Chapter 2

By the time Thursday rolled around, we all knew that people could enter the portals, but only certain people. Those who had the ‘weapon visions” could enter sometimes. It wasn’t clear how often, or which ones, but some people had gone into the portals. Quite a number hadn’t returned.

The SCA meeting was broken into two groups. Some new people (like me) were here, and all of us had weapons or were a partner to a person who had one. The majority of the regular members were setting up some sort of ring on the other side of the hall. I had brought my bag of hockey equipment as well as a mock ‘blade’ and a small shield I’d made from wood in the shop at Xavier’s having researched this group a bit more and knowing a little of what to expect.

George addressed the eight of us. “The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) is an international group with the aim of studying and recreating mainly Medieval European cultures and histories. We ‘selectively recreate the culture’ choosing elements of the culture that interest and attract us. My partner is a beekeeper who makes some of the best mead you are ever likely to enjoy. I have focused more on the martial arts of this period as well as weapon and armour making.” He began, speaking in a clear, calm voice that reminded me of every coach I’d ever had.

“It’s a game, and I’ll readily admit that, but the extraordinarily events of the last week have put a new spin on it.” He paused here.

“This invite I extended earlier was a little premature, with these portals opening up our group had been flooded with requests for training and tomorrow this group hosts 30 of the new ‘Weapons’ as they’re being called.”

“We have started a simple weapon proficiency class that will run a class three times a week and cost $1000 per month. If you want to join, you are welcome.” He continued “That being said, I invited you all here for a look around and a bit of an informal meeting. We also have some practice weapons and dummies. I’d actually like you not to tell me your names. The press is getting a little excited and I don’t want to be accused of breaching anyone’s privacy.”

The formal speech ended, and we mostly gravitated to the weapons area. There were a selection of swords of different lengths and the same with maces and hammers. There were long staffs and short ones, shields and knives too. I approached the table with wood shields, pointed to the smaller ones of them.

“These seem a little small” I opened with a grin, directing my comments to the woman in what looked like a handmade peasants dress, complete with scoop-neck blouse.

The woman behind the table returned with a great line. “It’s not the size, it’s how you use it!”

I was tempted to throw all pretext of learning about shields out the window and try my best to find out what she looked like without the corset, but this was my best (free) resource for the time being. I couldn’t resist the next part though. “Maybe you can prove that to me sometime?”

“More likely I’d have you prove it to me” she replied with a twinkle in her eyes.

I wasn’t sure if she was just really in-character or was just naturally a flirt. While her peek-a-boo neckline and corset gave me a good idea about that part of her, the rest was covered by a tunic dress that left far too much to the imagination (in my mind).

At this point George made his way over to the table and the two of them. “Is this scoundrel harassing you mi’lady?” He asked with a touch of his hand to his hat.

“Why, Sir Gainswick! This fine strapping young man was just proposing the idea that the moves of man matter more than his size.” She breathed, succeeding in sounding more like a phone sex operator than the Marylin Monroe that I’d bet she was aiming for.

I was going to interject that it was actually her line, but George got there first.

“Did he! Fie and Blasphemy! Size and Might makes Right in this world and I intend to prove it to him!” He all but shouted in an odd accent.

I could tell he was in his other persona, the one on the fancy side of the card he had handed me earlier in the week. He sounded like something out of Shakespeare maybe.

“You! Foul Cretan! Choose your weapon, we shall see that only size matters!” and George gestured to the table in front of us.

I picked up the small shield and large knife, similar to the ones I had in my bag, but these looked to be better made. “May I get my armour?” I asked, gesturing to the door and the parking lot. Sir Gainswick’s expression changed back to something like what I’d seen on George earlier and he nodded quickly, then pointed toward the ring.

By the time I got back with my bag, he was already at the ring with the rest of the newcomers, explaining something about the SCA’s combat structure. I opened the bag after I set it down beside a rough canvas bag that looked like it probably held George’s armour (correction, Sir Gainswick’s armour) and started the very familiar ritual of donning my hockey gear.

George stopped by and had a look at my gear. “Yes: mouthpiece and neck guard, No: that helmet. You need something heavier. Got a football helmet?”

I hadn’t, so he stood and walked over to his bag, bringing back an honest-to-god steel helm!

“This is the under padding,” he said, handing me a fabric covered flexible foam coif. “The helm itself is heavy and helps distribute a shock, but it’s the under layer that protects your brain, never forget that.” He told me quietly. He needn’t have bothered. My grandfather had used the same red hockey helmet for 25 years, and in his late 60ies had a bad fall on the ice which gave him a massive concussion.

He was never the same again.

I felt the foam Inside that red helmet later. It was as hard as wood. My helmet cost me nearly a grand. I’d seen what a cheap one could actually cost you.

“Got it,” I replied. “The rest of this ok?” I asked in the same low tone.

“Should be fine, don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you this time” he chuckled as he tightened his own shin guards.

When we were both dressed and in the ring, one of the regulars came over and looked over my gear with a real focus on my helm. He then just grunted and walked off and I took that to mean either it was correct, or so hopeless that it wasn’t worth trying to fix.

I was hoping in the former.