"I'm sorry," I said.
"So am I," she said.
"Do you have any kids?" I asked.
"No."
"Do you want kids?"
She looked away. "More than you know."
We were silent. Her lungs, however, weren't so silent. I took her hand gently, and we sat like that for a long, long time. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. A few small animals, perhaps now used to our presence, made brief appearances and scuttled along the perimeter of the clearing. I wondered what we were waiting for.
"So what did you think of my book?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.
"I liked it, James, especially your protagonist. Is Cotton Painter anything like you?"
"Well, we're both colorblind, and we're both private investigators, although I don't do much investigating anymore."
"You're sure jumpy for a private investigator."
"Most private investigators don't get chased out of bars by goons with swords."
She nodded. "Where on earth did you get the name Cotton Painter?"
"I was drinking one night and it just came to me."
She rolled her eyes.
"You don't like the name?" I asked.
"I've heard better."
A break in the rain. Brief silence, followed by a bird chirping overhead. Probably a very cold and wet bird.
Marion said, "Your dream was never really to be a private investigator, was it, James?"
"How did you - "
She continued, "Your dream was to write about private investigators."
"Yes, but - "
"But even that's not really accurate, is it, James? You never really wanted to write about murder and mayhem." I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, then let her continue. "No, you always wanted to write epic adventure stories, stories that featured swashbuckling heroes, intrepid explorers, heroes from other worlds, other lands. The great mysteries of the world intrigue you. You have always wanted to explore these mysteries with your writing. Instead, you fell into mystery novels because they seemed safe, maybe even easy."
"They're hardly easy, but, yeah," I said, a bit stunned. "And you're good."
She dug something out of her back pocket: A business card. She handed it to me.
I used the light of my cell phone to read it. I blinked, stunned. "You're a psychic?"
"Are you surprised?" she asked.
"If I wasn't surprised, wouldn't that make me psychic, too?"
"Good one, James."
I opened my mouth to speak, but she surprised me again by putting her finger to my lips, pressing them lightly. And then I knew why.
There was a crash from somewhere. A big crash. Something was coming toward us.
Chapter Eleven
The crunching of leaves stopped abruptly just outside the perimeter of the clearing. Whoever was out there was watching us. I was sure of it. An unsettling feeling, at best.
And then I saw something that would forever be seared to the back of my retina: a naked man stepping out of the bushes.
My jaw dropped open and I squeaked like a dog's chew toy.
My God, what have I gotten myself into?
He picked his way carefully over pine needles and twigs on legs that didn't seem entirely steady.
Just a drunk in the park, I thought. And a naked drunk at that.
He stopped before us in all his naked glory. His pale skin seemed to glow from within, as if backlit by its own inner light, but that could have been my overactive imagination.
I found myself on my feet, although I didn't remember standing.
Then Marion did something very, very peculiar. She stood slowly...and then very carefully dropped to a knee.
And bowed deeply.
* * *
The man spoke to her in a language that was completely incomprehensible to me. Foreign, yet oddly familiar. Icelandic? Pig Latin?
I had no clue.
She answered in the same language, and stood. The man, who was older than me by a few years and taller by a few inches, reached out with the tip of his forefinger and gently lifted her chin. He smiled at Marion with something akin to love.
And then the naked man's gaze shifted to me. "And who is this?" he asked in perfect English. He placed both his hands on his very naked hips.
"He is the writer, my lord. His name is James."
My lord?
The naked man tilted his head in my direction. "The teller of tales is an admirable profession, my good man."
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
"But you are more than a bard, my friend," said the naked man. "Much more. Never underestimate yourself."
"Um, okay."
Marion turned to me, and when she spoke her voice was filled with something close to reverence. "James, I would like to introduce you to Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, the Once and Future King of England, or, as he's most commonly known today, King Arthur of Camelot."
The naked man grinned and tilted his head.
Chapter Twelve
I said nothing, did nothing, and, really, thought nothing.
I just stood there staring confoundedly at the naked man whose nakedness seemed to somehow be solidifying before my very eyes. It was only then that I realized the glow around him had been a sort of haze, and now his body was taking on a more distinct shape.
It's official. I'm nuts.
But maybe my eyes were simply adjusting to his, well, nakedness. It wasn't often that I saw a naked man appear from the woods. Maybe I was in a bit of shock.
Or maybe he just appeared out of thin air.
Okay, that line of reasoning scared the crap out of me, so I put a stop to it immediately. Instead, I did my best to grasp the reality. And the reality was that there was a naked man in front of me who, apparently, Marion thought was the one-time king of Britain. Or maybe I had heard wrong.
"King Arthur?" I finally said, and as I spoke I realized that I was seriously losing it. My mouth seemed to be working independently of my brain, or as if possessed by someone completely and totally whacko. "An odd name. I had a friend named Peter King. I used to call him King Pecker. Good times. God, I miss King Pecker."
I had a very real - and very frightening - feeling that I might be losing my mind.
"I know," said the man. He was watching me carefully.
"You know?"
"Yes."
"You know what?"
"I know about you, James."
I nodded and turned to Marion. I was suddenly filled with something close to fear. Something very, very strange was indeed going on here, and I suddenly didn't want any part of it. In fact, I wanted to be about as far away from it as I could get. "Marion," I said, "I'm leaving now. Please, please, please do not try to stop me, or look for me. Goodbye."