by Cindy Brown
What began as an exercise in humiliation turned out to be a great thing, at least as far as investigating went. Since I didn’t have to talk, I didn’t have to concentrate on my not-so-great Cockney accent and could pay more attention to what was around me. Since I had a sign on my ass, people didn’t look at my face—less chance I’d be recognized. Since I didn’t have to learn any dance routines, I could stroll the fairegrounds and snoop.
So for an hour and a half, I strolled and wiggled and listened. I heard excitement (“Look, a fairy!”), whining (“Dad said I could have two turkey legs”) and bad jokes (“What happened when Bluebeard fell overboard in the Red Sea? He got marooned”), but I didn’t hear a peep about Angus—Angus, who was a major player at the faire, who was one of the most famous characters there, and who’d been traveling the circuit for years. Huh.
I kept an eye out for Riley and/or Bianca, but didn’t see either of them. It was probably just as well since I really wanted to scope out the faire, get a feel for the place and the people. And what people! There were fire-eaters and bawdy jugglers and singing nuns. And mermaids, hidden away in the Undersea Grotto. I really wanted to see a mermaid (who wouldn’t?) so I snuck into the grotto, bypassing the big line in front of it by muttering, “Employee coming through” (since I was sure I was already breaking a rule by jumping the line, I threw the ‘no talking’ rule to the wind too).
I stepped into the cavernous space. The transition from bright sunlight to watery blue-green light made me blink. A crowd almost as large as the one outside snaked through the cordoned-off waiting area. A smaller group waited to one side in front of an empty throne covered in plaster shells, with leaping dolphins for arms and a starfish at its crown. A sign propped up in front of it read, “Your photo with a mermaid!”
The focal point of the grotto was an enormous tank of water, like one you might see at an aquarium, maybe twenty feet tall and almost as wide. I could hear splashing coming from the tank, but the heads in front of me blocked my view. I slipped past all of the waiting people. I felt bad for being rude, but I had to peek and leave before Jasmine discovered where I was, and I didn’t want to leave without seeing a...
Oh...A beautiful woman lounged on a narrow shelf at the top of the tank, her head propped on one arm out of the water, the rest of her submerged. She smiled, waved at the crowd, and flipped her tail. Her tail. It was green and glittery and looked like it was truly made of scales. Fairytales were coming true right in front of me.
The mermaid pushed herself off the ledge and dove down into the tank, her long blonde hair streaming behind her. She stopped at the bottom of the tank, peering out through the glass at her audience while her hair floated around her like a cloud.
“But how does she breathe?” asked a little boy beside me, and an invisible fist slammed into my solar plexus. The weight of water pressed against me, and it was cold and dark and freezing...
I sat down where I was, right there on the concrete floor, my back to the tank. I tried to breathe.
“Are you okay?’” The little boy next to me sat down on the ground beside me. He patted my knee. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m afraid of water too.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said to him. I got up, brushed the dust off my skirt, and excused myself.
I went outside and sat on a bench near the road. I felt shaky, not just because of the incident, but because I’d really thought I was over my fear of water. What was different about this time? I made myself picture the scene again, the tank, the mermaid underwater...that was it. Since the swimming pool incident I thought had cured me, I’d approached water from the top. I’d seen the top of a lake shimmer in the sun, felt the spray of a waterfall from atop a bridge, and cruised on a ship on top of the ocean. Under the water felt like a whole different world, a world that lured you and trapped you and wouldn’t let you go.
Not all fairytales had happy endings.
Chapter 17
If I’d been by myself, I could’ve gotten lost in the past, pulled down by the weight of Cody’s accident. But it was pretty tough to lose yourself in thought at the Ren faire. Too many interesting people doing interesting things. Like the Vermin Folke, who stuffed fabric rats with tomatoes, threw them into the crowd yelling “Rat!” and then smashed the stuffed things with big clubs, spilling their tomato guts all over the dirt road. It was disgusting—and fabulous, especially because it pulled me out of my stupor and into the world. Where I had some investigating to do.
I spent some time watching the employees, then sidled up to the friendliest, chattiest one I’d seen, a plump, middle-aged woman who ran one of the costume places. “Bloody brilliant place, this,” I said, fingering a beribboned wreath.
“Oh you’re from England!” she said.
Finally my accent came in handy.
“I just love England.”
Oh no...
“I visit whenever I can.”
I really should have thought this through.
“Where are you from?”
“Liverpool.” I’d chosen it because was the hometown of the Beatles. I knew nothing else about it. Yep, really should have thought this through.
“Oh.” The woman’s face fell. “I haven’t been there. I mostly like to tour the gardens and the National Trust houses. Do you...”
I leaned in close, a signal (and a gossip lure, I hoped) that I wanted to talk about something private. “Oi’m new here—”
“Oh, you work here.”
“Yes ‘m.’” I turned around and showed her the sign on my butt. “Oi saw on the news that somebody got killed here the other day, but nobody’s talking’ about it. Is it a big secret or somefin?”
Now the woman leaned in to me. “Not exactly...” Her gaze drifted above my head, as if she was considering whether to tell me something. “It’s just that...well, no one is that surprised. Or upset.”
“Really? No one?” I hardly knew him and I was upset.
“Not exactly...Do you know the song ‘Billy Boy’? Sometimes called ‘Charming Billy’? It’s based on an English folk song called ‘Lord Randall.’”
“Me education was a bit spotty. Was the dead bloke’s name Billy? Or the guy who killed him?”
“No,” she said quickly. “The man who was killed was Angus.” She began to sing in a low voice: “Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy? Oh where have you been, Charming Billy?”
I actually did recognize the tune.
“It’s about a man who wants a woman who’s too young for him.” Was this a clue? Was Angus a pedophile? “The original song is much darker, a murder ballad, about a man who’s poisoned by his fiancé.”
“So this fella Angus was killed by his fiancé?”
“No, he didn’t have one...I’m going at this all sideways. Angus was not a good man—he could be a bully at times—but he was not without charm. Someone called him ‘Charming Bully,’ and the name stuck.” She shook her head sadly. “And no one really misses Charming Bully.”
That was all I got from my first short round of sleuthing—that Angus was a charming bully. No one else spoke about him or the joust or the accident. It was weird. Had the Rennies already closed ranks, or were they just consummate professionals living in the here and now—or rather, the here and then?
After the belly dance show, I took off my sign and was about to do a bit more eavesdropping when I heard, “Prudence!” I turned around to see my ersatz boss, Jasmine. “Better catch William before his show ends.”
Oops. “On me way,” I said, then sang, “Oi’m off to see the wizard.” Jasmine half-closed her eyes in a look of pain. “Omigod,” I said. “What’s wrong? Are you o—”
“Silent,” she said. “You’re like a belly dancing mime. Silent.”
Chapter 18
“I’m off to see the wizard,” I hummed to myself as I walked through the faire. Couldn’t help it, such a ca
tchy tune, and I was sure humming didn’t count as talking. But oops, I must have taken a wrong turn. This place was bigger, and the paths twistier than I’d thought. I’d take home a map and really study it tonight. Along with Liverpool. And Marilyn and...
Since I was trying to think and walk at the same time (never a good idea with me), I almost ran into a tall tree, well, a tall person on stilts dressed as a tree. “Hey, where’s the Enchanted Forest?” Seemed like he should know. The Green Man slowly turned around and pointed behind him with a gnarled limb/arm. I nodded my thanks and took off at a trot.
Ah, there it was. A wooden fence encircled a small enclosure, interrupted by an arched gateway made of bent tree limbs, with the words “The Enchanted Forest” fashioned out of twigs. I stepped through. On the other side was...magic.
You have to understand something about desert dwellers. We love our open blue skies and golden vistas, but we are starved for green. And here it was—every shade of green imaginable. I stopped under an emerald elm next to a jade shrubbery with lime green moss underfoot, and marveled. The set designer had created a magical forest in the desert, where tiny fairies peeked out from leafy green canopies, leprechauns sat under giant toadstools, and elves peeped from hollows in trees. Audience members of all ages sat on log-style seating, eyes glued on the wizard onstage. The stage itself was way cool, meant to look like the opening of a cave with a ceiling of glittering quartz that caught the light. But it was William the Wondrous who really entranced the audience. They leaned forward in their seats, straining to hear his every word. William had the requisite long white beard (which looked real) and wore a deep blue velvet robe embroidered with sparkling stars and planets. He wasn’t tall, but he had presence, magnified by a sonorous voice that he used to its full potential. “As King Arthur once said,” he intoned in the solemn tones of a monk, “Might for right. Can I hear you say it?”
“Might for right!” chanted the audience.
William took a piece of black paper from a robe pocket and held it high. “Darkness...” He crumpled the paper into a ball. “Will never be victorious...” He held the paper ball in front of him. “If we use might for right. Might for right!” He raised the clenched fist that held the paper ball. His voice boomed and echoed, even without a mike. “And light will overcome the night!” The wizard opened his hand and a fireball shot from it. The audience gasped and burst into applause.
“Always remember, friends,” William knelt down in front of a row of enraptured kiddies. “Darkness cannot overwhelm the light.” He stood. “Thank you all for coming. Go forth and use your might for right!”
Faire visitors immediately lined up to talk to William. Some wanted photos, some wanted him to sign their magic wands, and one little girl about six years old solemnly asked if he could make her a wizard, too.
“Indeed I can,” he said. “I’m going to give you the incredible power of kindness.” He tapped her gently on the top of the head with the carved wooden staff he carried. “Now, whenever you see an opportunity to be kind, you will take it and spread magic wherever you go.” The little girl turned big eyes to her parents, who were a bit wide-eyed and misty themselves.
Finally, when everyone else was gone, I curtseyed to the wizard (just seemed appropriate), then making sure no one was around, I whispered, “Jasmine sent me. Oi’m new to the faire, and she said you could show me the ropes, as it were. And Oi’m whisperin’ because Jasmine doesn’t want me to talk.”
“Jasmine—a good dancer but a hard taskmaster.” William smiled, his eyes crinkling in friendly wizard fashion. “Follow me.”
I thought maybe we’d go to a dressing room behind the stage, but instead William led me down one of the faire’s dusty roads. “Is this your first faire?”
I nodded, conscious of the people around me and my order to stay silent.
“Where are you from?”
Wow, how to mime “England” or...? Ah. I pointed to a spot above my midriff, to the right.
“Ah, it’s charades, is it?” William smiled. “Don’t have the language down yet, I assume. Some of the people here are sticklers for authenticity.” We passed a man who was half pirate, half squid. “Others not so much.”
We’d reached a tent-like structure open to the street, with a gilded banner overhead that read, “William the Wondrous.” Inside, oriental carpets covered the tent floor, lanterns with flickering (fake) candles hung from the ceiling, and jewel-toned floor pillows lined the edges of the space. As cool as all that was, my eyes were immediately drawn to the focal point of the space: a large chair elaborately carved with leaves and flowers and fairies and elves. Swaths of indigo velvet draped across the arms, falling in blue puddles to the floor. William sat in the throne and waved in the direction of some pillows. “Bring one close, so we can talk. And yes, you can talk in here, though I think I would like to play that first round of charades you proposed. So you are from...” He placed a hand on his abdomen about where I had touched mine. “Belly Button? No, that’s in Arizona”—thanks to Uncle Bob’s love of trivia I knew there was such a place, up near Snowflake. Yep, that’s a real town, too. “No, your accent is...Ah, you must mean Liverpool, England.”
“Brilliant.” I sat down on a pillow facing him.
“I am a wizard, you know.” Up close, I could see William wasn’t as old as I’d first thought. His white beard and hair gave the impression of age, but his stockinged calves were muscular, and the only lines on his face were a few crow’s feet. I suspected he was in his fifties, probably around the same age as Uncle Bob.
“Before Oi forget,” I said. “Jasmine said somefin about learnin’ the difference between dirty and bawdy?”
“An important distinction. ‘Dirty’ is outright crude, while bawdy—at least by our definition here—is double entendres. Jokes that rely on wordplay. Think Mae West.”
“Got it. ‘Oi used to be Snow White, but Oi drifted,’” I quoted. I loved Mae West.
“Exactly.” William reached down along the right side of his chair into the folds of the blue velvet there—must be a hidden pouch. “Now, as far as faire language goes...” He took out a piece of parchment-looking paper and a fountain pen. His pen scratched against the paper. “Here are a few websites. Not a period research method, I know, but we travel light here. No room for a library. These sites will give you vocabulary lists, but the best way to learn is to listen. That’s the reason some people like Jasmine ask newcomers to stay mute. When people can’t talk, they generally listen better, instead of thinking about their next comment.”
Huh. Sounded like good advice for a PI, too. I’d have to try to be quiet more often. “Try” was the operative word. I was not naturally quiet.
“One of the most important things you need to know is how to address royalty.”
“Royalty?” I couldn’t imagine Prince Harry or Princess Kate or—
“Our royalty,” he said. “Each faire has a queen and a court. Ours is Queen Elizabeth, whom you address as ‘your majesty.’ If you see her, you stop where you are and curtsey until she passes.” I must have looked incredulous because he said, “Not learning the proper forms of address is considered a snub, both when you’re in character and out.”
“Oi wanted to ask you about that,” I said. “When do people stop being”—I made little air quotes—“on?”
“For some, maybe many of us, these characters become part of who we are. It’s not about learning a certain role. We choose our personas and we live with them. All the faire’s a stage. Some of us spend as much time being knights or fairies or wizards as we do being regular folk. So the answer about when—or if—people slip out of character varies.”
“You don’t all travel with the faires, do ya?” I knew part of this answer, but wanted to hear how a Rennie would see it.
“Imagine our faire as a tree, all of us serving different functions. Some are leaves, roots, bark, but we’re all
part of a whole. The people who work at the kitchens are no less important than the queen herself, though she might beg to differ.” I had the feeling William had given this speech more than a few times. I wondered what had happened to make community and wholeness so important to him—and I wondered why he hadn’t answered the question I asked. “And don’t worry, I am about to answer your question.” Maybe he was a mind-reading wizard. “But you’ll soon find that there are social stratas within the faire. I want to make sure you understand you are no less important than anyone else. To look at my tree analogy in another way: If you cut a tree and look inside, what do you see?”
I pulled up an image of the last log I’d seen. It wasn’t easy. Not a lot of logs in Phoenix. “Um, rings?”
“Exactly. The locals form the outermost ring, and next are the workers in the kitchens and restaurants and booths. Vendors—the merchants and artisans—are closer to the center of the tree. But closest to the center is...?” He waited for my answer.
“Royalty?”
“No.” He smiled, giving the impression he’d hoped for that answer so he could explain. “The closest to the center are the big acts, the people who travel from faire to faire, who make this life their lives.”
“Loike you?”
“Like me,” he admitted. “But also the magicians, the musicians, the jousters—”
Ah, here we were...“Ooh, I love the jousters. In fact, Oi’d love ta...Oi mean, d’ya fink Oi could be one? Are there female jousters, like?” I hoped he’d say no so I could eliminate half my suspects.
“There are female jousters,” William said slowly, “but...” he looked at me, well, at my body to be more specific. “Maybe. You’re a dancer, so you have some strength, but it takes a lot of upper body and core strength, and you need to be an excellent rider.”
I felt my face fall. His answer did eliminate some suspects, but only weak females who couldn’t ride. A help, but not a huge help.
William must’ve thought I was disappointed in my future as a jouster. “I think you’d be happier as a dancer, or maybe something else, anyway. Jousters—like any group of people given elite status—can be brutally competitive.” Hmm, was Angus’s death a jousting rivalry taken too far? I made a mental note to dig into the other jousters’ backgrounds.