Aerin bumped the door open with an absentminded shoulder and sorted through the mail. She opened a creamy envelope with a large, gold seal in the upper left corner. “Cool,” she said. “We actually got something that’s not a bill or some political ad.”
“We live in a swing state,” Jory said, his voice muffled from where he lay braced underneath the sink. Buckets, cleaning products, and a toolbox were scattered on the floor around stained denim knees. “I don’t believe we didn’t get something from a politician.”
“Of course we did. I threw out three fliers already.” Aerin let out an unladylike snort. “It’s a light day. We also got something extra, too, that’s all.”
Jory emerged from under the sink and stretched his shoulders, still clasping a wrench. He tossed it into the toolbox. “Well, that’s one bill we won’t get. Sink’s good to use again. So, did my weirdo mum write me a letter or what?”
She pointed a finger at him in admonishment. “I like your mum.”
Jory stayed sprawled on the floor and leaned back on his arms with a smirk. “And she knows how to video chat.” He picked up a poof of stashed plastic bags and stuffed it back under the sink with a series of rustles that spooked the cat into a blur streaking down the stairs.
Aerin waved a hand. “Whatever. We got free tickets to the local Renaissance Festival. I’ve never been.”
Jory tilted his chin down and gave her a dubious look. “Do you want to?”
She stuck out her tongue and sniffed delicately, arcing her face toward the ceiling. “Not only do I want to go, we also get free costume rental and some other stuff.”
“What’s this we you speak of?” Jory asked. He stayed half bent over, one blue eye fixed on her behind a curtain of long brown hair, his hand frozen on the toolbox handle.
“Oh, you’re joining me, mister.” She pointed the envelope at him. “I’ll be Lady Aerin, and you can be my gallant knight.”
“Um, babe…” His eyes were pleading.
“Unless you want me to deliver those brownies I made to the neighbors?”
“Babe! That’s just not fair!”
***
Two weeks later, Jory pulled his truck across the patchy ground covered in clumps of long grass too stubborn to die. He followed a series of flaggers dressed as peasants. That is, if Renaissance-era peasants had possessed florescent safety vests and flashlights.
Aerin’s bouncing wasn’t due to the rutted earth. As the truck crested the slight hill and palisade walls surrounding a motley collection of pavilions and mismatched buildings came into view, she let out a high-pitched squeal.
He winced, then flinched at her blazing glare. “Hell on the suspension,” he muttered.
“Good save,” she said tartly, and turned rapt eyes on the faire grounds as they descended the rise.
She could see a small building that was made to represent a branching tree, a stage covered in shade by its outreached arms. Another had carvings that made her think of Vikings, which she couldn’t wait to inspect in person up close. A pirate ship rested atop dried August grasses, swarming with activity as tiny figures climbed up the nets. A horse nuzzled a man in shining metal armor, then headed out of view behind a wooden fence.
Everywhere, she saw crowds of people, brightly colored dots that dropped quickly out of view. Aerin bounced again, and pulled out the envelope, now creased and softened around the edges with much handling.
“Why’d we get free tickets, anyway?” Jory asked with a slight frown.
“No idea,” she said breezily. “Here, we’ve got one for free ale. That’ll cheer you right up.”
His frown deepened. “They mean beer, right?”
“Oh, come on. I looked at the website. What’s not to like? They have performers who set things on fire.”
“Wait, intentionally?”
“Yes, of course. Oh, here’s the parking pass. I forgot, we get to go in a special entrance. Show that to the flagger, will you?”
“Woman, you are driving my suspension crazy.”
***
Lady Aerin curtsied clumsily. “Sir Jory, how handsome you look today.”
Jory looked down at his legs, clad in poofed half-breeches. He stamped a leg on the dusty gravel. “If you say so.”
Aerin put her hands on her hips, above a gleaming golden belt with a red faceted stone. She wondered if her face was about to match the ruby color when Jory’s eyes met hers.
He blanched. “I mean, how lovely you look, Lady Aerin.” Jory glanced around and copied a nearby couple, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”
“Good morrow and well met, time travelers!” said a man with a cape, plumed hat, sword, and horrid fake British accent. “The Renaissance awaits. Don’t forget your provisions, or your tickets.”
Aerin grabbed her borrowed bag with her free hand. Her purse was already stuffed inside. “I’m not sure that color of bird existed back then,” she whispered to Jory, nodding to the ticket-taker’s extravagant hat.
“Pray, attend me,” the ticket-taker said to the three couples waiting to enter, all now garbed in appropriate gear. They’d even been given period footwear. Aerin wondered how they’d seemed to have everyone’s sizes ready to go and frowned. Maybe Jory had a point asking how they’d been selected for the free tickets.
She looked up as the ticket-taker finished his spiel with an extravagant wave. “I missed it,” she said to Jory in a low voice.
“We enter this box, sit down, he pulls a handle, and we go out the other side. He calls it a time machine. Just a fancy entrance with a bit of fun. Probably a light show or something inside.”
Aerin nodded, and sat on the cushion that matched her charcoal dress, tucking trailing sleeves around her wrists. The time machine resembled an antique carriage, with window shades drawn to block the view. Jory sat next to her, placing his own bag by his feet.
She frowned again. “Hey, what’s in your bag? I can understand why they’d want me to hide the purse. We’re basically free advertising for the costume rental place, right?”
Jory shook his head, ponytail grazing the top of his starched collar. “I’m not sure. The guy with the hat handed it to me just as we were getting in.” She looked up, and the other couples nodded. One pointed to his own identical leather bag.
“Ask the hat guy,” Aerin said.
Jory tried the door. “It’s locked. Guess it’s part of the show. No going back now.” His laugh was uneasy.
A man with a wild red beard grimaced from across the carriage. “Food,” he said with a grunt, and shoved his bag back onto the floor. “Weird dried stuff and hard bread. And a little bag of fake coins.”
“Try the other door,” his lady friend stated, biting her lip and playing with the fabric of her sapphire skirts. “I’d like to get out and into the faire now. I don’t like small, enclosed spaces.”
Aerin lifted the latch. The door on this side opened easily. She gave a push. “What’s that horrid smell?”
Jory was right behind her. “Do you hear chickens?”
Gone were the pirate ship, the fanciful carved buildings. Narrow, two-story buildings shadowed previously sunny faire grounds. Voices called their wares in narrow streets; some from permanent windows propped open, others from battered tarps propped up by polished sticks. Aerin looked down, and realized the ground was paved with wide, uneven stones. They were muddy with dirty water that hadn’t quite washed away what looked suspiciously like large deposits of manure.
“Did the weather change, or are we further away from the main entrance than I thought?” the lady in blue asked from behind her.
Aerin turned, and her jaw dropped. The entrance to the faire didn’t just look like a carriage, it was a carriage. Two horses were hitched to it, with a sullen footman slouched over the driver’s seat.
“That’s odd,” the bearded man said. “I don’t see anyone not in fancy costume. Or any cell phones.”
“This isn’t right,” a blonde with braids and a red, Nordic style dress said. “This looks – and smells – real. That guy has a chicken in a cage, for crying out loud. Are we behind the scenes or something? Like backstage?”
“Then why aren’t they greeting us and leading us out?” Jory asked. He looked around, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to the fancy hat guy.”
Aerin gulped. “Does anyone still have their ticket? Maybe it explains.”
Jory handed the piece of embossed paper to her. She could feel the design of interwoven vines under fingertips suddenly gone clumsy, and nearly dropped the ticket.
She felt the blood drain from her face. She held up the paper in a trembling hand and read it aloud. “Experience the magic. Admit one.”
Her voice failed her. Aerin cleared her throat and tried again. “Admit one…to the Renaissance.”
This week on Odd Prompts, Kat Ross and I traded prompts. She delighted us all with the return of the murder chicken, and challenged me to tackle a working version of HG Well’s time machine. Version 1 is here.
The description of the Faire above is based on Ohio’s Harveysburg Festival, which I hope will open this year as I’ve been using quarantine to work on my armor. Check out the Kamikaze Fireflies here. They chant “set it on fire!” like no one else can.
Join the Odd Prompts weekly writing challenge by submitting a prompt to oddprompts@gmail.com. Too much commitment? Visit the site and see if a spare peaks your interest!
