Chapter Five
I went straight to my room, where I proceeded to spend the next ten minutes burning off my nervous energy by pacing in front of the flatscreen TV.
On the way up to my room I had convinced myself that she had been writing my name over and over. Now in my room, I realized how insane that sounded.
Surely she hadn't been writing my name, right? I mean, how egotistical can one person be?
I expanded my pacing to include a trip to the bathroom. But now I was back again, hitting the small section of space in front of the TV hard, the wooden floorboards squeaking rhythmically.
Obviously, it had been another James. Another very lucky James. Perhaps a long lost lover. Perhaps a war hero who had died on some distant battlefield. Or perhaps he worked in a local Starbucks, a James who whipped up one hell of a good vanilla latte.
Or perhaps it had been you.
Yeah, right.
I occasionally looked out the open window. The sky beyond was much darker now. In the far distance, I could still see the dark silhouette of St. Michael's Tower high upon Glastonbury Tor. The sky beyond it was purplish-black.
I sat down at the edge of my bed, and ran my fingers through my thick, unkempt hair. Next I drummed my fingers on the bedspread. My drumming fingers didn't make any noise. I quit drumming.
An electric energy continued pouring through me. I still felt ashamed for not saying anything to her. A part of me felt that I had missed an opportunity, that I was supposed to talk to her. In fact, that same part of me was telling me to run back down to the dining room and finish what I had barely started. To talk to her, to at least introduce myself.
That part of me I didn't like. That part of me was apparently a glutton for punishment, because guys like me didn't introduce themselves to girls like her. Guys like me admired from afar and watched the real men go to work, using their charm and wits to make her laugh and playfully slap his arm.
I sighed and went back to pacing.
I was tired from the long flight, but not tired enough to sleep, apparently. The woman had energized me. Heck, she had freaked me out, too.
She had been writing James...over and over and over....
So, after about ten or fifteen more minutes of this, I found my wrinkled jacket in one of the suitcases and left my room. I headed downstairs and out into the cool dusk.
I hit the streets, walking with my head down and my hands deep in my coat pocket. My breath misted before me. The fog that had partially covered nearby Glastonbury Tor had now settled over the town. I like fog. I like rain, too. Maybe I was English in a past life.
I passed a bum sitting up against a lamp post. A big guy with a shaggy beard and even shaggier hair. His boots and clothing were worn and dirty, made dirtier by sitting on a muddy sidewalk in the now lightly falling rain.
He turned his mangy head toward me, face and eyes hidden in shadows. He held out a dirty and callused hand. It was a big hand with split nails.
I have a philosophy when it comes to the homeless: Give them a hand, there's enough for everyone.
Yeah, I know, bums might spend my money on even more booze and/or drugs. Sure, they might. Then again, they might also spend it on a hot dinner. So I always give them the benefit of the doubt. And, honestly, did I really care if they did buy cigarettes and whiskey? Hell, if anyone out there truly needed a smoke and a drink, it was someone living on the streets, sitting in the rain, cold and alone and perhaps miserable.
And so I stopped and dug out my wallet, removed a few bills and placed them squarely in the man's outstretched hand.
"God bless you, brother," he said.
"Same to you."
And, yeah, he sounded drunk as hell.
Oh, well.
Legend has it that after rescuing Guinevere from the clutches of evil, King Arthur and his noble knights established a mighty fortress high upon Glastonbury Tor. Legend also has it that the local Glastonbury Abbey is comprised mostly from the ruins of this once-mighty fortress. That is, of course, if King Arthur had ever lived at all. There are plenty of scholars who seriously cast doubt on this. These scholars are spoilsports and probably tell their kids there's no Santa, too. The main problem with King Arthur was that had he lived, it would have been during Britain's Dark Ages. That is, before written records. So when it comes to King Arthur, you get lots of "as legend has it" and "as the story goes". There's just nothing written, and there's very little proof.
Ah, but there is some proof.
And it's all here in Glastonbury.
Anyway, Glastonbury Abbey is not only the oldest abbey in all of England, but also the legendary final resting place of one King Arthur Pendragon, where his tomb supposedly lies beneath the high altar. I say supposedly because the tomb is now empty. But folks around here aren't surprised that the tomb is empty. After all, there's a story around here that King Arthur will return one day to usher in a new age of enlightenment for all mankind.
I could hardly wait.
Here's another cool legend: it is said that the nearby Glastonbury Tor is not only home to the Faery King but also to Gwyn ap Nudd, who happens to be Lord of the Underworld. This tor - which is just a fancy English word for hill - is magically hollow inside, and was once known as Annwyn. The Annwyn part is historical fact. The magically hollow inside, not so much.
So to recap, Glastonbury Tor was once called Annwyn.
Annwyn, many believe, is an ancient form of Avalon.
The story continues. There is some evidence to suggest that Glastonbury Tor, or Annwyn, or Avalon, once rose high above an inlet sea. Indeed, that it was surrounded by the inlet sea. The legendary isle of Avalon, where young Arthur pulled Excalibur from the enchanted stone, and where the good wizard Merlin gave counsel to the young king and taught him the ways of faery and magic, and where, in a nearby empty grass field, sits the possible remains of a once mighty fortress.
Camelot.
The fortress part is historical fact. That it might have been Camelot is heatedly debated.
More legends. More stories. Glastonbury has a stranglehold on some of Western civilization's greatest legends and mythos. Anyway, further legends contend that hidden within the magically hollow Tor is one of the most sought after treasures in the world:
The Holy Grail.
Anyway, I'm not making this stuff up. It's all over the internet, filling dozens, if not hundreds, of books.
Myself, I was beginning to believe there might be something to all this. Of course, I was hardly an objective observer, since I've been obsessively dreaming of the Holy Grail and King Arthur for the past few months.
And if there wasn't already enough mystery and fantasy attached to the place, a few months ago workers from a nearby quarry unearthed a very strange object from deep within the stone. An object that was curiously embedded in nearly a ton of granite.
The hilt of a very old sword.
The sword and stone are currently on display here in Glastonbury, where tourists can try their hand at removing the sword from the stone. No one has been successful, of course, although many have tried. And, yeah, many believe it's a sham. Me being one of them.
Of course it's a sham, right?
Then again, what's five pounds in exchange for the rare chance at being the next great King of England?
To top it all off, Glastonbury is also a hotbed for New Agers and the modern spiritualists. Like Sedona in Arizona, Glastonbury is a mecca for the New Movement, as some have come to call it, claiming that here upon the grassy tor strange energies and powerful forces are at work. A veritable vortex of psychic energy. Heck, the place is even popular among UFOlogists, with many reporting strange lights hovering over the Tor.
Lots of legends for what amounted to nothing more than an unusually-shaped hill.
Anyway, Glastonbury the town was quaint and charming and provided a great introduction to English life for someone on their first trip to England. That someone being me. Indeed, so far, the town was everything I imagined England to be: decidedly medieval in feel, with cobblestone streets, rock-and-mortar homes, and ancient street lamps.
I dug my hands a little deeper into my jacket pockets, hung a right on High Street, and looked for an English pub. I had heard all my life about English pubs. Well, let's find one and see what all the fuss was about.
The late evening sky was so purple that it was nearly black. The light rain now angled straight into my face. God, I love the rain.
I came upon a side street called Northload, and there, sitting within a small row of small shops, was my first English pub. The sign out front read: The Who'd A Thought It.
I went straight up to it, pulled open the heavy oak door, and found myself in a very warm and cheery old-school tavern. Glasses clanked merrily. Laughter issued forth. And sitting on a stool closest to the door was the same dark-haired girl I had seen earlier.
And she was still writing in her journal.
Unbelievable.
As I stood there, dumbfounded, my mouth hanging open, she looked over at me and...smiled. I took in a lot of air, and this time, without hesitation, I walked straight up to her.
Chapter Six
With each step, my head felt lighter and lighter, to the point I thought I was going to topple forward into her lap. Or, more likely, hit the corner of the bar and kill myself.
Somehow, I kept from passing out, and before I knew it I was already standing in front of her. Too late to back out now. My heart was pounding somewhere up near my throat, making speaking nearly impossible. Which didn't matter, since my mind was blank, anyway.
She was even prettier up close. Her eyes were exceptionally large, lashes exorbitantly long, lips achingly full. She was looking up at me, smiling curiously, her eyes searching my face.
I noticed that the other men in the bar were watching me with shit-eating grins. No doubt they were looking forward to seeing me get shot down, since she was easily the prettiest girl in the room. Heck, any room.
Here goes....
"Um, hi," I said lamely.
"Hi," she said. Her eyes continued to roam over my face, and as they did so her smile disappeared, even while her eyes widened. Her strange reaction gave me a modicum of hope. Meaning, there wasn't an obvious lack of interest.
"My name's James," I said.
I've never really seen the blood drain from someone's face, but it sure did with her and it was a sight to see. One moment her rosy cheeks were full and lush, and the next she went dead pale.
"James?" she repeated.
"Yes, last I checked." Okay, that was really lame.
I was about to say something else, something decidedly unlame, when she motioned to the stool next to her. "James, would you like to have a seat?"
The bartender came right over. The dark-haired girl had his attention, too, and I was the beneficiary of that attention. He asked what I wanted. I glanced over to see what she was drinking. It looked like cranberry juice and so I ordered something else in the juice family. Orange juice. The bartender shrugged and stepped away to pour my drink.
My first time in an English pub and I order orange juice?
Lord help me.
"So you don't drink alcohol, James?" she asked. She had a strange accent. I've never been good with accents. Heck, half these English blokes sounded Australian to me.
"I'm trying to stay away from the stuff," I said.
"Are you a recovering alcoholic?"
"No, no. Just don't, you know, think I handle the stuff very well."
"I see," she said. "Well, you were drinking 'the stuff' earlier tonight. A beer, if I recall."
Holy crap. She'd been watching me?
"Right, and I nearly started a half dozen fights. I tend to get, um, feisty when I drink."
"Belligerent drunk?"
"A belligerent drinker. Give me one beer and I want to take on the whole room."
"Interesting."
"Interesting how?" I asked.
"It's almost like someone, or something, is trapped inside of you and is aching to get out."
"Yeah, an asshole who likes to fight."
"A fighter, yes. But probably not an asshole."
"Say that to the old man I yelled at a few months ago for talking a little too loudly to his hard-of-hearing wife."
She laughed behind her hand, her eyes lighting up like two stage lights. I liked the way she laughed. I also liked the way she looked at me with those amazingly round eyes. Her apparent interest in me was giving me some courage.
"So what's your name?" I asked.
"Marion."
"I love that name."
"Really?"
"Reminds me of Maid Marian from Robin Hood."
"Except mine is spelled with an 'o'."
"As it should be," I said for no reason at all.
She smiled as if I'd said something witty. And still she didn't take her eyes off me. The bartender came over and set a frothing mug of orange juice down in front of me. Okay, it wasn't really frothing. It was just a plain glass of orange juice. In my first English bar. Hey, on the bright side, at least I wouldn't be sporting any embarrassing orange juice mustaches or get into needless fights.
Okay, so how do guys hit on girls, anyway? I've never been much of a 'hitting on' type. I'm more of a we-just-happen-to-cross-paths type. Granted, my type gets a lot fewer dates, but I have accepted my lot in life.
"So are you from around here?" I asked.
"No."
"Where are you from?"
Lord, this had to be the world's worst pick-up ever. Heck, I would even hesitate to call this a pick-up. More like a prelude to utter humiliation.
"Iceland," she said.
I almost made a stupid Icelandic joke. Hey, I heard it's pretty cold there. Hey, the land of ice. Hey, I'm retarded.
Somehow I kept my mouth shut. And sadly, I know from past humiliations that when a girl only gives one-word answers, well, she's probably not that into you; otherwise, she would give you more material to work with, right?
And so, with her curious yet beautiful eyes still searching my face, I took my drink and stood. I tried to smile as I said, "Well, enjoy your time here in Glastonbury, Marion with an 'o'."
With that, I turned and left and found a small booth in the far corner of the far side of the room, far away from the happy gazes of the other men, and far away from her. Once seated, I did the only thing I could think of to save face: I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to receive a text message.
God, I need to get a life.
I had just scrolled through some old messages when someone sat across from me at my table. It was Marion, of course.
"Sorry if I seemed rude back there," she said. "It's just that I wasn't expecting to meet you so quickly." She paused, took a deep breath. A deep, ragged breath. As if she had jogged to my booth.
I set my cell phone aside. "Did you say expecting to meet me?"
Still breathing deeply, Marion reached inside her purse and removed a book: A tattered copy of my very first published novel, a mystery thriller called Unwanted Dreams.
She held it out to me. "This is you, is it not?"
I nodded dumbly, too stunned to speak.
"Good," she said and shoved the book back into her purse. "Finish your orange juice, James. We have someone to meet."