As I walk, I keep half expecting a knight on horseback to charge through, and am actually surprised to see a punk-rock mohawked bike courier whiz by instead.
It's weird; I almost feel sad. Disappointed. Not that I wanted to stay in Camelot, but still, it feels ... unfinished somehow.
Where is that Starbucks? In fact, not only can I not find a Starbucks, I haven't seen a single coffee-serving establishment for three blocks. I'd even take a cup from a greasy diner's pot at this point. One that's been burning on a hot plate all day. And trust me, that's saying a lot, coming from a coffee snob like myself.
Actually I'd better make it iced coffee. It's real warm out for September. I glance at a newspaper to check the date. Huh? June 21. The first day of summer ...
Of next year!
I stare at the date, rub my eyes, and stare again. According to this paper, a whole year has passed since I've been away. I've lost a whole year of my life!
What does this mean? What about my job? Have they replaced me? Was it with Barbara? I can deal with being replaced, but not by Barbara. The girl doesn't know Gap from Gucci, or Hermes from H&M.
I actually think being sent forward in time is worse than going back. At least if you go back, you're not missing out on anything. But to lose a whole year of my life ... The implications are horrendous.
My eyes blur again. Oh, what now?
When my vision clears, I find myself no longer in Manhattan. Instead I'm walking through a decrepit graveyard. The sun hides behind a cloud, and the smell of decay and death is nearly overwhelming.
Oh, no!
"Wait," I cry. "I was home. I was home!" What's happening to me? Did I wish my way back in time again? I take back everything I said about going forward being worse than going back. Losing a year is much, much better than being stuck in a place with no Marc Jacobs. Even with that cheesy turtleneck.
Please, please, I want to go back.
I glance around. Gravestones mock me with their ancient death dates. I'm back in medieval times, all right. But this is worse than before, due to the fact that now I don't even have Lancelot by my side. How am I going to find him? I'm utterly alone. I now realize exactly how much I've come to depend on the guy. He knows where to go, how to act, whom to talk to. I know nothing. I look around, desperate to find something, anything familiar-looking.
"Nimue!" I howl at the top of my lungs. "Bring me back! Now!" I know yelling probably isn't the best way to seek help from the lake lady, but I can't help it. I'm too mad to mind my manners. "Please?" I beg, lowering my voice to a whimper.
No answer. It's as if I'm the last person on earth.
The wind whips up, ripping through my gown. (Yes, I am again clothed in a gown, which would be devastating if I hadn't recently been wearing that awful turtleneck.) I run blindly through the courtyard, accidentally snagging the dress's silk material on dead branches that litter the ground. Tears streak down my cheeks, but I don't care.
Where am I? When am I?
I keep running until I trip over a rock I didn't see and go flying head over heels, smacking my arm against a gravestone. The contents of my purse spill onto the ground.
"Ow!"
Majorly pissed-off now, I slam my fist into the offending gravestone, realizing only afterward that punishing it actually inflicts even more punishment back on me. (The gravestone being, as its name implies, made of stone.) Jarring pain shoots from my fist all the way to my shoulder. Damn it!
I pat the ground, searching for what has fallen out of my purse. Tampons, a tube of lipstick, a compact, a pen—wait! A compact? Ooh, I have a mirror! I didn't have a mirror back in medieval times, did I? I mean, the original medieval times, not this medieval times. No matter, I have a mirror; that's what's important. Suddenly I feel a tad bit better, knowing I can now see what shape I'm currently in, though I'll admit I'm a bit scared to look.
I open the compact, ready to gaze upon the worst Medusa look in the history of Medusa looks, including the one in Clash of the Titans. And she was one ugly woman!
But before I focus on my reflection, sunlight pours out from behind a cloud, hitting the mirror at exactly the right angle. The flash of light blinds me for a moment, and I have to look away. The light reflects off the mirror and onto the gravestone that I hit my arm against, lighting its inscription.
HERE LIETH QUEEN GUENEVERE OF CAMELIARD.
"What the hell?" I drop the compact and stare at the grave. Guenevere's dead? Dead? She's not dead; she's in Avalon. Isn't she?
A heavy gloom washes over me. Not only am I still stuck back in time again, but evidently I've now fast-forwarded into some future past where my only medieval friend is dead. This gets better and better. And what about Lancelot? Is he dead, too?
My eyes blur yet again.
As my vision returns, I force myself to stay calm. I'm beginning to see a pattern forming here. The last thing I remember is staring into the Pool of Dreams. So, rationally speaking, this could be one big, crazy dream. Really, I'm still in Avalon, in the beautiful chamber. The Lady of the Lake still sits by my side. Lancelot still waits patiently behind the door. Guenevere, very much alive, giggles with girlfriends in the village, perhaps relating more of her knight-in-shining-armor tales to a thoroughly bored audience. The idea is almost comforting. It's funny how you get used to a place. I should hate Camelot and all the rest. But instead I'm relieved that I'm still there. At least, I think I am.
Anyway, this brings me to the question, Where have my dreams brought me now? I look around. Aha! I recognize this place from photos.
Stonehenge.
I watch from a slight distance as black-robed men chant and sing, performing some kind of ceremony. A young girl with straight red hair stands in the center of the circle, naked. I step closer to get a better look and notice that her hands and feet are bound. The tallest of the robed men walks forward.
"Sacrifice for the future, sacrifice for the past. Goddess, accept this virgin offering—”
Are they going to kill her? I can't let them kill her.
"Stop!" I cry. The men turn and stare at me.
Okay, that was pretty stupid, Kat. Yeah, let's interrupt the knife-wielding, human-sacrificing guys' ceremony. Good idea.
"Interloper," the tall one announces. "Kill the interloper."
Oh, shit.
I try to run but my feet feel like they're cemented to the ground. Wake up, Kat! Wake up! Can I die in a dream? Will I die in real life if I do? In Nightmare on Elm Street that's how it works. But that's only a movie, right?
The men are gaining on me, raising their sacrificial knives. I want to tell them I'm not a virgin, but my tongue won't work.
Wake up, Kat! Wake up!
My eyes blur, and when my vision clears I realize I'm in the lady's chamber again. I gasp, barely able to breathe. Nimue takes me by the shoulders and pulls me close. My heart's beating a mile a minute as I bury my face in her shoulder, tears falling unchecked.
"Oh, my God," I say, panting. "That seemed so real. I really thought I was going to die."
"I am sorry thou had to experience that," Nimue apologizes. "Usually a priestess undergoes much training before she is ready to look into the Pool of Dreams. But in this case there was no time. Tell me, Lady Katherine, what was it that thou saw?"
I relate the strange, dreamlike scenes in a trembling voice, still pretty freaked out. I mean, this wasn't like I was just seeing visions in an underground pond. I experienced it firsthand. Some sort of magic? I don't believe in magic. Then again, I don't believe in time travel either. This trip has really opened my eyes to a lot of things; that's for sure.
When I'm finished telling Nimue my dreams, she does a hell of a job explaining what each of them means. She's a regular Freud. Basically, she says, when someone like a gypsy puts a curse on someone, they also imprint a way to undo the curse on the unconscious mind. By hypnotizing me, Nimue can draw the imprinted symbols to my conscious thoughts and then interpret them.
"Each dream tel
ls thee something important," she explains. "The first dream tells thee when. Thou said it was the first day of summer, no?"
"Yeah. June twenty-first."
"While I am unfamiliar with thy calendar, I do know summer solstice is one of the most powerful days of the year. Surely powerful enough to break the curse."
"When's the next summer solstice?"
"Nine moons from now."
"What?" I ask, incredulous. "I have to wait that long to go back? Are you sure we can't, like, do it like during winter solstice instead?"
Nimue gives me a pointed look. "Was it snowing in thy dream?"
I sigh. "No." Man, I can't believe I might be stuck here for nine months. This sucks. Though, on the bright side, it does give me time to get to know Lancelot a little better.... Hmm.
"The second dream symbolizes the who," Nimue goes on, folding her white hands in her lap. "Since thou art not trained to invoke the power of the solstice sun, a sworn priestess of the goddess must perform the ceremony for thee. Thy light points to Guenevere."
"Guenevere can't do the ritual," I protest, placing my hands on my hips in indignation. "She's, like, a queen. And she's not even that old. Can't you do it? I mean, really, if someone's going to send me forward in time, I'd like to be sure they know what they're doing. This is not something I want to fuck up."
"Did Queen Guenevere not tell thee? She has trained long ago in the ways of the goddess," Nimue informs me with a fond smile. "In fact, I had hoped she would replace me someday as Lady of the Lake. However, the great mother had other plans. Guenevere is fully capable of performing the ritual. Thy dream insists that she do so."
I think fast. "Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe it wasn't really Guenevere's grave.... In fact," I say triumphantly, "I think it was yours. Yeah, it definitely read, 'Nimue, Lady of the Lake.' Sorry. You know how it is when you try to read without glasses."
"Katherine, do not trifle with the prophecy," Nimue rebukes me in a serious tone. "This is thy future. Dost thou not realize the wrong interpretation can leave thee stuck here forever?"
"Oh." I gulp. "Well, now that you mention it, I believe it was Guenevere's grave after all." What was I thinking? The last thing I need to do is screw up the ritual.
"The third and final dream tells the where. Thou dreamed of a circle of mammoth rocks on a grassy knoll. Thou call it Stonehenge. While the name means nothing to me, the description is very familiar indeed."
"What is it for?" I ask eagerly. Wow, I'm finally going to learn the mystery behind Stonehenge. When and if I get back to the twenty-first century, I can tell the world—write a best seller, go on a ten-cities-in-ten-days lecturing tour. The mysteries of Stonehenge revealed, for the bargain price of $29.99.
"I do not know."
"What?" Damn it, there goes my life as future rich lecturing-slash-book-writing person. "I thought the thing was built by the druids."
"The stone circle has been in existence for thousands of years," Nimue explains. "No one knows for certain why it was built."
"You got any theories?"
"Legend says that when a small city called Atlantis fell into the sea, a few Atlantean survivors came to Briton and assembled the structure. Some say 'tis a magical doorway to the heavens, and the idea was to bring back their kin who had perished in the floods."
Oh, great. The Lost City of Atlantis. Like that theory's going to fly with the book-buying crowd at Barnes & Noble. So much for my future riches.
"Did it work?" I ask skeptically. I mean, I know it didn't—couldn't have. But I'm curious to know what she believes.
"No one knows." Nimue shakes her head. "The Atlanteans disappeared the very day the structure was completed. Some say they met local maidens and had families, settling in as Britons. Others believe they were killed by wandering raiders. But..." she says, her eyes shining as she relates the tale. I can tell she's saved the best theory for last. "Some say they learned the secret of the stones and were transported to another world entirely."
"Hey, you never know." I shrug amicably. Once again, I have to come to grips with the fact that these people will believe absolutely anything.
"No matter," Nimue says, back to business. "At the right time, the right place, with the right priestess to guide the way, a portal to thy world may open."
"You sure winter solstice wouldn't work?"
"Katherine . . ." Nimue warns in a don't-mess-with-me voice.
I sigh. "Okay. Fine. Thanks."
"Thou may send Sir Lancelot in now," Nimue requests. Evidently I'm dismissed, my audience over. After reiterating my thanks, I slowly walk over to the door. Then I turn, remembering.
"What about the ugly turtleneck?"
"I am sorry?"
"In my first dream. I was wearing a god-awful shirt. Does that mean anything? Like, am I supposed to wear an ugly outfit on the day of returning?"
Nimue is silent for a moment, then says, "Perhaps clothing that does not belong to thee may interfere in some way with thy journey home."
Oh, okay. Now she's stretching it. Obviously she doesn't want to lose face here by not knowing. I like my theory better, and decide to make sure I'm wearing some unattractive shift dress or something on the day I return.
I exit the chamber, deep in thought, trying to quell the excitement bubbling through my veins. Will it work? Am I a fool to believe I can simply stand in the middle of Stonehenge on the first day of summer and suddenly be transported into the future? I mean, it seems impossible. Stupid, even. But somehow I got here—something else I used to think impossible. I guess I'll have to wait and see. As much as it sucks, I have no other options at this point.
"She wants to see you now," I tell Lance as I come through the door.
"Are you all right?" he asks, his eyes clouded with worry. I realize I'm still pretty shaken up, my hands still trembling.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Get in there and, see what she wants," I say impatiently. No need for him to see me freaking out.
He nods, accepting my lie, and enters the room. I pretend to close the door behind him, but leave it open a crack so I can watch. I know—I'm being nosy. Sue me.
Lancelot walks up to the lady and gets on one knee before her, bowing his head and taking her hand, pressing his lips to it.
"My lady."
Nimue smiles down on him before gently pulling her hand away. "It has been too long since thou came to visit me, my knight. Do castle duties keep thee away?"
"I apologize, my lady," Lancelot says, looking guilty. "Arthur has been determined to make Camelot the best kingdom in all the land. That means constant quests. I've traversed the country a dozen times since I've last come to Avalon. Rescued maidens fair, fought rogue knights and Saxons alike, even spent time in the Far Eastern lands, searching for the Holy Grail the Christians believe to be the cup their Christ offered up at his Last Supper."
Wow, sounds like he's been one busy knight. Nice of him to take time off to help me. Though technically you could file this adventure under the "rescued maidens fair" category. All in a day's work, I guess. Is this merely another job to him? Or something more? What if he kisses all his damsels? For all I know, the romantic scene could be his traditional MO.
"And what of this girl brought to me this eve?"
"Lady Katherine. D'you think you can help her?" Lancelot asks, looking anxious.
She looks at him with kind, almost motherly eyes. "My dearest knight," she says fondly. "Didst thou find true love at long last?"
Lancelot blushes fiercely. "I am merely helping her find her way. Any knight would do the same."
I raise an eyebrow. While I wasn't expecting a complete confession of love and devotion, his too-quick denial makes me think there's something more to the story. I look at Lance, then at Nimue. Were they lovers? No, the lake lady's got to be much older than him. Well, she doesn't look any older, but she is head lady and all. Besides, didn't Lance say she raised him? Maybe they've got an Oedipal thing going on. Ew.
"Sir Lancelot, thou k
nowest thou cannot lie to me," Nimue says with a smile. "Why dost thou always try?"
"I am not in love," Lancelot insists, a frown planted on his lips. "With her nor anyone else. I am a knight of Arthur."
"Hmm," Nimue says, dropping her gaze to stare into the Pool of Dreams. Its emerald green water froths as she drags a finger through the current. "Perhaps the waters reveal something that is to come, instead." She looks up. "If thou hast not fallen for her yet, 'twould be better if thou never did. Bring her back to Camelot, aye. I would not have thee desert her. But then go on one of thy quests. Make thyself scarce until her day of departure."
I frown. If they were once lovers, is this, like, a tricky ploy to try to get him back? Still, I have to admit she's right. Why bother hooking up when a few months down the road I'm going home? It's not fair to him for us to get involved and then for me to take off.
"But why?" Lance asks. I'm glad he doesn't just say, "Yes, okay, no problem."
"I see great danger, great heartbreak in thy future, my dearest knight. Should thou choose the path of love, it will not run smooth. That is why I have begged thee in the past and will beg thee once again: do not give in to the pleasures of the flesh. Keep thy heart caged and thy virtue intact. The very foundation of Camelot depends on it."
"How could that be so, milady?" Lancelot asks. "Is not the path already set by the goddess? How are we to change it?"
"Thou art right, my little one," says Nimue with a sigh, suddenly looking like an old woman. She rises and pats Lance's shoulder with a white hand. "Though not so little anymore," she adds as Lancelot stands, revealing his six-foot frame. "It does not matter what I say. The great garment of our existence has already been woven long ago. Whatever thread thou wilt choose to follow, the end shall be the same. I merely wish to save thee from misery along the way."
A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court Page 12
