text: [Themes: edutainment, historical, true story, science fiction, action]
  
  Gower looks to the door of his office again—thirty minutes into office hours and not a single student has shown. He sighs and rests his head on his mahogany desk; sitting in his desk is a tedious task when no students appreciate learning the intricacies of the written word. His only company is a golden plaque that reads Dour Gower's power is to go back in time at least an hour!
  
  "No one is coming," Gower admits to himself out-loud, then sits up as an idea clicks on in his head like a light bulb. "Computer prepare for a time-hop!"
  
  "What author are we visiting this time professor?" His desk responds like Tony Stark's J. A. R. V. I. S.
  
  There is a loud whirring as the time dilator clicks on. Gower rolls back in his chair to make room for the wormhole—he grins as a passage through time opens. He grabs his interchanging map, which changes to show his exact time and location, and his ballpoint pen translator to translate both language and appearance to match his setting. Now he is ready to travel anywhere in time--but as per usual, there is an author he simply must meet.
  
  With only thirty minutes until remedial grammar, Gower furrows his brow and thinks for a moment, then responds with confidence:
  
  > say "Take me to Marie de France!"
  Gower steps through the portal and lands on the packed dirt footpath leading to a large Abbey; unsure of his exact location he pulls out his interchanging map to access the situation. According to the map Gower has landed in Shaftesbury, Dorset--in front of the second wealthiest Abbey in England. No one seems to be around, but he pulls out his handy ballpoint pen translator and clicks it on just to be safe.
  
  With that, he heads up the narrow path--marveling at the stone angels and colorful flowers to either side--to the large wooden door. Taking a moment to admire the Great Seal of Shaftesbury Abbey, he knocks on the sturdy double doors; after several moments an elderly lady opens the door ever so slightly and peeks out.
  
  "May I help you, kind sir?" the lady says.
  
  "Perhaps you can," Gower replies, wondering if he perhaps got dropped in the wrong location. "I am looking for one Marie de France."
  
  "Marie de France? Do you mean the Abbess?"
  
  "Yes, may I speak with her?"
  
  "Of course, please come in and make yourself at home while I fetch her." The nun opens the door as she speaks so has to invite Gower into the quaint foyer.
  
  Gower stands before a crucifix--astonished at the level of ornate detailing on it--and waits for the mysterious female poet to arrive. Next to that marvelous artistry lays a letter marked with the seal of Eleanor of Aquitaine; unable to hold back his curiosity Gower looks down the narrow hall--seeing no one he grabs the letter with bated breath and reads:
  
  Marie,
  
  If it is still your desire to stay out of the public eye on account of your writing I shall abide by it; However, I hope you reconsider--Herrad of Landsberg, Hildegard of Bingen, and Héloïse d'Argenteuil all pale in comparison to your literary talents, particularly where poetry is concerned. I do understand that you continue to write for William Longsword--and do think it is kind of you to think of your nephew while translating the fables he loves so. Keep in mind that I can not promote you while you continue to write for my husband's illegitimate son, even if we were to reach an agreement.
  
  My eldest son, Henry, loves the works you dedicated to him--he is quite fond of you. Just the other day he told me he hopes to become a "noble king"; he is adamant that our servants refer to him by the title you lovingly suggested for him in your Lais. I hope you continue to write. Your work is an inspiration for women everywhere--this world needs more strong women, Marie. Speaking of such please wish your daughter, Marie, well for me.
  
  With Love,
  
  Queen Eleanor
  
  P.S. Please at least join the artisans guild I established in Shaftesbury, this would be of the utmost importance to me as it was my life's work to establish guilds for women like you.
  
  Gower quickly produces a small notebook and pen from his pocket-protector and furiously scribbles down notes. Marie de France is credited as the first female French poet, but her identity was never known--until now. Who she is, why she remained unnamed throughout the centuries despite being one of the most influential female writers of all time--everything is now neatly documented in Gower's shirt pocket.
  
  "Do you read everyone's mail," an elderly female voice calls from behind Gower. "or just mine?"
  
  Gower turns quickly to face a regal French woman dressed in the traditional black and white robes of a nun. Thinking quickly--as he always does--he replies with a friendly smile, "Why just yours of course Madame!"
  
  "I see, and to what do I owe the pleasure of having you interested in my mail?"
  
  "Ah, well I was sent by Queen Eleanor to see if you had the chance to think over her request to step into the public eye with her as your patron."
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  "Yes, why else would I be here Madame?"
  
  "Then you already know that I responded to that letter over thirty years ago--before she was estranged and imprisoned by my late half-brother, Henry II; tell me, good sir, what is your name?"
  
  "I am Gower, I assume you are Marie the Abbess?"
  
  "Yes, Gower, I am. Also, I am from France, but no one outside of these walls would even know that of me--I sign my writing with only that information so no one links me to it--yet here you are. Now tell me why you are here and know this: if you lie I will be able to tell."
  
  > tell her the truth
  Gower tells Marie about his time, office, profession, time-travel abilities, and decision to find the first female French poet known as Marie de France--he tells her everything. Not that Gower had a choice; Marie is witty and sharp as a tack. Her writing shows as much, but in person, she is even more consummate.
  
  Once Gower finishes speaking Marie simply opens the front door of the Abbey and says, "Walk with me, Mr. Gower."
  
  She leads the way to an immaculate garden path leading behind the cobble-stone building; Gower adjusts his glasses and hustles to keep up with the surprisingly spry abbess. Marie stops among a patch of lilies in full bloom--a variety of colors are on display as their petals dance in the wind. She leans over to admire them and seems to have forgotten all about Gower.
  
  "Lillies remind me of my home in France. I have lived at the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine here in England for so long, but I have not forgotten living in France either," Marie says, plucking a single lily from the bunch.
  
  "Why not return and write in France?" Gower asks, habitually producing his notebook from his pocket as if this were an interview.
  
  "I am...needed here. I like the culture Eleanor has created here to write, and my Nephew continues to bless the abbey so long as I write him and his children a Lais now and then. I teach girls to read and write--a luxury I would not be granted in France, I am afraid."
  
  "That is true...but why not publish your work under your name?"
  
  "You are from the future Gower, tell me, do I make an impact?
  
  "An impact? That is an understatement, you-"
  
  "Gower, it is not good for one to know too much of their future--don't you agree?"
  
  "Well, yes...I suppose."
  
  "You are too eager." Marie is overcome with laughter and has to compose herself before continuing. "You remind me of an ancestor of mine named Lanval."
  
  "Lanval? You mean Arthur's knight who you wrote a Lais about?"
  
  "That is the one; I guess you were not lying when you said my Lais are kept throughout history! Only two copies of that story exist today: mine and my nephew's, and he would rather die than surrender his copy to someone."
  
  "I would rather die than part with my copy at home as well. I did not know the young king was so fond of Lanval, but what is this talk of your ancestor with the same name?"
  
  "Henry loves Lanval. He still wants to find Avalon someday, but we know that will never happen. Also, I am not sure what you mean; there only is one Lanval--my poem is about my most esteemed ancestor."
  
  "It is indeed hard to find something that doesn't exist--and do you mean to say that Lanval was a real person?"
  
  "Both Lanval and Avalon are real. I can prove it if you doubt it."
  
  Gower hastens to agree, and Marie seems delighted by his interest. Though short, the walk from the gardens to the modest living quarters of the abbess of Shaftesbury feels like a marathon to Gower. It is only bearable because of the marvelous minstrel he is walking with; Marie wastes no time spinning tales of Lanval not included in her Liad. Her small talk flows like an epic worthy of analysis in Gower's most advanced literature classes.
  
  By the time Marie pulls a large, locked, trunk from beneath her bed Gower is out of space in his notebook; he is saddened when Marie ends her tale mid stanza, but excited when she slides a small iron key into the lock of the trunk. She hesitates and meets eyes with Gower.
  
  "Understand that what I am about to show you is a family heirloom--it is more precious to me than your life and mine combined," Marie says.
  
  > assure its safety
  "I promise I will not let harm befall it," Gower assures Marie.
  
  With that Marie seems satisfied and turns the key until the lock clicks open. She slowly lifts the plain wooden lid to reveal the contents: there is a scroll of parchment--no doubt the original copy of Lanval Marie had mentioned--and a brilliant white tapestry. While the parchment is a treasure of immense value, the tapestry demands Gower's attention. It is indescribably beautiful. Just looking at it two things become obvious: no words have yet been made to describe it, and it is priceless.
  
  "That...that's..." Gower mumbles.
  
  "That is the tapestry from the tent of my dear Lanval's lover. I have never found the words to describe it--I believe words are not beautiful enough to convey how gorgeous it is. It is my proof Avalon exists, though it is hidden in mist by Morgan's magic," Marie says.
  
  "I never knew how that could be possible, but I understand now."
  
  Gower can't tear his eyes from the perfect craftsmanship of Avalon. Part of him starts to believe the place exists; however, his marveling is short-lived when there is a crash downstairs in the abbey. Marie perks up and rushes to a window--Gower follows her to peer outside. Several knights wearing the seal of the Byzantine Empire are bursting through the doors of the abbey.
  
  "They must have found me!" Marie exclaims.
  
  "Why are they after you?" Gower asks.
  
  "Let's just say they have been searching for Avalon longer than my nephew. I knew I shouldn't have opened the trunk; hiding the fairy princess' tapestry is the only way to keep it safe," Marie responds, closing the window and returning to the trunk.
  
  "I am sorry I put it at risk. How did they find us so quickly after the trunk was opened though?"
  
  "I know not; regardless, someone always seems to appear when the tapestry is vulnerable. Gower, I hate to ask this of you, but I will need you to honor your promise to me."
  
  "My promise?"
  
  "Yes--did you not vow to not let harm befall my treasured heirloom?" Marie withdraws the indescribably beautiful tapestry and precious scroll from the truck and gingerly passes them to Gower.
  
  "What would you have me to with it?" Gower asks in utter disbelief.
  
  Marie closes and locks the trunk before responding:
  
  Were the means of its safety known--
  
  by me or the king on the throne--
  
  assistance from you, sir Gower,
  
  would not be needed this hour.
  
  With that Marie stands up straight--an aura of nobility surrounding her--and exits the room. Gower is left with two delicate artifacts to defend.
  
  Gower steps through the portal and lands on the packed dirt footpath leading to a large Abbey; unsure of his exact location he pulls out his interchanging map to access the situation. According to the map Gower has landed in Shaftesbury, Dorset--in front of the second wealthiest Abbey in England. No one seems to be around, but he pulls out his handy ballpoint pen translator and clicks it on just to be safe.
  
  With that, he heads up the narrow path--marveling at the stone angels and colorful flowers to either side--to the large wooden door. Taking a moment to admire the Great Seal of Shaftesbury Abbey, he knocks on the sturdy double doors; after several moments an elderly lady opens the door ever so slightly and peeks out.
  
  "May I help you, kind sir?" the lady says.
  
  "Perhaps you can," Gower replies, wondering if he perhaps got dropped in the wrong location. "I am looking for one Marie de France."
  
  "Marie de France? Do you mean the Abbess?"
  
  "Yes, may I speak with her?"
  
  "Of course, please come in and make yourself at home while I fetch her." The nun opens the door as she speaks so has to invite Gower into the quaint foyer.
  
  Gower stands before a crucifix--astonished at the level of ornate detailing on it--and waits for the mysterious female poet to arrive. Next to that marvelous artistry lays a letter marked with the seal of Eleanor of Aquitaine; unable to hold back his curiosity Gower looks down the narrow hall--seeing no one he grabs the letter with bated breath and reads:
  
  Marie,
  
  If it is still your desire to stay out of the public eye on account of your writing I shall abide by it; However, I hope you reconsider--Herrad of Landsberg, Hildegard of Bingen, and Héloïse d'Argenteuil all pale in comparison to your literary talents, particularly where poetry is concerned. I do understand that you continue to write for William Longsword--and do think it is kind of you to think of your nephew while translating the fables he loves so. Keep in mind that I can not promote you while you continue to write for my husband's illegitimate son, even if we were to reach an agreement.
  
  My eldest son, Henry, loves the works you dedicated to him--he is quite fond of you. Just the other day he told me he hopes to become a "noble king"; he is adamant that our servants refer to him by the title you lovingly suggested for him in your Lais. I hope you continue to write. Your work is an inspiration for women everywhere--this world needs more strong women, Marie. Speaking of such please wish your daughter, Marie, well for me.
  
  With Love,
  
  Queen Eleanor
  
  P.S. Please at least join the artisans guild I established in Shaftesbury, this would be of the utmost importance to me as it was my life's work to establish guilds for women like you.
  
  Gower quickly produces a small notebook and pen from his pocket-protector and furiously scribbles down notes. Marie de France is credited as the first female French poet, but her identity was never known--until now. Who she is, why she remained unnamed throughout the centuries despite being one of the most influential female writers of all time--everything is now neatly documented in Gower's shirt pocket.
  
  "Do you read everyone's mail," an elderly female voice calls from behind Gower. "or just mine?"
  
  Gower turns quickly to face a regal French woman dressed in the traditional black and white robes of a nun. Thinking quickly--as he always does--he replies with a friendly smile, "Why just yours of course Madame!"
  
  "I see, and to what do I owe the pleasure of having you interested in my mail?"
  
  "Ah, well I was sent by Queen Eleanor to see if you had the chance to think over her request to step into the public eye with her as your patron."
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  "Yes, why else would I be here Madame?"
  
  "Then you already know that I responded to that letter over thirty years ago--before she was estranged and imprisoned by my late half-brother, Henry II; tell me, good sir, what is your name?"
  
  "I am Gower, I assume you are Marie the Abbess?"
  
  "Yes, Gower, I am. Also, I am from France, but no one outside of these walls would even know that of me--I sign my writing with only that information so no one links me to it--yet here you are. Now tell me why you are here and know this: if you lie I will be able to tell."
  
  > continue the charade
  "I was sent by Queen Eleanor and she demands an answer," Gower says convincingly.
  
  "Very well," Marie responds. "Then you can inform her that I intend to remain anonymous--although I would like to be there when you try to do so."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Because in her old age she does not respond well to disturbances such as these, and I happen to like a good beheading."
  
  Gower puts a hand up to his neck instinctively--unable to meet the piercing gaze of the Abbess. She studies him a moment, and then adds, "Innocent men are not fearful of punishment while performing their duties."
  
  Gower fumbles over a few words but is unable to say anything to convince the indomitable Abbess. She sends him on his way with a quiet confidence; saying little more than wishing him a blessed day. Gower walks down the hard dirt path--away from the poet whose works he adores--and replays their conversation in his mind. He activates the return sequence absentmindedly.
  
  Marie was just as witty as he imagined, and he did manage to write down her identity. As the wormhole opens and transports him back to his time he considers the trip a win; back in his office, he scans a bookshelf for his translation of The Lais de Marie--itching to read Lanval after meeting the woman who was so adept at subverting the courtly love romance. It is easy to picture the impregnable Abbess imagining a fairy princess of Avalon that rivals the power of King Arthur himself.
  
  However, The Lais de Marie is missing from Gower's bookshelf; a quick Google search reveals no results online for the legendary collection of poems. Spinning--the world is spinning. Breathing is difficult; something is not right.
  
  "Computer, take me back to Marie de France!" Gower says, throwing his chair back.
  
  "Error, author not recognized," Gower's desk responds.
  
  "Marie Abbess of Shaftesbury!"
  
  "Error, Marie Abbess of Shaftesbury is not found."
  
  "Impossible! I was just there..."
  
  Gower drops to the floor when it hits him--Marie de France's writing is lost forever. Wondering how big of a ripple Marie's lost writing produced Gower checks the state of the literary world. Shockingly, most female authors have disappeared from prominence; additionally, all chivalric literature has ceased to exist. Prologues and epilogues are also not used in any writing he can find anywhere.