convinced that I was stepping into a Renaissance village.
Angus and I went through one of the gates where ticket holders would enter on Friday afternoon, and we could instantly see the bustling activity as people—both in and out of costume—transformed the fairgrounds into a Scottish village suitable for the two-week-long reenactment of
Macbeth
.
Over the course of the festival, Faire-goers would be treated to jousts, plays, music, and even fortune-telling by
Macbeth
’s three witches during the celebration of the visit of King Duncan and hisqueen. As they shopped, we—the merchants—were to gossip with customers about how Macbeth seemed to have a hungry eye or that we’d heard how Lady Macbeth wished to wear a crown someday. The other “characters” were also to tell the tale that would culminate in the performance of the play on the last day of the festival, which included Duncan’s vanquishing Macbeth.
To perpetuate the superstition about the play being cursed, the Ren Faire hadn’t included
Macbeth
on its flyers. The flyers had referred to it as
The Play About the Scottish King as told by Mr. William Shakespeare
. And, of course, Will himself would be on hand to make sure everyone knew exactly what king he meant. I wondered whether he would also tell Faire-goers
why
the play was said to be cursed.
Growing up with a mom who had Hollywood connections and lots of actors and directors as friends, I’d heard a lot about
Macbeth
and its superstitions. The play had supposedly been cursed by real witches of Shakespeare’s day because he’d angered them by including actual spells in
the play which must not be named
. And lots of those actors and directors who’d spoken with me about it—namely, during the period in high school when I was studying the play—had stories about some disaster or another that had befallen cast or crew during productions of
Macbeth
.
I wondered if maybe I should spin around three times and spit just for good measure (one of the ways to dispel the curse), but I didn’t want anyone to think I was crazy. I hoped they’d at least getto know me a little before calling my sanity into question.
As Angus and I got closer to the “village,” the sights and sounds of the festival became more vivid. Horses wearing blankets that bore a royal crest were being led into a stable by pages. Angus lifted his nose and took in the smells of leather, hay, horse, and who-knew-what-else.
I was keeping an eye out for Ted, but I also didn’t want to miss anything going on around me. I realized I’d forgotten my flyer and, with it, the map that directed me to the various areas.
I stopped an auburn-haired young woman who wore thick leather gloves to her elbows and had a falcon perched on her left wrist. As I spoke, I tightened my grip on Angus’s leash so he couldn’t get close enough to investigate the fierce-looking black-eyed bird. It might be tethered to its handler, but I imagined those talons could still inflict some damage.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where the merchants’ area is located?”
“Sure.” She jerked her head backward. “It’s that way, about fifty to seventy-five yards, in that redbrick building.”
“Thanks.”
She huffed, and I tore my attention from the bird to look at her. I wasn’t sure how I’d offended this woman, but it was apparent that I had.
“I appreciate your help,” I said. “I’m one of the merchants, and I forgot my flyer. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s the way you’re looking at Herodias.”
“Herodias?” I echoed. The only Herodias I’d ever heard of cost John the Baptist his head. Maybe that’s why the bird looked so mean. Maybe it had gotten its name after beheading . . . Bunny the Baptist . . . or Mouse the Methodist . . . Chameleon the Catholic . . . Earthworm the Episcopalian. . . .
“The falcon,” she said. “Her name is Herodias.”
“Oh. I didn’t
Angus and I went through one of the gates where ticket holders would enter on Friday afternoon, and we could instantly see the bustling activity as people—both in and out of costume—transformed the fairgrounds into a Scottish village suitable for the two-week-long reenactment of
Macbeth
.
Over the course of the festival, Faire-goers would be treated to jousts, plays, music, and even fortune-telling by
Macbeth
’s three witches during the celebration of the visit of King Duncan and hisqueen. As they shopped, we—the merchants—were to gossip with customers about how Macbeth seemed to have a hungry eye or that we’d heard how Lady Macbeth wished to wear a crown someday. The other “characters” were also to tell the tale that would culminate in the performance of the play on the last day of the festival, which included Duncan’s vanquishing Macbeth.
To perpetuate the superstition about the play being cursed, the Ren Faire hadn’t included
Macbeth
on its flyers. The flyers had referred to it as
The Play About the Scottish King as told by Mr. William Shakespeare
. And, of course, Will himself would be on hand to make sure everyone knew exactly what king he meant. I wondered whether he would also tell Faire-goers
why
the play was said to be cursed.
Growing up with a mom who had Hollywood connections and lots of actors and directors as friends, I’d heard a lot about
Macbeth
and its superstitions. The play had supposedly been cursed by real witches of Shakespeare’s day because he’d angered them by including actual spells in
the play which must not be named
. And lots of those actors and directors who’d spoken with me about it—namely, during the period in high school when I was studying the play—had stories about some disaster or another that had befallen cast or crew during productions of
Macbeth
.
I wondered if maybe I should spin around three times and spit just for good measure (one of the ways to dispel the curse), but I didn’t want anyone to think I was crazy. I hoped they’d at least getto know me a little before calling my sanity into question.
As Angus and I got closer to the “village,” the sights and sounds of the festival became more vivid. Horses wearing blankets that bore a royal crest were being led into a stable by pages. Angus lifted his nose and took in the smells of leather, hay, horse, and who-knew-what-else.
I was keeping an eye out for Ted, but I also didn’t want to miss anything going on around me. I realized I’d forgotten my flyer and, with it, the map that directed me to the various areas.
I stopped an auburn-haired young woman who wore thick leather gloves to her elbows and had a falcon perched on her left wrist. As I spoke, I tightened my grip on Angus’s leash so he couldn’t get close enough to investigate the fierce-looking black-eyed bird. It might be tethered to its handler, but I imagined those talons could still inflict some damage.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where the merchants’ area is located?”
“Sure.” She jerked her head backward. “It’s that way, about fifty to seventy-five yards, in that redbrick building.”
“Thanks.”
She huffed, and I tore my attention from the bird to look at her. I wasn’t sure how I’d offended this woman, but it was apparent that I had.
“I appreciate your help,” I said. “I’m one of the merchants, and I forgot my flyer. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s the way you’re looking at Herodias.”
“Herodias?” I echoed. The only Herodias I’d ever heard of cost John the Baptist his head. Maybe that’s why the bird looked so mean. Maybe it had gotten its name after beheading . . . Bunny the Baptist . . . or Mouse the Methodist . . . Chameleon the Catholic . . . Earthworm the Episcopalian. . . .
“The falcon,” she said. “Her name is Herodias.”
“Oh. I didn’t
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