Lynxharrow: Path of the Witch

3 - The Sight

Fortunately for the local economy, most fairgoers didn't have as much foresight as we, who'd packed an ice cooler of hastily-bottled tapwater in the back of my jeep. People were jumping out of their cars just to buy the cokes for the rest of their travel companions. The Weather Channel App said it was already 89 degrees at 10:08 AM, and climbing.

But once we'd bought our tickets and got inside the gates, the day improved almost immediately. To the left, faux medieval shops lined the row, beginning with a genuine blacksmith shop, complete with genuine blacksmith, who was working up a sweat hammering a glowing slab of iron. The forge billowed black but not unpleasant-smelling wafts of smoke. In front of us, a large circular fountain sat in the shade, a welcome respite from the heat for newly arrived Ren Faire pilgrims.

Deeper in, the din of music, laughter, applause, and human voices was overlaid by songbirds and the staggered chorus of cicadas. My ears followed the unmistakable sound of a hammered dulcimer to a music shop a few hundred yards away, a sound I'd heard many times as a child at the State Fair. Some of the people walking around were in full costume, fair maidens and warrior princesses and pirates and barbarians showing off their disposable income and/or gym memberships, but most were just ordinary people enjoying the promise of a clear summer day — good weather, good company, good entertainment, good buzz, and for we few, we happy few, we band of childless singles, the eternal possibility of hooking up.

We sat on the edge of the fountain as Jesse fished our E out of her purse. "Say 'ah'," she said, and as she placed the capsule on my tongue, in parody of holy communion (and a little too loud for my liking), she proclaimed "The body of Molly."

I subtly glanced around for any security who might have overheard her.

"No worries, babe, we're in the clear," she grinned as she swallowed her capsule with an entire bottle of water. "The Ren Nazis wear yellow t-shirts that read 'SECURITY' in all caps. They get uptight if they smell ganj, but they don't really care what you swallow, just as long as you don't act like an asshole."

We were meeting Jesse's friends at noon at the Seedy Satyr Tavern. Before then, she said, we should go to Lady Ethne's place of biz, "Fate's Fancy", and schedule our tarot readings, because she was a popular reader and her schedule tended to book up quickly.

Lady Ethne was the oldest and most respected member of Lynxharrow, her coven, she explained on the way. She'd been a witch since the 60's. Iphis (whoever that was) was Lynxharrow's leader, but Ethne was the oldest coven elder.

Fate's Fancy was a well-built two-story wooden structure decorated with intricate wood carvings, all Celtic knotwork, pentagrams, trees and stars. A redhead in a push-up peasant dress and body glitter took our names and our money up front. $30 for a 20-minute reading. Man, I needed to learn how to read tarot cards. A couple weekends of oracular industriousness, and I could replace my old guitar with a custom Stratocaster.

After that we meandered toward the Seedy Satyr, taking in the scenes around us. Not even noon yet, and there must have been at least a couple thousand people there at the Faire, moving up and down the wide sawdust boulevards in dense streams like pedestrians in Times Square, packed into the outdoor theaters, standing in lines for turkey legs, steak-on-a-stick, shepherd's pie, ice cream waffles, and a dozen other foodstuffs of dubious antiquity.

The Satyr was an open pavilion with beergarden-style tables and benches. Jesse scored us a couple of seats while I put my trusty fake I.D. to work, and bought a hard cider for her and a snakebite (stout and cider mixed) for myself.

The fake ID was a birthday present, courtesy of Uncle Fester, another patch in my pops's MC. He warned me to be careful with it; it was a quality piece of work and it was supposed to stand up to scans, but you never know. The DHS boys and girls took fake ID's very seriously. Especially good ones.

Across from us, a group of four girls were engaged in conversation about ghosts. I thought Jesse might take some interest, being Wiccan and all, but she didn't really pay attention. She was far more interested in hearing about my band and how we formed. No deep story there; we all met in high school. I was about to pass the talking stick to her and ask about Wicca and how her coven had formed, but by that time the four girls' conversation had wandered to the topic of global warming, and the great state of Texas's role in destroying all life on our planet. This was Jesse's conversational stomping grounds, so she jumped right in.

I stayed out of it. You can argue all the stats and figures you want, but it seems obvious to me what's going to happen — climate change is going to remain an abstract idea in the minds of most people, yeah it's a problem and we should really do something about it sometime soon, until the effects are clearly felt, painful and undeniable. Then and only then will we start devoting serious resources to figure out how to keep Earth from becoming like Venus (which may have been like Earth once, the evidence shows, according to Jesse). That's just how we are. As a species we can accomplish just about anything, but as a species there's really only one thing that puts a fire under our ass: in-your-face crisis.

Four or five beer rounds in, the Molly had kicked in and I was feeling fine. I did a three-sixty of the surroundings to see if there were anyone not having a good time. That was a far more immediate and pressing issue to me than the ongoing rape of the environment. Thinking the Unthinkable: People Having a Shitty Time at the Ren Faire, a new documentary by Lee Indridason.

Speaking of crisis, it was coming time to visit the privy before one arrived for me. So I excused myself and got up to find the nearest one, which I figured couldn't be too far, since the Satyr was the largest tavern on the grounds. After my business was concluded, I felt a flash of the Sight. Nothing dramatic, just a chime of intuition that something small and nearby was worthy of my attention. I looked around and there it was, just across the way, a kid who looked to be some new hybrid of emo boy and beardless hipster, about fourteen or fifteen, sitting by himself upon a tree stump, listlessly watching passers-by with a thousand-yard stare. The kind of stare that said there was either a girl or a dead pet involved.

But that wasn't all. My E-enhanced powers of observation spotted a girl checking him out from about thirty yards to his left, practically drooling, standing amidst a flock of girls in different colored bellydancer outfits (she was the blue one).

Having identified someone who was having a shitty time all too quickly, I silently narrated to my phantom documentary's phantom audience, I'm left with a classic dilemma — to refrain from intervening and allow events to run their course, or to meddle in the romantic affairs of younger teens, a potentially disastrous, and way socially inappropriate, course of action. But then I remember who I am — I'm Lee Indridason. I'm a golden god. On drugs. I can't stand idly by and just allow misery to flourish here at the Ren Faire, right here under my  nose.

I walked over to the kid sitting on the stump. "Hey brother, what's up?" I greeted. Dark-lined eyes peered up at me through artificially blond bangs.

"Listen man," I continued, "Could I ask a favor? Would you take a picture of my little sister and her friends over there?" I asked, pointing over to the flock of young bellydancer girls. "I would do it, but I have to go meet someone".

The kid looked over at them shrugged. "Uh, sure." He got up and brushed himself off.

"She's the one in blue. Just tell her I said you'll take the group pic for her and ask for her phone."

He starting walking, and I headed toward the Satyr without bothering to look back even once. I just had a good feeling about things were going to turn out.

You gotta love the Sight.

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Author's Note: Please leave a comment if it please you, whether positive, negative, or neutral, or if you have any questions. It's always good to hear from you. This is what I want to do professionally, write novels, so constructive critique is always welcome. Every piece of work is just a step to finer work...

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Best, Christophe