"A faire, a dream, and a girl"

Timmy had been asked to take Wendover, his prize peregrine falcon, to a Renaissance faire. His English teacher, Mrs. Tyler, had set up the day. He would have his own booth, dress in old English costume, and answer questions about falcons and falconry. Mrs. Tyler also told him to smile a lot as the people passed by.

He even had a pretty good little English accent too, because his sophomore class had just finished doing Shakespeare's comedy, A Midsummer Night's Dream. He had played the part of Nick Bottom, a would-be, could-be actor who gets a spell put upon him by Oberon, the fairy king, and is turned into a donkey. His "Hee haw, hee haw!" got a lot of chuckles from the crowd. He had rehearsed a lot with Sara, who played Tittania, queen of the fairies. Her character was also under a spell and was now "In Love" with him, or as reality would have it, with the donkey "hee haw!" Sara was a girl who was a friend, but he was working on combining those two words.

It was a warm day at the faire, and the BBQ meats, strong rich coffees, and Old World scents like patchouli filled the air. Wendover sat quietly on his perch, cocking his head from time to time. Every so often someone would come over and want to pet the bird or ask a question. A popular inquiry was, "How much does a bird like that cost?" Timmy always responded with "he's priceless."

The day was winding down, and Timmy was tired. He looked forward to flying Wendover. He hoped there would be some ducks on any of the ponds on his way home. He would like to see Wendover do his peregrine magic. On the drive back, he went from pond to pond, and spotted no wild game. It was going to get dark soon, but Timmy decided to try one more place.

The Bartlett ranch was a main staple on his list of hunting grounds; it was natural cattle land that had never been touched by human plow or chisel. Lots of ducks flew into the ponds on the property, and pheasant abounded. As he drove up to the gate, he met the caretaker, Dan. They shared some words and a warm handshake, and Timmy found out that Dan had just seen a couple of pheasant down the road around a berry patch. "If you get down there right now, I bet Wendover can catch dinner for ya!" Dan said.

Timmy rushed down the bumpy road to the berry patch. He secured the telemetry, turned on the receiver, and heard the old familiar beep, beep, beep. Then he struck Wendover's hood, lifted him high over his head, and curled his gloved hand slightly as he let Wendover fly. "Now this is what I've been waiting for!" Wendover said to himself. The falcon wasted no time climbing up into the sky and shortly reached a good pitch. Timmy let Roxy, his pointing Lab, out of the truck and looked up to find Wendover straight up above him.

The falcon commanded the sky over the pheasant. He was up at about one thousand feet now and still climbing. Roxy locked onto the game bird. Her tail wagged twice as hard when she found a bird in the bush. Timmy waved his hat at Wendover as a signal to him to pay attention. Wendover looked down and waited for Timmy to flush. The hunting team was in place. "Go get' em Roxy!" Timmy kicked at the old rooster and Roxy pounced and the pheasant knew it was time to fly, and the bird exploded into the air and flew hard and fast for cover. There was another berry patch about three hundred yards away, and the bird arched in the air looking over his shoulder at the falcon and trying to get to the safety of the bush.

Timmy looked straight up and shouted, "Wing over, Wendover!" Then he watched as Wendover stooped down toward the pheasant. Timmy ran in the direction of the hunt, but something went wrong. He tripped and fell to the ground, bumping his head on a smooth but large rock. All the lights went out, and Timmy lay there unconscious with his falcon in the stoop on a collision course with the rooster pheasant.

When Timmy woke up, things were just as he had left them. Or were they ...? He shook his head a little from the blow and wondered what had happened. He was not sure how long he had been out, but he looked into the sky and figured it had just been a blink as he caught a glimpse of Wendover as he finished his stoop and saw him hit the pheasant hard. The rooster cartwheeled over in a somersault and fell to the hard ground.

Timmy got up and felt the lump on his head. He was satisfied he was all right and started to walk toward the kill. It was then that he felt something strange by his side. He reached down, thinking it was a branch or weed he might have picked up from the fall. He tried to move it out of the way, but to his amazement he saw a broadsword in a scabbard. As he looked further down to his boots, he saw leather leggings. When he dusted off his shirt, he found the soft leather of a jerkin. Instead of his baseball cap, he had a hat with a silver pin holding a golden pheasant feather.

The next thing was the strangest indeed. He noticed two boys running and laughing about a hundred yards in front of him and they were headed for Wendover and the dead pheasant. He sprinted to save his bird. "Say there, what do you think you are doing? Get away from my prize bird!"

As the events unfolded, things got even weirder. Two men on horseback rode past Timmy towards the birds and boys. When he finally reached the group, panting and out of breath, Connie, the larger of the boys, turned and ran straight at him, tackling him to the ground. "Your prize bird?" The other boy picked up the falcon and then bowed quickly as the larger of the two men got off his horse. They all kneeled as the man moved slowly toward the falcon. Timmy was at first mesmerized by the scene. He stood looking as the man approached. The other boy, Stanley, pulled him down to kneel. Timmy dropped his head as if he had been bowing to kings all of his life.

The great man was dressed in a shirt made of cambric, and he had a leather jerkin made of light summer deer. He had a reddish beard, keen green eyes, and wore a crown. The older of the two men followed the crowned one and spoke in a smooth English accent. "Aye, my lord, Timothy has trained him well." The king peered at Wendover with intensity and obvious appreciation. He touched the small falcon with his finger, which sported a large ring with a blood stone and a family crest of a lion. He stroked the little bird's breast, and the falcon roused from the touch.

The boy who tackled Timmy piped up again. "He is the finest trainer of birds in the shire, even if he is me best mate."

"That'll be, Connie. Hold your tongue." The older man quipped. The king turned, looked at Timmy, smiled, nodded then mounted his horse and galloped off. The older man was a bit annoyed and looked at Connie. "I hope you boys haven't made the king angry with your foolishness. Tim, get yourself together and see to your bird. His Majesty will want a full recording of today's events. Tomorrow we host the king of France. Everything must be perfect. All the birds must be well tended to, sharp set, and ready to fly." Then the man looked at Wendover. "And you, my dear little tiercel, shall be a gift for the king of France."

Timmy frowned as Connie took the bird from Stanley and transferred it once more to him. "Sir, Wendover is to be given away?"

"You really did hit your head, didn't you, Son? Aye, you have been training this bird for just that end. Timmy looked into the man's clear blue eyes. "You're my Father aren't you," Timmy blinked. "Are you alright lad? Let's have a look at that bump." Cornelius rubbed Timmy's head around the wound. "Aye, you are my son, and I am proud of you, this is a good lump, but you'll be fine. Now, get some rest, and I'll see you back at the royal mews tout suite!"

Cornelius was indeed his father, he had taken the boy in at an early age and raised him as his own. He mounted his horse and rode off to meet the king. Timmy was in a daze all he could do was start walking slowly in the same direction. He looked on while the two other boys, Connie and Stanley, ran alongside his father's mare leaving him and Wendover at a snail's pace. Timmy looked at Wendover and saw that he was looking directly into his eyes. As Timmy met the bird's gaze, he heard a voice. "I do believe that the king was satisfied with my flight. Do you not think so?" Timmy looked around and for an instant, expecting to see Connie. "I say, Timmy, were you not pleased?"

Timmy looked at Wendover and thinking that he must be in some dream within a dream uttered. "Aye, little lad, you were stupendous." The moment the words left his mouth, he stopped, looked at Wendover, and rubbed the lump on his head. It was his voice, but he didn't normally talk like that. His thoughts were being translated into the King's English, and out the words shot as little English-accented arrows, as if he had spoken that way all of his life. He stared at Wendover in disbelief. He was positive he had never used the word "stupendous" before. Then it hit him: Wendover had never been in his head like this before either. No animal had.

"Are you all right?" asked Wendover. The bird's voice was clear and strong.

"I'm fine. I'm going bonkers, but I think I am just —"

Wendover cut in. "You're tired. You've sixteen falcons to get ready for tomorrow's hunt and only those two ninnies to help you." Timmy glanced over his shoulder at the two boys, who were now in a heap wrestling on the ground. "You'd better get us back to the royal mews."

Timmy took a long sigh and pondered this new twist that supposedly was his life. Sixteen falcons to make ready to fly? I work for the king of England, I can hear Wendover when he talks to me, I have a father who loves me and two ninnies who are my best mates to help me get ready for the King of France ... No problem here, eh? Wherever he was and whatever dream this was, it felt real enough to let his doubts about all these things dissolve into the mist of the old English countryside. He looked down again to the sword on his belt, and he grabbed the hilt and started to pull the sword from its scabbard but changed his mind. He touched the hat pin on his head with the pheasant feather, he looked at Wendover. "Aye, little man, we shall get back, but resting is not upon the list. We must get sixteen falcons ready to fly." Timmy walked with a confidence and anticipation of this new adventure, but there was a cloud over him, too. It hurt his heart when he remembered what Cornelius said about Wendover, and the words repeated in his head: This bird is to be a gift to the king of France. Timmy stopped and saw Wendover sitting like a little prince on his fist. "The king of France doesn't deserve you Wendover. We will have to see to this ..."

It was dusk when Timmy got back to the castle. He was amazed that he seemed to know just where to go, he'd forgotten the strange feeling he'd had after he hit his head. Now he was certain that everything was the way it should be. He walked through a barn-type enclosure as though he were royalty. There were guards posted outside with armor and long pikes. He saw Connie and Stanley in the corner cutting some leather as he entered the mews, he saw a huge perch thirty feet long with all sorts of different falconry birds upon it. Some birds were preening, some were sleeping, and some looked like they needed to be fed.

There was a place for Wendover, and Timmy put him up on the perch. His little bird fantastic roused, put his foot up, and watched his master. "I told you, did I not? Sixteen falcons to fly." Timmy looked down the line of birds. He walked slowly, inspecting each falcon, and he found he knew each by name. Then to his delight he remembered each bird's flying weight, what game they preferred, and what things scared them.

Then he saw "her." The Gyrfalcon. She was white as the English snow, pure and wild. She was the king's favorite. Her name was Lady Di. In those days it was decreed that kings were the only ones to keep and fly these magnificent birds, and Timmy knew why: they were hard to train, smart but stubborn. One moment they seemed to have the temperament of a child at play, but when they got serious, no other bird could match them in a tail chase. Lady Di was definitely a princess.

Connie broke Timmy's concentration when he tackled Stanley. "You see our lad Wendover today? He flew better than any bird the king has. The king is bloody bonkers to give him away." Connie had a deep cockney accent and spoke louder than most anybody. He had the heart of a saint, the mouth of a soldier, and the intelligence of a fox.

Stanley kicked him off and in the same accent coughed up a sentence to Timmy, still looking at the white gyr. "She's a beaut, ain't she? No other bird like her, one of a kind. Pity she won't take game yet."

Timmy had picked up the majestic bird and was stroking her. "She'll come through. She's got more royalty in her than any hundred falcons."

Connie burped and tugged at his jerkin. "Except for Wendover. He's the bloody Duke of York. And you, Timothy H. Barnes the first, master falconer and all around best mate, you are all stuck up and full of hot air."

Timmy secured Lady Di, snickered, and ran at the two boys, jumping a good three feet in the air. They all landed in a heap.

As the three wrestled, a mystery person snuck into the royal mews and watched the mayhem. Connie bit Stanley in the calf, and Stanley yelped. The three boys were covered in hay from top to bottom and were at a fever pitch, kicking, grabbing and laughing, trying to get the upper hand. Stanley now had Connie in a headlock, and Timmy was buried beneath them both. This was roughhousing at its best. As they were concentrating on the battle, the mischievous guest made her way to the water bucket. No one noticed, and she was able to position herself perfectly for the best results. She raised the bucket, counted under her breath to three, closed her eyes and threw the ice cold liquid as high as she could into the air. The boys screamed with shock and astonishment. They stood up, slipped again, and finally realized it was the maiden.

She was Timmy's fantasy. His heart did leap for purposes of romance, and as the boys composed themselves, they stood at attention in a straight line just right for any army inspection.

Sara walked slowly just as Timmy had done earlier, when he was evaluating his falcons. She picked a piece of hay out of Connie's mouth, and Stanley giggled as she quickly grabbed another from his hair, making him flinch.

Then she reached Timmy and gave him a stern frown, looked him up and down ... and then burst into girlish laughter. "For boys in the service of the great King Richard of England on the eve of the most important day of your young falconry lives, I would say you should get cleaned up and ready for feast — and stop acting so foolish."

Connie and Stanley shrugged, looked at Timmy with a smirk, and ran off to change. Timmy stood calmly, covered from head to toe with wet hay. She turned to walk away and then looked over her shoulder. "Sir, you look like a scarecrow in the rain!"

Timmy spoke back in soft tones. "Alas, my lady, 'tis the appearance of a great hero that is often mistaken for a stuffed shirt. But if I am a scarecrow, then I should sow these wild oats with one far fairer and cleaner than I." He bent forward flourishing a large of a bow, lavishly using his arms and hands in precise motion. His head was tilted down toward his feet when with a burst of energy he surprised her by picking her up over his shoulder and dumping her into the soft wet hay.

She screamed. "How dare you! You are a rogue and a villain, and I should like to ... kiss you!" Time stood still. The long awaited moment of truth had arrived, and Timmy's dream was about to become real. He wasted no more time with words and kissed her tenderly upon the lips. The two lay in each other's arms for a moment, amazed at what had just happened. Sara smiled and wriggled free, and then ran off to get cleaned up for the upcoming feast. It was their first kiss, and although Timmy was wet and chilled from the water and itchy from the hay, he was the happiest lad in the world.

Wendover had watched the whole affair and added, "It's almost spring, my friend." Then he cleared his voice and looked at the

Boy who was in the daze from his first kiss. "The king of England awaits you, and if you are ever going to talk His Majesty out of making me a present to the king of France, you'd better get cleaned up."