It wasn't exactly a phrase I ever expected to say in 15th century Europe:"Um, could you tell me if there's a pay phone around here I could use?"
But given my electric horseless carriage had completely lost its giddayup in the middle of the Renaissance Faire parking field, well, now was really not the time to be a stickler for historical accuracy.
I elaborated on how ye olde bewitched torches had accidentally been left to burn during the course of the jousting... During yon marketplace pillaging... During the enjoyment of grog and delicacies from ye locallle chippe shoppppeee... And thus had drained the carriage of its goodly magyckeee.
I shared the tale of how I am stupidly not keeper of the phone of cells... And how I had thoughtlessly not yet sought protection of the roving, rescuing band of the Three A's, wizards who specialize in the reanimation of stranded carriages.
I spoke of all this-- in four-part verse accompanied by lutes and dancing minstrels, two of whom I had to run through with sharpened sword just to get the whole story finished...
By Tudor's codpiece, those skipping minstrels do strain the nerves!
But once the woman in the wimple and velvet gown at Ye Olde Tickett Boothee heard my tale of woe, she leapt to action.
She picked up her own enchanted phone of cells and rang up His Majesty's Royalle Carriage Magycker-Uppers. This noble king--well-prepared for most contingencies which is undoubtedly why he is in charge (that and, y'know, being a legacy kid)-- had druid advisers on hand for just such an occasion!
Huzzah! Huzzah! And whoop-whoop-whoop!
I waited for their arrival, reading my carriage's Booke of Spelles, hoping to glean some bit of new knowledge. But alas, my powers of magyckkke in the area of horseless carriages are weak and silly and do sucketh.
A kindly knygggght came by with his lady and offered assistance, if I had the Bewitched Cables of the Jump. But alas, no. Miserably unprepared was I.
This Lady felt a fool.
He then offered me weaponry, to fend off any carriage-jackers that might come by to plunder my meager wealth, or my minstrel-less portable player of the tunes.
But soon, from over the field on a powerful steed-- I believe it was a Ford Bronco-- came the King's sorcerers. They were from the far land of Colorado, they said, and rescued dudes and damsels in this particular sort of distress at least once a fortnight using their talents of automotive necromancy.
Consulting a bit on the right spells to use, they coaxed my horseless carriage back to life.
And hey nonny-nonny! We were prepared to journey once more!
Ah, but wait!!-- good people of the land of Cabbages... What would this story be without a concluding moral?
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When dark skies grow and winds do blow
Ye ask, "Will ye get threwghhht it?"
But hark!-- one call can do it all
As wisemen say: "Just Druid."
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