A work in progress, of course.
The Sword Dancer and Other Stories
by Eric Scott
I got lost three times on my way out to the camp, once even before I had made it outside of the Kansas City limits. I guess that's to be expected; I miss highway turns all the time even when I know where I'm going, and about all I remembered from my last excursion to Gaia, five years ago, was that it was approximately an hour west of where I lived. So I found myself cursing the frail portion of the Kansas state budget alloted for road signs and kept an eye out for the elusive 207th Street. I spotted the first of Lucy's landmarks just before I was going to give up, turn around, and drive to someplace with cell phone service: a little church surrounded by a nameless little town, with a message-board that read in blocky capital letters CHRIST IS RISEN, CHRIST IS RISEN INDEED.
It took about ten minutes of driving after that (past fields full of cows chewing on grass so green I doubted that I was in Kansas and skies so open and wide that I was sure I was again) and one last wrong turn before I found myself at a rust-red gate and a little gatehouse. A gray-haired lady with a walkie-talkie smiled and tapped on my window; her t-shirt had the words Bad Religion printed on it, and just above that, a tiny picture of a cross with a red slash through it.
Is it just you, hun?
Yeah, just the one. I still need to check in.
Alright. Just one second. She clicked on her walkie-talkie. We've got one to send up to check-in. Is it clear? A quick buzz of static, and then the barely audible voice of someone saying Send 'em up. She waved me on and I pulled forward along the gravel road, overly conscious of just how must dust must have been caked onto the sides of my blue Saturn. Up the hill was a small parking lot and a plywood shed with a somewhat psychedelic painting on the side (big blue Earth, scintillating universe, lots of rainbows.)
There wasn't much in the way of color inside the shed: the walls were brown and unfinished, and the only other furniture inside was a row of fold-up tables and some metal folding chairs. There was a line of about four people ahead of me, but a quick glance showed that the Spiritual Alliance Members line was empty, so I jumped over to that one. Another gray haired woman, this one wearing a violet sarong tied under her shoulders, looked up at me and did not smile.
Are you a member? she asked.
Yeah. Lou Durham? I should be in the program--
Lou Durham. Let me see if you're in here. She opened a laptop and typed something in. I don't see... Oh, wait. It'd be Louis, right?
Uh, right, yeah.
Typing. Yep, alright, you're here. All you've got left is your camping fee. That'll be thirty dollars.
I pulled out my wallet and handed over two twenties, which together made up 40% of the meager amount I'd been able to save out of my meager graduate stipend for the festival. She gave me back a ten and fasted a green plastic band around my arm and handed me a beige guidebook.
Welcome to Heartland.
***
I had been to the Heartland Pagan Festival twice before, once when I was twelve and then five years later. Now another five years had passed and here I was again. I really didn't intend on that particular interval; that was just how things turned out. I guess the other two Heartlands came at significant points in my maturity, the first being about a month before my thirteenth birthday and the second being right before my first year of college, but they didn't really feel that way. They were just something to do over Memorial Day, and didn't seem to have nearly as much as much significance to me as they did to other people. The primary other people here would be the Walsteads, Andy and Lucy, friends I'd had since quite literally the day I was born.
What I remember of those other two festivals? Well, I went with my parents the first time, and most of what I remember from that was their initial reaction when we got into Camp Gaea. My dad went bug-eyed when he saw the sheer number of tents scattered throughout the camp, and it took less than three minutes for him to start cursing in bewilderment.
How fucking many people are out here this year?
He was apparently afraid that there wouldn't be any good camping spots left and that we would have to pitch our tents near complete strangers. After about twenty minutes of driving around the camp he spotted a familiar pop-up trailer and pulled the minivan over into the grass near it. A topless woman ran out of a nearby pavilion, flailing her arms around, and yelled at us. My parents got out nonchalantly.
Hey, hey! This is space is reserved!
My mom, completely unphased both by her lack of shirt and her yelling, asked Isn't this Carol Lundgren's pop-up?
The woman paused, as if she were searching her memory for something she wasn't used to recalling. Yes, this is Lady Epona's camp...
My mom opened the back door of the minivan and pulled out a tent. Well, we've known 'Lady Epona' since you were in high school, so I think we're probably okay.
I spent the rest of that festival wandering through Camp Gaea, mostly trying to avoid Carol Lundgren's son Phil, who was a few years younger than me and, in my opinion, an annoying little shit. Andy and I went through the merchant's circle and lusted for cool looking t-shirts and daggers. (I was big into Tolkien that summer, and the distinctively fantasy look of a lot of those knives immediately appealed to me.) And occasionally, we would slip down to Phoenix Hall, where the Silent Auction was held, and where the small pocket of other people our age were usually hanging out. I remember one of them, a girl with copper hair and a lavender tank top, who instructed me on how different positions of one's extended middle finger could mean alternatively fuck you, go fuck yourself, or, in the earth-facing position, fuck me. I had barely any real conception of sex, of course, but still... I remember well the visage of that girl, her pale legs kicking away from the wooden swing hanging from an oak tree outside of Phoenix Hall, with the sun glinting off her hair, and I remember thinking how nice it would be to kiss her. I never did, of course. I doubt I even asked her name.
The Sword Dancer and Other Stories
by Eric Scott
I got lost three times on my way out to the camp, once even before I had made it outside of the Kansas City limits. I guess that's to be expected; I miss highway turns all the time even when I know where I'm going, and about all I remembered from my last excursion to Gaia, five years ago, was that it was approximately an hour west of where I lived. So I found myself cursing the frail portion of the Kansas state budget alloted for road signs and kept an eye out for the elusive 207th Street. I spotted the first of Lucy's landmarks just before I was going to give up, turn around, and drive to someplace with cell phone service: a little church surrounded by a nameless little town, with a message-board that read in blocky capital letters CHRIST IS RISEN, CHRIST IS RISEN INDEED.
It took about ten minutes of driving after that (past fields full of cows chewing on grass so green I doubted that I was in Kansas and skies so open and wide that I was sure I was again) and one last wrong turn before I found myself at a rust-red gate and a little gatehouse. A gray-haired lady with a walkie-talkie smiled and tapped on my window; her t-shirt had the words Bad Religion printed on it, and just above that, a tiny picture of a cross with a red slash through it.
Is it just you, hun?
Yeah, just the one. I still need to check in.
Alright. Just one second. She clicked on her walkie-talkie. We've got one to send up to check-in. Is it clear? A quick buzz of static, and then the barely audible voice of someone saying Send 'em up. She waved me on and I pulled forward along the gravel road, overly conscious of just how must dust must have been caked onto the sides of my blue Saturn. Up the hill was a small parking lot and a plywood shed with a somewhat psychedelic painting on the side (big blue Earth, scintillating universe, lots of rainbows.)
There wasn't much in the way of color inside the shed: the walls were brown and unfinished, and the only other furniture inside was a row of fold-up tables and some metal folding chairs. There was a line of about four people ahead of me, but a quick glance showed that the Spiritual Alliance Members line was empty, so I jumped over to that one. Another gray haired woman, this one wearing a violet sarong tied under her shoulders, looked up at me and did not smile.
Are you a member? she asked.
Yeah. Lou Durham? I should be in the program--
Lou Durham. Let me see if you're in here. She opened a laptop and typed something in. I don't see... Oh, wait. It'd be Louis, right?
Uh, right, yeah.
Typing. Yep, alright, you're here. All you've got left is your camping fee. That'll be thirty dollars.
I pulled out my wallet and handed over two twenties, which together made up 40% of the meager amount I'd been able to save out of my meager graduate stipend for the festival. She gave me back a ten and fasted a green plastic band around my arm and handed me a beige guidebook.
Welcome to Heartland.
***
I had been to the Heartland Pagan Festival twice before, once when I was twelve and then five years later. Now another five years had passed and here I was again. I really didn't intend on that particular interval; that was just how things turned out. I guess the other two Heartlands came at significant points in my maturity, the first being about a month before my thirteenth birthday and the second being right before my first year of college, but they didn't really feel that way. They were just something to do over Memorial Day, and didn't seem to have nearly as much as much significance to me as they did to other people. The primary other people here would be the Walsteads, Andy and Lucy, friends I'd had since quite literally the day I was born.
What I remember of those other two festivals? Well, I went with my parents the first time, and most of what I remember from that was their initial reaction when we got into Camp Gaea. My dad went bug-eyed when he saw the sheer number of tents scattered throughout the camp, and it took less than three minutes for him to start cursing in bewilderment.
How fucking many people are out here this year?
He was apparently afraid that there wouldn't be any good camping spots left and that we would have to pitch our tents near complete strangers. After about twenty minutes of driving around the camp he spotted a familiar pop-up trailer and pulled the minivan over into the grass near it. A topless woman ran out of a nearby pavilion, flailing her arms around, and yelled at us. My parents got out nonchalantly.
Hey, hey! This is space is reserved!
My mom, completely unphased both by her lack of shirt and her yelling, asked Isn't this Carol Lundgren's pop-up?
The woman paused, as if she were searching her memory for something she wasn't used to recalling. Yes, this is Lady Epona's camp...
My mom opened the back door of the minivan and pulled out a tent. Well, we've known 'Lady Epona' since you were in high school, so I think we're probably okay.
I spent the rest of that festival wandering through Camp Gaea, mostly trying to avoid Carol Lundgren's son Phil, who was a few years younger than me and, in my opinion, an annoying little shit. Andy and I went through the merchant's circle and lusted for cool looking t-shirts and daggers. (I was big into Tolkien that summer, and the distinctively fantasy look of a lot of those knives immediately appealed to me.) And occasionally, we would slip down to Phoenix Hall, where the Silent Auction was held, and where the small pocket of other people our age were usually hanging out. I remember one of them, a girl with copper hair and a lavender tank top, who instructed me on how different positions of one's extended middle finger could mean alternatively fuck you, go fuck yourself, or, in the earth-facing position, fuck me. I had barely any real conception of sex, of course, but still... I remember well the visage of that girl, her pale legs kicking away from the wooden swing hanging from an oak tree outside of Phoenix Hall, with the sun glinting off her hair, and I remember thinking how nice it would be to kiss her. I never did, of course. I doubt I even asked her name.