Mojitos with Merry Men (2 page)

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 are serious?" she demands, her voice losing its serene tone. "But that cannot be!" She stares at me, her eyes wide with apparent fright.

Feeling a little uncomfortable under that 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
Supernatural.
Or a new
The
X-Files
maybe. But, unfortunately, without sexy Agent Mulder.

The gypsy returns to the table with a dusty tome that looks a thousand years older than the Bible.
I watch, unsure what I'm supposed to do, as she flips through the 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 urge 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 for the day—I delivered Kat's stupid message. And now, since it doesn't appear anyone's going to be popping out with a camera and TV-show deal anytime soon, I'm done with all the weirdness. "I can't help. I need to get home. There's a new
Sherlock
on tonight." 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 expecting 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 a 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 with whom you were supposed to live happily ever after with? Let me tell you, it doesn't get more humiliating than that. My mother doesn'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.

"Do 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 rheumy eyes. "Yes. I see it. A lover true awaits thy gentle soul across the sea 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 reply, not sure what else 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 happened across my mother's stash of acid, tried a tab, 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'd thought she was overreacting. Now, I'm not so sure.

"The stars sometimes align themselves in mysterious ways," the gypsy continues, motioning for me to sit. I lower myself onto the stool, lightheaded, almost as if I've fallen into some kind of semiconscious 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 with 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 that wheel. The spell requires many a rare ingredient, including the rarest of all—a drop of pure blood from the cup of 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 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 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 she 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. I sympathized. I was tired from my trip from the city, and if she believed she'd traveled through time, she'd be exhausted. Besides, I was 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!
I think, before coming to the realization that I'm actually sitting in a gypsy tent arguing the technicalities of time travel. And here I was thinking
Kat
had lost it.

"When the physical body traverses a spoke in the wheel of time, a locator spell is needed before they can be pulled back to the hub."

In plain English, I believe this 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 than she had been a few minutes before. "I must return to Avalon. Wilt 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 21
st
-century girls. We never spoke back, always married the lords our fathers chose, and wouldn't ever even
consider
sending photos to our loved ones in our undergarments."

"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 more extreme than sexting, don't you think?"

"I grow tired of your arguments," the gypsy snaps. "'Tis for the best, my child. You will see." And she suddenly waves her hands in the air. I leap back, but there's no avoiding her spell. "Abu Solstice Nottinghamshire!" 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 conscious.
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.

When I open my eyes, I realize I'm lying flat on my back in the middle of a dense forest. For a moment, I don't move, staring up at the tall oak trees, whose leafy green branches provide a tattered canopy from the bright sunshine. Could make a pretty photo with the right Instagram filter.

Then I remember what happened and sit up with a start. King Arthur's Faire. The gypsy. The command to go back in time to find the Grail. The quest to rescue Kat Jones, who for some inexplicable reason is supposedly stuck a hundred years in the future.

At this moment, major freak-outage takes hold, and my heart starts pounding way too fast against my ribcage. I take a deep breath and concentrate on the breathing exercises I learned in yoga to steady my pulse. Panic-induced heart attacks, however justified, are not going to help me at this juncture.

I scramble to my feet and take stock of my surroundings. Where am I? Have I really been sent back in time? Or did I only pass out and get dumped in an area that's supposed to represent Sherwood Forest in my reality-TV nightmare? Either scenario seems far-fetched, but they're all my frazzled brain can come up with on short notice. Of course, since there's nothing but trees as far as my eyes can see, I don't have much to go on. My only options appear to be two footpaths headed in opposite directions.

If I'd known this morning I'd have to go back in time to save a girl I don't even like, I'd definitely have worn better shoes. These satin slippers may scream medieval maiden, but they aren't exactly forest friendly. Neither is this stupid medieval dress, for that matter. I unlace the corset and let it fall to the ground. It's way too hard to breathe with that thing crushing my ribs. Then I pull the gown over my head to reveal my much more practical yoga Capri pants and long thermal undershirt. Thank God I decided to wear real clothes under my costume.

I roll up the gown and corset and set them behind a tree—too bulky to walk around in, I'll have to come back for them later. I scan the area. Now that I'm properly outfitted for traveling, which way should I go? I scratch my head. I guess since I'm supposed to be looking for King Richard, I should try to find a castle. That, at least, seems obvious. But where the heck do I even begin?

Man, Danny's portable GPS sure would come in handy right about now. So would Danny himself, for that matter. He's so good with all these nature things—and at taking control when life goes all crazy.

Oh, why did I have to start thinking about Danny?

As always happens when my thoughts wander into the "closed for construction" part of my brain, tears start to threaten. No matter how much I try not to care, I always end up a total basket case when I think about my soon-to-be ex-husband. I always start missing the jerk with a vengeance.

I swallow hard and tell myself to stop being so pathetic. After all, the guy betrayed me. The only man I ever loved. My high school sweetheart. The one I gave up my virginity to in the back of his mother's station wagon. The one who ditched me like a bad habit after seven years of marriage for a slut with big boobs. I hate him. And I have to keep hating him if I want to respect myself in the morning.

Forcing thoughts of Danny from my mind, I try to replace the void by drawing on lessons I learned at Camp Fireside back in my elementary school days. Which side of the tree did they say moss grew on again?

Then I realize sadly that it doesn't matter. Knowing which way is north doesn't make a bit of difference when you have no idea if your objective is north, south, east, or west from your current position.

The whole scenario strikes me as rather unorganized. I mean, if I were going to send a girl back in time, I'd definitely have done a better job prepping her beforehand. "Go find the Holy Grail" isn't exactly a step-by-step procedural, now is it? Not to mention I have no idea how I'm going to get back if/when I find the thing. That in itself is more than a bit frightening.

Of course, this is only valid if indeed I really
am
back in time to begin with. It's much more likely that this whole scenario is part of some freakish reality show. One of the more out-there ones, to be sure. It's probably airing on Fox.

"Long live Hillary Clinton!" I cry, hoping to flush one of the Fox News producers out of hiding.