifty percent after the first five years, and then declines dramatically after that. Translation: the surgery would probably only buy me a few extra years.”
An image came to mind. A very unsettling image. I voiced my thoughts without thinking. I said, “You’re talking about a lung transplant.”
How I knew this, I don’t know. She nodded and looked at me curiously. I think she was surprised, too. “Yes,” she said. “I’m scheduled for surgery next month.”
“Jesus,” I said again.
The rain intensified. So did the rattling in her chest. Lord, did she even have a month?
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I,” she said.
“Do you have any kids?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you want kids?”
She looked away. “More than you know.”
We were silent. Her lungs, however, weren’t so silent. I took her hand gently, and we sat like that for a long, long time. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. A few small animals, perhaps now used to our presence, made brief appearances and scuttled along the perimeter of the clearing. I wondered what we were waiting for.
“So what did you think of my book?” I finally asked, breaking the silence.
“I liked it, James, especially your protagonist. Is Cotton Painter anything like you?”
“Well, we’re both colorblind, and we’re both private investigators, although I don
’t do much investigating anymore.”
“You’re sure jumpy for a private investigator.”
“Most private investigators don’t get chased out of bars by goons with swords.”
She nodded. “Where on earth did you get the name Cotton Painter?”
“I was drinking one night and it just came to me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You don’t like the name?” I asked.
“I’ve heard better.”
A break in the rain. Brief silence, followed by a bird chirping overhead. Probably a very cold and wet bird.
Marion said, “Your dream was never really to be a private investigator, was it, James?”
“How did you—”
She continued, “Your dream was to write about private investigators.”
“Yes, but—”
“But even that’s not really accurate, is it, James? You never really wanted to write about murder and mayhem.” I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, then let her continue. “No, you always wanted to write epic adventure stories, stories that featured swashbuckling heroes, intrepid explorers, heroes from other worlds, other lands. The great mysteries of the world intrigue you. You have always wanted to explore these mysteries with your writing. Instead, you fell into mystery novels because they seemed safe, maybe even easy.”
“They’re hardly easy, but, yeah,” I said, a bit stunned. “And you’re good.”
She dug something out of her back pocket: A business card. She handed it to me.
I used the light of my cell phone to read it. I blinked, stunned. “You’re a psychic?”
“Are you surprised?” she asked.
“If I wasn’t surprised, wouldn’t that make me psychic, too?”
“Good one, James.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she surprised me again by putting her finger to my lips, pressing them lightly. And then I knew why.
There was a crash from somewhere. A big crash. Something was coming toward us.
Chapter Eleven
The crunching of leaves stopped abruptly just outside the perimeter of the clearing. Whoever was out there was watching us. I was sure of it. An unsettling feeling, at best.
And then I saw something that would forever be seared to the back of my retina: a naked man stepping out of the bushes.
My jaw dropped open and I squeaked like a dog’s chew toy.
My God, what have I gotten myself into?
He picked his way carefully over pine needles and twigs on legs that didn’t seem entirely steady.
Just a drunk in the park, I thought. And a naked drunk at that.
He stopped before us in all his naked glory. His pale skin seemed to glow from within, as if backlit by its own inner light, but that could have been my overactive imagination.
I found myself on my feet, although I didn’t remember standing.
Then Marion did something very, very peculiar. She stood slowly...and then very carefully dropped to a knee.
And bowed deeply.
* * *
The man spoke to her in a language that was completely incomprehensible to me. Foreign, yet oddly familiar. Icelandic? Pig Latin?
I had no clue.
She answered in the same language, and stood. The man, who was older than me by a few years and taller by a few inches, reached out with the tip of his forefinger and gently lifted her chin. He smiled at Marion with something akin to love.
And then the naked man’s gaze shifted to me. “And who is this?” he asked in perfect English. He placed both his hands on his very naked hips.
“He is the writer, my lord. His name is James.”
My lord?
The naked man tilted his head in my direction. “The teller of tales is an admirable profession, my good man.”
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“But you are more than a bard, my friend,” said the naked man. “Much more. Never underestimate yourself.”
“Um, okay.”
Marion turned to me, and when she spoke her voice was filled with something close to reverence. “James, I would like to introduce you to Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, the Once and Future King of England, or, as he’s most commonly known today, King Arthur of Camelot.”
The naked man grinned and tilted his head.
Chapter Twelve
I said nothing, did nothing, and, really, thought nothing.
I just stood there staring confoundedly at the naked man whose nakedness seemed to somehow be solidifying before my very eyes. It was only then that I realized the glow around him had been a sort of haze, and now his body was taking on a more distinct shape.
It’s official. I’m nuts.
But maybe my eyes were simply adjusting to his, well, nakedness. It wasn’t often that I saw a naked man appear from the woods. Maybe I was in a bit of shock.
Or maybe he just appeared out of thin air.
Okay, that line of reasoning scared the crap out of me, so I put a stop to it immediately. Instead, I did my best to grasp the reality. And the reality was that there was a naked man in front of me who, apparently, Marion thought was the one-time king of Britain. Or maybe I had heard wrong.
“King Arthur?” I finally said, and as I spoke I realized that I was seriously losing it. My mouth seemed to be working independently of my brain, or as if possessed by someone completely and totally whacko. “An odd name. I had a friend named Peter King. I used to call him King Pecker. Good times. God, I miss King Pecker.”
I had a very real—and very frightening—feeling that I might be losing my mind.
“I know,” said the man. He was watching me carefully.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“You know what?”
“I know about you, James.”
I nodded and turned to Marion. I was suddenly filled with something close to fear. Something very, very strange was indeed going on here, and I suddenly didn’t want any part of it. In fact, I wanted to be about as far away from it as I could get. “Marion,” I said, “I’m leaving now. Please, please, please do not try to stop me, or look for me. Goodbye.”
She didn’t say anything; neither did the naked man.
And leave I did, pushing back through the forest, or woods or park, or whatever the hell it was, hitting my head once or twice on thick, unseen branches. Branches that I was sure weren’t there when I had first set out upon the trail.
I found my way back onto the curving path, took a right, and headed all the way back to the Number Three Hotel.
* * *
There, I stripped off my wet clothes, and headed straight for the shower, where I let the piping hot water hammer me for a long, long time, and tried desperately to empty my mind of the image of the man in the forest.
No luck. He was still standing there front and center, in all his naked glory.
After my shower, I crawled into bed and was asleep, as they say, before my head hit the pillow.
* * *
I tossed and turned.
Gone were the dreams of the Holy Grail and Christ on the Cross, replaced now by creepy, torch-lit tunnels, a silver-haired man trapped inside a tree, a beautiful dark-haired girl, a fearless warrior king, and one amazing sword.
When I opened my eyes again, the sun was shining through the curtained windows. I sat up and yawned loudly, feeling tired yet still oddly refreshed, and the strange events of the night before seemed only a distant and disturbing memory. In fact, I had to fight hard to recall if I had, in fact, dreamed the events of the night before. A part of me believed I had. Hell, a part of me wished very much that I had.
A naked King Arthur?
I chuckled, and as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, Marion and King Arthur materialized before me, sitting together in the love seat at the foot of the bed. I screeched like a howler monkey and yanked the plaid comforter up over my bare torso.
Was I still asleep? What the hell was
going on?
Arthur was now dressed in local tourist garb: a sweatshirt that said “I Heart Glastonbury,” baggy cargo shorts, and a new pair of open-toed leather sandals.
“You left your door unlocked, Mr. Private Dick,” said Marion in her cute Icelandic accent.
“But last night was...”
“Last night wasn’t a dream, I’m afraid,” said Arthur, finishing my thought.
The man had a touch of an accent himself. Just a touch. He sat easily on the sofa, leaning forward on his elbows, which were propped up on his bony knees. His hair was dark and straight, and he was sporting a hint of stubble. Strangely, there was dirt under his fingernails, as if he had just clawed his way up out of the ground. A disturbing thought, at best. His skin looked remarkably healthy, the skin of a young man. The skin of a very young man, in fact. More than anything, Arthur appeared to be a man who radiated power, but I could just be making that up.
After all, more than likely I was making all of this up.
Marion stood. “Get dressed, sleepy head.” She tossed me my jeans. And since I was still busy staring at Arthur, they draped over my head, one of the buttons thunking against my forehead.
“Get dressed, why?” I asked, pulling them down.
“Because we have a sword to recover,” said Arthur.
“A sword? What sword?” I asked, but the moment the words left my lips I knew the answer. “No, no, no. You cannot be serious.”
But Arthur only leaned back and winked.
Marion said, “Just get dressed, James. We’ll explain on the way.”
Chapter Thirteen
Fumbling awkwardly, I changed under the comforter with Arthur looking oddly amused and Marion making a half-hearted attempt to look away. I think I was blushing.
Bare-chested but sporting my rumpled jeans, I went to my suitcase and pulled out a favorite Old Navy thermal sweatshirt. With socks and shoes in hand, I marched back to the foot of the bed and sat before the two love birds. I made no effort to put my socks and shoes on.
“Unless you plan on searching for the Grail barefoot,” said Marion. “You’re going to need your socks and shoes.”