I'm not sure what pulls me from bed. I hear sounds at first... my husband's soft breath in my ear... Our beating hearts. But... was that our hearts? Or...? A drum beat? Slipping slowly and dreamily from my loving mate's arms, I move to the edge of the bed, listening. Yes, there it was... a soft, low beat. Like a drum beat, but a drum made of something natural, like elk hide or deer hide. Not something acrylic or modern, at all. Not at all uncommon sound in our home, but still...
I don't bother to reach for the light tartan shawl I keep at the foot of the bed as I tip toe into the hall. No sound from the other room and none in the office or bathroom. I walk into the dimly lit living room, glancing about, listening intently, and trying to echolocate the sound. My eyes pass over the living room, the couch, table, shelves, the mantle that had become my altar, it's edifices of the Horned God and the Goddess sitting there elegantly, regarding me silently. My other smaller statues of various other deities I paid homage to were placed reverently about them. I smirked at them and asked: "You guys see anything? Buddy?" I looked directly at my favorite version of Jesus, Buddy Christ. I'd been born and raised Catholic before I became pagan at thirteen, and Buddy was how I made a place in my current life for the faith of my upbringing and gave it its due respect; even if I wasn't a monotheist anymore I thought the historical Jesus was a pretty awesome guy, no matter if his real mom or dad actually were divine or not. Buddy regarded me with his usual enigmatic smile, wink, pistol finger and thumbs up.
"Hrm..." I turned to head back to bed and then paused at the sound of a chime. A tiny, tinny little metallic sound. It sounded just like it was coming from outside the sliding glass door in the living room beside the altar. I paused, and turned toward the curtained glass wall. Sometime later I would look back on this and wonder why I didn't immediately go get my husband, call the police... why I didn't even consider being afraid. It never entered my mind for a second. I just... knew that I had to draw back the curtain.
There was a scent of something in the air I couldn't quite put my finger on, but it smelled earthy, and rich. Somewhere between the raw amber I had once been taught to make incense with, and patchouli, which, as a rule, tended to give me terrible migraines. But this... this made me lightheaded. I couldn't see past the screen. It was like the little balcony wasn't even there. Like the fog had rolled in so dense that even the tiny balcony railing surrounding our first floor apartment in the hills of the Pacific Northwest was completely obscured by it.
"Sure," I say to Buddy wryly. "If we were in San Fran. But does it really get THAT foggy here?" I'm a California girl, born and raised and no matter how many years I had lived here, saw how the weather actually worked in this sun-deprived little wetland, I was never one hundred percent certain.
Sliding the glass door open, feeling a little giggly... feeling a little high, if I was honest with myself, regarding the tingly, lightheaded giddiness. But all I could think was that it smelled incredible with the door open... and I needed to know what was calling me.
Because that had to be the answer, didn't it? The beats and chimes only came when I was about to leave or return to bed. It's like they were drawing my attention until I followed, calling me back when I turned away. I drew back the screen, closing both doors behind me and turning, expecting to feel the cement of the balcony under my bare feet and the chill northwestern night air on my bare arms and legs, my nightgown little more than a tiny black babydoll chemise of silk. But as soon as I took one step from the closed doors, my feet instead felt the unmistakable cool press of fresh grass. Instead of the icy kiss of night air on my bare flesh, I feel no more than a light breeze.
Turning slowly, stunned, I look into the fog, and slowly, take another step. And then another. With each forward step, the fog lessens, making vision easier. Instead of the little balcony, parking lot and hillside of the little complex, before me was instead was a moonlit valley and set within the deepest, most central cleft was a standing circle of stones around what appeared to be a stone altar. Between the standing stones were large torches, casting flickering shadows over the table-like stone structure.
"And that's where the talking lion gets his mane cut, is killed by the white witch and then resurrected..." I muttered, absently, my usual habit of using sarcasm to battle fear and confusion running on all cylinders, clearly. I came to a grinding halt. "Holy shit, am I in NARNIA?"
The laugh nearly made me jump out of my skin. It was low, deep, masculine. I wheeled around; stunned to be caught so unaware in such a vast, empty space. And the sight of the source of said laugh was enough to dump me on my ass. I don't know if my brain simply couldn't process what I was looking at, or just didn't BELIEVE what it was looking at. "No," he said, grinning in apparently genuine delight, reaching a hand down to me to help me up. "You're not in Narnia. And I most certainly am not Mr. Tumnus. Though, I will say that IF one of my fauns decided to appear and have a chat with C.S. Lewis when the Irishman was having his crisis of faith, I MAY have looked the other way..."
"You're—" I stammered, half unable to articulate what I was saying, and half wondering about the physics that worked in allowing a man with goat legs to pull a woman who was no lightweight to her feet. I mean, I'm not, like... Mama June, but I am most certainly not Kate Moss, either. I'm more of a Megan Trainor or Adele... And... hello? Cloven hooves. I mean... seriously?
He gave a little yank as soon as I was on my feet propelling me into his very hairy chest and I got another flash of white teeth as the grin widened. "Yeees?" His golden brown eyes danced in amusement. I had seen eyes like those before. In fact, I'd seen a God with eyes like those before. One with a similar set of headgear, but those had just been dreams... Right? I raised my eyes up and looked up at the slightly curving goat-like horns that created very unusual parts in his hair.
"You're..." I searched for the right thing to say and clearly what I came up with was not at all what he was expecting. "You're not dead."
