Union private and a Confederate colonel were feeding cheese crackers to Mr. Throckmorton’s pigeons. A woman dressed in black pedal pushers and a black sleeveless shirt was powdering an entire row of Colonial–era wigs on wire stands. Half a dozen actors in various stages of undress from several centuries were pacing back and forth in every part of the tent, loudly doing vocal exercises.
“I’m actually here to get out of costume,” I said. “What’s all this?”
“The play,” Kathy said. “Actually more like a series of historic scenes illustrating the high points of American history. John Smith and Pocahontas. Patrick Henry’s ‘Liberty or Death’ speech. The Boston Tea Party. The Battle of Bull Run.” She glanced around and then continued in an undertone. “It’s a bit heavy on the noisy bits of history—anything with a lot of shouting or cannon fire made the cut.”
I nodded. I noted, with approval, that Rose Noire had retreated to the other end of the tent, taking both dogs with her to guard the entrance to the tunnel. Eric and the twins were pressed against the fence, watching the costume parade with wide eyes.
I went to the bins where I kept useful stuff and pulled out a change of clothes—I usually kept several in the tent in case I wanted to look presentable after a bout of blacksmithing in the heat. I stepped behind a clothes rack, shed the bulky choir robe, pulled on the jeans and T-shirt, and breathed a sigh of relief. I wanted to grab some cold water from my minirefrigerator—not to drink, after all that lemonade, but to pour over myself. Alas, unlike Kathy, most of the students weren’t in on the secret of the tunnel, so I refrained.
I settled for giving the boys a quick hug.
“You think the play’s going to be something the boys would like?” Eric asked. “I was thinking of taking them out front to watch.”
“Check with Michael,” I said. “There might be a lot of battle scenes.”
“They seem pretty good with loud noises,” Eric said. “Even—ow!”
A deafening screech of feedback had interrupted him.
“Good grief,” Eric said. “Do those guys know anything about how to run a sound system?”
“They’re doing just fine,” I said.
“Fine?” He was staring at me with that look teenagers get when they think adults are being particularly dense. “Fine? You mean you can’t hear that feedback?”
“The feedback’s part of their job,” I reminded him. “If someone opens the trapdoor during the concert, the noise it makes will just sound like more feedback.”
“But— but—” Clearly Eric was having a harder time than most of us accepting this now-standard feature of life during Caerphilly Days. “It’s awful,” he said finally. “Like fingernails on a chalkboard. Worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, in fact.”
“That’s an interesting comment,” Rose Noire remarked. “Did you know, there’s been some research done on why humans find that sound so universally unpleasant?”
“Maybe because it is?” Eric asked.
“The leading theory is that it resembles primate warning calls,” Rose Noire went on. “Or possibly the hunting call of some predator that primates found particularly terrifying.”
“You’ve been talking to my grandfather, haven’t you?” I asked.
“The boys didn’t even flinch at the feedback,” Eric said. “So as long as there’s no blood, only noise, I expect they’d love the play. But I’ll check with Michael to make sure.”
“Good man,” I said. “See you later.”
I paused by Kathy on my way out of the tent.
“Horace should be here shortly,” I murmured. “See if you can find him an unobtrusive way to slip into the crawl space.”
“They should all be going onstage soon,” she murmured back.
“I think I’ll head over to the forensic tent to return this.” I was folding up the choir robe as neatly as its bulk and slipperiness would allow. “They might be running low on choir
“I’m actually here to get out of costume,” I said. “What’s all this?”
“The play,” Kathy said. “Actually more like a series of historic scenes illustrating the high points of American history. John Smith and Pocahontas. Patrick Henry’s ‘Liberty or Death’ speech. The Boston Tea Party. The Battle of Bull Run.” She glanced around and then continued in an undertone. “It’s a bit heavy on the noisy bits of history—anything with a lot of shouting or cannon fire made the cut.”
I nodded. I noted, with approval, that Rose Noire had retreated to the other end of the tent, taking both dogs with her to guard the entrance to the tunnel. Eric and the twins were pressed against the fence, watching the costume parade with wide eyes.
I went to the bins where I kept useful stuff and pulled out a change of clothes—I usually kept several in the tent in case I wanted to look presentable after a bout of blacksmithing in the heat. I stepped behind a clothes rack, shed the bulky choir robe, pulled on the jeans and T-shirt, and breathed a sigh of relief. I wanted to grab some cold water from my minirefrigerator—not to drink, after all that lemonade, but to pour over myself. Alas, unlike Kathy, most of the students weren’t in on the secret of the tunnel, so I refrained.
I settled for giving the boys a quick hug.
“You think the play’s going to be something the boys would like?” Eric asked. “I was thinking of taking them out front to watch.”
“Check with Michael,” I said. “There might be a lot of battle scenes.”
“They seem pretty good with loud noises,” Eric said. “Even—ow!”
A deafening screech of feedback had interrupted him.
“Good grief,” Eric said. “Do those guys know anything about how to run a sound system?”
“They’re doing just fine,” I said.
“Fine?” He was staring at me with that look teenagers get when they think adults are being particularly dense. “Fine? You mean you can’t hear that feedback?”
“The feedback’s part of their job,” I reminded him. “If someone opens the trapdoor during the concert, the noise it makes will just sound like more feedback.”
“But— but—” Clearly Eric was having a harder time than most of us accepting this now-standard feature of life during Caerphilly Days. “It’s awful,” he said finally. “Like fingernails on a chalkboard. Worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, in fact.”
“That’s an interesting comment,” Rose Noire remarked. “Did you know, there’s been some research done on why humans find that sound so universally unpleasant?”
“Maybe because it is?” Eric asked.
“The leading theory is that it resembles primate warning calls,” Rose Noire went on. “Or possibly the hunting call of some predator that primates found particularly terrifying.”
“You’ve been talking to my grandfather, haven’t you?” I asked.
“The boys didn’t even flinch at the feedback,” Eric said. “So as long as there’s no blood, only noise, I expect they’d love the play. But I’ll check with Michael to make sure.”
“Good man,” I said. “See you later.”
I paused by Kathy on my way out of the tent.
“Horace should be here shortly,” I murmured. “See if you can find him an unobtrusive way to slip into the crawl space.”
“They should all be going onstage soon,” she murmured back.
“I think I’ll head over to the forensic tent to return this.” I was folding up the choir robe as neatly as its bulk and slipperiness would allow. “They might be running low on choir
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