Our Revels Now

Chapter 1

Chapter 1April 2018, One Month Before Opening

Lachlan

The Renaissance Frolicke contract came, as usual, with a site plan. Appended to that was the expected summary of what was new this year, and what was gone. As always: ranks of portaloos in four locations. Four picnic stages, small shelters for the performer (actor, storyteller, puppeteer, or musician) with shaded areas for frolickers to sit on the ground. Three shaded refreshment areas: Ale House, Coffee House, and Ice House (meaning ice cream). Plus, this year we’d have three new teaching vendors. A fiber artist giving spinning and weaving demonstrations, with try-it-yourself stations; a potter doing the same; and something called Mannerly. Had to read the write-up on that one, finding they did interactive sessions on precedence, bows and curtseys, how to serve tea, and the like. All the usual activities—fencing lessons, dancing lessons, archery—and all the usual strolling players, ranging from stiltwalkers to close-up magicians. A reliable blend of pure entertainment and education disguised as entertainment, along with a crafts marketplace.

Jousting and mounted sword fights were out. I guess someone finally decided that wheelbarrow-loads of horse s**t every weekend took historical authenticity too far. Instead, there’d be an outfit doing dog acts. Border collies herding dwarf sheep; an agility course with Shakespearean gags; a dog circus; a comedy act. It’d probably set off a shortage of collie puppies. (I immediately designed several new collie items.) The big change, from my point of view, was in the vendor layout.

For years I’d been given a vendor stall at the three o’clock position, if you consider the main entrance to be six o’clock. This year, they’d shifted the main stage (which is, to be clear, a grassy paddock with a generous platform at the back) closer to twelve o’clock. The games that used to be at the top of the site were now at three o’clock and nine o’clock; spectator seating replaced the games. And behind the main stage—squarely facing the main entrance, though the site was so big it wouldn’t be the first thing people saw—was my space.

Mine and Taran’s.

Side by side.

What in bloody hell.

Courtly Splendor, A.K.A. Taran, used to be at nine o’clock. Directly opposite me on the big oval ring that was the vendor display, completely invisible to me because of all the buggery in between. I knew he was a top draw for the Frolicke; we’d both been booked over and over for years, and I got plenty of feedback about how the two of us were “the best.” I didn’t take that too seriously. We’re both niche artists, and historical cosplay was niche even in the cosplay universe. For all I knew, he had a day job like me and did the Frolicke as a sort of vacation.

I’d never tried to strike up a friendship. Never asked if he was local. Never looked him up. Never tried to get somebody to cover my stall for long enough for me to cross the site, get over my nerves, and ask him if he’d like to meet me somewhere for a drink after we closed. I didn’t even know if Taran was his real name, or if it was a stage name.

And now we were going to be side by side, all day, for twelve long days.

Is there a name for an emotion that’s half fright and half excitement? Whatever it is, I vibrated with it.

This was my chance to do more than walk past his stall once or twice a day, on the way to the toilets or to a food vendor. My chance to actually talk to him. I could finally get answers to all my questions. Starting with are you local, moving on to are you single, and penultimately are you gay.

Maybe you can see why I hadn’t tried to ask those questions before. The only privacy the vendors have at the Frolicke (when not in an actual toilet) is before the main gate opens or after it closes, and we’re busy then. There’s always someone watching and/or listening, everybody has their phone out, and yeah. Not for the faint of heart, which I had uncharacteristically and frustratingly been.

Even if he wasn’t local, wasn’t single, and wasn’t gay, maybe we could at least be friends. Anybody who worked that hard to get that good at his art had to be good to know. We could watch out for each other. Tag each other on social media. Maybe, who knows, exchange phone numbers.

For fifteen years, I’d lived and worked in a prosperous pocket of Los Angeles. I dated, then had a boyfriend. After we called it quits, I’d go out cruising in West Hollywood. Aging out of the clubs meant using apps instead, which reduced connection to mere relief. I hadn’t met anyone deeply interesting; wasn’t sure where else to try. It seemed the men who’d be good for a relationship were already in one, including most of my engineering friends. They were still career-focused, many of them raising children, a thing I’d never wanted to do. And part of me thought I needed to sort this thing out, this intense attraction to a person I’d barely spoken to.

This year I’d turn fifty-five. Tired of being single, tired of living alone. Whatever the organizers had in mind changing up the layout like this, I was determined to make the most of it. I should be able to wring out a couple of friendly words over the course of twelve long days, and who knows? Maybe Taran had been simply waiting for me to say something. Stranger things have happened.

* * * *

Taran

When I got my contract and saw the new lineup, I was intrigued by the dogs. I’d always thought jousting was a bit medieval to be featured in something billed as a Renaissance Frolicke; maybe somebody agreed. The other new things were interesting too, especially the weaver. I could plan to scope that out at the end of a day. Some of the performers had come to me for costume upgrades before. Now was a good time to reach out and ask if anyone needed anything this year.

The next attachment was the new site plan. I blinked at it for a few seconds, wondering why this particular change. Was tempted to email the organizers to say thank you. Had someone noticed the way I cruised by Dragon’s Forge every chance I got? Which is to say, once or twice a day. How can a person develop an obsession on the basis of momentary eye contact? Well, I managed it.

I had his Etsy store bookmarked.

I haunted his f*******: page and i********:.

I knew he didn’t attend any other Ren fairs, or other arts fairs, or even any cosplay events. The man was made for Labyrinth of Jareth or the Edwardian Ball, but no. One might think he only existed during the Frolicke.

Maybe he had a day job like me. Or maybe he wasn’t local, and this one event was so taxing that it was enough for him. Maybe he only had access to metalworking facilities for a limited time and couldn’t produce enough for more than one event. At least I could make everything I sold in my own apartment. The messiest, loudest tool I had was a sewing machine.

I was full of some emotion halfway between fear and delight. We’d been across the site from each other for four years. The first time I booked the Frolicke, I walked around the whole thing, trying to greet every other artist. This didn’t result in any lasting friendships—we only saw each other at this one event, after all—but it gave me a sense of belonging. Everyone seemed excited to be there, which meant I was not a weirdo for being excited. When I got to Lachlan—I wasn’t even sure that was his real name!—he had his hands full, making a supple sheet of chain maille, so we’d only spoken briefly. He’d looked startled and shy.

He’d struck to my heart in that brief encounter, and I never got over it. Graying red hair, cut short, receding. Glacier-blue eyes with a gray rim to the iris. Short, stubby auburn eyelashes; matching eyebrows that would benefit from grooming; sharp features and a Scottish accent. He’d been wearing a sleeveless muslin singlet under a leather apron, and I’d been very distracted by his arms. Wiry, muscular, heavily freckled, and liberally furred with ginger hair. At the time I couldn’t tell how tall he was because he’d been seated behind his display case. Since then I’d seen him walking around the site and I thought he was close to my own height (five foot nine on a good day).

Over the course of twelve long days working side by side, surely we could get acquainted. Surely I could ask, and maybe he’d answer, some of the dozens of questions I had. Maybe he had some questions too. He did walk by my stall every day, at least once, when there were other ways to get wherever he was going. Just as I walked by his, occasionally making eye contact, always wishing.

My day job involves constant interaction with people. I’m usually good at it, but being attracted to someone messes with my head. If I’m not in a setting that’s conducive to a quiet conversation, I get anxious and shy. Afraid of being overheard, afraid someone will witness me being awkward, even though there’s no reason on earth why I should care.

Years two through four were more of the same. Always someone around, someone listening, someone watching. I’d spot Lachlan in the vendors’ parking, but with us being on opposite sides of the site, we had to make an actual effort to even wave to each other during the day. It never went beyond glances. Well, we were busy. When I did get away from my stall, it was generally for a physical-comfort reason: food, water, or the potty. When I spoke to other vendors, it was generally at the end of the day, when we started packing out. Lachlan was too far away.

Now he wouldn’t be. He’d be right next to me. Maybe he never approached me before, but there were lots of possible explanations. Maybe one of those explanations was “I don’t want to rush this.” Maybe all he needed was a setting conducive to a quiet conversation, like me.

Last year I stopped by on day eleven to ask him to hold a certain cloak-pin I’d spotted in his case, returning at the end of the day to complete the transaction. He smiled when I complimented the work. I was about to say something else, something personal, when another vendor barged in to pick up an ear cuff. Lachlan seemed to regret the interruption as much as I did, but we were both too damn polite, or shy, or afraid to say hold on and make the other person wait. I walked away wishing my almost-fifty years of Shy Asian Queer were not so prescriptive.

This was my year to stop wishing.