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Last
week, like I do every year at this time, I received my invitation
to attend a very special event at the estate of Lord A—.
(As much as I wish to reveal the name of my host and the
exact location of this exclusive affair, I am under an obligation
not to. I should love to take you along with me, but I hope
you understand it when I say that I would not endanger the
pleasure of the good lord’s other attendees by drawing
back the veil of secrecy which shrouds this event.) The
engraved card, gold on ivory, is hardly an indicator of
the utter debauchery I have come to expect from this particular
harvest festival, but the invitation is executed with style,
and as such I have no choice but to accept it. Why anyone
would turn down an invitation to the Pan Games is beyond
me, at any rate. This annual gathering of overindulgers
strikes such a primal chord with my Id that there is nothing
I can do to resist.
Located
lochside in one of the most geographically diverse regions
of Scotland, the setting for the Pan Games is at once idyllic
and exciting. The hills tumble headlong into the forests,
the water invades ancient fortifications, natural amphitheaters
and gaming fields are spread generously throughout, and
Lord A—’s house stands on the highest point, overlooking
the scene below. Days before the week-long celebrations
begin, small encampments are already visible between the
hills, joyous laughter ringing up to the house and trails
of smoke giving evidence of the cooking fires. A— rides
down to greet each group, his horse decked in garlands and
himself looking majestic as King of the Wood.
The
revelers are allowed to make camp wherever they wish, with
the stipulation that should anyone remain sleeping, drunk,
or otherwise incapacitated when a roving band of sportsmen
or thespians wanders through, the prone victims will be
recruited into the game or drama, voluntarily or not, and
often with hilarious result. This press action is in keeping
with Pan’s philosophy that the amusement of the group
is paramount to the humility of the individual. The maneuver
generally works out for the good of everyone involved, because
the surprised inebriate tends to be good humoured, another
attribute of the Greek prankster.
The
arrangement of camps follows no predictable form. Here is
a pavilion housing a preening Puck, with a harem of she-satyrs
carrying bread and wine from mouth to bearded mouth; there,
a solitary Robin Goodfellow sleeping in a tree. A few even
follow the myth of Pan’s eventual transformation into
the constellation of Capricorn, decking themselves in glitter
and spending the nights shimmering underwater. It all depends
on the individual’s mood and personal interpretation
of old Pan. Some panoplies are alarmingly realistic, and
it has been wondered aloud more than once whether A—
is attracting actual fauns to the festivities.
Although
A— has always expressed a wish that no agenda be set,
that his guests do what they wish with their time and his
estate, a few traditions have developed. A central amphitheater
provides a hub of activities for those with no trouble of
their own brewing. Continuous dramas, feasts, and variety
acts reign on the roomy stage, situated at the foot of a
steep, rocky hill. The games for which the festival is named
are player: Shakespearean insult challenges, mock combat,
and an elaborate style of capture the flag (which uses a
live maiden as the prize) are some of the more colourful
examples. All the food and wine are free, a gift from the
host to his many friends. In fact, money itself is not allowed
on the grounds. Puck has never had much use for cash, feeling
that the banter of the barter is thrill enough. This is
a time and a place to forget the ways of man, to exchange
the worldly for the earthy, and what a party it is.
Representation
of the Overland Mallet Club is limited, at best, at the
Pan Games. To this I say, "So be it." My duties
as President of Team Wales and editor of Phooka take up
enough time and energy as it is, and the Games are a welcome
relief. Many Club members attend, but an official camp is
never established. Instead the OMC members enter the spirit
of the festival and dress as devoted clerics of Pan. The
Abingdon Chapter attends as Team Green Man in full regalia:
furry trousers, bare chests swathed in olive oil, cloven
boots, and customized ram’s horns helmets firmly attached
to their skulls. This mode of dress is the one most associated
with the Games, and most attendees have taken to wearing
some version of this Puck’s outfit.
Green
Man challenges all that dare to a duel any Club member would
be proud to accept. Much in the manner of Carroll, the duel
works like the justice system of Looking-Glass Land, where
the punishment is meted out before the crime is committed.
Two duelists (dressed in costume mimicking Team Green Man’s
style, but at bare minimum including the sturdy helmet)
stand at opposite ends of a vineyard row and tie sacks of
wine to their waists. On the signal, often no more than
a twitch from one combatant, the two charge at each other
and clash their horned crowns together, sending both men
to the ground! The first to recover his footing makes his
way to the other, unties the hapless loser’s winesack,
and drinks the contents. Often both duelists are knocked
unconscious, hence the Carrollian reference to backward
justice—out cold first, a thief and a drunkard second!
(And quite possibly out cold third, but who’s counting?)
For
attendees with no urge to costume themselves and parade
so foolishly, there is still much fun to be had at the Pan
Games. More so, one might argue, since Pucks in costume
love to torment and play pranks on mere humans. A few years
ago I had my boots filled with applesauce, and more than
once have I succumbed to drink only to awake decidedly hung
over and miles from camp. The pranksters had thoughtfully
tied one end of a string around my finger and unwound the
rest of the ball on their way back to camp. No use in disposing
completely with such a good victim!
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