Lost in my own world...

I took a deep breath of the clean, salty air and sighed in relief. I needed this. A break from the rat race of everyday life, away from the chaos that comes with working in retail. No phones, no customers demanding that their orders be done early, no morning drives getting stuck behind idiots that stop at every green light. The peace and quiet was perfect.

Quiet. Completely, perfectly quiet.

Lazing on the sand dune was wonderful. The waves lapping at the beach’s edge and the warmth of the sun on my face lulled me almost to sleep. Knowing full well that little kids tend to run wild when they get a chance to play on the beach, I kept listening for the tell-tale laughter and screeches of delight that would herald their arrival in my little portion of paradise.

Nothing.

Blinking, I let my eyes sweep over the area.

Nothing. No one. Not even a seagull to scream and demand food from tiny fingers disrupted the beach. No forgotten beach balls, not even a single abandoned sand castle waited for the tide to come and reclaim it.

Sitting up, I curl my arms around my knees and contemplate my surroundings. Ahead of me, the waves roll restlessly to the shore. Behind me, the dunes give way to a dense forest that wends it’s way towards a bend in the beach on my left which curls around and out of sight, where the trees finally appear to reach the sea. Off to my right, the sea plays endlessly with the beach, uninterrupted by hotel development.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that coffee and toast were an insufficient breakfast. Mentally flipping a coin, I turn to the bend in the beach. I couldn’t see anything promising food-wise in the other direction, but just maybe I can find something around the bend in the beach.

The firmer sand close to the water makes walking easier. I wander up the stretch of beach, removing my shoes and letting the water tickle my toes with each wavelet.

Flotsam litters the beach ahead of me like forgotten memories.  Little bits here and larger, more wave-tumbled planks there mingle with seaweed dredged from the sea floor. 

The larger spars catch my attention. Straight edges, although somewhat battered now, attest that they were definitely man-made. These are not your typical driftwood. The way the planks were made and shaped remind me of the ships I’d seen at a maritime museum. Grinding sand alerts me to a couple large logs rolling in on the surf. Puzzled, I grab one and drag it further onto the beach, saving it from being reclaimed by another wave. The lack of bark and wear marks, along with the rest of the planking I’d seen, tip me off that this is part of a mast, rather than part of a large tree.

Most ships these days are metal, steel or fiberglass, and I hadn’t heard that any of the museums had lost one of their barks or brigantines, their ships with multiple masts. The width of the broken mast convinces me think it can’t belong to a smaller, single masted, sloop.

Still puzzling over the mast, I round the bend in the beach and freeze in my tracks.

The treeline had obscured the village and docks it clung to until I rounded that bend. Now, in the distance, the hazy, violet, broken teeth of a mountain range reached for the sky. Midway between the village and the mountains, settled on a high ridge, a castle gleamed in the sun.

Slowly turning in place, I carefully studied the landscape, the village and what I could see of the castle. Slow recognition set in.

Frowning, I stride towards the village. There is something wrong here.

Answers will have to wait, though. While the smells around the dock confirm that there should be fishermen bringing in their catch, their small boats bob on the waves, contentedly moored to the dock. The previous catch of fish lies waiting for buyers, growing rank in the sun. No one is here.

Sighing, I look up the cobbled lane towards the heart of the village. I purse my lips, thinking hard. If the well were in the center of town, that would put the local pub…. There. Just where I thought it would be.

I hurry toward the pub, only to stop again near the well. Let’s see just how accurate this really is.

I close my eyes and concentrate. If I’m facing the pub, then the smithy should be behind me and off to my right just a bit. There should be a hitching post out front, and the actual smithy should be set back from the lane more than the other businesses. The house should be set slightly behind and to the right of the shop, with a small patch of garden just visible from the lane.

I spin around and stare. Yep, it’s there, just like I thought. Rhythmic ringing sounds tell me that the smith is hard at work. The occasional pause and colorful language tell me the work isn’t going so well. As tempting as it is to go and talk with him, I decide to leave him to his work for the time being.

As I turn back towards the pub, I see a familiar face ducking back inside the pub. She can most likely answer my questions. I glance back over my shoulder, still tempted to at least watch the smith at work. Maybe later.

Running my fingers through my hair in frustration, I study the pub. If nothing else, perhaps someone will be manning the bar and I can at least get something to drink, maybe even something to eat if the kitchen is set up the way it should be.

I step through the open door and survey the dimly lit interior. Several wood kegs, some already tapped, are secured behind the bar.  I smile. No Jim Beam, Captain Morgan, Kahlua or other labels are visible. Guess that means no rum ‘n cokes or bulldogs available at this establishment. 

Forgetting to watch where I’m going, I crack my shin against a low bench, partially shoved under a scarred table.  I grin and run my fingers over the pockmarked surface.  It reminds me of my grandmother’s old wood cutting board, only these scars are deeper and there are more of them. The table has definitely seen it’s share of arguments, some of them probably averted by a strategically stabbed knife, judging by the depth of some of the marks.

A well-drained mug of a lighter ale and a handful of coins scattered on the bar itself tells me that there are at least a few people hiding somewhere. Wandering over to study the coins just offers me further proof of where I am.

An untouched pint of dark beer and scraps of paper on a table close to the bar catch my eye. The beer is tempting, but the papers are more intriguing to me. Before I even pick them up, I have a feeling I’ve seen them somewhere before. Flipping one over, my jaw about hits the floor. I quickly snatch the rest of them up, looking at each one closely.

These should definitely not be here. They should be at home, on my desk. The notes are all mine, thoughts and ideas for a story I’m working on. Rather, that I’m trying to work on. Well, the handwriting is mine, but I don’t recall making some of these notations.

I don’t know how I got into this, but I’ll find a way out somehow, I think to myself, clutching the papers. Authors aren’t supposed to be in the worlds they create, the worlds that they create are supposed to be in their minds.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and steel myself to meet the person I can feel watching me from the corner table.

I turn and laugh to myself. This is just priceless. Of all the people…

“Hello. Fancy running into you here.” I smile as I take in her appearance.

It is definitely Old Meg, complete with her leather lace up sandals and shapeless dress. Up close, I can see the weaving of the fabric was well done. By one of the three sisters that share her home, I’m certain. The simple rope belt keeps it from looking like a sack, and provides the perfect place for her to stash whichever of the fortune telling tools the sisters may ask for. Runes, tea leaves, tarot, she carries them all.

I rub my hands over my face. I know what I’m seeing, I know where I am, but I can still barely believe it.

Old Meg chuckles. “Tired, dear? You should be, trying to do so much at once. Everyone needs a break from time to time. Your dragon and centaur have been visiting us lately here, and I can tell you, it ads to our confusion, which isn’t going to help you any either.”

I glance back at the beer, thinking I could really use one right about now.

“Help yourself, dear. I had it pulled for you. Most of the regulars here prefer the lighter stuff, but I make sure there’s always some dark on hand in case you pop in for a visit.” Old Meg’s eyes twinkled at me, as if she knew something I didn’t.

“You have a question for me, dear?” Old Meg’s lavender eyes twinkle with her amusement. “You know where you are, right?”

“Oh, I know where. I just can’t figure out how or why.” I sigh in resignation. I know she’s going to enjoy this more than I will.

“Ok, first, do you want me to call you Old Meg or Megha”

Old Meg straightens up, the abruptness of it and tilt of her chin halting my question.

“Old Meg does quite well at this point.” She smiles to take the sting out of the interruption. “Only the sisters use the other.”

“Ok, then, Old Meg. I know I’m in my story, in the world I created. How did this happen? How’d I end up here? How on earth am I supposed to get out? Or, can I even get out?” A wave of concern washes over me. What would happen if I were stuck in a world of my own creation? Would life continue on as if nothing had happened? What about my job, my friends, my family. What about my husband?

I recognize the look on Old Meg’s face. I should, I’d written it there before when she was talking with Roshan. The concern, the knowledge that went deeper than it should have, the desire to help, and the hidden humor. They were all there, if you knew where and how to look.

I groan, knowing I’m not going to like where this is going. At least, I hope it’s less confusing than Roshan’s situation. Blast, that reminds me, I need to really work on that whole thing. Sidetracked for a moment, I gnaw on my lip thinking of things I already know I need to tweak.

Old Meg huffs and holds out her PDA. “While you decide what else you want to ask me, why don’t you log in and check your email? Or better yet, visit some of the websites where you like to spend time.”

I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “Ok, hang on. First off, where did you get that? And, um, Old Meg, I’m really not used to using those things. I’m more comfortable with computers…”

“Ok, not a problem. The blacksmith has been borrowing the laptop lately. Seems he’s having trouble getting the metal to work the way he needs it to. Something to do with how his forge was built? He was grumbling something about ‘not enough research’ last time we spoke.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands. I knew it. I just knew there was more research I needed to do before getting that far into the story.

I smile wryly at Old Meg.

“Thank you for your help. I think I know what I need to do, starting with an apology and research.”

We walk together to the door, where she watches as I cross the lane to the smithy.

I let my eyes adapt to the gloom in the shop, remembering that the light is purposely kept dim to determine the readiness of the metal being worked. I’ve studied quite a bit, but apparently not enough to be ready to write this portion of my story yet, if the curses coming from the smith are any indication.

Clearing my throat causes the smith to whirl around, hammer and tongs still tightly gripped in his hands.

He narrows his eyes at me, weighing his options and determining what business, if any, I have in his workshop.

Hesitantly I step forward, extending my hand, readying my apology in my mind. Before I can say a word, he snorts and points to the laptop resting on a bench to the side.

“Make yourself useful and do that research I need, since you’re here. No dawdling, either. We’ve all got lives here, ya know, and we’d like to get on with them. Hard to stay true to who we are when you never get it written out. Hmph. Put that ‘creativity’ of yourn to use.” He turns back to the billet heating in the forge, effectively dismissing me.

A battered three-legged stool waits next to the bench where the laptop perches. I settle down and glance over the computer to see if there was anything I need to adjust for the way I work with it. I stifle a chuckle, not wanting to interrupt the blacksmith unnecessarily.

No adjustments needed. There shouldn’t be any, regardless, since it is my laptop. I shake my head and start opening Firefox windows to search through the numerous links I’d already found earlier and see what others I can track down for more information.

Immersed in my research, I don’t notice anything around me until my stomach began to growl loudly. The smell of fresh Chinese food, and the glass of rich, red wine being waved in front of me break my concentration.

Startled, I glance up while reaching for the wine.

My husband’s blue eyes sparkle at me.

“The writing going that well, or that poorly? I called you a couple times, but you didn’t hear me, so I brought supper to you.” He peers over my shoulder, then drops a kiss on my nose. “Research, huh? Tell you what. Have some supper, come watch ‘Battlestar’ on the couch with me and you can come back to it later. Your world may need you, but so do I.”

Sipping my wine, I bookmark the sites I was visiting, save what I’ve written, and power off the machine. The nice thing about creating a world in your mind is that as long as your mind is working, you can visit any time.