While the image above may not be particularly spooky in and of itself, it is essential to the grim tale I am about to share. Okay, so it's not all that grim, but at 3:00 in the morning with a rum-soaked head, it was enough to make me want to hide under Lilly's cot and squeal.
I call it...
"Who the Hell is Wendell?!!"
In the wee hours Monday morning, I staggered back to the encampment to find Mister Wobble and some mates sharing a bottle of Pyrat Rum. I had managed to hold onto my cup all evening, the one on the right in the picture above, and Willie was kind enough to fill it up for me. We chatted for a few minutes, then I headed to the tent to find some more comfortable shoes to wear for the rest of my waking hours.
Mae and I were bunking with Sterling and the mistress and the snotties, and it was no small feat to make it, drunk and in the dark, to the back corner of the tent where my things were. I remember giving myself detailed instructions in my head, with that remarkable clarity of mind that comes with knowing that any of the people you might step on in the dark could very likely be armed and dangerous. It went something like this: Remember to step over mister Merriweather, who’s lying sound asleep right in the doorway. Don’t run into the captain’s coffin bed, you don't want to fall in and have to explain that to Lilly. Don’t step on that impossibly small bundle of blankets because Mae is probably in the middle of it somewhere. Watch out for the guns, just a few more steps, is that my chemise and how did it get there? And so on.
Finally I made it to my small mound of belongings and began excavating. No shoes. And these shoes would be hard to miss- they were leopard print flats that even my half-blind, tipsy self would see. Must be in the car. I grabbed my keys and navigated the perils of the tent again, making it out and halfway across the encampment before I realized my cup was no longer in my possession. Back to camp. I checked all the picnic tables outside the tent, checked at the Hide for good measure, and finally decided I must have left it in the tent. I narrowly missed Sean on my way in this time...poor thing was nearly woken up by my left foot, in a most gruesome way. After all that, no cup. I dig through my pile of clothing and trinkets again, feel all around on the floor, nothing. Then I look up, and on the sea chest just across from me, a cup! It was all shining light and choral music, like a Monty Python-esque grail. Until I picked up the cup. Damn...it was Mae's, the one with the rougher grain and larger coin. I peeked inside just to make sure that we hadn't swapped cups at some point in the evening, but no. Dry as a bone.
Somehow I managed to get outside again with no incident. Back across the encampment, past the hide where a grand time was being had by all, to the line of cars beyond the warm light of the lanterns and fires. I heard someone calling my name, and turned in a circle about three times before realizing it was Leatherback, who was sitting in his car about three spaces down from mine waiting for his captain. I stopped and chatted for a few minutes, pretending to be much more sober than I actually was. I remember something about waiting for Jai who had been sent to fetch Spike and something about feeding someone's dogs and good lord it was already almost 3:00am.
I excused myself after a few minutes and went to my car, fumbling in the dark for my keys and getting the trunk open after several abortive attempts. I looked blankly at the pile of costume odds and ends, tentatively moving aside Jack's wanted poster and trying to decide how to proceed. Just then...I spotted IT. For a brief moment, I was remarkably, painfully sober.
Under the poster, on top of a yellow petticoat, was my cup.
My hand shook as I reached for it, my brain scrambling for some explanation. I must have been mistaken earlier...that was my cup in the tent, and this was Mae's. Easy. Why, then, was the inside of this cup damp, and a few drops of rum lingering in the bottom, when the other was bone dry? I sniffed it, and licked the inside. Pyrat Rum. Mae had been asleep for hours, and I knew for a fact that she had only had Malibu and Sprite in her cup all day. This cup had the smoother grain, the smaller coin- it was the very same cup that Willie had filled up for me not ten minutes before. I even double-checked the bottom of it, and "Brig" was written there in red Sharpie. I think my skin froze over. I hadn't been out to the (locked) car all day, and my keys- the only set- had been in the tent until I fetched them to look for my shoes.
Slamming the trunk with little regard for any sleeping friends and neighbors, I grabbed the cup and ran back to Leatherback's car. With chattering teeth I told him the tale, tripping over words in my haste to express my awe and terror. Apparently he understood enough, and his reaction didn't help any. "I...don't want to think about that too much." He said quietly, his face greenlit from the car's dash lights. Spike showed up just then, and I quickly told him the saga. "Oh, that's probably Wendell," was his chipper reply. "He's been out playing tricks tonight." I grasped onto this small shred of logic.
"Who the hell is Wendell?!! And how did he get into my trunk?"
Wendell, Spike patiently explained, is one of the fort ghosts. Apparently he's been known to follow reenactors back to the encampment and had been up to all manner of mischief that night.
I don't think I even said goodbye to the good captain and Leatherback before I skittered back to the warm glow of the Hide and the company gathered there. I ran into Willie first, who patiently listened to my story and then told me I was full of shite and needed to drink more before trying to direct me to the wrong tent at least three times.
For the next hour until I went to bed I told the tale to anyone who would listen. Most listened politely, some skeptical, others more enthusiastic. MD was convinced that some green fairy would make sense of it all. It didn't, but it sure livened the telling of the story for the next few victims. The general opinion seemed to be that I had either had far too much or far too little to drink, and that the only cure for either was to drink more, sleep on it, and it would all make sense in the morning. Four days later, I think I'm starting to sober up, and I still can't make hide nor hair of it.
At this stage, I think there's only one thing I can respectably do. Forgive Wendell, hope he enjoyed the rum, and be grateful that he at least returned the cup.
The End.
