Divine by Mistake (4 page)

Consciousness didn’t return easily; it was an elusive thing. It felt like a dream, like the kind of dream I have had during an especially yucky period, complete with awful cramps. In my dream I change the cramps to weird, sugar-laced labor pains and then I give birth to a Twinkie, which somehow makes me feel better. I know. I’m Freud’s wet dream.

My head hurt. A lot. Worse than a sinus headache, even worse than an I-can’t-believe-I-drank-all-that-tequila hangover. And my body felt like—no, I couldn’t feel my body at all. Couldn’t open my eyes. Oh, yeah, I’m dead. No wonder I felt…

Blackness closed softly, like a friend.

The next time I woke, my head still hurt—a lot. And I was sorry to realize that I now felt my body. Every joint ached, like the flu from hell. Oh, God, maybe this was hell (if someone started yelling math problems at me, I was in hell
for sure
). But I couldn’t hear anything except a strange ringing that seemed to be inside my ears. I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. That was probably because corpses don’t have functioning eyelids. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was dead, I think my heart would have pounded out of my chest. Can corpses panic? Obviously, yes…this time blackness wasn’t friendly, it was seductive, and I willingly spiraled into its waiting arms.

“Be still, my Lady, all will be well.”

The voice was sweet and familiar, but it had a funny lilt to it that I didn’t recognize. My head was heavy, hot and sore. My body felt beat up. Something that lay on my head focused my disjointed attention to a sudden wet coolness. I touched a thick compress, but someone gently brushed my hand away.

“All is well, my Lady. I am here.” Again, that elusive familiarity.

“Wha—” God, my throat was raw and still on fire. Fire! Memory hurled back, bringing fear and panic. This time when I told my eyes to open they obeyed. Kind of. I tried to concentrate on seeing, but images and lights blurred together into confusion. The large blur sitting next to me moved, and my eyes began to focus on—

Thank God, it was Suzanna. If she was here then I couldn’t be dead, and maybe everything would be all right. I tried to maintain my focus on her as the room pitched and I struggled to blink my vision clear. She was already holding one of my hands, but, strangely, she tried to pull away as she saw my eyes open. I just grabbed on all the harder. It seemed she went pale, but it also seemed like there were four of her, then two of her, then four again as my vision wavered.

“My Lady, you must lie still. You have been through much tonight, your body and soul are in need of rest. Do not worry, you are safe and all is well.”

I tried to say,
what the hell is wrong with you,
but the sound my throat made was like a whispering snake—or one of those horrible opossums caught in headlights. (No, they don’t just play dead, they hiss and scare the crap out of unsuspecting women who have stopped the car on a dark country road just because they’re looking for some privacy so they can pee, jeesh.) Anyway, I couldn’t understand me, so I knew Suzanna couldn’t, either.

She pulled her hand loose from mine and someone I couldn’t focus on handed her a goblet. Goblet? A golden goblet? In a hospital?

“Drink, my Lady. It will soothe your throat and help you to rest.” Her gentle hand lifted my head and she held the cup to my lips as I tried to gag down the sweet, thick liquid.

Lifting my head had set off waves of renewed pain in my temples. Before the world went black again, I tried to stay focused on my friend. She was taking the cloth off my head and exchanging it for a new, cool bandage handed to her by an incredibly young nurse wearing an odd, flowing uniform. The “nurse” looked like she was ready to frolic in the meadow, not go to work in the E.R., or ICU, or…

Blackness was tinged with the sweet, cough-syrupy taste of medicine.

The next time the blackness lifted suddenly. It was not a gentle awakening. Oh, no, I was going to—

“Here, my Lady. Let me aid you.” Suzanna supported my back and held my hair out of the way as I puked my guts up over the side of the bed (she really is a good best girlfriend—I’m sorry I called her stuck-up before). When I finished barfing up my innards, she guided me back to my pillow and wiped my face clean.

I seriously hate puking. Always have. It makes me shake and feel out of control. I’m glad I don’t do it very often, but when I do, I admit I’m a baby about it. So, true to form, I couldn’t stop shaking. I was weak and disoriented, but I thought that might have been because I was dead, not just because of the puking.

“Wa…wa…ter.” I managed to get an understandable squeak out of my throat, and Suzanna immediately motioned to a waiting nurse, and another goblet appeared. She held it for me and helped me to drink.

“Uuuckk!” I spewed most of it out—it wasn’t water, it was weak wine. Now, I adore wine, but not after puking.

“Suz! Wa…t…er.” I gave her the
girlfriend, I’m gonna kill you
look as I tried to get my point across.

“Yes, my Lady!” She paled again and turned to the nurse, handing her the goblet. (What kind of hospital was this, anyway?) “Bring Lady Rhiannon water immediately!” The nymphlike nurse rushed away. Suzanna turned back to me, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Forgive me, my Lady. I misunderstood. Blame me, not the maiden.” She folded her hands together over her breast, like she was praying or something, and bowed her head, still not meeting my eyes.

Okay, what the hell was going on?
I caught hold of one of her hands and tugged, trying to get her to look at me. And then I noticed her hair. It was her normal color—blondish, with pretty, natural highlights—but it had become tangled with my hand.
Because it was waist length and falling over her shoulders and breasts and was therefore entangled in our hands.

“No. How…” I managed to sputter. Suzanna has always had a short, sexy haircut. I love to kid her about it looking mussed and naughty. She says, “Why, thank you!” like a cat that just lapped up cream. How could it possibly have grown down to her waist? Oh, great. Had I been in some kind of coma? Perhaps I’d been “out” for a gazillion years, and out of grief she’d descended into some unfortunate Lady Godiva phase while I was unconscious, and without my astute girlfriend-telling-her-what-looks-right fashion sense she had grown her hair down to her butt.

Nope, she didn’t look any older. The bitch.

She still avoided my eyes as I studied her. It was definitely Suzanna. Same petite bone structure. Beautiful round face that somehow radiated goodness. Her long tresses were pulled behind her perfect little ears, just like when her hair was short. The same freckles dotted her nose and high cheekbones. If she’d smile (which didn’t appear too likely) I bet I’d see familiar dimples on either side of her gentle lips.

“Suz…” I tugged on her hand, trying to get her to look at me. As she glanced up, my eyes met the same golden-brown eyes that have been peering back at me for years. “Wha…” I tried to rasp out a question while giving her the
what’s up, girlfriend?
look. She seemed to soften, but the nurse ran in (really, the nymphet actually ran into the room) with a new goblet.

“Here, my Lady.”

Thank God, real water. And it was even cool. I tried to suck as much down as I could, but my throat rebelled.

“Th…anks,”
I managed to rasp. Suzanna had to lean forward to hear me, but I knew she understood because she suddenly blushed, hastily grabbed a soft cloth and began wiping my face dry.

It amazed me to realize I was exhausted. All I’d done was puke my guts up, try to talk and drink a couple swallows of water. Suzanna stroked the hair back from my forehead, humming a tuneless song.

“Rest, my Lady. All is well.”

And just what the hell was she wearing…?

My other friend, blackness, stealthily took me away again.

“Forgive me, my Lady. You must awaken.”

No, I’ve called in a sub, let me sleep. This must be a horrible dream. Maybe if I screwed my eyes tightly shut and concentrated on conjuring up a dream image of Hugh Jackman enslaved to me by love, I would drift back into my Dreamland.

Then I made the mistake of swallowing.

Crap—my throat was killing…crap. Oh…that’s right. I might be dead. And my eyes popped open.

Two nymphet/nurses flanked the long-haired Suzanna. One had a gauzy something-or-other draped over her shapely and very bare arms. The other was holding combs and brushes and a lovely little crown-like golden thing (I think they’re called coronets). Hmm…Hell couldn’t be all bad if it had jewelry.

“My Lady, your father’s messenger has just arrived, and he announces that the banns have been posted and your betrothed will be meeting you here to finalize the handfast ceremony.”

My what?

“Today. Please, we must make you ready.”

All I could do was blink up at her. What was she talking about? My betrothed? I wasn’t even
dating
anyone! I’d fired the last guy I’d gone out with halfway through our blind date (Note to self: never, ever go on another blind date).

Suzanna seemed to hesitate. “Mistress, are you still unable to speak?”

“Misssss—uhh.”
What was up with this “mistress” and “my Lady” crap?

Obviously, my rasping opossum-like whisper was answer enough. I noticed that the sound of my very messed-up voice sent the nymphets into an attractive state of panic. Suz acted pissed off; suddenly she was snatching the gauzy robe, combs and jewels from the nymphs.

“You are dismissed.” (Boy, she sounded stern—which intensified the strange, almost musical lilt to her voice.) “I will care for our mistress.” They scampered away, looking relieved. Guess they don’t make nurses like they used to.

“Here, my Lady, lean on my arm and I will take you to the baths.”

You’d think getting up and walking to take a (much-needed) bath wouldn’t be a tough thing to do, and maybe it wouldn’t have been if the damn room would quit moving.

“Uuuuhhh—” I felt like I was hobbling, like one of the old crones from Act I of Macbeth—God knows my hair felt scraggly enough that I must have looked the part.

“You are doing well, my Lady. Come, it is only a few more steps.”

We were walking down a dimly lighted hall. Glancing up, I noticed the lighting was dim because, well, because (and this made me come to a total halt) there were live torches jutting out of wrought-iron holders. I have a college degree; you can’t fool me. Live torches are not normal for a hospital! And, damnit! I most certainly am not engaged!

“My Lady, do you need to rest?”

What had happened to Suzanna? Did they stop making Prozac while I was “out,” and had that sent her into some kind of tragic medieval hysteria? One of my arms was already linked with hers, so grabbing her other hand was simple. I forced her to turn toward me and look directly at me. Taking my time, swallowing several times in an attempt to clear the opossum from my throat, I held her gaze with mine and said slowly and intently,
“What has happened?”

Still, she tried to look away, but I gave her hands a quick shake and her eyes darted back to mine.

“My Lady…” She paused and glanced around her like she was afraid of being overheard, then she whispered in a serious-as-Oprah-in-a-shoe-store voice, “What is your name?”

Okay, I’d play. But if Sean Connery showed up around the next corner, I would know for sure that I was having the Mother of All Bizarre Dreams.

“Shannon.” I rasped as clearly as I was able. She didn’t even blink.

“And what is my name?”

Jeesh. Maybe she was drunk—the woman never could drink. One little sniff of tequila and she was off into some blonde la-la land. Deep breath—nope, I didn’t smell any alcohol.

“Your name is Suzanna.”

She leaned even closer to me and shook her head slowly from side to side. This time she seemed more able to force herself to meet my gaze. I couldn’t help noticing that the fear that had been flickering through her eyes was now shadowed by pity.

“No, my Lady.” Her gentle-sounding, strangely accented answer rocked me. “My name is not Suzanna, it is Alanna. And you are not Shannon, you are my mistress, Rhiannon, High Priestess of the Goddess Epona, daughter of The MacCallan, betrothed to and soon to be handfasted with the High Shaman ClanFintan.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know this must be difficult for you, my Lady, but come with me. I will help you ready yourself and I will try and explain how this came about.” She did sound concerned as she helped my numb body move forward down the hall and through a door which stood ajar to the right of us.

The room we entered conjured images of those PBS specials that first show current-day ruins, which look like a jumbled, confused mess of old stone and decaying columns—then they morph a computer image over the ruins so that the audience can see what the original supposedly looked like in all its glory. This room definitely looked like one of the computer-morphed images. The floor and ceiling were smooth marble. It was hard to tell if the gold color came from the stone or the many wall torches. The symmetry of the walls was interrupted often by cutout niches, which looked to be carved into the stone at varying heights. In the niches lighted candles nestled in odd-looking golden holders (gosh, I really appreciated a room accessorized with gold), giving the walls the appearance of being set ablaze by faceted jewels. Along one wall hung an enormous mirror in front of which sat an elaborate vanity. The mirror was softly fogged by steam wisping up from a deep, clear pool of water that bubbled up from the center of the floor, and overflowed out in a fast-running stream which emptied itself into another pool in an adjoining room. The air was so warm and moist it felt caressing. Just breathing it made me feel relaxed, and the smell reminded me of something…

“It’s a mineral spring!” Even my voice responded to the room’s healing aroma and Suz/Alanna didn’t have to strain to understand me.

“Yes, my Lady.” She seemed pleased that I had enough sense to identify the metallic smell of the water and speak semiclearly (a little like walking and chewing gum). “Here, let me help you out of your robe.” Which she did, quickly and expertly. Then she motioned for me to follow the rock steps down into the steaming water. It was deep, but there were several comfortably smoothed ledges conveniently placed all along the near side of the pool, and I sank gingerly onto one with the sigh of the truly dirty. I watched through half-lidded eyes as Suzanna/Alanna gathered sponges and small pots and bottles from the vanity, poured me a glass of dark red something from a waiting pitcher into yet another golden goblet, then knelt on the side of the pool near my ledge.

I gratefully accepted the goblet and sighed in pleasure at the taste of a wonderful cabernet. Then, as if she did it every day, she lifted my arm that was not holding the goblet, and began running a soapy sponge down it. I yelped and pulled away.

“My Lady, you need be readied to meet your betrothed.”

“I can—” (swallow, take a breath) “—wash—” (swallow) “—my—” (breathe) “—self!” I slammed the goblet down next to her and whispered forcefully, “And don’t think you can lull me into forgetting the bizarre crap you just laid on me in the hall. I want to know what’s up—
now,
Suzanna Michelle.” Girlfriends only use each other’s middle names when a crisis exists or when deviant sex is being discussed, so she had to know I was serious.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I did not mean to offend or prevaricate.” She bowed her head and clasped her hands over her breast, like she was waiting for discipline.

I didn’t know what was going on; something was definitely wrong. But whatever it was, I was sure the lovely cabernet would help. Another sip felt soothing to my throat, almost as soothing as the warm water felt to my body. Another sip—deep breath. Suzanna hadn’t moved. Okay, if I only tried to whisper, maybe I could make my opossum voice last long enough to get this mess cleared up—or get snockered enough that I didn’t care.

“Suz.” Her chin moved up slowly at the sound of my whisper. “I’m not mad, you know better than that.” Before she got her expression under control, I was sure I saw shock reflected on her face. “But I am confused.” Another deep breath. I cleared my throat again. “Start over and tell me where we are.” Seemed like an easy enough question.

“We are in your bathing chamber in the High Temple of Epona.”

I mentally shook my head. Oh, sure—a hospital named after a pagan goddess deep in the Bible Belt? Maybe I hadn’t been specific enough in my question.

“In what state?” Another goblet or two of wine and my opossum and I would be ready to take on the world.

“You appear to have been injured, my Lady, but you look to be recovering remarkably well.” She blinked up at me with what I liked to think of as her soft little rabbit look.

“No, Suz, not my state of being, I mean what state am I in?” She was still giving me the rabbit look. Sigh. “Which of the fifty United States?” Man, I wished I could yell.

“You mean our location in the world?” The lightbulb clicked on.

“Yes, friend of mine.” I was going to personally lace her favorite brownies with her new Prozac prescription.

“Epona’s Temple controls all the lands around us. As High Priestess to Epona you are Mistress of Her lands.”

Well, that was comforting. I was having a psychotic episode, my best friend was having a nervous breakdown, but, hey, at least I was Mistress here! As the King (I mean Elvis, not some medieval dreamworld phony) would say, “Thank you, thank you very much.”

“Suzanna, I don’t want to shock or upset you—and please don’t cry (she always has been a crier), but I have no friggin clue what you’re talking about.”

“My Lady,” she said tentatively, “perhaps that is because you are no longer in your own world.”

Now,
that
got my attention.

“Suzanna, you just said
I
am
mistress
here, and
my
betrothed is on his way. Can you explain what the hell you are talking about? Oh, and please pour me some more wine, I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” I think she was relieved to turn away from me—maybe she could collect her neurotic thoughts and I could get to the bottom of this. Actually, this could all be an elaborate plot to get back at me for forgetting her birthday last month. (Damnit, I knew she was still mad.)

“It is complicated, my Lady.”

“Suz, you sound like Jeannie when you say that my Lady stuff.” She ignored my comment—I hated it when she didn’t get my jokes. “Just make it short and to the point, I’ll try to figure it out from there.” And we’ll get you some professional help very soon.

“My original mistress, the Lady Rhiannon, has exchanged places with you. She said your world made magic with machines, and power with money made from those machines, and she longed to live there. So she sent her soul there during one of her Magic Sleeps and found you. She said you are her mirror, her shadow, and that she could trade herself for you, thus entering your world. She believed that she could leave enough of her consciousness here, as she does when she enters the sacred grove, to aid and guide you.” Intently studying my face, her litany slowed, “But I do not think she is here with you. You appear to be her, but you do not have her…” Here she faltered, as if catching herself in the middle of a thought. Then she continued, “…her manner. Now she has become you, and you must become her.”

“This can’t be. I don’t believe it.”

“The Lady Rhiannon directed me to ask a question of you if you did not seem to understand or believe.”

I raised my eyebrow like Spock and waited.

“In your world do you know stories that tell tales of gods and goddess, myths and magic, spells and sorcery?” She paused, and looked expectantly at me. Obviously, she wouldn’t take the eyebrow for an answer.

“Yes, of course, I’m a teacher, I teach those stories to kids.”

“My Lady Rhiannon said to tell you that this world is where those stories came from. They leaked across The Divide like shadows and smoke, seeking their mirror images in your world. Thus have I learned of that world, in the form of smoke and shadows, and thus I found my mirror image—you.”

“That’s fantasy sci-fi crap, Suz. How can you expect me to believe it?”

“Lady Rhiannon told me that she would use her image that was already in your world, and a wall of fire to move through The Divide.”

“That friggin pot.” It couldn’t be.

“Pardon me, my Lady?”

“The fire. How was she not harmed if she passed through a wall of fire? And why wasn’t I burned up, too?”

Suzanna’s face drained of color.

“More wine, my Lady.”

“Yep. And you haven’t answered my question.”

Two quick taps on the door interrupted her. She had the good manners to look sheepish…and keep looking and looking at me. Wha—?

“You may enter,” she finally called.

A new nymph bowed her way into the room.

Suzanna was still looking apologetically at me. Oops, I kept forgetting,
I
was the mistress, which (I guess) meant I should be ordering around the nymphs.

Okay, I’d give it a try. “What?” Even though I was still sounding like a whispering opossum, I tried to project that “don’t interrupt my classroom” voice my students knew and loved so well.

The little nymph turned toward me and spoke in a charming lilt. “Mistress, your betrothed has arrived.”

I looked quickly at Suzanna. She was no damn help; her eyes were squeezed shut and her lips were moving in what looked like some kind of silent prayer. Jeesh.

“Fine. Tell him (stall, think, think) tell him…um (at the “um” the nymph’s eyes widened in surprise—oops—guess mistresses/my Ladys don’t um) tell him I will greet him when I have finished dressing.” So there. I’m female—no matter where the hell I was, men must be accustomed to waiting on women to get ready.

“Yes, my Lady.” She bowed her way out. My ruse seemed to have worked. I almost felt like Penelope.