Chapter 2

I stumbled for a nonexistent door. Rolling hills dotted with a few oaks here and there lay before me beneath a blue sky marred only by a half a dozen lazy clouds drifting to the east. On the edge of panic, I looked around and saw nothing but the same natural terrain — no door, no ally, no café. I rubbed my eyes and then my temples.

This couldn’t be happening. I knew I was not asleep, not dreaming. Perhaps I was hallucinating. I didn’t know what that was like. I had never dropped acid or eaten psylocibin mushrooms. The closest I’d come to seeing imaginary things was from sleep deprivation when I was in the Navy — exhausted that time, I thought I had seen a cat in the boiler room — it was nothing like this. I didn’t believe in alien abductions, but if such things were real, wouldn’t I be waking up in some strange extraterrestrial space ship? Perhaps I was suffering from food poisoning or on some very potent drug slipped to me on the sly.

Miller’s visage came to my mind, as did his ramblings about time travel and portals in the multi-verse. But, of course, the lunatic was full of shit. Or was he? I wondered if the vagabond spiked my coffee. Grabbing my phone from my back pocket and holding it aloft, I turned in a circle but had no bars. Why do people turn in circles when searching for a cell signal? I shook my head at my own ridiculousness.

Well, I’m not going to find out where I am by staying here. I picked a direction, which was to the east towards the sun, and began walking, thankful that I at least had had breakfast. I periodically checked my phone, but it was no good. When I finished off the water in my bottle, I came across a stream and refilled it. I no sooner crossed said stream when I heard horses.

Turning, I spotted two riders. One was an imposing figure decked out in chainmail with a short sword on his hip and a much bigger blade slung across his back. The man had shoulder-length black hair and a grim face. The other rider was a girl who appeared to be in her late teens and wearing a simple white shift that one would expect of a commoner in medieval times. I deduced that there must be a Renaissance fair in the area.

Relieved, I waved and yelled, “Hey, over here.” I began striding towards them as I had caught their attention. The big bruiser fixed me with a steely gaze that reminded me of a cat when it first spots a mouse. He strapped on a metal helmet, never taking his eyes off me. Then he drew a round shield from his saddle and slipped his left forearm through the straps. He did this with confident deliberation.

I slowed my pace as he drew the long sword from his back, hoping it was part of the act with him just being in character for the fair, but a bad feeling crept into my gut nonetheless. Holding the sword high, he kicked his charger into a gallop towards me and yelled something in Germanic.

Stopping dead in my tracks, I shouted, “I am glad to see you. I’m lost and wondering if you could give me some directions.”

The man and his horse continued to bear down on me. Finally, I turned and ran up a short rise towards a small grove of trees. As I ran, I realized that I understood his language. It wasn’t German exactly but the archaic Anglo-Saxon with the dialect of Normandy. How I knew that baffled me because I only spoke English and a few phrases in Spanish. The translation, “Barbarian, prepare to die,” encouraged me to increase my effort to escape. I ran like hell.

I entered the grove and circled behind the first tree as I felt the swoosh of his blade with his passing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yelled.

He wheeled his steed and came at me again. Screw this. I ran around the tree again. After another near slice from my hide, I sprinted into the grove, my mind working through my panic, realizing that I had spoken in English, a language my assailant probably didn’t understand. It was difficult, but my mind worked out the language enough for me to repeat my phrase in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. I still found it prudent to enter a thicket that would be difficult for his destrier. The warrior reined in, dismounted, and approached with murder in his eyes.

It was then that the girl spoke. “Robert, halt. I thinketh not this miscreant be-ist our enemy.” So, my would-be killer, Robert, stopped but did not let me out of his sight. The girl, now on foot, glided past the man a few yards and said to him, “Let us parlay with the stranger and then determine if he be friend or foe.”

Relieved, but still on guard, I struggled to slow my breathing and pounding heart. The girl was lovely. She was slight of build with long golden tresses. Her small breasts pushed against her light shift to indicate a slight chill in the air, which felt good since I was heated from my efforts to escape the giant with the big sword. As much as I appreciated her feminine countenance, I did not want to appear as some uncouth lecher. Prudence and good manners brought my gaze back to her face.

Her blue eyes turned to me, and she said, “Please, do not be afraid. Come out and bestow upon me your name.” What she really said was, ‘Pray thee, be thou stalwart and stay thy fear. Cometh thee and bespeak thy name.’ Such language was hard enough for me when my grandmother used to read from the King James Bible. From here on, I will try not to confuse the reader with this archaic verbiage but instead translate to a more modern dialect as best I can without all the thees and thous.

Her voice was disarming and music to my ears. I approached and stood before her and blundered because I answered in English like a complete idiot. “My God, you’re beautiful. My name is…”

Her face clouded, and she walloped me upside the head with a club. Stars and blackness filled my vision as I fell into oblivion.