I'm sitting in the shady glen, fast by the Troll Bridge. The occasional squeal and scream pierce the peace whenever the pointy-eared, ax-wielding troll jumps out to demand a kiss of maidens going across. The harpist in the nearby Rom (gypsy) camp plucks out a tune as residents of the shire pass by in their finery.

An elderly man, dressed in hooded sackcloth, leans on a tall walking stick adorned with bells. As he jingles his way toward the jousting fields, he passes a woman whose leashed dingo dog seems wary of the stranger. But the man simply nods understandingly at the dog's reaction, saying, "Well, one doesn't see too many lepers these days ... "

Especially here in Gig Harbor.

So if lepers (or elves, pirates, gypsies or swordsmen) are your thing, make haste for the Washington Renaissance Fantasy Faire, which runs just one more weekend at Minter Creek Ranch, just outside of the city.

Now let me confess that I have a writer's DNA, which, by union rules, provides a preprogrammed aversion to e-appended enterprises such as "shoppes" and "faires." And I'm the first to think "ewwww" at the prospect of roving bands of fantasy and role-playing devotees. (I spent more than 20 years in the software industry. Need I say more?) Only the prodding of my friend Mary, a former SeaGal who now performs with a local group dedicated to Romany (gypsy) culture, got me to attend. And even she readily admits that the high spirits of faire consist of "beer, boobs and boys."

But with her assurances of a playful cultural experience, I tucked my prejudices into my linen skirt pockets and set out, open to the concept that Faire fans (or "Rennies," as they're known in the trade) might well be normal folks.

And then I saw the ferrets. Dressed in little hooded monk outfits.

Remaining authentic

Visitors are welcome to dress as they please, but performers and participants follow stringent dress and behavior codes designed to maximize illusion. Fabrics and costume must be true to the period. (Gypsies in polyester? Nope.) If necessary, pipes are the smoking apparatus of choice, and most performers speak in an accent or dialect appropriate to their character's historical period and social status. Rumor has it that dialect cheat sheets are a must-have for novice actors.

Now here's the upside for the lazy performer: In a deliberate effort to broaden its appeal, this faire — unlike some — welcomes not just Renaissance fans but faeries and their elflike friends. So if you want to perform but lack the time to master, say, quotable quatrains or 17th-century cockney slang, it seems to me that concocting a basic fantasy character would be the way to go. I mean, would the "costume nazis" (as some of the hardcore Rennies are known) really challenge the veracity of your elf accent or the functionality of your wings? (And if they did, could you simply respond, "Fie you"?)

Culture clashes are inevitable but purposely minimized: Walkie-talkies at the hip, a couple of women stroll by with badges labeled "Security" tucked discreetly in their burgundy Elizabethan bodices. A young chemise-clad peasant woman carries a cloth-covered basket, seemingly running errands in the shire. But were you to lift the cloth, you would find an elaborate digital camera.

A harpist begins to play and the crowd is mystified at the quality of the sound. "Is he amplified?" I hear them murmur. Well, he is, but true to the illusion, his amp is covered with a colorful cloth and hidden amid assorted gypsy paraphernalia at the front of the stage.

A lovely gypsy named Kavanya reads my tarot cards. In the real world she is a doula with several clients nearing their delivery dates.

"I'm wearing a beeper," she admits, pointing to her multilayered Romany-style skirts. "And I parked my car so that I could leave in a hurry."

Kavanya and her husband have attended faires for years around the country. Some of the vendors here are from far-off lands (Tennessee and New Jersey) and, like some Rennies, simply follow the faire circuit from state to state.

"It's like a medieval Grateful Dead tour," she says.

Victorian vs. Elizabethan

Over the course of the afternoon, I become accustomed to the dialects and think nothing of it when a nobleman says, "I'd fare well with a bit of cheese," or a pirate snarls, "One man's gold is another man's wench." (And speaking of wenches — and culture clashes — there's a Heidi Fleiss lookalike working at the temporary tattoo table.) Mystic readings, jewelry, crystals and costumes are available at booths. You can try your hand at archery up near the jousting field, where bleachers provide the audience with a more traditional perch to watch the knights and their impressive steeds.

Suddenly, royalty appears: Her Royal Highness, Mary Queen of Scots, with her Noble Court. (You can always tell when she's near because the common folk and gypsies start screaming, crying and writhing prostrate before her.) Atop her elaborate green and gold gown, Ms. Mary has the biggest, stiffest, scratchiest-looking high-backed collar (or "ruff") I've seen in, oh, at least a couple of centuries.

"That's nothing," sniffs one wench. "Some ruffs are so big that we call them satellite dishes."

In short order I learn about Victorian (lift and separate) and Elizabethan (lift and bind) corsets. Though different in approach, both can result in a frightening (albeit impressive) display of cleavage.

And while we're on the subject, rest assured that eye candy is plentiful for both m'lords and ladies at Faire. Pirates swagger and handsome gypsy dancers offer many a smoldering glance. And lest you miss his show near the shire gate, there's the shirtless, tanned, and buff Thomas the PyroJuggler. It's hard to resist a guy who tosses razor-sharp swords while offering Catskills-worthy quips.

On my way out of the shire toward home, I encounter a be-winged young woman in iridescent lavender and green sitting in the middle of a path, chirping like a wounded bird. With arms outstretched and a basket of coins near her curled feet, she seems to be offering something to passersby.

I'm disturbed by this alms-for-the-poor act until I hear the people in front of me coo, "Oooh! Fairy dust!" I can't see what she charges (tuppence a bag?) or see if her product is real (powdered sugar?) or imaginary.

But I say if she crosses your path, consider yourself lucky and toss her a coin or two. Then step through the gate into the real world and spread a little of that magic around. It's in short supply out here.

Megan Sheppard is a Seattle writer: megans@hootspa.com