Be Weary of What You Wish For

It was a chilly January evening. Miles Harper had just flipped his calendar page to 2026 a few days before. Miles, 32, was a graphic designer always between gigs. He was a connoisseur of cheap ramen and frequenter of dark web conspiracy theorist forums. He was also a walking contradiction, reliant upon technology to make his living but longed for a simpler life. Miles always felt as though he was living in the wrong time. His New Year’s resolution, whispered quietly to himself as the clock struck midnight, was to simplify his life as much as possible.

This particular evening, not three days later, he had already slipped. He found himself curled up on his couch under his warmest blanket huddled over his laptop, plastered in stickers. He'd been lingering around a medieval forum the past few months, absorbing all the knowledge he could, and had even made a few acquaintances.

Against his better judgement Miles clicked on a link one of those dark web acquaintances shared with him after one too many THC gummies. He found himself enrolling in an online course titled “The Traveler’s Companion: Surviving Medieval England – Daily Life in the 14th Century.” while consuming an entire pint of Jeni’s green mint chip ice cream. The course description promised total immersion, it consisted of lectures on feudalism, etiquette, village routines, and the gritty realities of the era. It sounded perfect for someone like him who was an insufferable GOT fan wanting to drop knowledge in group chats to impress fellow Thronies.

Miles clicked Play on Module 1.

The screen blinked. No PowerPoint slides. No professor in a cardigan. Instead, he saw a gentle-faced woman appear, dressed in a simple linen cap and a flowing woolen gown the color of winter barley. Behind her, torchlight danced on rough stone walls. She looked straight through the camera, unblinking, with the wisdom of someone who'd seen and knew far more than she’d ever be willing to reveal.

“Welcome, traveler,” she said softly, her voice carrying the faintest lilt of old English. “Miles, if you are seeing this, the shift has already begun. My name is Elara. I was once a waiting-woman in Warwickshire. I am now your humble friend in surviving a time not your own unscathed.”

Miles laughed once, nervously, and nearly dropped his spoon. Was Elara an advanced AI that learned his name online? There was something hair-raisingly odd about all of it that didn’t make sense as hard as he tried to understand. He paused, rewound, and replayed it to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was the same woman, with the same gentle smile, and the same strange otherworldly vibe, and still uttering the name his parents gave him—”Miles, if you are seeing this, the shift has already begun.”

Drops of sweat began forming on Miles’ brow. In a fright-fueled flash he slammed his laptop closed and tried his best to put this experience behind him and surrender to sleep.

Miles' eyes opened and he caught the time on the wall clock—2:30am. The first coherent thought he could piece back together was Elara. Was it real or the gummies?

Miles opened his laptop and clicked Play on Module 2.

The same gentle-faced woman appeared, dressed in the same simple linen cap and a flowing woolen gown the color of winter barley.

“Miles, as you probably deduced this is not a history lesson,” Elara continued. “This is your gentleman's guide to not being hanged, burned, or shunned on the day you arrive in England, anno Domini 1372. Listen well. The people there are kind when you are kind, but suspicious when you are strange.”

She gestured gracefully to a wooden form beside her draped in plain garments.

“First, your appearance. Your brightly colored modern attire will instantly mark you as something unholy before you speaketh a word.”

“For a man of humble station the safest attire is a knee-length wool tunic, belted simply. Hose tied at the points, no elastic. Leather shoes, sturdy with no decorations. A hooded cloak to shadow your face and cover that suspiciously short, even hair. No bright colors unless you claim noble blood—and even then, tread lightly. Never wear black for this is the most costly color to produce in our world.”

She turned slightly, as if addressing an invisible companion in the room.

“For women: a long kirtle or gown to the ankle. Wear an apron if you work, and a wimple or veil to bind the hair. Never let the hair hang free in public unless you wish whispers of impropriety. Above all, men or women travelers should wear no zippers or jewelry that gleam.”

Miles glanced at his bright red hoodie and joggers. He suddenly felt violated. Was this a live feed and could Elara actually see him?

“Greetings,” Elara went on. “A slight bow to anyone finer dressed than you. Palm-up right hand when offering greeting—shows an empty knife hand. Never grasp wrists like merchants in tales; that is for kin or equals. Call men ‘good sir,’ women ‘good madam’ or ‘goodwife.’ If they wear velvet or embroidery, lower your eyes and your voice.”

She demonstrated a modest dip that appeared effortless and centuries deep.

“Now, the table. This is where most travelers come to ruin. Wash your hands in the basin before sitting. Eat with a knife and the first two fingers only. Do not return any gnawed bones to the common dish; toss them to the floor for the hounds. The rushes are there for a reason.”

“By all means, do not sneeze toward the food. If you must sneeze, turn to the side and aim low. Do not wipe your mouth on the table linen. Use the back of your hand or a napkin if one is passed. Speak softly. Relax and try your best to blend in. Laugh quietly. Be very careful to never mention things unborn like machines, lights without flame, sickness explained by tiny creatures no eye can see. If asked of your home, say only, ‘I come from a quiet village north of York.’ It is a safe answer. Every man has a cousin from there.”

Elara’s eyes softened with fondness.

“Above all, traveler: be gentle. These folk carry fears of all sorts—of plague, of war, of a hard winter, of divine displeasure. A kind word costs nothing. A shared piece of bread or kind deed buys more loyalty than gold. You cannot rewrite their world without punishment, but you can walk through it without bruising hearts.”

She leaned closer, as though confiding a secret meant only for him.

“You are not here to conquer or to lecture or to save anyone, you’ll be tempted to do that latter. You are here to fit-in, to listen, to survive long enough to perhaps understand. Immersion is the true lesson and there are other helpers like me scattered about but we are few.”

The torches flickered. Elara gave the smallest, knowing smile.

“Good fortune, Miles Harper. The door is already opening behind you.”

The laptop screen faded to black.

This is the last thing Miles remembered before waking up on the floor in the fetal position.

Miles woke as the familiar fragrances of woodsmoke, damp earth, and baking bread crept into the room. The scents grew ever stronger in intensity.

Miles looked down at himself and was astonished to see his red hoodie had vanished. In its place an extremely scratchy brown wool tunic, belted at the waist, pointy shoes that pinched his feet, and a long-tailed hood draped over his shoulders.

Somewhere outside a church bell tolled vespers. It rang out slowly, deliberately, closer than it should have been.

He exhaled shakily, adjusted the hood to hide his modern haircut, and reached for the door that now looked ancient and iron-bound, its hinges groaning faintly as though it had been waiting.

Miles’ shaking hand hovered an inch from the door latch.

From the other side came the murmur of voices, real voices, laughing, chatting, calling out in a language that sounded both familiar and foreign.

A single sharp knock echoed through the wood.

Not from Miles.

But from outside the thick, worn wooden door.

He froze.

The knock came again—three measured raps.

Then a voice, rough and curious, spoke just loud enough to carry through the door:
“Good sir? Art thou within? Come, companion, let us seek the warmth of the tavern. Ale flows there like the Thames, and stories with it. We are keen on hearing some of yours.”

Miles’s heart slammed again and again against his ribcage.

The course had never been about studying the Middle Ages.

It had always been instructions on how to live in them.

And now it was time to draw on everything Elara had told him or face the dire consequences.

He swallowed once, forced his voice low, and practiced the words Elara had taught him.

“A quiet village north of York,” he whispered to himself.

Then, with trembling fingers, he lifted the latch.

The door creaked open into torchlit darkness and the smell of snow on stone.

Lanterns swung towards him.

Eyes, too many eyes, studied him from the shadows beyond.

Miles stepped through anyway, the last echo of Elara’s gentle warning ringing in his ears…

“Survive long enough to perhaps understand.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

And somewhere in the year 1372, the night grew very still as it absorbed yet another traveler.

~ The End ~

All for now. Thanks so much for reading.

(Gif and image created by Grok.)

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