So, at my first Pennsic, when Brother picked me up, we stopped for some groceries on the way back to camp. One of the things he needed was posterboard and markers. He needed to make a sign. This was the result:
See, Pennsic is a full two weeks long. The first week is for the hardcore campers. There are fewer classes offered, the crowds are smaller, the parties are less crowded. With fewer people around to keep you amused, hobbies and small amusements are very important. There had been a big storm that week, causing an actual current in the trench separating Upper Blood Moon from Lower Blood Moon. (Said trench was constructed a few years before after one Clan member had a river running THROUGH his tent after a nasty storm. It has also divided the camp into two factions – Those Who Don’t Mind Kids and Those Who Do – the trench provides a convenient boundary that conscientious parents can instruct their children not to cross under penalty of death and/or cross looks.) What does one do with a current? Why, one races rubber ducks in it, of course.
In an as-yet unrelated amusement, Chieftain had shown up with a small, built-to-scale trebuchet. Pico, another member of our camp, decided to scale it up so it looked like this:
Clearly, this trebuchet is designed for a ducky payload.
As Pico tweaked the design, changing pivot points and counterweights, the most convenient target in Lower Blood Moon was the Onion Dome.
By the time I got there, the Onion Dome had suffered under the sickening thump of rubbery yellow shrapnel landing on its sides and roof for several days, always preceded by a cry of “Duck in the Hole!” upon loading. The children of camp found this hysterical, but I can assure you the humor is lost after a few days when you are on the receiving end of it.
Thus, the sign.
Unfortunately, the sign made an even more convenient target.
So, after a couple of nights in camp, having made friends and found my niche in this group of misfits, I casually mention to a trusted ally that I would very much like to steal the trebuchet.
He is on board.
It’s another night or two before we get our opportunity. After a night involving quite a bit of drunken silliness, the fire is dying down and only a few people are still awake. Perhaps most importantly, Pico is NOT one of them. We debate places to hide the trebuchet, and there is only one tent large enough – Scoundrel’s tent. You can see part of it on the far right behind the picture of the trebuchet – it is round, circus-like, and perhaps most importantly, tall enough to conceal a minivan if necessary while the family sleeps inside.
Imagine four drunk people carrying a trebuchet into a tent, attempting to be stealthy. It goes something like this:
”SHH!!! DON’T WAKE UP DONNA!!!”
Accompanied by a fair amount of running into things and/or each other. There may or may not have been a fair amount of giggling.
As we retire fireside to congratulate ourselves on a cunning heist, Donna emerges from the tent to inform us that there is nothing funnier or louder than drunks trying to be quiet.
The next morning, Pico is on a recon mission. He knows two things:
1. The trebuchet is missing.
2. There is only one tent likely to be housing it.
Unfortunately for him, it would be considered bad form to march into someone else’s tent uninvited.
So instead, he sets about interrogating likely suspects. I escaped scrutiny, but he made a beeline for Donna, asking if she had seen the trebuchet. Acting the surprisingly willing accomplice (since she had been woken by our ninja asses at wee hours of the morning), she disavows all knowledge of said implement of feathered warfare. During the interrogation, a small, blond, cherubic youth insists at her feet:
“It’s in ow tent! It’s wight heer!”
Luckily, Pico is oblivious to the emphatic gestures of a toddler, and never even notices his traitorous attempt to expose us. We are, however, now aware that the trebuchet cannot remain in its current location. It is too dangerous – Scoundrel and Donna can’t stand guard all the time.
Negotiations are made with the camp next door. The trebuchet is safely relocated across the border via the back of Scoundrel’s tent, and stowed with our allies.
I think it was when Pico visited later and DIDN’T find the trebuchet inside Scoundrel’s tent that his wife confided, “you guys have really got him. I have never seen him like this. Keep it up!”
So they did. They spent all afternoon waiting for Pico to leave camp (which he refused to do until he found out where his trebuchet was).
FINALLY…he and his wife went out for a run. They returned to this:
That’s right. The trebuchet, in Pico’s tent, decorated with a lemur.
Say what you will about SCA folk needing to get a life, but stealing and hiding that thing provided a solid 24 hours of amusement. And I guarantee I laughed more in that day than you did in your entire last vacation.
Viva La Onion Dome!
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