47. Jack
Chapter 47
Jack
A ll summer, even with all the costumes and the planning and the excitement from the others, I’d never really understood why this was so irresistible to them. I was mostly along for the ride.
But as we stepped through the gates, the trumpets ushering us into a wooded glade lined with colourful medieval-style shopfronts, the morning light overhead creating dappled shadows on the face of performers dressed as faeries and jesters, the smell of cinnamon roasted almonds and kettle corn floating on the gentle breeze … I finally got it. It was fucking magical.
And it only got more magical as we went on and saw just how committed to the bit this festival was. There was a smith, a dungeon, and signs for “privies”. There were callers advertising shows, and bards playing lutes and lyres. There were faeries on mats every hundred metres or so, blowing bubbles for the kids. We even saw a procession for the Festival Queen, who would be presiding over the jousts later.
We’d opted for our character outfits for the first day; the weather was meant to be a bit cooler, so we thought we’d get the metal and leather out of the way. Morgan was wearing her chain mail, of course, along with our foam sword sheathed at her side. And despite the fact that Thrormir was dead and gone, I was still dressed as him, in my cheap plastic armour I’d bought online. I looked like the Wish version of Thor in the cheap blond wig, carrying my warhammer.
Other than Morgan, Chloe had definitely gone in the hardest on her costume; she’d worked black leather into a bodysuit that looked somehow both slutty and practical, which shouldn’t have been possible, if her rants over the years about female characters in video games had been anything to go by. But she’d managed it, and with horns glued to her forehead, a very realistic purple wig, purple body paint, and a really cool flame effect painted on the palms of her hands, she looked like the Calamity of Morgan’s drawings come to life.
Phil had gone in pretty hard on his own outfit, too, which was similar to my outfit for the next day, except with a huge leather pauldron on one shoulder and his cardboard lute strapped to his back.
Grey wore a tattered brown garment around their waist, and a leather breastplate and gauntlets. They had a faux animal skull of some sort attached to their shoulder, and pointy teeth poked up out of their mouth. Their skin was painted green from head to toe, their green buzz cut blending in perfectly. They carried a huge foam battle-axe, which, along with Morgan’s sword, had to be peace-tied in red string at the gate. I noticed they didn’t bother making me do that for my cheap cardboard warhammer.
Fatima was the closest to me in terms of cosplay quality – or lack thereof – in an outfit that I was pretty sure had been a pre-assembled Halloween costume with some faux leather armour on top. To our group, she was clearly Clover, the Thieves Guild faerie we’d encountered in the fae realm. But to everyone else, she probably looked like a battle-ready brunette Tinkerbell.
Either way, she was attracting a lot of attention, as was Chloe; they skipped along arm-in-arm, encouraging rather than ignoring the leering looks they got. More power to ’em , I thought, as Chloe blew a kiss at a caller staring directly at her chest.
By the time we’d made it just a couple hundred metres into the festival grounds, we must have stopped for half a dozen photo ops, standing in front of things like the “Flying DaVinci Machine” kids’ ride and the sign for “Turkey Leggs”. People also wanted pictures with us , and not just people that weren’t dressed up; it quickly became clear that other groups would want to meet us and take photos with us, too. It was “Heroes and Villains Weekend” apparently, so the Renaissance theme was applied more loosely than I would have expected. A group of people dressed as Vikings stopped for one, and when I asked if they were heroes or villains, one of the girls smiled at me as she walked away, calling “That’s the centuries-old question, my man!” as she went.
But mostly, I couldn’t keep my eyes off Morgan. She looked incredible in her outfit. Powerful. And the joy in her eyes as she walked around and took in the faire, the desire she’d had for months and shared with all of us, the dream she’d made reality … it made everything that had happened since then feel worthwhile. Even if I couldn’t reach out and take her hand like I wanted to.
We walked all the way to the end of the fairground, passing the jousting arena, countless food stalls, the smith, loads of artisan shops and stands, at least ten performance stages – “fourteen, actually”, Grey said, consulting the illustrated map they’d picked up at the entrance – and even a mermaid exhibit. We queued at a food stall called the Cappuccino Inn, desperate for caffeine, whilst Chloe held a picnic table for us so we could strategise the day.
As I stood in line behind Morgan, I watched her laugh and joke with Grey and Phil about a group that had walked by, all seemingly dressed as different famous dragons; as far as they could tell, there was Puff the Magic Dragon, Mushu from Mulan , the dragon from Shrek , what seemed to be Smaug, and two people attached as the two-headed dragon from Quest for Camelot . Morgan gasped in delight as she clocked Puff’s bowtie, and something inside me ached as she reached out to grab Phil’s arm; I wished I were the one getting her whispered jokes and amused smiles. But I was at least glad she was having fun.
We made our way to the picnic table, where Grey spread their map out across the surface. Fatima dug through her waist pouch and pulled out a pen, handing it to them.
“So,” they said, clicking the pen, “there are three jousts throughout the day, so we need to catch at least one of them…”
It was no surprise that Grey and Chloe both had lots of opinions on what was can’t-miss and what could be saved for the next day. But what surprised me – and honestly delighted me – was that Morgan steered the conversation as much as either of them. And rightfully so; coming to the Ren Faire had been her idea to begin with. It was nice to see her asserting herself so confidently, especially in contrast to when she’d first joined the group, and I couldn’t help but watch admiringly over the next ten minutes as she helped shape the plan.
This staring and gazing and admiring was going to get me in trouble though, so I was glad when someone suggested we split up until lunch so we could see more shows between us. Even though Morgan, Fatima and Grey were going to see an acrobatics show I wanted to see, I figured it would be better to tag along with Chloe and Phil so I could stay out of trouble. And if I noticed a slight frown flash across Morgan’s face as I shared that decision, I determined not to notice it, and certainly not to read anything into it.
I let myself have one last longing look for the day as Morgan and the others walked off towards the acrobatics show, whispering under my breath, “look back, look back”. And then I tried not to let myself be too disappointed when she didn’t.
* * *
Two shows later we had a message waiting for us in the group chat as we started looking for them: they had spotted how busy the joust already was, with people sat in the bleachers hours before the event, so they wanted us to find some food and meet them there. Grey had added a desperate plea to save the turkey legs for later when we could eat them together, so we opted for a smorgasbord of options from a variety of stalls, heading towards the arena with everything from barbecue mac and cheese to a “charcuterie cup”.
As soon as we got to the arena, we could tell why they had been so desperate to grab seats: half the arena was in full sun, with the other half in full shade. Whoever was sat in the full sun would be squinting the whole time; as far as I knew, none of us had thought to bring sunglasses. And based on the way the shaded side was filling up, I suspected we would have had to endure it had we not had people saving seats for us.
It took us a couple minutes of scanning, but I saw the glint of sunlight off Morgan’s chain mail, and then spotted Fatima waving to us. We apologetically climbed over the others sitting in the row until we reached the empty space in front of our friends, handing out food as we scooted past them, Grey leaning over to move the bags they’d used to hold our place.
“Thanks for lunch,” Morgan said, looking directly at me and smiling. I’d taken care to hand her the mac and cheese, knowing that would be her preference.
“No worries,” I said, holding up my slice of pizza in a “cheers” motion. Morgan followed suit and laughed. She seemed to be in a good mood, and I wanted desperately to talk to her normally – to ask her how their shows were, and how she was doing; really anything to get to talk to her properly for the first time in weeks – but something was starting in the arena, and it would have been too obvious to turn around for a chat. So instead I focused my attention on my pizza and on the person coming through the gate at the end of the field to my left. They began checking the field and the tilt rail, getting ready for the joust.
There was a large, two-level structure over the gate, with a viewing platform with three thrones in the middle running along the top. Musicians climbed a set of stairs at the back, placing their music on stands to the left of the thrones. Other guests filed into the space on the right, and below.
“I wonder how you get those seats,” Fatima said behind me, pointing to the cushy, covered seating on the lower level, just below the balcony where I was pretty sure the Festival Queen would shortly appear.
“It’s for the wedding guests,” Grey answered. “The couple get to sit up there with the Queen.” They pointed at the upper level, and I noticed that indeed two of the thrones seemed to be one double throne, as if for a couple.
The guests finished filing in, and I wondered why those were the coveted seats; surely they weren’t a better view of the joust. But they were at least shaded, unlike the seats across the arena from us, where people were shielding their eyes and fanning their faces with their maps.
Eventually the gates opened, and three horses cantered out, each with a rider, followed by two more cast members on foot. Two of the riders were knights in shining plate armour, and one was an elegant-looking host in a long dress draped over either side of the horse.
“Welcome!” the host called, bringing things to order. The crowd was clearly ready for the show, and everyone else seemed to know exactly when to cheer and where to insert a hearty “huzzah”, or at least were good at pretending like they did. The atmosphere was one huge, sustained crescendo, like we were all perched on horseback like the knights.
One after the other, the knights performed “feats of strength and accuracy”, as the host dubbed them, spearing hoops on their lances and smashing through wooden targets. It was clearly a build-up to the main event, but it was entertaining to watch. The knights were performers like everyone else, each initiating taunts of their opponent and doing victory dances and poses from atop their horses when they succeeded. The one assigned to our side of the arena – Sir Maximus, as he was announced – was in elegant black and gold regalia. A few merchants roamed through the crowd on our side selling pennants in his colours, and at Chloe’s behest I waved one of them over to grab some for us, just as a line of trumpeters filed onto the field.
As they began to play, I wasn’t the only one to wince, and a small child in front of me in a flower crown covered her ears at the noise. Luckily they were just announcing the arrival of the Festival Queen, who ascended the stairs and stood at the apex of the balcony, her hands resting on the railing.
I watched as, just as Grey said, a couple – one in a long white dress with trailing sleeves, and one in an intricate brocade tunic – appeared on the balcony behind the Queen. She announced them to the crowd, who gave a big “huzzah!” to their nuptials, and I joined in, even if I didn’t feel particularly like celebrating love in that moment.
I heard Morgan join in, too, and I may have been hearing what I expected to hear, but did she maybe sound a bit unenthusiastic, too?
The couple took their seats, as did the Queen, and then, it seemed, the joust itself could start. Time after time the knights charged at one another, aiming not for each other’s torsos but at targets affixed to their opponent’s shoulder. Despite the sea of blue and silver on the other side of the arena cheering on the other knight, Sir Maximus was victorious in every single pass. Chloe shushed Phil as he insisted it was staged, instead jumping and cheering for Maximus’s attention as he vamped to the crowd after another win. She shimmied in a way I was pretty sure was designed to make her boobs jiggle as much as possible, and I swore I could see his eyes almost fall out of his head as he did a double-take in her direction.
“Slag,” Phil teased as she sat down.
“Don’t you forget it,” she said, sitting back down and crossing her legs.
The joust was, in fact, incredibly cheesy and staged, but the crowd ate up every second of it, and honestly, I did, too. It seemed like a large part of the Renaissance Faire was suspension of disbelief; nobody was bothered with authenticity or plausibility, and they were having way more fun as a result. That seemed to be the name of the game today, after all; Morgan was acting as if the last few months had never happened, and if she could act that well, then I could, too. So I leaned into the excitement as much as I could. I cheered for Maximus and booed the other knight; I took pictures with the others afterwards at the character boards, letting myself be “duped” into a picture of my face on a tavern wench’s body; I did the silly strength test that insisted I was a “sickly child”; I ripped my trousers trying to nock an arrow at the archery range; I even dropped an ungodly amount of money on a metal crown that Chloe insisted made me look like a rakish royal.
“It does look nice,” Morgan said as I examined it in the shop’s mirror, making me jump about a million miles in the air. I tried my best not to look bowled over, doing the first thing I thought of, which was for some reason to … bow slightly? Why the hell was I bowing?
“Thank you, m’lady.”
She smiled and dipped into a slight curtsy in response, despite being in armour, not a dress. “Your Grace.”
She turned away to join the others, and I watched her go, wondering how it was possible that we stepped so far back that we were simply good acquaintances again. I stepped forward to follow her out, but as I did, a realisation hit me so hard that it made me physically recoil.
This whole time, I had been convinced that we would either completely disappear from each other’s lives, or we’d move past things. Probably the former, given how hurtful we’d both been to each other. And as impossible as that felt, I knew I could do it; I’d done it before, after all. And to an extent, I was prepared for that.
But now, as I successfully pretended like everything was fine, and she seemed to be doing the same, I realised that the one eventuality I hadn’t prepared for was one where she actually wanted to just be friends again. To have gone through everything we did to just see each other on Mondays and occasional weekends. To laugh at one another’s jokes and text each other “happy birthday” and “what was the name of that film you mentioned?” To date other people, and have to meet each other’s other people. To still watch each other’s futures unfold as if we hadn’t once thought we’d be sharing one.
That, actually, sounded like the worst possible outcome of all. And suddenly I wasn’t so sure I was capable of pretending after all.