hope my instructor likes it.
Wandering at the War
On
the long President’s weekend in February, an oddly assorted group of people gathered
at Estrella Mountain Park for what we called the “Estrella War”. Produced by the members of the Society of
Creative Anachronism or the SCA, this war brought together about 3000 of our
closest acquaintances from around the world to recreate the Middle Ages (just
the good parts). One week to leave the everyday
mundane world behind to become the person we wished we could be. Knights and
ladies, merchants and bards, the war enabled us to play ‘let’s pretend’ on a
truly life-sized stage. Camping and costumes, hard-suit fighting and arts
competitions, music, dancing, shopping, feasting and especially camp-hopping
were the order of the day.
Wandering the war during daylight hours is
bright and busy. There are bravely colored banners billowing in the wind,
bright painted tents and outlandish garb to behold; it hums with voices, with the
crash and bash of the fighters on the field, marshals crying “hoolldd…” Merchants
on merchant row selling, customers buying trims, knives, books, jewelry,
anything and everything we could need to help create the semblance of medieval
times. In the market are exotic delights called ‘ice cream’ or ‘fry bread’ as
well as stew or steak on a stick to try. We greet friends, unseen since the
previous war. There are classes to go to, art tourneys to attend, battles to
observe, bards to hear, and courts to grace with our presence. At times,
wearing full garb, we run into town for ice or something else that was
forgotten. We call that ‘freaking the mundanes’ for obvious reasons. We cook and clean, and we prepared for the
coming darkness with prepping lanterns and fire pits, setting out candles ready
in their holders. Just going to the privy (the port o’ johns) at night
necessitated taking a lantern. As wonderfully
anachronistic (an anachronism is something belonging to a time other than the
one being represented) as the day-time hours were, night-time transported us
even further from the modern world. At dusk we let the bright colored business
of daytime pass away.
We
forget how deeply dark the night is, in the modern cities we have. There are no
street lights or lit houses here. Out in the middle of nowhere, we remembered
and played in a world lit by only by fire, moonlight and the faint glow of
stars.
Walking
away from the camp’s ruddy glow into the chilly unlit lanes to visit other
camps, darkness folded in around us. Over head were the stars, beautiful sparks
brighter here than in the city from which we had fled. Surrounding camps were
marked by greater sparks, glimmering guides to lead us in. Under foot was the
crunch of gravel giving way at times to the softer brush of shoes on sand and
dirt. At times, a grunt or exclamation as someone miss-stepped then caught
themselves. The thud of drums playing came from several encampments,
accompanied by strains of violins and flutes. The thump of feet, women’s voices
exclaiming ‘lalalalalala’ as they shimmied ‘round the blaze. Those drums played
till the wee hours of morning, a steady rhythm that underlay the night so
thoroughly as to wake many from sleep when the constant thump gave way to quiet.
Further off the mumble of faint conversations, sweet whispers of singing and
the snap of banners arrived on a gust. Occasionally we’d hear the swoosh of
cars or the rumble of airplanes reminding us the everyday world was still
there. That same wind brought the familiar scent of desert plants, wood smoke,
roasting meat, cooking food, perfume and incense. A heady mix stirred -up wonderfully
together. Other times, the cold draft
also carried the tang of piss, sickly sweet odor of human waste, the rot of
garbage letting us know we were passing by the privies.
Approaching
the encampment of fellow players, we call “Hello the fire”. Drawing closer, the firelight reveals a
peculiar assortment of modern 20th century camping supplies with
items painstakingly recreated to carry out the illusion of the medieval era. Coleman
tents sit side by side with brightly painted pavilions, hand embroidered cloths
disguise coolers, and propane stoves as well as campfires cook food and heat
water. We seat ourselves on store-bought fold-out seats as well as elaborate
hand crafted chairs. Even our appearances mixed medieval and modern, cloaks and
robes covering tee-shirts and jeans as often as they did tunics and kirtles.
But somehow the cloaking darkness and the firelight that played hide and seek
with our eyes, made it all fit together.
We settle around the fire, bringing out
drinking horns, tankards, earthenware cups and goblets to taste whatever
libations are to hand. Then with faces and knees warmed and our backs nipped by
the breeze, the serious work begins: Gossip. We speak, of course, of our
interests; different ways to make garb
(costumes) that are true to the medieval ages, how to embroider and embellish
them, to paint or do calligraphy or dance more authentically, better ways to
make armor or fight. Mostly, however we
gossip, the ever human need to know what our fellow humans are up to. The old
who was doing what for how many chocolate chip cookies?
So
our nights go, wandering in the icy dark until we found a warm haven to visit
for a bit followed by yet more meandering through the fire lanes. We go dance at the drummers’ encampment,
listen to a first timer wonder at everything they’d seen that day, hold a baby
that was conceived on the chilliest night of the war prior, flirt with tipsy
strangers in the shadowed lanes and congratulate a friend on finally getting
their award of arms to become a lord or lady. Finally our feet worn out and our
bodies chilled to the bone, we find our way back to our home camp. There, we
receive our own camp-hoppers wandering in the dark, drawn to the spark of our
fire to be warmed under a cold starry sky.
