I speak for those forgotten or ignored.
This chilly, snowy May morning, while sitting at a desk far from my hometown and cherished stories of a great era in my lifetime, an empty sensation hits my chest. It’s one I’ve felt several times before, never enjoyable, and is a stark reminder that nothing in this world is permanent. It brings to the forefront our struggle against mortality, against change in a world that we already know is built on change. I know now from past experience that one day, looking back on those memories will be less painful. Yet that acceptance does nothing to stop the avalanche of images and joys that can never be relived.
Lord Raven has passed.
In middle school, my family started an annual outing to the Bristol Renaissance Faire in Kenosha Wisconsin. I always looked forward to it–mostly my brothers and sister, too, I feel. It was a time to laugh and forget about mundanities for a while: a feeling that was no doubt instrumental in drawing me into the LARP world. On our second pilgrimage to the Faire, I discovered Black Dragon Pewter, a shop whose owner played chess against patrons for discounts. Rules were simple: pick out a piece, haggle over (and agree on) a lower price, then play. If you won, you got to buy that piece at said price, and if not, you bought him a drink. For minors like me, I simply contributed $3 to his drink fund. I was well into my love of chess at a young age from matches with my father and an older brothers. For not playing all that often (holidays, middle school club, and the occasional online game), I could hold my own with stronger and older opponents. The fact that two of my loves combined in one place was fantastic. While I’m sure the ren faire company loved to capitalize on that, it doesn’t mean my emotions or experiences were any less special. Even that first loss was a win Lord Raven had to fight for.
It quickly grew into a lifetime tradition. The first year coming dressed in character, through high school, all of my summers in college with friends, and past that. The staff knew me as a regular. Sometimes I would come back several times in a season, and Lord Raven would recognize me and asked how life was treating me. Our games were never easy and often drew a crowd, including staff who’d sit down to enjoy with a drink. The feeling of my first win was indescribable. The jitteriness in my stomach and my right knee during tense phases still comes back to me clear as day. I remember going sore from holding still so I wouldn’t telegraph my tactics. It was always a trial keeping my focus when I knew a single move could mean a sure loss for either one of us. Chess is certainly not a sport, but anyone who says a well-played match isn’t tiring has never encountered such a creature.
Those games were there at every milestone, the figures and pieces I bought becoming bookmarks in my life story. Forming a bond with a stranger. The hard times of being unpopular middle school, and the resultant relief of finding my geek homies in high school. My parents’ divorce. Growing into a leader in my Girl Scout Mariner Ship. Discovering LARP. The moment I knew I wanted to become an author. Buying my first horsebow at the Faire (with lovingly applied peer pressure). College graduation and the uncertainty of employment and debt. Standing up in two of my best friends’ Ren Faire wedding. Coming out as lesbian. The last visit with my friend Fink. Introducing my fiancee. And at least once, meeting as a bright-eyed warrior looking for the advice of a grizzled veteran. That yearly game was as constant in my life as was the change of seasons.
The 2017 season was the first I didn’t get out to Bristol. I had moved out to western NY for family reasons the previous fall. The way life and my schedule worked out, it just wasn’t possible. A part of myself mourned that loss, separate from the loss of my family and livelihood in moving 600 miles away. I missed the next year as well, but vowed to return in 2019. I was out for my nephew’s birthday and SCA event, and could squeeze in an early visit as my last hurrah for the weekend. I had wanted to leave on a nostalgic note, so I bought my usual blueberry muffin from the bakery near Black Dragon Pewter, a sweet tea, and headed over. Along my way, I passed the children’s area, which I remembered was past his shop, so I turned around, but got back to the bakery without seeing him.
I stopped dead in the space where it should be. There was nothing but the emotionless tiny gray gravel and a fence. No shop, no welcoming faces, nothing. I hit up the food stall next door and discovered he had closed his booth because of improper upkeep; rather than invest a ton of money to bring it up to code, he had decided to put more into his upstate New York faire shop. It was a sad, sad day. Despite all the fun and wonder, I felt that hole in my chest from when my grampa had died. It was the passing of an era in my life, the instant when a hero dies in their novel, without anyone to hold them or get in one last message or avowal of love. Little did I know that he had died of a heart attack the previous summer in Texas, and today I feel even worse for letting that news fall by the wayside.
Even though I desperately want one to exist, I haven’t seen good evidence to believe in an afterlife. Ceremonies, graves, and dedications are tools of grieving for the deceased’s loved ones. The best hope of eternal life is to affect this world so completely that you put it on a better path, such that the very actions, decisions, and changes your fellow mortals enact are echoes of your mark on their minds and hearts. This elf, otter, bard, ranger, and friend plays each game of chess with the tools and memories that he shared with me. And for that, I am forever grateful.
Rest well, Lord Raven. Your students remember your legacy, and tonight…we drink for you.
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