England, 2007
"Archers! Take your positions!"
Feet apart, back straight, shoulders back.
"Load your bows!"
Hook the arrow onto the string, hold the bow in front of you, pointing the arrow down.
"Aim!"
Bring the bow up quickly, pulling back the arrow in the same movement and rest the tip of it on your fist. Hold your arm steady, keep your eyes open, aim for the center of the target.
"Fire!"
A dozen bows twang as the other contestants let loose almost as soon as the announcer finishes the word. I take a deep breath and let loose a second after the others.
The arrow speeds to the target directly in front of me, cutting the air with a sound like water droplets through a straw.
It lands dead center, as I knew it would.
I let my bow down and wipe my forehead, smiling at my certain victory. Beside me are men and women in various types of period costume, some plain-dressed peasants, others richly adorned nobles, and one or two Robin Hoods.
I think they're crazy. But there aren't many other places where my area of expertise is practiced.
The man in charge of the event walks to the target 50 feet away, while the crowd cheers for the only person to miss the target. Gregory the Great, or something. He laughs it off, blaming his misfortune on the glare of the sun, even though we've had solid cloud cover for almost two weeks now.
Maybe it's different for Englishmen, but to my New Jersey self it's dark, cold, and bleary. And I grew up near Philadelphia
Searching through the arrows on the target, the announcer pulls out mine from the center and quickly glances at the black fletching on the end of the arrow. "And the winner of this year's archery competition is... the Black Archer!"
A halfhearted cheer goes up as the crowd around the yard begins to clear. The American female bested them at something these people are renowned for, so I'm not offended. Much.
I shake a few hands and flash a few smiles and leave the yard as well. The contest lasted three hours from trials to finals, and I'm starved. Time to make my way to the local McDonalds after picking up my prize.
The announcer approaches me, followed by a tall older women made up to be some gnarled gypsy. The announcer holds a ribbon and an envelope, and the woman keeps her hands folded in front of her.
"Congratulations, Miss Fletcher," the announcer says with only a slight accent. "That's... how many faires have you won now?"
"Six this season, eight this year, I think," I reply with a forced smile as my stomach gives an audible rumble. "I'm hoping this check'll pay for a room and a nice burger."
The man looks shocked. "A burger? Here? With all this fine food that's been roasting away? Surely you'd want something a little more festive than a burger!" The women at his side says nothing, only regards me with small gray eyes.
I shrug, wondering why my reputation as an archer seems to spread like wildfire, but not my dislike of Renaissance faires. "Americans like their burgers, I guess."
Nodding, the announcer hands me the small blue ribbon in his hand as well as the envelope. "Well, all right. Here's your prizes: $50 and the Sherwood Forest Robin Hood Festival ribbon. You sure you don't want..."
"No, really, it's fine," I'm so hungry my stomach hurts. I eye the old lady, trying to convey this thought to her through my gaze. She's a gypsy, she should be able to read minds. Or at least, she might be a gypsy.
She looks to be in her fifties, with graying hair tucked up into a faded yellow kerchief. Around her neck are about a half dozen thick golden chains, reminding me of the way my brothers used to dress up before they got the crap beaten out of them and went to college. Her dress is long undyed linen, making it a shade of old sweat. The effect is to make her resemble a peasant trying to dress like a rapper from Russia. She even has a gold tooth.
"I have something else for you, Rebecca, if you'd care to follow me to my booth," rasps the woman.
"Uh, sure. It wouldn't happen to be food, would it?" I joke. She shakes her head, but smiles in a knowing way. "Alright, lead on." I unzip one of the pockets in my cargo pants to place the ribbon and check inside for safekeeping and follow the woman as she weaves through the few people still wandering around the faire. It's almost dusk, and most visitors will be at the pasture in the forest for the Robin Hood play the local high school was putting on.
The smell of roasting meat is thick in the evening air. We're walking along a deserted aisle of booths selling everything from handmade jewelry to princess caps to child-sized bow and arrow sets.
Lovely. Let's give the children more ways to put out their eyes.
We walk for less than five minutes when we come to what must be the woman's booth. Or, more correctly, table. On top rest several boxes varying from jewelry-sized to shoe box, all made of wood and carved with different designs. Candles give off a warm glow reflected in the glass of a handful of necklaces lying towards to front, just begging for a thief to come and snatch them. Behind the table is a simple stool and a basket of knitting.
The woman picks up one of the boxes; a small thing about the size of her palm. Crossed arrows are carved onto the top of it.
"Here it is, Rebecca. I think this would be an excellent prize for an archer of your... renown." Is her accent English? I think, It sounds... like something that isn't English.
I never claimed to be articulate.
She hands the box to me. "Open it," she says with anticipation. She glances between me and the box, a triumphant gleam in her eye.
I take the box and do as I'm told, lifting off the lid. Inside is a necklace, the pendent a wooden rectangle about an inch and a half long and half an inch wide. It's looks as if someone's burned a small design onto it: a circle with an arrow through it. The pendent is strung through a short leather thong. It would make a cute choker, I think.
"They say it belonged to Robin Hood himself," says the old woman, still looking as if she's fighting the urge to cheer. "I would think that the best archer in England would want to wear it."
I look up at her, my face turning red. "Oh, thank you, um, ma'am, but I wouldn't say that, I mean, I've only competed in faires, not any actual competitions..."
"And why is that, may I ask? From what I've heard every shot you've made has been a bull's eye, you've never missed a ring when they throw them in the air, and I also hear tell you're making a living off your winnings. You travel alone, only showing up for the archery competitions at faires before disappearing until the next one. And you'd make a lot more money if you'd enter a hunting competition with one of those modern bows." She looks at my recurve resting on my shoulder, a simple birch bow I'd won at some other faire a few years ago. It was small, light, and powerful, and the answer to my curses against the monstrous, heavy, stupid, cumbersome English longbow that I loathe with a -
"Are you all right, dear?"
I realize I'd been glaring at the ground for almost ten seconds while I contemplated the evil that is the longbow. "I'm fine, sorry. Just spaced out... Uhm, I don't know why I never enter any other competitions. I guess I just love using the old-fashioned bows too much. Those contraptions take all the skill out of shooting. Plus they're obnoxious."
The woman gives me yet another knowing smile. I wish she would stop it.
"Here, let me put this on you, dear." She lifts the choker out of the box I'd been holding out in front of me. I pull my braid across my shoulder and let her tie it on. It fits great.
"Lovely," she says, smiling. "A perfect fit. By the way, would you mind doing me a favour?" She walks behind her table and pulls out a wicker basket covered with a checkered cloth. "My friend Betty is in the pasture in the woods, out where they're holding the play. Would you mind giving her dinner to her? She forgot to take it with her to the snack booth."
I raise an eyebrow. God, I love being able to do that.
The woman chuckles. "She's allergic to wheat, otherwise I'd tell her exactly what you're thinking. Tell her it's from Fi, and that I said to give you some free fries. McDonalds is sponsoring her booth."
Yay!
"I'd be happy to... Fi?" I reply.
She nods, and bends down to pull out a long green blanket-thing from under the table. "You should take this cloak, too. It's getting chilly. Just leave it with Betty before you leave." Apparently she's noticed that I'm wearing a black tank top during an English fall.
Hey, black is my signature. It just so happens that combat boots, cargo pants, and tank tops match the two-fingered fletcher's gloves I'd won from the faire in Pennsylvania. I look pretty badass, if I do say so myself.
The woman tosses me the cloak and I drop my bow on the ground to put it on. It's wool, and smells like roses. The clasp is an old pin that looks like the Tara brooch, sending a twinge in my Irish-loving heart and I begin to fight the inner battle that would result in me taking the cloak with me to my car. I put up the hood, grab my bow and basket, and I know that I must look like -
"You look like a cross between Little Red and Robin Hood." she mocks. "It's cute."
"Heh, I guess."
"Just turn straight around and follow that road into the woods," she points behind me, "it'll bring you right behind the snack booths in the pasture." By now it looks as if she's going to pee herself with glee.
I turn to go, and she kisses me on top of my head.
I am officially scared.
"Safe journey, dear," she says as I start to skip off, decide it's too idiotic looking to be worth it, and slow down to a stroll.
If there is a serial killer on that road, I am going to be so pissed.