I have gone to yet another Renaissance Faire this year, and I plan on blogging about the whole thing. There is one experience, however, that was so otherworldly, I have a hard time believing it’s real, even though there were witnesses.

The Faire is a haze of laughing with friends, meeting exciting new people, spending money on trinkets to go into my owl cabinet, and eating authentic fourteenth-century food like fudge. Over the morning and afternoon, I repeatedly wander off by myself. Frankly, nobody should let me wander off after the first time, when they have to send a search party.

The second time they track me down, we are all exhausted, and we’ve seen all the pewter, leather, and pottery we can handle. Instead of further exploring, we stand in the middle of the path and split off into circles of three and gab. I’m talking to Stephen and Meredith, a married couple I’ve known for over twenty years, my ride to the distant lands of Maryland.

I’ve been hypervigilant to my surroundings. Most people are dressed up, at least a little half-assed, but I reach a point where all I see are corsets and steins. That’s how I don’t spot the umbrella until Steve points it out. Ringed around it are streamers that come down to the ground, and it bears a sign that says, “I Will Tell You a Story.” We can vaguely make out the shape of someone inside wearing a skirt.

Steve watches the umbrella drift past. The thing you have to know about Steve is that he’s a nerd. Goofy and unapologetically awkward, he’s also charming and extremely curious. He gets caught up in the gravity wells of mystery, and this draws him in like a black hole. He informs us he’s going to check it out, and he invites his equally nerdy wife. They both insist I join them. The umbrella isn’t especially large, so fitting us takes some doing. In the end, anyone who looks will see the streamers and my massive ass.

Inside is a peasant woman, with a sand-brown dress, dark-chocolate-colored corset, and white apron, blouse, and bonnet. Her skin is pale like a fairy’s and her eyes are bright and wise.

Once we’re settled, she tells us the tale of the wise man, the only man in the world who was troubled by nothing. Three lords, the weight of the world on their shoulders, sought the man out and found him on the top of a distant mountain. They said, “Master, how is it you live without troubles?” He gave them each a stone.

The mysterious woman holds out a pouch and asks us to take one and put it in our palm. They are marbled pieces of amethyst, the size of a dime, smoothed and heart shaped.

She instructs us to curl our fingers around them and turn our fists upside down. “Now open your hand,” she says.

I can’t. I literally cannot. I have to defy both my body and my mind to open up and let the stone fall. I nearly gasp. I’d feel the same way if she had asked me to throw all my sketchbooks into a bonfire. It hits the ground, and I’m thinking, “What have I done?”

The ethereal woman asks, “Was that hard?”

We all agree it was very hard. Judging by the fact that my stone hits the ground last, it’s hardest for me.

At her command, we pick them off the still-drying mud and straw, squeezing them even tighter. “Let these become the place where you put your troubles.” She floats away, leaving us unmoved, in shock.

After a moment, I say, “That was fucking amazing.”

“Yeah, that was awesome,” Steve says, excited.

I don’t let on how hard it was to drop my stone.

The woman never asks us for money or even a tip. She’s someone who goes to the Renaissance Faire with an umbrella, encouraging people to fight their instincts and let their troubles fall and be soaked up by the earth. Who the hell is she?

By the time we call it quits and go home, I’ve completely forgotten her.  It’s not until I’m talking to my closest living friend, who has the same kindness and patience as the woman with the umbrella, that it comes to mind. And now I can’t think about anything else.