Previously: Madeline/Samuel became fed up with this monastery life and all of the rules and is driven to find her way back to the 21st century. She knows her friends must be waiting out front of the monastery. That’s where all of this began.  We left Samuel as he was veering toward the front of the building. When he returns, he continues to narrate for us.

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Nobody cares. The stars don’t even care. The gray clouds suit my mood. Francis is back outside, working with me. I suggest Abraham work close by us, so I can vent to him. I know I can trust Francis, we’ve become good buddies. 

There are just the carrots left to pull, so Abraham and I can move on to gathering ferns, good for soups and stews. 

Francis said, “I’m happy to work alone, today. The sooner I get finished here, the sooner I can get to my chickens. Those girls have been laying extra eggs. That means the cook will have more watery scrambled eggs to go around.”

How metaphorical, mud is sucking my feet down. I’m stopping every few yards, kicking my boots free of the allegedly drained swamp, which is more like a bog. As I remove a dry clot of mud-like cakes of dried cow flops, the last of the colors swirl off the nearly leafless branches. We are surrounded by a vast swampland of muck. 

The wind is kicking up, causing bushes and tree limbs to writhe & shake. A storm is brewing. I hope this isn’t another foreshadowing. All others, I have tuned into, were pretty accurate. Look where I am. 

I  can’t help but notice the blood-tinged sunset. What is going on in this world of mine? Why am I getting this creepy inner dowser experience?

The low carpet of sky is growing progressively darker and angrier. There is evidence of a gathering storm. Is it just nature, or is it more than that?

Rain is beginning to lash the muck.  Ferns do love wetlands, otherwise, they turn brown quickly. I’m sure this is why Abbot Richard wants them harvested by tonight.  

I have to admit, in the 21st century, I do not care for fiddlehead ferns and I guess maybe, this is one of the reasons why. I can’t imagine what fern tastes like after having delicious kale, and rhubarb swiss chard. 

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Here I am with the coveted opportunity to be listened to by Abraham. I can’t tell him much, though. I can’t reveal to him, how I flipped out, desperate to get out of here, escaping the 16th century; that I snuck outside through the back door where we are allowed to access our designated work section. But, I went farther, into forbidden areas. 

The front is where the offices are, where Prior Richard looms. I've been too afraid to go out front. We’re not even allowed anywhere outside of our designated working area. I needed to sneak around to the front. That is where we were standing waiting for the shuttle to take us to the Tor.

I can’t admit I believed I could actually find my way back to the 21st century, by just running to the front of the building. I can’t talk to Abraham about that. 

I can’t tell him anything about how I was sure the others from the harp therapy course would still be there waiting for me and wouldn’t have left, yet. 

When I’d made my way to the other side of the building and out to the front, my friends were not there. The road was sparkling with water. 

Between the shimmering of diamond-like drops and my swirly tears, all I could see were the soldiers with swords on muted clopping horses, escorting wagons, on sloshing wheels. 

There was some medieval dressed stranger knocking on the monastery front door, probably bringing money to ensure and enforce our penitence.

I returned to the rear entrance, and discreetly deserted and resigned my efforts to get back to the 21st century. I will practice, Eckhart Tolle’s advice and stop resisting this Twilight Zone reality.

To avoid this sense of failure, trapped and held hostage by the past, my obsessive thoughts returned. Had any other of my friends been portaled from out front? 

As we stood waiting, in the 21st century, for the shuttle to take us to the top of the Tor, there was only the shell of this building remaining, with a broad wall supporting a large printed board recording the history of this place. 

A man tried to pass by me, causing me to step into darkness. The darkness was lighted by 16th century lanterns. And here I am to stay.  

I can’t help but wonder if any others are here experiencing what I’m going through; if they’re working as hard as me to figure out who is who in the 16th century. I will never know, and they will never know about my trauma. What a place to be.

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While at the evening meal, I happen to catch a shocking sight. It is the condition of one of the very senior monk’s hands. Actually, it is his fingers, more precisely his fingertips. They are black. I am quite certain it isn’t as a result of the penance of having them struck with a stick.  

I promise myself I’m going to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get sick. Day after day, I’m relieved to see he is at his place at the table. I wonder how long it will take before there is a fatal impact on him.