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."