Chapter 5
Don’t look back. Don’t look back, Vera silently instructed herself.
She did not stop until she reached a bench in front of the old church a few buildings down.
She didn’t dare turn around to ensure Merlin was behind her in case Allison had stepped outside, too.
He drew even with her and didn’t stop walking but merely nudged his head, inviting Vera to join him.
She didn’t know anything about him. Nothing about where they were going. She hadn’t thought to ask what the accident was that brought Guinevere to the brink of death.
It was too much. There were too many pieces. Don’t fall apart, she coached herself. Stay in it.
“Have you visited the White Spring Temple?” Merlin asked, not unlike how a visitor at the George might ask about the town. Vera softened toward him in the kindness of casual conversation. Perhaps he knew how delicate an edge her sanity balanced on as the distance between Vera and her home grew.
She nodded.
“That’s where we’re headed. It’s … well, I suppose you could say there’s a portal there, but calling it a magically stabilized wormhole might be more scientifically accurate,” he said as if he were talking about what he’d had for breakfast.
Vera nearly snorted with mad laughter. On second thought, perhaps he’d overestimated her mental capacity. Nevertheless, if there were to be a portal (or wormhole or … whatever) in Glastonbury, White Spring was one of a handful of places that fit the bill.
The temple was in an old, unassuming well house at the Tor’s base, built atop the spring to serve as a reservoir.
They’d not updated the 200-year-old building with electricity, instead opting to light it with candles and tenacious bits of sunlight that could find an entrance in cracks and pinholes in the stone walls.
It set the mystical mood along with the ever-present sound of trickling water and steady echoing drips from unseen sources.
In every corner, shrines honoring the Lady of Avalon were erected that suited all manner of religious pilgrims. Some would call her Goddess, others the Virgin Mother, and still the rest Mother Earth.
The water that flowed from the spring had never dried up in recorded history.
It provided for Glastonbury through famine and disease, and visitors devoutly attested to its healing properties, though when they’d tried to pipe it through the city in the late nineteenth century, it had blocked up the pipes.
Scientifically, it was clear that the spring’s high calcite content had caused irreparable damage to the metal.
Others had their own answer: modern plumbing wasn’t built for magic.
Still, even if it didn’t flow from their taps, anyone could visit the spring.
Visitors were advised on a sign at the entrance to step into the shallow waters or fully submerge themselves in the deeper pools.
Oddly enough, White Spring was within a few hundred meters of yet another (and more well-known) ancient spring, Chalice Well.
This one flowed red, reasonably explained by a high iron content to a rational mind but seldom seen that way by spiritual seekers.
Christian lore purported that the spring and its healing powers were directly related to the Holy Grail.
Legend held that the Grail was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea and, at one point, buried in a cavern beneath the spring.
They’d contend that the red waters signified the blood of Christ, once caught beneath the cross in that same chalice.
The pagans believed it to be the earth’s womb waters.
“I’m surprised it’s not Chalice Well,” Vera said, feeling compelled to say something.
She took a right onto Chilkwell Street without even thinking about it.
She’d walked this route so often that, were it not for the period clothing, she could almost convince herself this was an ordinary journey.
They passed folks along the street heading in the opposite direction, but in an eccentric town like Glastonbury, where fancy dress was nothing exceptional, no one paid them any mind.
“Interesting you should say that,” Merlin said.
“The waters of White Spring come directly from the Tor. And that’s where this particular kind of magic comes from.
Vera.” He stopped abruptly. “I noticed you still have that bag I gave you. You’re wearing all the contents I provided, but it’s not empty. What did you bring in the bag?”
Vera pursed her lips and only half turned toward him. “A picture of my parents, some socks and underwear, and …” Should she bother lying to him?
“Yes?” he prompted.
“My running shoes.” She pulled her shoulders back and stood up straighter, daring him to argue with her about it.
He sighed heavily. “Nothing else? No electronics of any kind?”
“No.”
Merlin chuckled and shook his head as he resumed walking. “Very well. But you must promise me you’ll be careful to keep them concealed from anyone but those of us who know your situation.”
This time, it was Vera who stopped in her tracks. “Other people know? Who all knows?” It hadn’t occurred to her that others might be in on the scheme.
“Oh, Guinevere. I’m so sorry.” Merlin’s brow furrowed. “I should have said before. Arthur is aware, as is—”
“He knows?” She’d assumed she’d carry this secret alone, especially to be kept from Arthur.
“Of course. He also,” Merlin heaved a sigh as he rolled his eyes, “against my better judgment, I might add, told his closest confidant.”
“Who is that? Would I recognize the name?”
Merlin started walking again without a response. Vera ran the few paces to catch up with him. Now, she was intrigued. It was the first hint of frustration that she’d seen from the patient wizard.
“It’s not, like, Lancelot or something?” she said facetiously, but Merlin’s lips pressed together so tightly that they became a thin line.
Vera’s jaw dropped. “Shut up. It is Lancelot!” Maybe it was because Merlin had turned her whole world sideways and backward in the space of an hour, but she delighted in his annoyance with the famous knight. She laughed. “And you don’t like him!”
“I neither—” Merlin shook his head. “He is the king’s oldest and dearest friend.
And I’ve never known him to be anything but fiercely loyal, and for that, I’m grateful.
But Lancelot is … loud and foolish.” He opened his mouth as if about to add more but seemed to decide against it and clamped his lips shut.
It all felt distant enough to not entirely be Vera’s story. But her mind flashed to that Arthurian storyline. Guinevere had an affair with Lancelot. Did Merlin know that part?
“I know you said you don’t get too involved in our version of the legend, but there’s a pretty consistent thread about Lancelot and Guinevere that might—”
“Yes, I’m aware.” He waved her off. “Guinevere, you’ll be shocked to learn how wrong this time has gotten things.”
It took Vera a moment to realize that when Merlin said Guinevere, he was addressing her.
“About King Arthur?” she asked.
“About everything. Magic is commonplace in our time. It fuels our culture, our society—little will be as you expect. Magic leaves no archaeological trace, which is largely why you’ve grown up learning about this time as the Dark Ages.
” He gave her a sidelong glance, and the smile that rose to his lips was one of pride.
“My dear, you will find it is nothing of the sort.”
Merlin had stopped and looked across the street over Vera’s shoulder. She’d been too caught up in trying to imagine a history that the books had gotten so woefully wrong that she’d not noticed where they were standing. They’d arrived at the well house.
The Victorian stone building was nestled against the wooded forest at the Tor’s base.
Foliage overtook it from above, giving the illusion that the building’s roof was made of lush, green vines.
An ever-flowing fountain trickled out of a stone pillar near the front corner.
Even when the temple was closed, any passerby had access to the sacred waters.
A squat stone wall lined a courtyard on the front end, with an opening meant to serve as a pathway from the road to the building’s door—which wasn’t solid, but a delicately designed wrought-iron gate of swirls and three vertical almond shapes up the center.
The temple only opened for a few hours each day. It was closed by this time in the evening, and the gate was locked. “Do we—”
Vera didn’t have time to finish her question.
Merlin fished a key from the pocket of his robe and moved past her to unlock the gate.
He opened it enough for someone to slip through and politely gestured for her to go first. She started when she heard the key in the lock again and turned to see Merlin locking the gate behind them.
Her throat tightened, and she tensed. She was trapped in here with a magical stranger.
Vera clenched and unclenched her fist as she examined her situation.
What were the options? Decide everything to this point had been bullshit and that this was an elaborate scheme to murder her? Panic and demand he unlock the door so she could run home?
No. She’d decided to trust Merlin the moment she’d accepted the bag that now hung from her shoulder.
That’s why she was wearing this dress. She was in it, and there wasn’t any turning back.
Vera was either trusting a madman at her peril, or her life was about to become something she could have never even dreamed up. There was no in-between.