I took a deep breath, then reached over and finished off the last of the beer, hoping it was just enough alcohol to give me liquid courage but not so much that I might dive across someone's table at the smallest sneeze.
You can do this, James.
But I just sat there with the setting sun. I couldn't do it. She was too pretty. She was too perfect. I was far from perfect. I was so damned flawed.
I pushed aside my beer mug in shame and decided to pack it in for the night. Defeated, I left some pounds on the dining table, hoping it was enough, and as I walked past her, I couldn't help but glance down at her open notebook.
And nearly tripped.
Covering the page was a single word repeated over and over. A word I was quite familiar with. After all, it was my name.
James.
And it was written perhaps a hundred times. Perhaps many hundreds of times. In fact, she was writing it again now, over and over, her hand flowing quickly across the page, the pen a blur:
James. James. James. James...
I made a small, squeaky noise. A noise I couldn't control. The woman's head snapped up and I was moving so quickly that I nearly slammed into another waiter. I apologized, embarrassed. And as I left the dining room, my face red, I was certain her eyes followed me all the way out.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
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.