A Midsummer's Day Read Online Free Page B

pulled a sliver of a phone from the pocket of her denim capris.  They passed a pair of teens snapping photos of the jousting field, each with differently colored pastel digital cameras.
    A giggling gaggle of peasants passed by Anne.  Their festival clothing was immaculate, safe for an occasional spattering of mud no doubt gained at one of Puck’s morning performances.  Anne caught glimpses of the random running shoe or festively colored flip flop peeking out from beneath a the cuff of a breech or the hem of a dress.
    These were strangely magical devices to behold.  These were strangely attired people to populate Sherwood Village.  Yet no one of the Court or of Nottinghamshire gave the strangeness a second look.
    They were strange things to see during a Midsummer Festival in 1586 England.  But not so strange to see at a Renaissance Faire in 2012 America.
    Lady Anne and Puck, or Sammie and Vaughn, as they were better known the other three seasons of the year, had their pictures taken with a mid-aged couple in matching Renaissance Festival tee shirts.  Then they turned to climb one of Sherwood’s two stone paths.
    The day was bloody hot.  The stone path was easier to climb than the dirt Hill Street, with benches for people to catch their breaths built into the short walls.  But with the combination of the climb and the heat… 
    A monster grew inside Sammie.  It gripped her lungs, growing tighter with each step.
    She made it halfway up without stopping.  But she couldn’t go on.  She turned into an alcove hidden along the path and fanned herself furiously with the fan hanging from her garter.
    “Be you well?” Vaughn asked, keeping up the act, but without the rough, cockney-ed accent he used to play Puck.  He was at her shoulder, having at long last broken the space between them.
    She wasn’t.  But she nodded, smiling kindly at a group of tourists who looked their way.  “I do kindly thank thee for thy gentle concern, Master Puck,” she said, cursing herself for the amount of words she forced herself to use.  “I do find the heat here of the most hideous sort.  It wouldst see me deep in the grips of the vapours.”
    “Let us find you a space of cooler air, my Lady Halloway.”  He reached out to steady her.  But he stopped himself.
    Putting the act above everything, even an imminent asthma attack, was a thing engrained into the soul of every single Renaissance Faire actor.  It was the number one lesson taught at the classes all actors attended every year they worked the faire: keeping up the act.
    Lesson number two was how to improvise.
    Sammie forced herself to take a deep breath.  Her chest muscles hurt with the effort.  Damned, blastable heat.  “Lead on, Master Puck.”
    <>
    Trees grew scarce the higher into the festival they climbed.
    There was no shade.  No breeze.
    No relief.
    Actors playing both nobles and peasants smiled at Sammie and Vaughn.  They tried to start up conversations, but all Sammie could do was smile her perfect Court smile.  She had no air for small talk.
    The upper level was more heavily populated than the lower.  People moved en masse from shop to game, from hand powered rides and stage shows to food and drynke stands.  Their numbers were unending.  Every time she had to step around a group of people on the path was a step away from her destination.  Every step stole more air from her.
    She had to stop.  She had to stop before she passed out.  Before the tourists could hear her wheeze.  Before she became another attraction: the incredibly blue noble Lady.
    The pillow fyte game provided a good distraction.  Two small children balanced precariously on a thick tree trunk, sunk lengthwise into the ground, as they beat each other over the head with pillows.  The game master told those watching that the winner would gain themselves a servant of the loser.  And from the looks of it, the little girl might be getting a servant out of her bigger brother.
    Sammie