Page 63 of One Night With You

Apparently the game has begun.

We weave through the tall trees, careful not to trip on any of the tree roots as the full scale of the day comes into focus. Other characters pass us, but there’s also what I decide to mentally call ‘set pieces’, too: a few small bonfires in little clearings with old bowls and utensils and some wooden structures serving as small huts. We walk for about ten minutes, maybe fifteen – long enough for it to become meditative and trance-like, like walking further and further into a storybook, so that when we reach a clearing it feels like happening upon magic.

‘Whoa,’ I say, not entirely in the character of a local healing woman from the ages, but it’s my instinctive response, and if authenticity is what is called for it doesn’t get much more authentic than that.

It’s like a mediaeval village. All around us, men in armour, from chain mail tops to full-on helmets and shoulder pads, tend to their weapons – fake ones, Nic assures me, designed to look as real as possible. Nic has said that as a warrior himself, it’s important to enter battle but the rules of this particular set-up mean non-contact. If I’m captured, I’ve been told I must go quietly and know that my boundaries will always be respected. It’s not re-enactment, Nic said, just fantasy.

This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life. As we move through into the woods, it’s apparent that there’s loads of us here – some in costume and some not, who are apparently the guides. Nic told me to just go with the flow, and so when he says goodbye, that he must meet with the men to discuss their wares, I watch him go and let myself get swept up in all that is on offer.

‘A seat, my dear,’ a woman in a costume not dissimilar to mine says. ‘They are sure to win today. Much depends on it, but nevertheless let us cast a good luck spell to aid them. To protect them.’

I surprise myself in that … I do. I help with a potion that we sprinkle on the fire that’s been made, and I give directions to some elves, and bear witness to an argument between two shopkeepers over who has right to the land in front of their stores. I lose myself in it all, in totality, embodying the story of this strange new world where we have to cooperate, help each other, and where each of us contributes to the new reality we’re building. It’s full immersion into a make-believe world that the hundred or so people here have created as a team, like live-action theatre but with no script.

‘That’s exactly right,’ Nic whispers to me as we siphon off from the in-character area. Apparently there’s nothing worse in LARPing than being out of character in the middle of the action because it spoils it for everyone else. Which is fair, really. We pour more hot tea from the flask, catching our breath, and make sure to keep our voices low.

‘You see that guy there?’ Nic is gesturing to a walking suit of body armour. ‘He’s a primary school teacher who enrolled in a welding class to learn how to make his own gear. Paul, I think his real name is.’

‘Christ,’ I marvel. ‘He made that?’ Honestly, if I saw it in a museum I’d have been impressed.

‘I’m sort of breaking the rules by telling you who people are outside of their characters,’ Nic says. ‘We’re not supposed to fully identify each other really.’

‘I’m in awe,’ I say. ‘All of this creativity, and not for money or fame or whatever. Everyone has come together to weave this world within a world with proper artistry.’

‘That’s why I like it,’ says Nic. ‘There’s a sort of devotion to it.’

‘Devotion,’ I echo. ‘Yeah. It’s beautiful. How does everyone come up with their characters?’ I say. ‘From books?’

Nic tuts. ‘Absolutely not,’ he says. ‘We’re forbidden from being a character that already exists – although after the firstLord of the Ringsmovie came out that all went out of the window for a while. It was a scandal within the community, actually.’

I smile.

‘You can be inspired by books or TV or whatever, but it’s more about trying out sides of yourself you can’t or don’t in real life and making up something new entirely.’

I nod in understanding.

‘And they’re all this mediaeval vibe? Soldiers and warriors and whatnot?’

‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘There are zombie LARPs, army-of-steel sort of stuff … I mean, you want to get out to somewhere like Croatia or Germany. If you think this is impressive, out there is another world. It’s like a cross between a film set and your weirdest I’ve-eaten-too-much-brie-before-bed dreams. Expensive, though.’

We finish our tea and Nic slips the cups and flask back into the picnic bag with his initials on.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘So if your character is supposed to symbolise stuff you don’t or can’t express in real life, what’s your deal?’

He grins. ‘Bearing in mind I’ve had this character since I was at school,’ he says. ‘It’s a sort of desire to be a go-getter, to go after what I want.’

‘That tracks,’ I say. And then: ‘So wait. What’s mine?’

He pulls a face. ‘Well …’ he starts, and I can tell he thinks he’s about to get into trouble. ‘Your character is aboutsurrender: she can’t control anything; she can only respond thoughtfully to what happens.’

‘Which is unlike the real me, who is a grade-A control freak,’ I say slowly.

He pulls on his helmet and through the mouthpiece shoots back: ‘You said it, dear. Not me.’

And then the game resumes. I’m more into it than I have been all day.

28

Nic

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