'May you get exactly what you wish for. . .'
Ancient Chinese Curse
This particular Saturday was dull and oppressive--slate-gray sky heavy with the threat of rain and the scent of the coming storm on the wind. Everything had a muted feeling, a sense of not being real. Michael sighed as he turned away from the gloomy world and entered his apartment. The warm, rosy glow of the cherry wood furniture did not lighten his mood. He relaxed on the hunter green futon and watched TV while his mind spun a mile a minute, recalling all of what had happened only a month ago. Michael had met a man and it was a whirlwind--he had not expected to like this man so readily or to be so attracted to him--personality-wise as well as physically. The man's words still echoed hollowly in his head--words that once had feeling and import, but now was a pale phantom of its former light.
'You have a beautiful face. . .You're smart. . .I value intelligence. . .you make me happy. . .I like to see you smile,' he had voiced--that had been all it had turned out to be--only a voice intoning consonants and vowels.
His eyes betrayed no emotion as he thought back on the words that had been spoken--they had not been real, just a hook to reel him in and once he was caught, he would be molded and changed to fit the man's whim. At this thought, his jaw hardened and his eyes grew glacial--he was an individual, not someone that would be content to be just a keepsake boy-toy. He wanted someone that would view him as an equal--love was an equal partnership, not some mind-game of keeping or of being kept.
Michael grew angry at his mind dredging up past mistakes and flipped the TV off and ran his fingers through his medium-length chestnut brown hair as if he could wipe the past events away. The paper rustled under his feet and he reached over and snagged the classifieds--maybe he could check out a few garage and estate sales. His eyes scanned the print and found a few likely places. He drove to the first place but drove on when he saw that they were packing up. The second one was just old clothes and various old games. The last one was an estate sale located in an affluent neighborhood.
Michael wandered through the house, seeing tagged and expensive furniture, artwork and bric-a-brac. He was about to leave when he saw a small study and entered. Row upon row of books filled a wall, old volumes mostly.
"Excuse me, sir, but we need to close up now," an attractive young lady said.
"Could you tell me if any of these books are for sale?" He asked hopefully--he was a voracious reader--books were safe. . .it was life that was a disappointment.
"No, sorry--they all have been donated, but I do have a few books that are not in good repair," she added, reaching down and bringing up a small cardboard box. Inside he could see books with ripped or frayed seams and a few unbound ones as well. He was about to say thank you, but no thanks when he rationalized that you can't judge a book by its cover--or lack thereof. Michael paid her a twenty and went back home with his new acquisition.
He relaxed and began taking out the books--most were hardbacks that were usually assigned in English classes, like The Grapes of Wrath, The Catcher in the Rye and Wuthering Heights. The others were paperbacks on baseball or its players. He got go the last book--old, dog-eared leather and fine paper stiff with age. He carefully opened the cover and could barely make out the name -- Amelia, Amanda--the writing was precise but tiny and slanted. The pages were handwritten like a journal and the corners flaked away as he turned them. It took him awhile but he could make out a few words-- gran mere Marie. . .New Orleans. . .her incredible force of will. Michael leafed a few pages and found a page that was in a different hand--more rounded and the capitals oversized. He saw the title 'A Sending for True Love' and read a few lines--it was a simple poem, three stanzas almost the same, but filled with strange names. He read it out loud, stumbling over the odd names, but slowly becoming more confident of their pronunciation.
As he read the last line, a chill skittered down his spine and he became tingly all over. Suddenly a bright light erupted in front of him with enough force to knock him into the wall.
"What in the Heavens are you doing? You must be blighted to keep that..."
"That is a he--a person in need--certainly you can see that," another replied as he leaned over and laid a dampened cloth on his patient's forehead.
"I see--it is you who do not. The area where he was found was devastated beyond nature's ken--ground blackened and torn up, an entire tree twisted with others blasted to brambles, a nearby river turned off its course and boulders pulverized to pebbles--how can you not fear?" The younger man asked, eyes wide with the memory.
"He was ill-used, I think the power not be his," the older man spoke as he leaned back on the stool. "Besides, I believe that he is the one spoken of in the prophecies."
"But his vestments--they are strange, he is a foreigner!" The younger protested, affronted by the thought of being beholden to an outsider.
"Foreigner or not, lord or commoner, we must. . ." the elder reprimanded but was cut off by a groggy groan as his patient woke up. The elder leaned closer while the younger backed up.
Michael looked up at the two robed men after wearily rubbing at his eyes. The elder possessed a kindly, but worn face--as if weighted with some ever-present and arduous task. The younger, trembling and sweating, looked as if he would faint dead away if spoken to. Michael rose and sat at the edge of the cot he was in and stretched.
"It is good to see that you are finally of good health and with us, young sir."
"Finally--have I been here long then?" Michael asked.
"Verily--for two noonings, almost three. We can send a missive anywhere if you would inform us of the proper party to receive news of your recovery."
Michael was about to open his mouth when he realized that he couldn't recall anyone--or anything before waking up here. He shuddered slightly, "I do not think so, thank you."
"May we inquire as to the name of our guest?"
"I am Michael John. . ." he paused wondering where he got those names, but they felt right to him. "I do not seem to recall my surname."
"Well, we give welcome to you, Michael. I am Master Blaine of Clarmont. You must be famished--come with me and we shall talk over our repast," the elder said as he lightly set a hand to Michael's shoulder to guide and steady him if needed. They made their way to what appeared to be some kind of study with a huge desk precariously littered with paper and books on one side and a tray of food on the other. They sat down and ate.
The elder looked at Michael John surname unknown with a stare that evaluated him as they talked--young, perhaps thirty-odd summers old, handsome face, almost beautiful in fact, thick, dark eyebrows above eyes that were a perfect match to his brown hair, a trim body and of average height. They had talked for most of an hour's time when Blaine realized that Michael was an intelligent, charming, and highly likable person. But there was something behind the eyes--a sense of will that no one should brook lightly, an unpretentious sense of self that any highborn would wish to have. He decided that Michael very well could be the one, but the course of action must be set just right. Blaine showed him back to his room where Michael found a bath ready and a new set clothes--expensive clothes--laid out on the bed.
"I took the liberty of gathering proper apparel--bathe and change for I shall take you to one who may be able to help you," Master Blaine said before he turned and left.
Michael undressed, bathed and examined the clothes--a dark, forest green lace-up shirt, brown pants with matching leather boots and a russet cloak. He put them on and was adjusting the shirt when he saw a ring on his right hand. It was made of gold and had a light blue gem--it fit his hand too well so it must be his yet he could not draw any memory from it. A knock at his door interrupted his concentration and the young man he had seen earlier opened the door and barely crossed the threshold. Michael followed the man and realized that this was an extensive school as he was led outside to where Blaine was.
"Ah, the vestments become you," Master Blaine said as he started to walk east along a dirt road.
"To where do we go?"
"As I said--to someone who may be able to help you," Master Blaine uttered uncomfortably, strangely not wishing to talk. They walked in silence for a good mile or so when they came upon a wood.
"Past the wood lives the man we seek," Master Blaine mumbled as Michael strode forward, eager yet apprehensive to find out who he really was.
"Thank you for helping me--I will never be able to repay such kindness," Michael said weightily and did not see Master Blaine draw out a knife and advance.
"I'm sorry," Master Blaine whispered as he reversed the knife and hit his guest on the head. Michael slumped to the ground, a fold of the cloak fell over his face.
Michael awoke in a strange bed for the second time that day, but this one was the extreme opposite of where he had been before. Rich, vibrant tapestries covered stone walls, the fireplace was huge, chairs were either brocade or velvet and he could feel that the sheets of the bed were either silk or satin--in fact, he could feel a lot because someone had removed his clothes! Indignation rose then vanished completely as he came fully awake to find that he was not alone in this bed--there was a strong, tanned arm curled about his chest. The owner of the arm stirred and drew him even closer to him. Michael gulped uneasily as he could feel the muscled chest and also felt that someone was very male. His face got incredibly red and he slowly and painstakingly inched himself away from the man till he was out of the bed.
Michael looked about for his clothes, but they could not be found. There was, however, two sets of clothes laid out. He chose the set that was less ornate and began to put them on, but stopped when he realized that these were apparently some kind of hosen. He fumbled with the unfamiliar buckles and cursed as the oversized shirt and ties got in his way. He just wanted to get dressed and very far away from here.
"My servants can attend you if you wish, but I wouldn't mind at all if you chose not to attire yourself," a voice spoke from the direction of the bed. Michael jumped, blushed, lost his footing and fell. His eyes blazed as he heard a soft chuckle. He untangled the hosen from around his ankles and flung them down to the floor and turned to tell this pretentious lothario just where he could go.
He almost gasped as he saw the man for the first time. His voice had been regular in volume, but the innuendo had been thick and the chuckle had been sexy, even if it irritated him--but visually he was impressive. Six-three or more feet tall, lightly muscled in a defined way rather than bulky, long, wavy brown hair that almost hid one level eyebrow, eyes incredibly blue--piercing like a laser, clean-shaven, strong arms off of broad shoulders, hands that were long-fingered and well-cared for.
"You, sir," Michael began, drawing out the word sir--undoubtedly making it very clear that he thought the man was anything else but, "are the most low, conceited, ill-mannered, ill-bred lout that ever was--you take advantage of a guest like I were chattel, just another item to sell, buy or acquire! I am deserving of more--wish for more than that!" He added as he gathered up the rest of the clothes in his hands and strode for the door and opened it.
He was puzzled as he saw a guard outside the door dressed in full armor. "What kind of perverted kink have I gotten mixed up in?"
"Uh. . .sir?" The nearer guard asked.
"Take me to a guest room, please--that is if I am not to be placed in irons," he shot back to the man who had moved off of the bed. The guard looked at him in an odd way before looking back to his prince.
"My lord?" The guard questioned, then brought his hand to his chest as he saw his prince acquiesce.
"How Roman-Geeko," Michael muttered as he walked off, causing the guard to jostle to take the lead.
The door was closed by the other guard, who could not hide a small smile and the prince just stood there frozen. He blinked then he snickered and roared in laughter as he realized that the stranger was striding the halls of his castle in nothing more than a shirt--granted, the shirt was long enough to provide him modesty, but he imagined the startled looks on his servant's faces when they came across him. What if a member of his council saw him in the halls? Prince Davin of Ardith laughed till tears were streaming down his face as he imagined the stranger dressing-down a Council member with his barbed tongue.
The prince ran a hand over his face to wipe away tears as he thought of the stranger. He had been found by the side of the road as he and his friend and old teacher, Master Blaine, had been riding before their eve-feast. Davin had swung down from his horse and ran to the body--it was dressed in fine yet simple vestments, but a hood hid the face. He carefully reached out and brushed the fold of fabric away and gasped. 'Beautiful,' he had uttered, feeling as if time had stopped--even ceased to exist. Straight, medium-length chestnut brown hair framed a face that was pure nobility--high cheekbones, strong jaw, sensual lips made for kissing, eyelashes that were as thick and as jet-colored as his eyebrows. He had wondered what color his eyes were as he touched his neck and gave a small sigh of relief as he felt a pulse.
They had ridden back to the castle and Davin had carried him to his rooms and summoned a physician as he took a bath. It had been his physician that had removed his clothes in order to ascertain if he had any other wounds than the bumps on his head--and as for being taken advantage of, he had dined with his court and drank a bit too much with a group of his guards and had come to his room, undressed and immediately fell to sleep. Davin had not sullied the man's reputation--although he most likely would have if he had awakened first he admitted to himself as he remembered the trim yet solid body he had held as he awoke. He sighed as he prepared for an early council meeting.
Michael followed the guard and grew pensive and more confused as they turned hallways and he saw that the man wasn't pretentious after all and that this was some kind of fort or a castle. As they rounded a corner they happened upon a woman who was carrying a tray and towels. Michael did not see the shocked look, nor the flush of embarrassment--all he saw was the woman's clothes, or to say the lack of zippers or even buttons. How could he be in a place that was supposedly rich enough to have a castle, but poor and backward enough culturally not to have buttons on clothes? And what of Mr. Wells Fargo leading him to another room?
This was strange--the last thing he remembered was reading a book that he had gotten at an estate sale because he wasn't about to mope around the house and think of. . .it all came back to him suddenly--his name, where he was born, all of his life. Michael almost stumbled with the shock of it all, and smiled reassuringly as the guard stopped to see if he was okay. That book--something about Marie and New Orleans--he froze as he recalled a word his eyes had skipped over. . .witch. The poem had been no poem, but a spell for finding true love and somehow it had brought him to here--wherever here was!
Michael nodded to the guard in thanks as a door was opened for him and entered. Why was I brought here--did the spell misfire? Did I pronounce a word wrong? How can I go back when I don't have the book? How can I find out where I am? What if I'm stuck here--I need civilization! I need my car! I need my computer! I need chocolate!