Well, of course I’m aware that to them I’m a bit of a joke. Forty-six; skinny; balding; desperate. I’m aware that out of costume I look exactly like a geography teacher – which is just as well, because that’s what I am – and I’ve noticed the embarrassed silence that sometimes falls when I come over to the group, and seen the looks exchanged by the newbies when they think I can’t see them. Poor old Smithy, that’s what they’re thinking; always three steps behind. God help me, what a loser. God help me if I ever get that sad.
But there’s a kind of glory in the old moves. They won’t understand that, being eighteen and immortal; but I do. They think it’s only a game; in a couple of weeks they’ll have found another game to play, or worse still, formed a splinter group with kids their own age, bending the rules and having a laugh. I try to tell them, this isn’t about having a laugh. They think we do it for the gear; that we’re just a group of fetishists and Luddites, like people who go around in Star Trek uniforms, or live in tepees with sheep and no central heating.
But it isn’t about gear, either. It’s about honour, and rules, and good and evil. It’s about death and glory. And it’s about the truth – not the truth that dragons exist, but the fact that they can be defeated. Because, more than ever with the passing of time, I want to believe that they can be defeated. Philbert knows what I mean – his wife died of cancer twenty years ago, and we’re all he has left. So does Titania, childless and pushing fifty; and Litso, who spends his whole life – bar these Saturday nights – pretending to be straight. Those kids have no idea; no idea what it’s like to come home to my other, sad, imaginary life – two rooms, a three-bar fire and a sleeping cat; to be known as Sad Smithy by generations of geography students; to lie awake at night with a knot in my stomach, looking out at the electric stars – every one a window, every one a home. But it’s what Spider says – when he says anything, which isn’t that often. Those things are not for us, he says. House, wife, kids. Those things are for the Mundanes. Regular people. People with imaginary lives.
‘How much longer?’ That was one of the newbies, looking at his watch. You must know the type: impatient, nervy, scornful, cold; only here because someone (myself, perhaps) hinted at something dangerous – something occult and forbidden.
‘Not long now.’ Come to think of it, they are a little late; it’s eleven o’clock and dead quiet. ‘Get your gear.’
He shoots me a contemptuous look and pulls on his mask. It’s latex and pretty realistic – I make them myself, and they’re much better than the bought ones. I find myself hoping he gets killed first.
‘’Cause I could have got lucky tonight,’ says the newbie in a muffled voice. ‘There’s a bird down the Woolpack keeps givin’ me the eye.’
It’s sad, really. We both know his life. We both know he’ll never get lucky. But there’s no time to discuss it; I can see a shadow coming out of the trees, and from the noise he’s making – and the size of the sword slung across his back – it has to be Veldarron. Morag’s with him, looking tired and displeased – they’ve probably been fighting again. Still, I’m glad they arrived first; a few of the others can sometimes come across a bit strange to newbies, and I don’t want any trouble tonight. Besides, I know these students; half of them are only here because they think they’re going to get off with some leather-clad warrior babe, and although Morag isn’t exactly Xena material, at least she is female – and at twenty-nine, rather closer to their generation than the rest of us.
I greet them with the usual mantra – ‘Today is a good day to die,’ – in the hope of getting them both into the fighting mood. But as the couple come closer, I can see that all is not well with Morag. Her face is set, her lips tight, and worse still, she has come out of character, in jeans and a parka rather than her customary robes and healer’s hood. Damn it, I think. And damn Veldarron, who is making a point of not being with her, making showy practice moves to a dead tree and waiting for me to sort things out, as usual.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Morag. ‘Why aren’t you kitted up?’
‘I’m not staying, Smithy.’
‘Why not?’
Morag just looks at me, and I feel my heart sink. Of course it isn’t the first time that one of Veldarron’s girlfriends has pulled out at a crucial moment (he’s an insensitive bastard, and I really don’t understand what girls see in him), but to lose a healer, our only healer, and at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, presents a crisis of major proportions. ‘But we need you,’ I manage at last. ‘I’ve got an adventure to run, and they’ll be wanting a healer.’
‘Can’t help that,’ says Morag, shrugging. ‘I quit. Tell Darren to get himself another patsy. This one’s out of here.’
‘But Morag—’
She turns on me then, unexpectedly. ‘My name’s not bloody Morag!’ she yells. ‘Six years I’ve been coming here, Smithy, and you don’t even know my sodding name!’
Well, talk about volatile. Why on earth should I know her name, I ask myself, as I watch her stalk away across the moonlit clearing. What’s more, after six years she should know that you never – never – refer to an adventurer by his real name during a session. No wonder Veldarron looks so put out. Still – though I’m sure he’ll manage to recruit another Morag before next week – her unexpected departure suddenly makes everything much more difficult for me, as I have quite a challenging bunch of young monsters lined up for tonight’s adventure. In any case, it’s far too late to change anything now; all we can hope for is a short session, good luck, orderly monsters and no more unpleasant surprises.
I can see the rest of the party arriving now, with Philbert in the lead. Philbert Silvermane, he calls himself, though we all know that hair’s a wig. Tonight I think he looks smaller than usual, bent beneath the weight of his armour, although in the moonlight he still looks rather fine. There’s a certain nobility in that proud old head, like a ruined arch standing in the middle of a field, purposeless, but not without grace. Of course I didn’t always think so; I was young once, and I’m ashamed to say I often sniggered – in the days when forty seemed impossibly old.
Sure enough, I think I hear laughter from one of the newbies. Philbert doesn’t hear – he’s a little deaf – but I’m already on edge after the business with Morag, and it makes me feel irrationally angry. I snap out a sharp command to the monsters, lining them up behind the big bush as the adventurers begin to assemble. There’s Litso, in drag as usual; Beltane in very un-medieval combats under his tabard; Jupitus, slow and heavy in his long wizard’s robes; Snorri with his axe.
More laughter from the newbies. I expected it; some of those outfits probably look quite comic to them, especially Litso, with his laddered fishnets and leather skirt. But tonight it galls me. Perhaps because of Morag; perhaps because I’m in charge; perhaps because it is not entirely kind. The newbies are in for a hard time, anyway. I don’t like their attitude. Neither does Litso. We have a rule here that no one comments on another player’s persona, however bizarre – Philbert (who was a psychology professor in another life) says it’s because the role-play is cathartic, allowing the individual to act out fantasies which, if repressed, might be damaging to the ego. During these sessions we banish guilt, fear and mockery, emerging cleansed and renewed. I almost say as much to the newbies, but there isn’t time; that’s Spider stepping dead-silent out of the undergrowth, and in his wake, finally, Titania.
Titania. As always, my heart does a little skip. Because she hasn’t changed; not really. Her costume has had to be altered a few times to account for her expanding waistline, but to me she’s still lovely, her red hair loose over her shoulders, her light sword in her hand.
Someone says something behind me. I can’t quite hear what it is, but it sounds derogatory. I look round rapidly, but I see only blank faces. Our regular monsters – Matt, Pete, Stuart, Scott, Jase and Andy – wear expressions of studious unconcern; the newbie who complained of waiting is drumming his fingers, but apart from that everyone is still.
Good. At least they have the sense not to laugh in front of Spider.
It’s raining now. Spider doesn’t mind; as he steps into the little clearing by the side of the big bush I can see the droplets collecting in his braided hair. I hand him the briefing sheet – it’s written in runes, as Spider won’t read ordinary script – and lead the monster party beyond the clearing to set up the first encounter.
The voices of the adventurers reach me across the clearing. They are discussing the loss of their healer, reworking their strategy, re-allocating salves and potions.
‘Right, listen,’ I tell the monsters. ‘Tonight you’ll all have to take especial care. We’re a player down and we don’t have anyone to stand in, so it’s all the more important that we do our job properly and don’t get carried away. For this first encounter, you’re all ghouls, three hits each, so put your masks on and get into position.’ I take time to look closely at all the monsters, especially the newbies, who are standing by looking keyed up and fidgety. ‘Remember,’ I tell them, ‘it’s three hits each. No more. There’s no healer in this party, and I don’t want any fatalities on this adventure.’
Someone gives a snort of laughter – one of the newbies, the restless one who complained of waiting.
‘What is it?’ I make my voice sharp.
‘Nothing.’ He manages to make even a single word sound insulting.
I’d like to teach him a lesson. But there isn’t time; besides, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face in a minute. The thought makes me feel a little better. The ghouls are concealed in the bushes, but not well; ghouls are relatively slow-moving, stupid creatures who should present little challenge. A warm-up battle, that’s all; something to get the juices flowing. I blow the whistle. Time in.
This is the moment – the secret, exhilarating rush. It’s the reason we play; the reason we’ve always played. Far more than just a game, it goes beyond catharsis. These youngsters do not feel it as we do, Titania, Philbert, Spider and I. It is intoxicating. It is magical. To be heroes, like in the David Bowie song; to be beyond age, beyond time; to be (for a minute, an hour, a night) one of the immortals.
Ah. Here comes the party. Beltane and Veldarron heading the group, Spider covering the rear, Litso scouting ahead. The monsters are ready, the restless newbie creeping quietly around the back of the party with rather more skill than a ghoul normally shows. Still, he’s making an effort; I can hardly penalize him for that.
One of our regulars strikes first. It’s Pete, playing his part conscientiously with arms outstretched and shambling walk. Scott joins him, then Andy, cutting off Litso from the rest of the party and forcing him to fight them three at a time. This is where the fighters come into their own; but Beltane is already fighting Jase and Matt, and Veldarron – conscious, perhaps, of Morag’s absence – is keeping his distance.
The newbies are hanging back – rather too strategically for ghouls – but even so, the party should be able to handle the attack with ease. Litso takes a couple of hits to the right arm, always a weakness in his defence, and Veldarron gets a slash across the ribs, but for the most part the adventurers manage to repel their attackers with ease. Thirty seconds later, only the newbies are still standing. Their leader – the restless one who led the attack – is fighting quite competently against Beltane, but I find it hard to believe that he hasn’t already received his three hits, and as for the others, they aren’t responding to hits at all, but are simply ignoring them and trying to do as much damage as they can.
‘Pull your blows!’ yells Titania angrily, as she gets the flat edge of a sword smack in the face, but the three newbies do not back off. Instead, the first one yanks off his constricting mask and with a loud war cry launches himself right into the centre of the party.
‘Oi! No ganging up!’ shouts Veldarron, now the focus of three monsters at once. He’s right, of course; it’s one of the most basic game rules, and I had explained it all very clearly to the newbies, but in the heat of the moment they must have forgotten. To cap it all, Veldarron is shouting so much that his aim goes wide, and by the time Spider intervenes, cutting down the three ghouls from behind with a series of vicious thrusts, the swordsman is on the ground with several serious injuries.
The post-battle debriefing is loud and acrimonious. I have no choice but to rule Veldarron out of action, which displeases him enormously and gives rise to cheers from the monsters. Litso, too, has suffered humiliating injury, and Titania complains that she had to hit her ghoul at least twenty times before he finally agreed to lie down and die. I talk to the monsters about it, and though the regulars are polite, I don’t like the newbies’ attitude at all.
‘Twenty hits? She must be joking. I don’t think she hit me once.’
‘Hits have got to be convincing. If I can’t feel it, then I can’t count it.’
I repeat what I have already said about counting hits and pulling blows. I’m almost sure I see the lead newbie pulling a face. ‘What?’ I say, for the second time.
He shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
But it has soured the game. I can feel it; a tug of revolt from within the ranks. Two encounters on, the party runs into a group of bandits, which puts up far more of a fight than anticipated. Litso gets hit twice more, Philbert four times and Titania and Beltane once each, although Jupitus the wizard manages to put an end to the opposition with a crafty sequence of spells. The monsters protest a little at this, and mutter about retribution, so that once again I have to warn them about playing to the rules.
‘’Sonly a game,’ says one of the newbies sullenly. ‘’Snot life and death, is it?’
Oh, but it is. I wish I could make him see that, but the gulf between us is too wide. Life begins as a game, and ends in a fight to the death. I try to set up the next encounter as quickly as I can, but even so it takes time; one of the newbies begins a chorus of Why are we waiting?, and to my annoyance, the others join in.
By now the entire party is beginning to feel the absence of their healer. By the fifth encounter, Litso is out of action, Philbert is hardly any better, and Beltane is down to five hits. Only Spider is serene and untouched, cutting a swathe through the monsters time after time. The restless newbie looks annoyed at this, but says nothing. Spider does have that effect on people.
We have reached the seventh encounter. The party has lost no further members, although morale is low, and everyone but Spider has received some kind of injury. I feel somehow to blame, although I know it isn’t my fault; some nights are better than others, that’s all, and new players are always a bit of a risk. Still, I don’t feel entirely in control of my little group; it makes me uneasy, as if some part of my imaginary life has managed to infiltrate this, my real one.
During the debriefing, one of the newbies lights a cigarette. It’s against the rules, but my mood is so uncertain that I hesitate to challenge him about it. The regular monsters – Scott and Matt and Jase and the rest – seem restless too, as if some kind of signal has passed between them, and there is a great deal of murmuring and covert laughter behind my back as I go about my business. It makes me uneasy. As a teacher I know the danger a disruptive influence presents, and throughout the session I have become more and more convinced that my newbies – especially one of them – are manifestations of that unrest. They are testing me somehow, assessing my ability to react to their taunts, challenging my authority.
‘Right,’ I tell them crisply, handing out sheets for the next encounter. ‘This time you’re not hostile. You’re a group of soldiers from another camp, and you’ll have healing potions for the party if they can negotiate with you.’
I slipped that one in to try and solve the Morag problem. The restless newbie pulls a face, and I can see he isn’t pleased at the prospect of a non-combative encounter. ‘What if they attack us?’ he says.
‘Then you fight,’ I tell him. ‘But you won’t instigate anything.’
‘Instigate. What’s that mean?’ sneers the newbie.
I give him
a look. ‘You got a problem?’
He shrugs.
‘I said have you got a problem?’
The newbie smirks in a way that manages to be both insolent and sheepish. ‘Well, it’s the way you all take it so seriously,’ he says at last. ‘Like it’s real, or something. I mean, it’s just a fucking game, for God’s sake. Look at you all. There’s that old git in the fright wig, and that weirdo in drag, and that fat bird—’
It is at this point that something in me breaks. Oh, people have taunted us and mocked us before; called us saddos and freaks and mutants and all that. But to hear him speak of Titania – of my Titania – and, even more importantly, to hear him denigrate the game – I grab hold of the first weapon that comes to hand – a long-bladed bastard sword – and fall automatically into my fighting stance.
‘I’ll give you a game,’ I tell him. ‘You monster.’
The newbies look nervous and back away, but I am too angry to stop now. All I can think of is the fact that this boy – this boy! – has insulted Titania, a warrior with countless successful campaigns behind her, a woman of legendary grace and beauty, and that the insult – to her and to the rest of us – cannot go unpunished.
‘Time in!’ I roar. ‘Party, to me!’
It is cathartic. I have never gone berserker before – some players never do, in decades of gaming, though the best ones have done it at least once, usually in the face of insuperable odds. I remember Spider once doing it, in a pub in Nottingham, in the days when people still laughed about him behind his back, and I’d tried – without success – to imagine how it must feel: the liberation, the rush, the joy. Now I know; and as my friends rush into battle to join me I know that our enemy is not this boy, this newbie with the bad manners and the foul mouth. Our enemy is something infinitely more dangerous, hateful and formidable; a creature with countless heads, all stamped with identical expressions of youthful scorn and ignorant self-absorption. For thirty years we have stalked our Adversary, without knowing quite what it was we hunted; for thirty years we have contented ourselves with second-rate alternatives, when all the time the real quarry was close enough to touch.