Arise Calontir

ARISE CALONTIR

By Fernando Rodriguez de Falcon

Tada-Tada! Tada-Tada! Tada-Tada! Arise Calontir! That’s the beginning of the call to muster that has summoned the Calon host from their beds for nearly as long as I can remember.

The trumpet notes may not be perfect, and Andrixos voice may be seriously war-strained, but to me it’s always been a sweet sound. It is a sign that I truly have arrived, not at a simple fair, or even at our wonderful War of the Lilies, but at that most glorious thing – a Foreign War!

Certainly this means we’ll be fighting, and singing, and partying with friends. But more, it means we are at a place where Calontir comes together at in a way far different from any other event. A place where our differences mean so much less than our similarities, that our unity is forged ever stronger.

So, when I hear the ringing of the trumpet, and Andrixos voice calling, I smile as I roll out of bed – even if I’ve not had much sleep. But not much sleep usually means something like four hours for me – not well under two hours as I had on Thursday morning at Gulf Wars.

At that point Andrixos’ sweet melody sounded more like a heard of angry elephants trumpeting beneath my bed, or perhaps like every party favor in the world braaataaataaating in my helmet. For once I understood the looks of hatred I’ve occasionally seen tired hung-over fighters give Drix, even as they drag themselves out of their tents for muster. For once I understood the muttered suggestions of anatomical improbabilities that could be performed with his trumpet, or the shapes it could be bent into.

In short waking up sucked! And Andrixos was the handy target of all the suckitude. The Saxons could not have disliked the Norman invaders any more. The English could not have detested the French troops at Agincourt, who even in defeat attacked the English baggage train and slaughtered camp followers, any more. No crusader at the fall of Acre hated the Moslems more than I hated Drix, my friend of close to three decades, in that moment.

But even with so little sleep, within a moment or two of dragging myself from my bed, my brain finally woke up enough to whisper two little words to my adrenal glands.

“Foreign war!” Suddenly adrenaline was pounding, and I was ready for a day with the Calon Host! By the time the next round of the trumpet calls sounded, I was once again thrilled to hear its melodic notes, and my comrade Andrixos’ wondrous call of, “Arise Calontir!”

For I had remembered once more that the muster call does not mean, “You have to get up and fight.” No, my friends, it means something far more precious. It means, “You GET to get up and fight with Calontir.”

Thanks Drix!