"I am so sick of this stupid place," Vera said, throwing her Michelin guidebook across the hotel room. The hotel was cold and damp, just like the weather, and to be fair it really was a dismal day. The Chelsea Flower Show Tour which had been advertised as such a bargain turned out to be a wet drag through the rain with a busload of other American tourists, most of whom suffered audibly from arthritis and blocked sinuses.

Art sighed. Sometimes there was no pleasing anybody. He had gone into hock to give Vera this trip as a conciliatory gesture after she had found out about his little lunches with one of the researchers at work. Nothing had gone on there, not really. I mean, what's the harm in a few lunches where each party had a chance to complain and commiserate?

But Vera had put a stop to it, pretty much the way she had put a stop to everything in his life which had made it worth living. Why had he married her? He couldn't even remember the answer to that question. He knew she had been beautiful, that somehow they had been meant for each other. And he had steadfastly weathered her romance with his best friend a few years back. But why was he sticking with it? Well, California was a community property state, that was one reason. He just couldn't quite deal with the possibility of Vera getting half of his retail empire in a divorce.

"We'll go out to a nice dinner tonight, " Art said. "And I'll call the front desk and see if we can get the heat turned up or something. It's freezing in here."

Vera just made a sour face and went into the bathroom. She slammed the door and fiddled with the taps to run a hot bath. She was chilled to the bone and could feel a cold coming on. Just what she needed. Tomorrow's bus tour was of Stonehenge and she would be sitting for hours in the stuffy bus with all those whining geriatrics. Some trip.

As she settled back into the hot bubble bath, she relaxed and closed her eyes. She dreamed of that far off place of swaying palm trees, sunny days and the crash of the ocean waves. She remembered the feel of the warm suntan oil as she slowly massaged it into Lance's well-muscled shoulders. She could still feel his arms around her, the sweet scent of too many margaritas on his breath. They could have stayed at the beach house forever, she thought. And they would have, too, if her bumbling fool of a husband hadn't surprised them one afternoon. The story that they were simply sunbathing in the nude out on the patio hadn't really gone over too well, and for while things were a bit dicey.

Vera had gone so far as to consult a lawyer who told her the plain truth. "Listen, honey," the lawyer was a woman who was used to seeing battered wives pleading for enough to live on, not the pampered wives of retail executives looking for ways to get even more money out of their hapless mates, "my advice is to make nice with hubby or get cut out entirely. You don't have a leg to stand on here."

Vera took the news with equanimity and a large drink. A few months later, she found out that hubby was seeing a little number in the accounting department at lunchtime. Never mind that she and Lance had, well, done it while Art and What'shername had just eaten their way through a few Sizzler specials. Just her luck. Lance had taken a powder after the big discovery and hadn't been heard from since, so Vera took her bitterness out on the lunch bunch and put a stop to it. She would keep Art at any cost, even that of her happiness and her sanity. If she couldn't have what she wanted, then Art couldn't either.

Art, on the other hand, would only keep Vera as long as it was financially impossible to do otherwise.

Okay, Art thought, so the trip to England was a mistake. Who'd a thought there'd be this foot and mouth disease thing going on? So the hotels were empty, that was a break, but the weather was awful and the tours were dreary. And that glimpse they'd seen of a mountain of dead lambs being burned, well that was right out of Hell. He would never forget the smell, either, or the looks on the faces of the farmers who lost everything. A vacation in Kosovo would have been more upbeat.

The room phone rang. "Mr. King?" the desk clerk inquired.

"Yeah," Art answered. He was the king, just like it said in his commercials. The Bedspread King of Encino. Biggest retail bedspread empire in the whole country, he thought proudly. Six hundred retail outlets and suppliers from as far away as India, China and Pakistan. He carried over eight thousand patterns and had done the custom work for every high-powered bedroom from Madonna's estates to the White House. He could tell these Limeys a thing or two about bedspreads, he thought, running his hand over the machine quilted number he was sitting on.

"We have two cancellations on the Glastonbury tour if you and your missus would be interested."

"You betcha, pal," Art growled. That Glastonbury place was the one thing he really wanted to see. He had dreamed about it during the time Vera was seeing that pool boy out at the beach house. The pictures his secretary found for him on the Internet showed an impressive abbey in ruins and a lot of churches and stuff, the kind of thing that would bore him stupid under normal conditions but which now, inexplicably, fascinated and intrigued him. He was fascinated to the point of secretly reading up on the place. Tucked into the far corner of his suitcase was a worn copy of John Leland's "Camalat." Art had stared at the pictures and maps in it for so long that he felt as if he could walk right into them.

The dreams had continued, hazy at first, then becoming clearer and with more story to them. Women populated the dreamscape, one a dark and powerful force, another a slight blonde with a high tinkling voice. Neither of them bore the slightest resemblance to Vera who had once been generous of figure and pretty of face, but had turned into the slightly overweight and petulant annoyance presently dozing in his bathroom.

It was the landscape that really grabbed him, though. In the dreams the high sand colored towers, crenellated for archers, rose above him in silence. The dirt, damp and dark, was under his feet and the green coating of the fields seemed to shimmer in the ever-present mist. He always awoke with a strong smell of horses in his nostrils and a longing ache in his heart. He yearned for this unknown place.

The bus trip to Glastonbury took nearly three hours during which Vera toyed with the image of pulling out a handgun from her Kate Spade purse and blowing away every single snuffling, honking tourist on the damned bus, taking particular pleasure in killing the driver of the damned thing, then turning it on herself for a bit of peace and quiet. Of course, she didn't have a handgun the stupid country wouldn't let anyone carry a gun. She closed here eyes behind Perry Ellis sunglasses and tried not to listen to the endless insipid conversation of the two elderly sisters from Australia who sat behind her and Art. Art was alternately immersed in that stupid book of his and excitedly looking across her to see what new and delightful scene rolled by the window. It was interminably all the same, though: field after rolling green field, interrupted by low stone walls and quaint villages and the odd convenience store.

Glastonbury Abbey was a wonderful place full of tourists, busses, cars, dust, a gift shop, a ticket window, pilgrims, priests, nut cases and magnificent ruins. A plain cross the size of McDonald's famous golden arches rose into the blue sky of Somerset and reminded all of the sacred nature of the spot. A group of pilgrims holding banners walked from one area to another, singing hymns in high voices. Art thought he heard a French horn, too, but couldn't find one. Signs advertised guide dogs, taped tours and restrooms for the disabled.
Vera disappeared into the gift shop where a glass case held a fine display of Celtic jewelry.

The clerk was a tall, buxom woman with masses of black hair and a pair of piercing green eyes. She smiled at Vera and opened the glass case. "I think I have somethin you would like," she said in a voice like a honey-coated saw. She held out a ring.
Vera took the ring and turned it over. She had already decided not to waste her money on any cheap trinkets, and who did this babe think she was kidding? The ring was a plain band of silver with a few little incisions on it and an inscription on the inside. It was obviously not new.

Vera sneered at the ring. She could afford anything she wanted, and a plain little ring someone else's plain little ring was certainly not what she had in mind. As she started to hand it back, it moved in her right hand, fastening itself around the first knuckle of her ring finger. She grabbed at it with her left hand, but it was stuck.

"Oh, shit," she hissed, pulling at the little ring.

"Only five pounds," the dark haired woman said.

Five pounds? What was she talking about? It was going to need more than a five pound pull to get the damned thing off it was stuck but good. Then Vera realized she meant the price. "But I don't want it!" she protested.

The woman smiled and held out her hand to take the ring. "That's alright, then," she said pleasantly.

Vera set her bag down on the counter and pulled at the ring with all her strength. But it was stuck. Visions of some archaic emergency room where amputation might be the immediate remedy to the situation flashed through her mind. She snatched her purse, dragged out some English currency and threw it down in front of the woman. "Here, dammit!"

The dark haired woman smiled and her green cat's eyes flickered. That the woman took the ring of her own accord and even paid her for it was almost too good to be true. The Old Man would be pleased.

Art felt himself drawn further and further into the ruined abbey by a sort of force over which he had no control. He listened to the tour guides giving dates and names that meant nothing to him less than nothing, as he was closest to a French-speaking tour guide and let his eyes wander over the ruined vaults. A strange longing which he initially mistook for the craving of a good cigar overcame him as he looked at the angular faces of the dead carved in stone, not softened at all by the passage of so much time.

Art had already seen the little brown sign with white letters marking the burial site of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere the site where a black marble tomb in which King Edward I, in 1278, placed the bits of bones and hair and stone slab unearthed by monks. The tomb disappeared during the dissolution, and the contents were never seen again.

While Vera stalked the grounds in her sunglasses and unsuitable shoes, Art sat on a carved bench and wished mightily for a good cigar and a peaceful spot in which to smoke it.

"Cigar, mate?" The tall man seemed to materialize out of nowhere, his lined face at odds with his youthful step. "It's a Cuaba," he said, offering a bizarre object to Art.

Art recognized the shape, bulbous in the middle and pointed at both ends, as the traditional shape of the Havana Cuaba, a very fine cigar indeed. He reached for it with a smile. "Gee, thanks, pal. I was just thinkin' about something like this " He rolled it between his fingers and sniffed at it, savoring the sweet, heavy scent. "Hey, you think they'll let us smoke here?" he asked anxiously.

The tall man nodded. "I wouldn't give it to you if you couldn't have it," he assured Art, pulling out another one for himself. "But perhaps over there, at the foot of the Tor would be a more, uh, peaceful place.".

The Tor was one of the hills which comprised the Glastonbury landscape, with an arched tower atop it and what looked like th remains of a man-made maze on the side ot it. It was the rumored site of early fertility rites, the Island of Glass. Art and the tall man started walking toward it.

As they left the Abbey's enclosure, Art lit the Cuaba and tasted first the wrapper leaf, then the fine mix. He smiled. Maybe this was it, he thought. Maybe the trip, the urge to visit Glastonbury, everything maybe it was all for this, a stroll through England's green and pleasant land with a fine Cuban cigar.

Vera swept out of the gift shop petulantly, tugging at the little ring affixed to her finger. At least it wasn't raining anymore. In fact, since their arrival the weather had been remarkably clear, and the air had even warmed up a bit. There was just the hint of the ocean in the breeze, and the scent of green grass. She forgot about the ring for a moment and breathed in the heady air. It was intoxicating and seemed to energize her with some purpose. She took off her sunglasses and shook her hair out, then began a brisk walk toward the foot of the Tor.

Art and the man were enjoying their Cuabas in a companionable silence when Vera came upon them. She smiled at the stranger, automatically taking stock of his apparent attributes and waiting for his return gaze to exhibit similar interest.

He bowed slightly, removed the Cuaba from his mouth and said, "My lady," to her, but his eyes remained discreetly on the scenery and his cigar.

"Where you been, Babe?" Art asked.

"Oh, Artie, I got this dreadful ring stuck on me in the gift shop. Can you help me get it off?" she replied without greeting or preamble. As the stranger had not so much as ogled her considerable charms, she ignored him.

She stuck her hand out to Art and the sky suddenly grew dark. Rain clouds, black and rolling, moved quickly across the blue sky to block the sun. The breeze died and an ominous threat of heavy rain hung heavily.

"Sure thing," Art said. He stuck the cigar to one side of his mouth and took her hand in both of his. Thunder boomed quietly in the distance.

He pulled at the tiny silver ring, but it seemed to be stuck on Vera's enlarged knuckle. He pulled harder and harder, finally eliciting a yelp as he yanked at it. But it didn't come off.

Instead, the skies opened up and a deluge of heavy water came pouring down on them. Lightning flashed, and Vera's scream was caught in the split second of light. The grass beneath their feet began to roil and the earth softened. Art's Cuaba fell from his open mouth as the grass and mud beneath them opened up and swallowed first him, then Vera.

As the mud closed over them and the green grass grew back together, the tall man bent to retrieve Art's Cuaba. The rain stopped and the skies cleared to a brilliant blue. The ocean-spiked breeze started up again as the man began walking back toward Glastonbury Abbey.

The Old Man looked up from his book. The room was bright as the sun streamed in through the Gothic arched windows. A puddle of golden sunshine spilled over the granite stones of the floor and an ornate birdcage held a warbling bird. On a long table, various objects gleamed in the afternoon light: a large crystal globe, several vials of colored liquids and a length of pretty velvet cloth. "Ah, it's you," he said to the tall man who had just entered the cheerful chamber.

"My Lord," the man said, bowing low, "I have done what was necessary. I regret to say, he was not The One."

"Not The One! Oh, dear, dear," the Old Man put his book aside and paced the floor. "You're quite sure, I suppose? No mistake, then?" He looked anxiously up into the tall man's glowing eyes.

"No, My Lord. I am sorry. He could not remove the ring. And she was most assuredly not The One either."

The Old Man sighed. "I must continue my quest, then. I was so sure this time. Everything seemed to fit in so well. He had the right name, the wife had the right name, she had even taken a lover with the right name. And he was a king of sorts, in some trade or other, was he not?"

"Yes, My Lord, in the, uh, bed covering trade. He was known in his kingdom as The Bedspread King."

"Well, he wasn't The One for whom we wait. I am so glad I did away with that sword in the stone test, you know how difficult things are in this century. No matter, I will continue to search through The Book of Names." The Old Man went back to the book he had discarded. It was large and heavy and bore the letters, "Los Angeles White Pages." "Now then, let me see, oh yes, King, King "

The Black Knight went back to pacing the halls, still puffing on the Cuaba. He was a patient man the centuries had taught him that much. It was too bad about that last one he certainly did have all the makings. But that silver ring wouldn't come off, and that, after all, was the test. The Black Knight sighed. Maybe Old Merlin wasn't quite up to it any more. Maybe that bedspread fellow really had been The One and there was something wrong with the test. No, best not to go there.

Bio: Kate Thornton writes short fiction and has had over thirty stories in print, gleaning much of her inspiration from her Army career, her proximity to Caltech, and her nosy neighbors. She will be delighted to hear from you.

E-mail: kittyf@hotmail.com

URL: http://www.sff.net/people/katethornton

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