The Day Dream Begins
In a tavern, let’s say somewhere in a small village in England, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were having an afternoon chat. They occupied the biggest table at the center of the tavern, where all the people could see them, but the drunkards around them didn’t care. They continued talking about the parallel worlds they had created in their novels. While Tolkien bragged about Middle-earth and how the brilliant idea had formulated in his mind, Lewis, on the other hand, nodded in agreement and congratulated him. Then he went on and shared about the world of Narnia, asking Tolkien if creating a character named Aslan was cool. Tolkien said that the idea was great and suggested he could create Aslan as a huge, talking beast. Lewis agreed and said it would be interesting if, instead of a wildebeest, he settled on having a prudent lion that was wise and gentle, to which Tolkien happily approved.
Later, a smart-looking woman with blonde hair appeared from the door. She was wearing a black suit and Manolo Blahnik killer high heels. The two men looked at her and invited her in. She introduced herself as J.K. Rowling and told them she was strolling around Hogsmeade and had ended up in the tavern. They didn’t know where Hogsmeade was located, so she explained that it was a place she had created in her Harry Potter series. Tolkien and Lewis were fascinated and urged her to talk about it for a while. Lewis even asked Rowling some questions regarding witchcraft and wizardry because he was thinking about creating a witch villain he wanted to call "The White Queen."
Rowling ordered a drink, but since it was a tavern and most of the people who came here had only one thing in their mind—getting drunk—there was no way they served ladies' drinks. So, she asked for wine instead. When the wine arrived, Rowling took a small sip to taste it. The wine was delicious, and she was satisfied. She smiled, her eyes closed as she savored the wine on her taste buds. When she opened her eyes, she saw a petite, older woman enter the tavern. She was wearing a black ensemble, a closed-neck dress with a cameo pinned at the center of the dress, right over the breast area. The woman was probably in her eighties, with shoulder-length graying hair and a feline grace as she walked toward the group. The three of them looked at her, noticing how commanding she was despite her age. The entire room went silent, as if time had stopped, as she moved to the table. But then the drunkards, mindless as they were, went on with their business, and the tavern was soon filled with chattering once again. The woman stood next to the table and looked at each of the three faces sitting around it. Rowling looked at her thoughtfully; the old woman made her think of a timeless character from a dark novel. Rowling was awed.
The old woman looked at her and met her gaze, smiling. Her eyes gleamed with the wisdom she carried within her, as if she had lived for thousands of years and nothing in this corporeal world could shock her. Her eyes burned with the Lighthouse of Ancient Egypt, her movements graceful like the aristocrats of old Rome. The lines in her face revealed the knowledge she had likely acquired since the fall of Jerusalem—as if she had been there, sitting among the Jews, listening to the teachings of Yeshua, the Son of God.
Then the old woman cleared her throat and introduced herself. She said her name was Anne Rice and that she was also a novelist who wrote fiction and fantasy novels about vampires, werewolves, and witches. Tolkien and Lewis beamed with excitement and invited her to join them, which she did. She sat beside Rowling, and while Tolkien lifted his hand to call for a waiter to take Miss Rice’s order, Rowling took the liberty to introduce everyone at the table. A bald man with a big tummy approached and took Miss Rice’s order. She told him she would have what Miss Rowling was having. The waiter bowed his head and left.
Rowling said she knew her and went on to tell Tolkien and Lewis that Miss Rice loved to write about dark characters from myths and legends of old, and she had a natural gift for descriptive writing. Whatever she wrote about, whether from ancient times or the present, her skills brought those times to life on the pages of her books. It had a powerful effect on readers. “Transcending effect,” she said. Miss Rice bowed her head humbly at Rowling’s praise and gave the younger woman her most sincere gratitude.
Tolkien couldn’t contain his amazement and asked Miss Rice about her vampire characters. Calmly, she answered his question, explaining that most of her characters were metaphors for the outcasts in all of us, rooted in the time when she was living as an atheist. Tolkien’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped as he listened carefully to Miss Rice. Then, the door of the tavern burst open, and they all turned in haste to look.
A man wearing glasses entered the room, but the drunkards didn’t seem to notice his arrival. He looked like an easygoing person, wearing a checkered polo shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. He smiled at everyone, though no one returned his gesture. But he wasn’t bothered; instead, he went straight to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. When he turned around to face the crowd and leaned his back against the bar, he saw the most unlikely group of extraordinary people studying him, scrutinizing every aspect of his personality. With a glass of beer in his right hand, he sashayed to the huge table and greeted the remarkable people sitting there.
He said “HI” to everyone and extended his hand to shake theirs. He introduced himself as Rick Riordan. It wasn’t hard to like Rick because he was a charming man who could easily get along well, regardless of personality differences. He invited himself to sit next to Tolkien. He told them he was looking for Mount Olympus but had ended up here. Rowling asked him why he was looking for Olympus. Didn’t he know it was just a myth? He answered Rowling, explaining that he was a writer and was writing novels about Greek mythology. Recently, he had been combining Greek and Roman mythology for his new series. He thought he saw “Ohh’s” and “Ahh’s” in their eyes, and it was clear they were interested. Lewis told him that they, too, were writers, mostly of fiction novels with parallel worlds and outrageous cosmology.
Rick was excited to learn this and said that it was a great honor to meet all of them in person. He told them that every day was a learning process for him, and his decision to quit his day job and focus on his writing was the best decision he had ever made in his entire career.
“It just feels right,” he said.
And he earned a nod of agreement from the group. “Writing feels right, of course, for writers, just like painting for painters,” said Rowling.
“Well, as I always tell aspiring writers who seek my advice, it’s important to write the book that you want to read,” Miss Rice said.
“Indeed! Indeed!” blurted Tolkien.
Rick told them that he was also writing a book series about Egypt and was already on his third book in that series.
Miss Rice looked at him, enthralled. She loved Egypt and its long history, but she kept silent, letting Rick tell his tale. When Rick finished speaking, Miss Rice smiled, thinking about the adventures she had when writing the novel Ramses and Queen of the Damned. That was Egypt for her. Akasha was Egypt for her.
Lewis called her name and asked if she was alright. Miss Rice nodded and assured Lewis that she was fine.
There was never a dull moment when fantasy writers gathered together. The tavern was full of people and drunkards alike, and the place was filled with laughter and cursing all around them. But the fiction writers were having the time of their lives. It seemed they were physically there, but their conversation took them somewhere else—somewhere unimaginably awesome, a place no ordinary human being could follow. They talked about history as if it had happened yesterday, gods and goddesses as if they were tangible. Then there was the thrill when the conversation brought them to the topic of magic, as if it were a real thing. The noise was never a problem for them.
Then the tavern door swung open.
A bulky, fat man stumbled through the door, cursing. The rain was heavy outside, and the fat man’s jacket was wet, his boots soaked with mud. He had difficulty getting out of his jacket, so a waiter approached him and offered help, but the fat man sent him away with foul words. The waiter shook his head and smiled, clearly not offended by the man’s vulgarity, as if he knew him very well. Rick called for the waiter and asked who the fat man was. The waiter told him with dignity and pride that the man was a regular customer of the tavern and the famous writer George R. R. Martin. Upon hearing this name, Lewis turned his attention toward his friend Tolkien, who returned the gesture with a grim look.
“You didn’t recognize him?” Lewis asked.
Tolkien slowly shook his head, as if trying to remember the face of a man he had met during his lifetime.
“I don’t remember meeting him before,” Tolkien finally said.
“He was that boy!” said Lewis.
Tolkien gave Lewis a strange look, as if asking him what he was talking about. Lewis smiled and shook his head in disbelief. Obviously, his friend Tolkien didn’t know what was happening around him.
“Look,” he said, addressing Tolkien, “Haven’t you noticed? Not everyone around here is from our time, my friend.”
“Huh?” Tolkien asked, bewildered.
“Okay. We just came from the School, where both of us were members of the English Faculty. We came here for a drink and to discuss our works. Then later on, these wonderful people we just met came out of nowhere,” Lewis explained, pointing to the remarkable people surrounding the table.
“So?” Tolkien asked, still not following.
“They’re not from our time. We,” he pointed to himself and Tolkien, “existed in their past, and they belong to our future.” He smiled.
Tolkien looked at him, then glanced around the table at each of the people. Then he asked, “What year is it in your present time?”
“2012,” the group answered in unison.
“Wow!” he said.
“What year is it in yours?” Rick asked.
“1930?” Tolkien answered, still incredulous.
“We knew who you were, gentlemen,” said Ms. Rice, smiling at both of them. “You are heroes for writers in our time. The world worships you.”
“You are two of the finest and most brilliant writers of the 20th century,” added Rowling.
Tolkien looked at Lewis, who was beginning to tear up.
“All was worth it, my friend,” he said, tapping Lewis on the shoulder with a smile.
“Well done, gentlemen!” said Ms. Rice.
“So, who is this guy again?” Tolkien said, breaking the emotion building in the room. He was referring to the fat man, who was now standing at the bar, his back turned to them.
“Well, he was that kid who wrote those fancy letters for you. Remember the letters you received every month at the faculty? That was him… your number one fan,” said Lewis.
“You mean our… number one fan?” Tolkien asked with a huge grin on his face.
Tolkien stood up, smoothed his trousers, sashayed to the bar, and stood beside the fat man, who was wearing khakis, a polo shirt, and suspenders. Rowling leaned forward on the table, watching them, as did everyone else at the table.
Seconds passed while the two men exchanged words at the bar. Soon, curses were flying all through the tavern. But they weren’t curses of disappointment; rather, they were expressions of astonishment and surprise. Georgy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was amazed to learn that he was standing in front of the person he had always aspired to become. Yes, he had written those letters to Oxford addressed to Mr. Tolkien when he was a kid. But he never imagined that Tolkien had actually read them—he had read them when he was still in his 30s. Georgy laughed feverishly, tears streaming from his eyes. He was that kid again. Tolkien then wrapped his arms around Georgy’s neck and ushered him toward the table, where everyone was waiting with smiles on their faces.
Tolkien introduced Georgy to everyone, and when he came to Lewis, Georgy was overwhelmed, bursting into tears. He couldn’t contain his excitement anymore. What was happening before him was too good to be true. Lewis stood up and extended his hand to welcome him, but Georgy caught Lewis in a bear hug instead. The group erupted with laughter at this touching moment, while the women secretly wiped tears from their eyes.
It was indeed very touching, thought Rick. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Georgy to meet his icons, the people who somehow shaped his life and career. Perhaps this was applicable to most of us humans, Rick mused, while the outburst of emotion still hung in the air. Somehow, in our lives, we meet people who help us realize our destiny, our dreams. Those people—whether we know them personally or through their works and passions—become our icons, someone we look up to. We spend days dreaming about what it would be like if we had their gift. It would have been marvelous. But they’ve helped us do better, strive more, and dream BIG.
Dreams are not just for sleeping… They do come true… You just have to believe in them and claim them in the stars…
The End.
