When the Voice Goes Quiet

Taken by my glorious wife during the Calgary Medieval Faire 2021(See I'm not kidding)

There is a peculiar moment that comes at the end of every great event.

Not during the final performance. Not after the last cheer. Not even when the final announcement echoes across the grounds.

It comes later.

When the voice goes quiet.

A few weeks ago, the Millarville Medieval Faire and Artisan Market drew to a close after another magnificent weekend. For three glorious days I had the privilege of serving as both Storyteller and Master of Ceremonies. In many ways I became the voice of the event. If you were anywhere near the main grounds, chances are you heard me at some point.

"Good gentles, make your way to the jousting arena!"

"The next performance begins in ten minutes!"

"Please welcome to the stage..."

For an entire weekend my voice rolled across the grounds from morning until evening. Stories, announcements, introductions, laughter, reminders, directions and the occasional desperate plea for someone to retrieve a lost child, a wandering husband or a rogue turkey leg.

Such is the life of an MC.

And what a weekend it was.

Magic poured from the fingertips of Lothar the Magician, leaving audiences baffled and delighted in equal measure. IkaMuppy towered above the crowds on stilts, drawing smiles wherever she wandered. Allegra Brunt soared through the air with breathtaking aerial performances that seemed to defy gravity itself.

The stage came alive with the energy and precision of Angus and Dolina's Highland dancing, while the thunder of hooves and clash of steel from STALC's jousting tournament drew crowds from every corner of the grounds.

And that was only the main stage. Beyond that lay a world of wonder.

The Wizard of Lore weaving enchantment through the pathways. Raven captivating audiences with her unique presence. The Winged Crusader appearing as if from some forgotten legend. Viking villages bustling with life and history. Blacksmiths hammering glowing steel. Heavy armoured combat fighters testing skill and endurance beneath the Alberta sun.

More than seventy-five vendors lined the grounds, each bringing their own craftsmanship, artistry and passion to the event. Leatherworkers, woodcarvers, jewellers, artists, merchants and makers all helping create a living medieval village.

Everywhere you looked there was something happening.

A story unfolding. A memory being made. A moment waiting to be discovered.

For those attending, it was a weekend.

For those performing, organising and working behind the scenes, it was months of preparation brought to life.

Then suddenly...It was over.

The final announcements were made. The final performances ended. The crowds drifted towards the gates. Vehicles rolled out. Tents came down. The village disappeared. And silence arrived.

Now, usually I would pack up and head home soon after. This year, however, I had one more night on site before my flight the following day.

That extra night created something unusual.

Space.

No crowds.

No schedules.

No performances.

No announcements.

Just a trailer sitting quietly on grounds that had only hours earlier been filled with thousands of voices.

It felt strange. Almost unsettling.

For days every minute had been accounted for. Every moment filled with purpose. Then suddenly there was nothing. Just silence.

I suspect many performers know this feeling. Athletes experience it after major competitions. Actors after a long theatre run. Musicians after a tour. Storytellers after a festival.

You spend days, weeks or months building towards something. Your focus narrows. Your energy rises. Every thought becomes connected to the event.

Then it ends.

And your mind takes a little while to catch up. You find yourself suspended in a strange limbo. Not quite in the event anymore. Not quite ready for whatever comes next. Just floating somewhere in between.

I've come to appreciate that moment over the years. Not because it is comfortable. Quite the opposite.

But because it reminds me how much these gatherings matter. You cannot miss something unless it meant something to you. You cannot feel the absence of noise unless there was joy in hearing it.

And there was certainly joy in Millarville.

The following days brought the inevitable flood of memories. Photographs began appearing online. Videos surfaced. Social media filled with smiling faces. Friends tagged one another. Performers shared highlights. Visitors posted favourite moments. The faire lived on through countless images scattered across the internet.

And that is when I noticed something I have encountered for almost fifteen years. I was nowhere to be found.

Now before anyone rushes to reassure me, this is not a complaint. Nor is it a plea for recognition.

In truth, I find it fascinating.

Over and over again I scroll through albums and photographs from events I have spent entire weekends helping bring to life.

I see performers.

I see vendors.

I see organisers.

I see visitors.

I see knights, dancers, musicians, magicians, blacksmiths and wandering characters.

I see friends I've known for years.

I see moments I remember vividly.

And yet somehow I can rarely find myself. It is as though I was never there. Which is rather amusing considering how difficult it would have been to avoid hearing me. My voice boomed across the grounds all weekend. It echoed through loudspeakers.

Introduced acts.

Directed crowds.

Told stories.

Shared laughter.

Filled the spaces between performances.

At times it probably seemed as though I was everywhere.

Yet when the photographs emerge, there is almost no evidence I existed.

I have discovered that this is one of the curious realities of being a storyteller. Particularly a storyteller who also serves as an MC.

We occupy a strange position. We are highly visible in the moment. Yet often invisible in the memories that follow.

Photographers naturally focus on action.

The knight charging into battle.

The aerialist suspended impossibly high above the stage.

The magician at the precise moment the impossible becomes reality.

The dancer frozen mid-performance.

The audience reacting.

The children laughing.

The costumes.

The spectacle.

The moments that can be captured in a single frame.

Storytelling is different. The magic happens in the space between words and imagination. The story exists not in what is seen, but in what is created inside the listener's mind. How do you photograph a dragon that only exists in imagination? How do you capture a journey through ancient Scotland that takes place entirely within the minds of an audience? How do you frame wonder itself?

It is difficult. Perhaps impossible. And so storytellers often vanish from the visual record.

What remains is the experience.

The memory.

The feeling.

Over the years I have realised how few photographs I actually possess of my own career.

Fifteen years of festivals.

Fifteen years of stages.

Fifteen years of stories.

And surprisingly little evidence.

A handful of treasured images.

A few recordings.

Scattered videos.

Many of them captured by my glorious wife, who thankfully understands the importance of occasionally pointing a camera in my direction.

Without her, I suspect future historians might question whether I ever performed at all.

"Calum Lykan?" they would say.

"Are we certain he existed?"

"There appear to be announcements attributed to him, but no visual evidence."

"He may simply have been a disembodied Scottish voice floating above medieval festivals."

Honestly, I rather enjoy that image.

The Ghost of Festivals Past.

Condemned to forever announce upcoming performances.

But beneath the humour lies something worth reflecting upon.

Not every contribution leaves a visible mark.

Some people build the stage.

Some organise schedules.

Some manage logistics.

Some direct traffic.

Some coordinate volunteers.

Some make announcements.

Some tell stories.

Many of the people responsible for creating extraordinary events rarely appear in the photographs.

Yet the event could not happen without them. Their impact exists in experiences rather than images. In memories rather than photographs. In feelings rather than evidence.

Perhaps that is why this curious phenomenon has never truly bothered me. Because storytelling itself has always been an art of impermanence.

A story is spoken.

It lives.

Then it vanishes.

The words disappear the moment they are uttered.

What remains is whatever took root in the hearts and minds of those listening.

The same can be said of many performances.

The laughter fades.

The applause ends.

The stage is dismantled.

The grounds fall silent.

Yet something remains.

A child inspired.

A family memory created.

A conversation sparked.

A moment of wonder experienced.

Those things matter far more than any photograph. Though admittedly, a few extra photographs would be nice. Just enough to reassure myself that I wasn't imagining the entire thing.

As I sat in that trailer on the final evening after Millarville, listening to the silence settle across the grounds, I found myself reflecting on all of this.

The voices had gone. The crowds had left. The magic village had vanished. But the stories remained.

Not just the ones told from stages and pathways.

The stories created by everyone who attended.

The stories that will be shared around dinner tables.

The stories that will reappear next year when friends meet once again.

The stories hidden within thousands of photographs.

And perhaps, somewhere among those countless images, there might even be one of me.

If not, that's alright too.

After all, I've spent fifteen years learning that storytellers often live in a curious place.

Half seen.

Half heard.

Present in the moment.

Absent from the photograph.

A voice carried on the wind.

And when the event ends, when the crowds depart and the grounds fall silent, that voice finally grows quiet once more.

Until the next story calls.

And trust me.

The next story is never very far away.