“He will see you.”
The deep voice startled me. I turned to see a different man, an intimidating man. He must have been almost seven feet tall, and six feet wide at the shoulders. His skin was so black I could barely make out the dark scowl he directed at me. He wore a black silk shirt, black slacks and no shoes. Very strange. Scary.
“Are you sure it’s no trouble? I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“He will see you.”
I stood slowly, nervously, from the black leather couch. For some reason my throat was dry, and my knees felt weak. Something was not right here.
When I had collected myself, and picked up my light briefcase, the giant turned and began to stride down the short hallway toward the large, gold double doors. He knocked once and the doors both opened outward slowly. Past the doors there was only dark. To my surprise, the giant did not enter. Instead, he stood to the side and motioned that I should go in. This was too strange, but I felt trapped. Against my better judgment, I stepped past the huge man and across the threshold.
About five feet past the doors, there was a heavy black curtain. Behind me, I heard a heavy click. I looked back and saw that the doors were closed. Just then another man stepped through the curtain. At least I think it was another man. He could have been the twin brother of the first man. He glared at me for a moment, and then said, “Your bag please.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I must ask to look inside your bag, sir.”
“Oh. There’s really nothing in there.” There really was. Nothing at all. I just carried it to look more professional. Now I would look like an idiot.
“I must ask to look inside your bag sir.”
I handed it to him. He opened it carefully, looked inside, turned it over, shook it. He looked at me suspiciously.
“I just carry it in case someone gives me some papers or something to carry back.” I felt really stupid.
A bit more glowering, and then he closed the briefcase and set it on the floor beside the door. “You may retrieve it as you go out.”
“Yes that would be fine.” This was really getting strange. “Look, this really isn’t a big deal. I can just call him.” I wanted to leave.
“He will see you.”
The man approached the curtain and pulled it aside, motioning that I should go through. I hesitated, and he continued to scowl at me, his eyes like spotlights in the inky blackness of his visage. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stepped through. Immediately I knew something was wrong. The ground was too soft. I looked down. Grass! There was grass. I was standing on a dewy, grassy hillside on a foggy morning. I could see a few leafless trees scattered around, and feel a light, moist, breeze. It was cool, almost cold. I looked back over my shoulder. No curtain! It was gone! What the hell!
Then I heard what sounded like a pan flute, not too far off, up the hill. The breathy notes added to the chill of the morning. Goose bumps rose up on my flesh. The flute continued to play. Off behind me, I thought I heard whispers. This startled me, and I turned quickly, but they stopped. The flute played on.
“Hello.” My voice cracked as I said it, weakly. The wind carried it away. No one heard. The flute played on, lilting mournfully.
“Hello.” Stronger this time. The flute stopped.
“Hello.” I said it again, loudly, in the direction from which I’d heard the music.
“Yes, up here.” The English accent was not strong, but subtle.
“Where?”
“Up the hill.”
Slowly I walked toward the voice. The dew from the grass wet my socks above my shoes. My cuffs were soon soaked. ThenI saw the silhouette of thin, leafless tree, black in the fog, taking shape ahead. As I got closer, I saw a man sitting under the tree, a pan flute in his hand. It was him. I recognized him. He was sitting on a blanket with an Asian pattern woven into it in earth tones. He wore a tight black tee shirt, black slacks, and black leather ankle boots.
“Oh, hello.” I said, nervously.
“Hello.”
“You…uh…you’re Gordon Sumner?”
“Yes. Call me Sting.”
“Sting. Right. Of course.” My mind had gone blank. There was an awkward pause.
“Can I help you somehow?” He looked as if he wanted to get back to his playing.
“Oh…uh…yes. Yes. I just…I mean…I wanted to ask you a question.” I couldn’t seem to focus. I was suddenly very sleepy.
“Shoot.”
“What?”
“You’re question. What is it?”
Again, I thought I heard whispers behind me. So sleepy. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t right at all!
“What the hell is going on here?”
“That’s what you came to ask me?”
I said nothing. So sleepy. I sank to my knees. More voices all around, in the fog. Darkness began to gather in the corners of my vision.
“I have no idea what's going on, man. I’d like to know the same thing.” He looked into the distance as he said it. He raised the flute to his lips.
Shapes moving in the fog. The sound of the flute. Cool wet grass on my face. Warm darkness, like a blanket, swallowing me.
