Forge and Sanctuary

I set the stake into the ground with a little more force than was probably necessary.

It was happening with increasing frequency, so I knew with certainty it would happen again today. Might as well make it a part of my daily routine, I suppose.

I grabbed the other yard ornaments for sale, and spread them around the tiny yard leading to our sales tent.

And I made very, very sure to put all the rainbow ones on the perimeter, like a warding circle.

It started once every other week or so. Then it was once a weekend, then twice. Now, it was multiple times a day, and I made sure to stock extra water bottles. We didn’t have electric in our portable shelter, but I was seriously contemplating running a discreet extension cord for a small kettle. Our Brit counterparts were on to something with the spot of tea, and some of our lostlings look like they needed it desperately.

I was still new to this. I was delightfully poached from my own mobile job, as a performer at a traveling circus. I fell in love with a blacksmith. He’s still grieving the loss of his wife, still misses her terribly, gets stinking drunk with his kiddo when her death anniversary comes up. But I don’t have to lurk any more, waiting to put them to bed – or keep them from doing something very drastic. He’s found new reasons to live, and that kid of his has grown up and taken over the business.

And is enby, and none of us will brook any type of freaking queerphobic horsecrap anywhere near our booth. We’re quite clear where our alliance lies, and red-hatted maggots can take a long walk off a short pier. If they need help, we’ll push.

Of course we have a selection of LGTBQ+ jewelry and spinners. How could we not? Kiddo, now of age, has taken over the “bread and butter” work of the hair sticks, rings, and brooches. Their dad now operates the plasma cutter, making awesome spinners and painting them himself, in a rainbow of colors. Because we are all proud of our kiddo, all of us who have had a hand in some form of nurturing them.

How could I not love them? I came to love their dad, and oh, kiddo is most certainly an extension of their parents! Got their talent, too. And the shadow of their chosen mom hovers like a protective ghost, she who worked side-by-side with dad, forging and twisting the steel into familiar objects. The only one to pass the final test of apprenticeship, she was, so the story is told. Apprenticeship bloomed into love, into an extension of each other’s lives, and a protective home for kiddo. Till it was ripped apart.

Fuck cancer.

I don’t even try to take her place. I am an amazing accountant and bookkeeper, and I stay in my lane. It is a deep love, but it is different. And strange for me, thinking I was too old and broken for how I feel now. How both of us feel.

Kiddo doesn’t feel up to the crowds. Who would, really? I’m not big on personal interaction myself, dealing with hate and curiosity and love of fire and greed and love and shiny. Kiddo deals with flame and steel, Dad deals with demonstrations and questions, and I deal with an assistant or two in selling the merch. It works well, and we love those quiet moments when we can be a small family in the quiet glow of a charcoal forge put to bed for the night.

Speaking of…

Here they come, mugs of hot coffee in hands used to being near much hotter fires. I envy them their fresh mugs, because mine has gone cold long hours ago. I’ll get a refresh later.

It is good to hear them laugh. It has been too long.

Kiddo sees me, waves a little. They don’t know what to think of me yet, and that’s okay. We both kept their dad alive through hard, lonely years, and we were both grateful to the other for what we did to keep the man we love alive.

Kiddo’s eyes miss very little. They see the warding of rainbows, and give a small nod. Staring right at me, they toss their head, indicating a spot behind me.

I get it. I nod back. So, it’s today.

The kids of maggots who are more gender fluid than their parents wish them to be have been using us as sanctuary. The first one said it best: they came in, eyes shadowed and haunted, and whispered, “Can I just, like, hang out here a bit? My parents can’t make me fit into their mold anymore, and they won’t walk past the rainbow stuff to harass me.”

Ren faires are some of the last bastions of safe spaces still left across the country. Invade our safety, will you, you maggots?

We invite them in, tuck them onto a stool in the corner, out of the way. They get a bottled water, and conversation, and reaffirmation. Normal topics, casual talk about the future, and how they can get out.

But this one kid…

They have been coming in all season. All the time. They will hop off the stool when another kid comes in looking for the same peace they all crave, but we now know that this one in particular will magically appear as soon as the opening cannon sounds off. We also know their parents, too, lurking like caricatures of the bad guys in cartoons.

You know the type: think they’re religious, but wouldn’t know a holy text if they were hit with it. Spout what they think are verses, but with no deep knowledge or understanding. Not a shred of love. Just Obey Thy Parents, because the parents want a genetic copy of a doll to parade around to prove their superior breeding.

We know the “parents” are trying to put them in “conversion therapy,” the sickos. One of the grandparents is preventing it, but said person is dying. Time is running out.

It seems a plan has been hatched.

I went about finishing my morning tasks, and everything seemed ready to open.

Just in time, because I heard the thunderous BOOM of the opening “bell.”

And there they are, right on time.

I hand over the water bottle with a smile and a welcome, but this time, they look particularly terrified. I don’t ask, but I keep an ear out as the other shop people talk, and sure enough, their grandmother has died. If the maggot “parents” get their way, they’re being shipped to conversion therapy tonight after one last hurrah at the faire.

Don’t even get me started on how I feel about all this. I would be thrown out of faire for my language, I’m sure. Ignore my actions, too.

And yes, there are the odious maggots themselves. I glare daggers at them, and they shuffle further away. If I had magic, I would blast them to ashes.

Beyond my own anger, everything else seems normal. Customers come, partner begins the first demonstration of the day, and I get into the rhythm of selling torcs and bells to eager customers.

Another “regular” comes in for the Stool of Sanctuary, and I reach for another bottle of water as the shuffle happens. Odious maggots are still glaring, and I glare right back.

One of the shop workers goes for our lunches, and brings back a bit more than normal. That’s strange, since usually Kiddo goes on the run for us, but that’s fine. We’re steady, supplies are selling out, and I know Kiddo will be busy with re-stocking this week. I try to keep notes on the fly, because I don’t see them in the shop, not even behind the curtain.

Dusk was settling in and I was counting receipts when I realized the odious maggots were still there. Not surprised, really, why would their amazing kid want to go back?

I turned to check on them.

Wait.

What?

I knew that hint of cheek, peeking out from clothing that wasn’t theirs.

I smiled, and hid it. Seems Kiddo switched places and clothing with the kid!

Eventually the odious pair were approached by security, they pointed, Angus and Charlie came over to see if they had to reluctantly kick someone out. And Kiddo lifted their cloak hood, looking all innocent and stuff.

The howling was fierce, and contra-melodious, and odious.

Security did due diligence searching the whole premises for a “lost child,” but of course none was found. I could make guesses, of course.

Security threw them out.

They called the police.

And I watched security and police trade notes, shrug, and leave, with the odious maggots screaming threats of lawsuits and other violence. That latter bit got them promptly arrested. The local police aren’t allies, but they’re not enemies either. They know what pays their paycheck, and the faire’s owner doesn’t take kindly to any threatening behavior.

Kiddo claimed exhaustion, and could they take the truck back home to start working on the new stock? Exhausted, but needs to drive immediately? Yeah, sure, uh-hunh, gotcha kiddo. Getting food on the way instead of staying with us to hit up your favorite local restaurant… yep. That truck must be a bit heavy, with as many kilos of smuggled human riding along under your cloak, instead of say, steel stock. How they got to the truck in the parking lot without being seen, I don’t know. And I’m not asking. We may need this trick again.

I’m pulling the stakes of the few rainbow spinners we have left, to store in the tent for the night.

But you best believe, tomorrow, they’ll go out again. And I have more bottles of water, and a waiting sanctuary for another scared soul.