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."

She didn't say anything; neither did the naked man.

And leave I did, pushing back through the forest, or woods or park, or whatever the hell it was, hitting my head once or twice on thick, unseen branches. Branches that I was sure weren't there when I had first set out upon the trail.

I found my way back onto the curving path, took a right, and headed all the way back to the Number Three Hotel.

There, I stripped off my wet clothes, and headed straight for the shower, where I let the piping hot water hammer me for a long, long time, and tried desperately to empty my mind of the image of the man in the forest.

No luck. He was still standing there front and center, in all his naked glory.

After my shower, I crawled into bed and was asleep, as they say, before my head hit the pillow.

I tossed and turned.

Gone were the dreams of the Holy Grail and Christ on the Cross, replaced now by creepy, torch-lit tunnels, a silver-haired man trapped inside a tree, a beautiful dark-haired girl, a fearless warrior king, and one amazing sword.

When I opened my eyes again, the sun was shining through the curtained windows. I sat up and yawned loudly, feeling tired yet still oddly refreshed, and the strange events of the night before seemed only a distant and disturbing memory. In fact, I had to fight hard to recall if I had, in fact, dreamed the events of the night before. A part of me believed I had. Hell, a part of me wished very much that I had.

A naked King Arthur?

I chuckled, and as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, Marion and King Arthur materialized before me, sitting together in the love seat at the foot of the bed. I screeched like a howler monkey and yanked the plaid comforter up over my bare torso.

Was I still asleep? What the hell was going on?

Arthur was now dressed in local tourist garb: a sweatshirt that said "I Heart Glastonbury," baggy cargo shorts, and a new pair of open-toed leather sandals.

"You left your door unlocked, Mr. Private Dick," said Marion in her cute Icelandic accent.

"But last night was..."

"Last night wasn't a dream, I'm afraid," said Arthur, finishing my thought.

The man had a touch of an accent himself. Just a touch. He sat easily on the sofa, leaning forward on his elbows, which were propped up on his bony knees. His hair was dark and straight, and he was sporting a hint of stubble. Strangely, there was dirt under his fingernails, as if he had just clawed his way up out of the ground. A disturbing thought, at best. His skin looked remarkably healthy, the skin of a young man. The skin of a very young man, in fact. More than anything, Arthur appeared to be a man who radiated power, but I could just be making that up.

After all, more than likely I was making all of this up.

Marion stood. "Get dressed, sleepy head." She tossed me my jeans. And since I was still busy staring at Arthur, they draped over my head, one of the buttons thunking against my forehead.

"Get dressed, why?" I asked, pulling them down.

"Because we have a sword to recover," said Arthur.

"A sword? What sword?" I asked, but the moment the words left my lips I knew the answer. "No, no, no. You cannot be serious."

But Arthur only leaned back and winked.

Marion said, "Just get dressed, James. We'll explain on the way."