Chapter Two: My Plight Begins
I was brought back into consciousness by the sound of distant voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying, nor did I care. Figuring it was Madame Sophia and Becky, I kept my eyes shut in attempt to ease the throbbing pain in my head. When I felt the presence of another face in mine, I reluctantly opened my eyes.
Much to my surprise, the face I was staring into was not that of Madame Sophie! The features were that of a man with light green eyes. He was handsome in his own way, but his face was creased with worry. His hair was a reddish-brown and his brown mustache made him look like a gentleman of Victorian England.
"Are you all right?" He asked his voice held an English accent.
I attempted to nod, but the pain was too great.
"Keep you head still," he said loudly, as though I did not understand what he was saying.
I was vaguely aware of the sounds of people and horse hooves, but I couldn't be sure if they were real or imagined.
"W-what happened?" I asked weakly.
"Good Lord!" He muttered, "You speak English!"
"Duh!" I replied. Was this guy on crack or something?
I noticed his eyes traveling up and down my body and I suddenly tensed. What was this guy up to? "Hey, I don't know who the hell you are, but I'm a black belt in Taekwondo and I swear if you try anything you'll regret it," I said making my voice sound as hard as possible. So maybe I wasn't a black belt, but I was fairly certain that I could do some damage to this dude if he attempted to do something, especially since he was standing over me, balls directly above my knee.
He stared at me quizzically. "Madame, I did not mean to offend you," he said gently. "I was just curious as to why you are dressed so strangely."
I looked down at my jeans and tee-shirt. What did this guy expect me to wear to school on one of the few occasions we didn't have to wear those damn uniforms, an evening gown? I shrugged and looked around. Much to my surprise, I was not sitting in Madame Sophie's car. Instead of a wooden seat under me, I saw and felt cobblestone. Instead of strange colored cloths hanging around me, I saw several buildings. Instead of the seeing the bulky form of the fake psychic, I saw many people dressed weird and walking around aimlessly. Where the hell was I?
I must be hallucinating.
"What happened?" I muttered, my head still felt like it was going to explode.
"You may have sustained a slight concussion," the man said quietly.
"Where am I?"
He cocked one of his eyebrows and looked at me sympathetically. "That carriage must've hit you harder then I originally thought."
"What carriage? Will you please start making some sense?"
"The carriage that nearly ran you down as you were crossing the street; don't you remember?"
Remember a carriage? What is this guy for real? I'm sitting in a psychic's caravan car, and there are no carriages to run me over!
"Come," he said gently placing an arm around my shoulders. "I'll help you stand."
He slowly brought be to a sitting position and another wave of dizziness overcame me. Quickly I closed my eyes until the feeling passed.
"Are you going to be all right?" He asked quietly.
"Yeah, I think so," I replied. My mind was reeling. "I wish I knew what the hell was going on. I mean I know I was at school and Sister Marguerite embarrassed me. I remember Becky pinning me against the lockers, I remember her dragging me to Madame Sophie's but I don't remember any carriage…"My musing was interrupted when the stranger placed his hand delicately on my forehead as though to check for a fever.
"Sir, I'm not feverish."
He quickly removed his hand.
"Look, can you help me stand please? Maybe once I'm on my feet, this hallucination will go away, and I'll be back in that disgusting room."
"Here, lean on me," he said placing his arm around my waist. I placed my left arm around his shoulders. "We'll go back to my hotel room where you can rest."
Before I could question him as to what he meant by his 'hotel room,' a strange, horse drawn carriage hurriedly made its way down a crowded street.
"Damn hansom cabs!" The man shouted with indignation. "Please excuse my language," he said looking at me. "But it was a cab going at that speed that hit you."
Excuse your language? What are you kidding me? I don't care what language you use buddy, but I want to know why there is a horse-drawn cab and a crowded street in Crawton Township! Wait, did he say hansom cab? Those people are dressed really weird…what's up with that lady in that long flowing dress? Those guys in tuxes are really strange…strange clothes, hansom cabs, unusual chivalry...that was only found in the…no! No, that's impossible, or is it?
An idea suddenly began to formulate in my mind. I quickly turned to my companion. "What year is this?"
"I beg your pardon?" He asked, his voice was filled with surprise at the intensity with which I asked my question.
"Look, I know this sounds totally insane, and it probably is totally insane, but please, what year is this?"
"Eighteen hundred ninety one," he replied, without hesitation.
"Eighteen ninety one," I allowed the date to sink into my mind. "All right, where am I?"
"Are you sure you're all right?" He asked concern once again crept into his voice.
"Yeah, I'm fine other than a headache. Listen, something really strange has happened to me. Now please tell me where I am."
"We're in Paris, France. You mean you don't remember?"
Mackenzie, breathe! That's it! Okay, you were in the Gypsy's car and now suddenly you're in Paris, France in the year eighteen ninety one. Breathe! Deep breaths! Okay, okay…I'm cool with this!
I allowed the man's statement, coupled with the strange sights around me and the knowledge of what happened to me before, sink into my mind. Somehow, the psychic's spell must've worked and I was transported back in time.
"Miss, may I have the honor of your name?"
"Yeah sorry! I'm Mackenzie, Mackenzie Sterling."
"Pleased to meet you," he said with a smile that lit up his entire face. "I'm Doctor John H. Watson."
When he mentioned his name, I felt my jaw go slack. I certainly didn't see that one coming.
"Miss Sterling are you all right? You look sick."
Suddenly, his chivalry got on my nerves and I, much to my chagrin, took my frustration out on him. "Do I look okay? I'm in the middle of one of the worst days of my entire life, when my best friend dragged me to a clairvoyant who supposedly cast a spell on us and now I find out I'm in Paris, France in eighteen ninety one and I must admit somehow the spell worked. To top it all off, I'm being escorted to a hotel room by a fictional character. Yeah, I'm just peachy."
Dr. Watson stopped walking and smiled at me sympathetically. "I'm glad that my hotel is not far from here. You poor thing, you're suffering from delusions!"
"No, no I'm not! Listen to me, I'm not from here. I'm from America in the year two thousand four and you Dr. Watson are a fictional character!"
"Miss Sterling, although my hotel is not far from here, I think it would be best if I hailed a cab. Judging by your current mental state, you suffered from more than a slight concussion as a result of your accident. The faster we get to my hotel room, the faster I can examine you."
"Look Doc, I'm not crazy!"
"I never said that you were. I'm simply suggesting that you could have had an ill effect from your accident which affected…"
"No!" I said cutting him off mid-sentence. How was I ever going to make him understand? "There is nothing wrong with my head! I wish I had someway to prove it to you!" I suddenly remembered my CD player and text books that were in my book bag that Watson had slung over one of his broad shoulders. "I do have proof! If you stop walking I can show you!"
"You can show me once we are reach our destination," he said, his tone of voice was one that attempted to mollify me. He suddenly raised his hand, hailing a near-by hansom cab. The cab pulled to the curb and Doctor Watson helped me into it.
He then gave the cabbie what I am assuming was the name of the hotel. The good doctor was barely seated when the cab began rattling off to a destination unknown to me.
The cab pulled in front of a tall brick building with an antiquated yet quaint appearance. Dr. Watson alighted and then helped me down. Once he paid the cabbie, the two of us made our way to the hotel door.
A door-man wearing a bright red uniform held the door for us so Watson could continue to assist me. Frankly, after what I told him, I knew he feared for my sanity.
The hotel interior was certainly amazing. Everything was done-up in gold. The furniture was all wine colored and even though it showed signs of wear, was still immaculate.
"Holiday Inn should see this place," I murmured.
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind," I replied quickly.
He shrugged and helped me up the stairs until we reached the third floor. Once there, with his free hand, he fished in his pocket and produced a key. He inserted it in the door with the number '331' written on it in gold.
Slowly he opened the door and removed his arm from my waist to allow me to enter. "Thanks," I said as I stepped into the room.
"Where the hell have you been?" A voice asked taking me completely by surprise.
I recognized the voice at once. "Becky!" I shouted and hurried over to my friend who was lying on a couch. "Oh my God am I ever glad to see you! What are you doing here?"
She shrugged. "I don't even know where here is. I don't even know where here is. All I know is one second I'm with you in Madame Sophie's and then suddenly, I'm lying on some street with friggin' horses running all over the place, staring at you 'cause you're lying on the ground not moving!" She gave me a wiry smile. "Suddenly, while I was trying to get you up, these two strange guys showed up from out of friggin' no where and one practically drags me to this hotel and the other stayed with you. I'm tellin' you lil' Mac, I swear we stepped into the Twilight Zone or something. Thank God you're here, 'cause I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Becky, relax. I don't know what's going on here either. All of a sudden, I'm being escorted here by a fictional character."
"Madame! Why do you keep calling me fictional?"
I turned and looked at Dr. Watson, who was standing in the doorway with a look of indignation on his face. "Doc, I know this is going to be really hard for you to comprehend, because I'm just starting to, but I…we're not from this era.
'We are from the twenty first century. Where we're from, you and your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes are considered fictional characters that were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who had nothing better to do than write while waiting for his patients. I know you think I'm crazy, but I'm not. If you hand me my book bag I can show you something."
"Hand you your what?"
"That thing on your shoulder," Beck replied nervously.
Watson cautiously set it down. Immediately I rummaged through it, and when I found my CD player I let out a shout of triumph. "Yes!" Quickly I checked the CD and was thrilled when I had my Faust CD in it. I didn't think the Victorian Era was reading for Blink 182 or Metallica.
Carefully, I adjusted the volume to a normal level and handed the headset to Watson. I instructed him how to put it on. This he did with much trepidation. I checked the volume again and pressed the play button. I waited for his reaction.
His reaction was not long in coming. As soon as the music began, a look of pure delight spread across his features. I turned to Becky and gave her a thumbs up.
"What CD is it?" She mouthed.
"Faust," I replied.
My friend rolled her green eyes.
When the music finished, Watson removed the headset and handed it to me. "That was remarkable! Where did that music come from?" He asked, still in amazement.
I chuckled and opened the CD player and removed my 'Faust' CD. "You see Doc," I replied spinning the CD on my finger, "this is called a compact disk. In order to create a CD, people…" Damn this was much more difficult then I expected! "People use these things called computers—wait lemme back track. Singers sing songs and they are recorded in a studio."
"A studio?"
Shit! "Okay Doc, a studio has microphones and a lot of recording equipment-"
"I am sorry, but I do not understand," Watson admitted with a frown.
Quickly I looked at Becky, hoping she would be able to give me a hand in my explanation.
"Okay Doctor, tell me, you know what a singer is right?" Becky asked cocking an eyebrow.
Watson nodded. "Yes but-"
"No buts," Becky said quickly. "Singers go into a room and sing their hearts out. People then record what they sing and burn the songs onto a CD with the use of a computer."
"A computer? Burn, with a fire?"
Becky shook her head angrily. "No goddamnit! A computer is-"
"Doctor Watson, think of a big box. And you can reach into the box and pull out any type of information you want. So people put the songs onto the singers, and then copy them onto a CD like this," I said pointing to it. "Then people sell them and someone like me or Beck buys them."
Watson considered my words for some moments. "That is certainly interesting," he muttered. "Can you tell me anything else about the time you are from?"
"Sure Doc," I replied, feeling much more confident. After showing Watson the CD, there was no way he could possibly think I was insane. "Want to know about modern medicine?"
He raised his eyebrows, most probably at my use of the word modern. "Certainly."
I grinned and started to tell Watson what I knew about twenty first century medicine. When I concluded, he stared at me wide-eyed.
"Your story is true then," he said, not bothering to disguise the wonder in his voice. "You two really are from a different time. I am sorry for doubting you."
"Don't be. I can't say I blame you for thinking I was crazy. I mean hell, this entire situation is just as hard for me to swallow as it is for you," I suddenly grimaced when I realized that I'd have to explain Becky's and my appearance to the master detective, Sherlock Holmes. "If it was this hard to explain myself to you, I don't even want to think about how hard it is going to be to explain our situation to Mr. Holmes."
"There is no need to explain the situation again. Although your story sounds far-fetched and fanciful, I cannot doubt, after seeing that strange contraption you hold in your hand, that there is some element of truth in what you say," a voice, sounding a lot like Jeremy Brett's voice, said from behind me.
I quickly turned around and found myself face to face with a man about six feet tall and was so extremely lean he appeared taller. Despite his height and gauntness I could not help but notice his handsome face and well-toned body. His eyes were the color of steel and glittered like two diamonds in the sun. His hawk-like nose gave his face an air of alertness. His high cheekbones and slightly squared chin marked him as a man of determination.
He had a high forehead, which was covered by a shock of thick, raven colored hair. He pushed the stray bit of hair back with one of his long, slender white hands which were blotted with ink and stained by chemicals.
He cut a dashing figure in his black tweed suit, which was free of wrinkles and fit him like a glove. The white shirt which was worn under his vest slightly showed his must chest and hinted that he had a strong flat stomach and well-toned abs. All in all, he was an extremely handsome man, much more so than Sidney Paget's drawings ever suggested. Upon seeing him, I knew he was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective and my literary hero.
For the first time in my life I was completely speechless.
