Fair Games

FAIR GAMES

a Greenmeadows story by Stephen Brooke

Two elderly gentlemen strolled beside the river. The bald but sprightly fellow with the long white mustaches everyone knew; Sir Grissol Greenmeadows was a legendary adventurer in his youth and a voice of reason in his old age—a voice his liege, the King of Carambola, frequently needed to hear.

The other man, portly and bearded, was a mystery to many. A very few knew this was the human form of the retired dragon Ransax, who owned a commodious cave in the Principality of Pitanga. Greenmeadows spoke only of him as his friend Randy.

“I’m glad there is no jousting at this fair,” said Randy. “Knights with spears always make me nervous.”

“Don’t care for ’em that much myself. Leave fighting to the battlefield, I say, and find more enjoyable forms of recreation.” His eyes lingered on Dame Amanita as she passed by.

“Women are the most dangerous recreation of all,” opined Ransax. As most dragons, he avoided the opposite sex except during mating season.

“But worth the rewards, my friend! Even when one loses the game.”

“Hmmph. No one wins that game. The wise quit when they’re ahead. Or not too far behind.”

Sir Grissol only shook his head. “There are dragon sports, I would assume.”

“To be sure. When I was young I would enjoy a bit of one-on-one air hockey. The idea is to keep the, um, puck from hitting the ground. That’s a point for the other dragon.”

“Puck?”

“Oh, we would use whatever was handy—sheep, knights, boulders. We’d toss them around for hours, though some hold up better than others. Once a sheep has been spiked into the ground it’s pretty useless.”

Grissol preferred not to ask about knights. Even in full armor, he suspected they would soon need replacement.

Two other not-so-old gentlemen strolled toward them. Both these were quite well known for they were the respective rulers of Pitanga and Carambola, which lay on either side of the river. They styled themselves friendly rivals but anyone could tell they were most unfriendly. On this one day of the Fair, the two must be civil to each other.

Each had a long, ground-brushing beard. They had been competing to outgrow each other’s whiskers since they were in their teens. There was still no clear winner.

This was a day they did hope to name winners. Hidalgus and Barbacuso took great interest in the competitions between the citizens of their realms.

“Your highnesses,” Grissol greeted them. Strictly speaking, perhaps, the Prince of Pitanga did not qualify as an ‘highness.’ It was better not to chance slighting him.

Hidalgus of Carambola returned the greeting. They were ambling along his side of the River Acerola so that was proper. “Lord Ransax. Sir Grissol.”

Barbacuso mumbled something similar.

“Enjoy the fair, gentlemen,” Hidalgus went on. “It promises to be a good day for Carambola.” Prince Barabacuso scowled at that. “By the way, Ransax, I appreciate what you did for my boy Pedro.”

“He’s a good lad,” said Ransax.

“That he is,” agreed Barabacuso. “Takes after his mother.” By which he meant Queen Styrfreya, who just happened to be the prince’s sister.

Grissol felt the boy took after no one in either family.

“Always a welcome visitor at my cave,” the dragon went on. “Glad to help him get settled.” He bowed to the monarchs and both pairs passed on their ways.

“Settled far from here,” he confided when they were beyond earshot. “With a good wife and a crown awaiting him.”

“He’s one man who won the game of romance,” observed Grissol.

“Maybe so. At least the first round. Is this a game being played here?” There were two crowds of peasants at either end of a grassy space. Someone in the group to their left shouted out, “Red Rober, Red Rober, send beer to the sober!”

Two men in long red robes raced across the field with full foaming flagons. “It seems to be,” ventured Sir Grissol. “What the rules might be I’ve no idea.” If there were rules. “It might just be an excuse to drink beer.”

“Since when have the men of either realm needed an excuse?”

“Giles spilled more,” a voice called out. “A point for Pitanga!”

“It is an excuse to drink beer,” noted Ransax. The man and the dragon strolled on.

Other games were played all about them. A group of youngsters were engrossed in Roll Out, rolling each other down a hill and betting on whether they would end up on one of the black or red blankets spread at the bottom. If they rolled off onto the green grass it didn’t count. A tournament of Parmesancheesi attracted older—but just as avid—players. Vendors wandered through the crowd, loudly hawking their wares, trinkets and treats.

Some of the treats ended up being used in a game of Biscuit Ball between two packs of unruly children. The object seemed to be to pelt each other with them. Nearby, a rowdy group of teenagers played Smear the Peer. They took turns chasing and piling atop whichever lad wore a paper crown. The boys were decidedly enthusiastic about both smashing and smearing. Especially as young ladies happened to be watching.

Grissol had already been an esquire at their age. That position had provided him with more effective means of impressing girls.

“They say we’re all even,” a passerby commented to his mate. “Them Pitangans are tougher ’n they look.”

“We’ll get ’em in the next game. It should be a drinkin’ game. Carambolans always win those!”

Out in the field ahead of them, a group was playing Spin the Tail on the Donkey. The donkey was being most recalcitrant about this, refusing to allow his tail to turn clockwise. “It’s sorcery!” claimed a man in a robe that might have once been white. “The Carambolans have bewitched the beast.”

“Right,” groused another. “They’ve put a spell on the old fellow so his tail only goes the one way.”

“I assume,” whispered Randy, “that Pitangans and Carmabolans want it to turn different directions.”

Grissol nodded. “And the poor donkey doesn’t want it to spin at all. That’s Brother Rencoro complaining, isn’t it? He always finds something.”

The man suddenly stood up straight, raising his arms to the sky. “No more cheating! I call upon the demon of sports!” he cried out. “Great N’ca’a, attend us!”

“Not again,” someone sighed.

“Every time!” said another.

“Rencoro is an amateur wizard,” the knight confided to Ransax. “He just has to summon something every now and again.”

An odd figure was taking form before their eyes. Its most striking feature was its black and white stripes. And its head, which was a great shiny whistle. It whistled loudly now. “Anyone who doesn’t quiet down goes in the penalty box,” it declared.

“Penalty box?” whispered Ransax.

“It’s wearing it on its belt. Never goes anywhere without it.”

The dragon eyed it. “I don’t believe I’d fit.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Hmm. I believe I’d just as soon not find out.”

The demon N’ca’a went over to the donkey and tickled its rear with a grass stalk. The tail spun clockwise. “No penalty! Resume play!”

Brother Rencoro at once jumped up. “That ain’t right, sir! They were obviously cheating!”

“N’ca’a’s decisions on the field will not be questioned! To the penalty box!” With that he stuffed the man, long robe and all, into his box. There were subdued murmurs all around but no more complaints.

With that, the demon made the rounds of the ongoing games, blowing his whistle and assigning penalties as he saw necessary. Very rarely did anyone else see them necessary but that did not seem to bother him. “There goes all our fun,” Grissol heard, and, “We might as well head home.”

Maybe he and Ransax should go as well, he was thinking, when the two monarchs moved far too purposefully in their direction. No chance to dodge them.

“We’re ahead,” declared Hidalgus of Carambola, “and there’s just one game to go.”

Barbacuso scowled. “You’re only up one point.”

“So you could end in a draw?” asked Ransax.

Both scowled now. “No one wants that.” Hidalgus turned to his rival. “Let’s make it a two of three sort of thing so I can beat you soundly.”

Barbacuso seemed to be thinking this through. He brightened suddenly. “Oh, I could win, I mean, Pitanga could win overall if we take all three. You’re on, Hidalgus.”

“So what is this final contest?” asked Ransax. Grissol knew already.

“Tug of war. And we want you two to captain our teams.”

That, Grissol had not known. “Surely you’d want younger men, your highnesses. We’re not going to add much muscle.”

“But plenty of weight,” Prince Barbacuso pointed out. “Now, let’s get to it.”

They slowly got their teams sorted out. Some of the men weren’t sure which country they belonged with, this late in the day. Eventually, a score grasped each end of the stout rope, with Grissol and Ransax in the anchor positions—as far from the mud puddle between them as possible. Each had quite independently decided to let go if they were pulled anywhere near it.

So there was groaning and growling and pulling and straining for a few minutes before the Pitangans slowly began to slide forward. It wasn’t much longer before the first of them reached the mud.

“Carambola wins the first round,” announced N’ca’a. There was cheering and more beering. Grissol made sure to wave to Dame Amanita. This was his own opportunity to impress girls.

Barbacuso was close to complete defeat. Even he could recognize that. “There’s no rule we have to use the same teams for the next round, is there?” he asked.

Hidalgus only laughed. “I’m all right with it. You’ve already had your best men beaten.”

“Then I challenge you to make it women against women this time.”

The King of Carambola considered it only a moment. “Why not? There’s no chance we can lose now.” He gave N’ca’a a sidelong look. “Any rules against it?”

“None. But it will have to be all women on each side.”

“Looks like we can sit this one out, my friend,” Grissol told Ransax. The dragon only nodded and went off to confer with his prince after a while.

Something was banging inside the penalty box. N’ca’a glanced down at it. “Another twenty seconds,” he said. “Are our teams ready?”

They were, and looked every bit as sturdy as the contestants in the previous round. Strong farm girls, stout serving maids and cooks, grabbed the rope and pulled with their combined strength and weight. This time, it was the Carambolans who were finally edged into the mud.

Sometime during the struggle, Brother Rencoro had been released, seemingly none the worse for wear. He did complain of a sore back for several days thereafter. “Cramped in there, it was,” he complained to any who would listen.

Hidalgus was unhappy but he was still ahead. The best his rival could manage was a draw. However, just to be safe, he insisted, “Men again this time.”

Barbacus smiled. “All my contestants will be male.”

And Ransax would anchor the team—as a dragon. He had transformed while the women contended and now strolled onto the field.

“Hey, yer bringin’ in a ringer!” someone complained.

“I assure you, sir, I am the same Ransax who pulled a few minutes ago.”

“Will you allow this?” Hidalgus demanded of N’ca’a.

The demon gave the dragon an up and down perusal. “It is indeed the same individual. And he is a citizen of Pitanga, is he not?” Both monarchs nodded, one smiling gleefully, the other more morose. “He may play.”

“Must we let him get away with this?” Hidalgus hissed in Grissols’ ear.

The knight was afraid they would have to. The only solution would have been to find another dragon dwelling in Carambola—one as fat as Ransax.

The conclusion was never in any question. So they were still tied for this year’s championship.

A loud whistle split the air. “Overtime!” declared the Demon of Sports.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with a draw,” sighed Grissol. “It’s honorable.”

“And people do want to go home,” Ransax added.

“Anyone who tries to leave goes in the penalty box,” threatened N’ca’a. Some had already slipped away. Too late to penalize them.

“So what do we play?” came a voice from the remaining crowd.

“How ’bout Cotton Bowling?” someone answered.

“Or a foot race to our houses!”

N’ca’a looked about, trying to pinpoint the offender.

“May I suggest a Tan Fan match?” spoke up Sir Grissol. “I’ll play for Carambola and Ransax here will represent Pitanga.”

“Tan Fan?” asked the demon. “I, um, am a bit rusty on the rules.”

“No problem. We are experts.” He gave Hidalgus a sly wink. “Do our monarchs approve?”

“To be sure,” said the Carambolan.

Barbacuso looked confused but his brother-in-law jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “Agree, fool, or we’ll be here all night.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Let them play, um—”

“Tan Fan, my liege,” said Ransax. “Shall I deal?”

“By all means. Do we have two and a half decks?”

“Indeed, but I couldn’t find a chess board. Will checkers work?”

“In a pinch. A hand for me, a hand for you, a hand for the idiot.”

“And one folded in the middle of the board,” added Ransax.

“Blue Stu!” cried out Grissol.

“Ah, but two eights and a four make Green Jean,” Ransax pointed out.

“Only if the idiot plays it.”

“This is like Black Jack?” asked N’ca’a.

“Never heard of it. Three twos. You’ll have to throw them over your shoulder. No, the left one.”

And so it progressed, cards played, cards withdrawn, cards turned into tiny flying darts.

“White Knight.”

“Oh, very good. That’s what, six and a third points?”

“Added to the negative four, that puts me in the lead.”

“Ha! Orange, you lose,” crowed Ransax.

“Why?” wondered the demon.

“Because nothing rhymes with orange, of course.”

“Unless it’s a Purple Orange,” Ransax pointed out.

“Oh, quite so. Ha! Tan Fan!”

N’ca’a peered at the cards. “But didn’t you have this hand before?”

“But there were a pair of sixes in play two deals back,” explained Ransax.

“I’m playing my mild card,” stated Grissol. “Nothing we’ve done before counts.”

“Aiee! Enough. I declare this game a draw.” With that, N’ca’a disappeared.

Hidalgus was simply glad the day was over. Barbacuso was still trying to puzzle out the rules of Tan Fan.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021