Becoming a Renaissance Faire Lady

"Whiskey!" Sir Daniel summoned me from the back of a pack of museum-goers that included a solidly terrified schoolboy who had to be coerced into the dark bestiary where the troll is kept. One of Sir Daniel's favorite bits is convincing frightened children to face the troll with courage, but this boy refused to put his hand in the cage.

"Demonstrate for this young man how to tame the troll!" Sir Daniel commanded, and I strutted toward the cage confidently, keeping an eye on the boy, who was even closer to bursting into tears. We had talked about Whiskey Grimes as an unstoppable, if green, badass anxious to hone her fighting skills on offending creatures. But as I watched the schoolboy shudder in fear, I knew one-upping him would only make him feel worse.

So I let my whole body have a shake, as if preparing myself to jump off a tall high-dive. I turned in a circle, hand pressed to my forehead in a display of worried panic. Then, I clapped my left hand over my eyes, shoved my right hand in the cage, and waited for the troll to strike. Just before he was in nibbling distance, I shouted as Sir Daniel had instructed me: "GET BACK!"

The troll retreated, and the little boy, emboldened by my cowardice, put his own hand in the cage. His shout was fierce, if shaky, and Sir Daniel grinned as the troll made for the cage corner.

Turns out, Whiskey Grimes is not a badass, but a presumptuous know-it-all and fraidy-cat eager for approval. Sounds suspiciously like someone I know. But with no rehearsal and only a vague idea of who the monster hunter inside me would be, Whiskey Grimes' entire character burst forth in a 10-second bit that defied months of planning. So goes the unpredictable life of a monster hunter.

————

Wandering the expansive grounds is exhausting, and after a day of staged jousts, swordfights and proclamations, the Scarborough cast kicks back with a little post-Faire tailgating. Shannon Hopps, Queen Anne, likes to unwind with a folding camp chair, a strong Cabernet and some stinky cheese. Ethan, the museum troll, likes tallboys and standing up after a long day of crouching. Dan Carro sips diet soda. There is laughing and giggling and flirting, and everyone is refreshingly normal for people who spend their days talking in fake British accents.

And then there is the "Junk." I have been instructed repeatedly only to call it the "Junk," because my preferred term ("Carnie Camp!" whispered in an excited hush) is highly frowned upon and, admittedly, incorrect. Just behind the cast tailgating party, the "Junk" is where traveling Ren fair shop owners and artisans go at the end of the day. The sword makers, leather masters, iron workers and costumers who sell their wares at Scarborough often travel across the country all year long. Their place of refuge here is this pseudo-outdoor bar where dreadlocks are the fashion and for some, teeth are optional.

Cast members do not tend to mingle with Junkers; the two parties ominously separate after hours, as if those who dwell in campers could never have anything to discuss with permanent structure owners, despite their shared familiarity with men in tights. I am discouraged from going into the Junk alone, and so I take my protector, Sir Daniel. We stand in front of the bar, a kind of houseless porch, glowing warmly with yellow light. It is only a matter of moments before we're approached by a mulleted boy who appears from behind a picnic table.

"HI!" he exclaims, running to Dan as if toward a long-lost and well-loved uncle. Dan clearly has no idea who the kid is.

"It's ME!" the boy insists, puffing up his chest. He was a guardsman last year, he reminds Dan, who suddenly remembers and gives him the same beaming smile bestowed upon the frightened troll cage boy. Dan asks him what he's been up to lately.

"Trying to get my horses back together," the boy says. Oh dear, I think. What doth go on in the Junk?

"Did they have a fight?" I ask the kid, who replies with a plaintive "No," before explaining: Back home, wherever that is, heavy rains have forced his horses into two different pastures. This is all the information we get before the boy zips back to his picnic table and the minstrel on a nearby stage starts up another woeful tune.

Everyone knows and likes Sir Daniel Raptus—even the Junk-dwellers—though they may not know Dan Carro at all. Raptus and Krane are Ren fair BMOCs, constantly being solicited for autographs and pictures by admirers and fans they barely remember but who hang on their every word. Kids send them drawings, and busty wenches call their names from hundreds of yards away. 'Tis a dork's dream. And even I got a little taste—of popularity, not busty wenches.