|
|
Whooped and Swooped
|
The brisk wind of early summer drew its warm breath across the dusty plain of the village green. Banner and flag stood out from their supporting tethers as if to defy the earthly bond which relentlessly drew them downward. The stands were packed with people from all over the Kingdom and neighboring realms. Men, women, children and the occasional family mascot were all in attendance. Concessionaires and the Bagel Vendor roamed and barked from within the gathered masses selling drinks, peanuts and ale.
Arrayed across the field were all manner of Knightly representation. Some mounted on their most capable steeds, some on foot and others in places of official observation. To a man they had come, dressed in their dearest and proudest coats of arms and armor to uphold traditions which predated them all. Alongside they had various members of their inner courts, squire and page alike, tending to their many needs. Dressed as such for combat, they found everyday tasks like taking a simple drink of water difficult and the assistance was needed and appreciated. Scattered about were fair maidens, each a vision and worth fighting for in her own right, chatting, helping, and, sometimes, outright flirting.
A great excitement permeated the people as they looked on to the festivities. Seldom in the kingdom was a greater time had than that of the annual Medieval Tournaments. Family as well as individual honor was at stake and the competition was fierce. All day long the Knightly contestants would gallop, combat and push their physical selves to exhaustion. At the end of the day, one would be named above all else as the most capable defender of peace and tranquility in the land. Only one would be presented with the laurel and scepter by the Queen to possess and brag about for the next year. Just one.
In the center field, a long fence structure ran parallel to the main stands. Its length exceeded the stands by a good margin. At either end resided a small community of various disciplines. Squires, pages, nobility, officials and privileged residents with “infield” passes were milling about the grounds. The media were present to report on the day’s events with fact and embellishment. (mostly embellishment). Each of these little communities within the main were busied with various sundry tasks; sprucing the fine fabrics and tunics, polishing the armor until sunlight gleamed from it and arming the mounted riders with appropriate apparatus for the given events.
Sitting proudly atop their proud mounts were the cream of nobility, Knights all, each having earned the right to compete and defend peace.
In a special box, just apart from the main joust lanes and prominently above them, was the judges’ box. From there the observance and maintenance of fair play was carried out. In any competition, no matter what the cause, an exuberance, most often leading to outright circumvention of the rules, will ensue and it is the judges job to see that while the skill and tenacity of the participants were pushed to their earthly limits, those limits were not exceeded by un-sportsman like conduct. Honor, above all, was key.
For countless years the irreproachable official had been, yeah, you guessed it, the Dragon. It was his one and only time to “peacefully” interact with the good folk of the Kingdom and “Ole’ Toasterbreath” relished his responsibilities. Always fair, always in the thick of things and always, always without question.
Well, ALMOST without question.
The criers made their way to the center court and, one having won the coin toss, elected to announce his master last, as the follower had the upper hand when announcing HIS nobleman to the fans. These “introductions” would sometimes take forever as the pages would embellish the spiels with colorful descriptions, using such words as “The great”, “The wonderful”, “The stupendous”, (I know, I know, I looked it up!), and so forth, whipping the crowd into a frenzy concerning a particular contestant. An occasional “wave” would break out in the stands and go back and forth several times before dying out.
The “odds on” favorite this year was Sir Hammer’itt. He’d been high in the point standings and had placed in every event this year leading up to the “biggy”. This was the final challenge, the big event, “all the marbles”, so to speak. The overall winner here was the so called “Big Man on Campus” for the rest of the year. But, it also meant he had a lofty reputation to uphold going into the next year. Spectator loyalty was fickle and often swung dramatically from year to year. In a way that kept things from getting lop-sided. Every “dog” has his day you know.
Now the Dragon made his way to the fore of the Judges box and the flagman signaled the necessity to begin things. As the flagman fluttered his communications, the contestants moved to the starting lines. Sir Hammer’itt had drawn the “inside lane” this year and it could be the deciding factor as it was just slightly drier than the other side of the jousting fence. He met with thunderous applause as he assumed his place at one end of the jousting lane. Heavily laden with armor and rider the horses needed every advantage to gain the edge. A trusty steed was often the making or breaking of a given heat. Of course, there were rules about such things. The horses this year had to compete with “restrictor bridles” (blinders). And, then, there were the “height restrictions……………!”
(Yeah, I borrowed it from NASCAR and no, they don’t know about it so keep it quiet, will ya!)
At the other end of the lanes, Sir Wench’alot sat proudly atop his horse. His horse, no less decorated, displayed the Wench’alot coat of arms with a pride just short of conceit. Its ribbons and bright colors shown in the midday sunlight like a beacon in the night. His Chaffron (head armor) was polished to the point of absurdity. He snorted, shifted his weight from side to side and occasionally pawed the ground with his hooves. Every once in a while he’d trumpet his impatience with a loud whinny which would serve to make the crowd ooh and awe in unison.
The Dragon himself was brightly bedecked. His black and white striped tunic stood out from his pale green mottled skin. The white pants were almost too tight for him. (An overt attempt to mask the “broadening” of age with vanity). His black “umpire’s” hat looked distinctly out of place atop his horned head. He’d gone to the blacksmith and had two holes punched so that it fit down over them. Made for a snug fit. And now, the crowd drew silent as the Dragon raised his starting flag. Even the Bagel Vendor stopped in muted isolation. With his chrome plated whistle he stood stoically in the front of the box, the starter’s flag hanging limply from his outstretched arm and surveyed the scene from lane to lane and end to end, causing the crowd to duck with each sweep of his tail.
Satisfied that all was within providence, and with a small eschewing of black smoke from his nostrils, he dropped the flag to his side with a swift movement of his arm. Although the horses needed no encouragement, the Knights both applied generous amounts of heel into their sides. Both horses leaped from the starting lines and accelerated to full gallop alongside the dividing fence of the jousting lanes. Accelerating still, both horses seemed eager to score points as they careened headlong towards the other. Both Knights carried long poles, called lances, with cone-shaped structures toward the bottom. These, “Vamplates”, as they were called, allowed the rider to grip the lance while protecting his hand. As these were “friendly” competitions no one was supposed to get hurt. To that end the lances themselves were blunted on the ends so as not to puncture the armor of the opposing riders. They would however, if struck just so, knock someone into last week. Points were awarded for a solid hit and extra points were awarded for the amount of damage or displacement that occurred. To absolutely un-horse another rider was the highest points available.
Now these horsemen rode with increasing determination. The view each had of one another through the armored helmets was limited at best. Their vision was confined to a narrow band directly in front of them and this served to magnify the picture they saw, which in this case, was a crisp and intimidating picture of a speeding juggernaut of honor, metal and horseflesh, colorfully adorned.
Closing now, each rider used the narrow vision he had to pick his point of aim. Each had approximately the same reach and capability. Skill, boiling down to mere inches of maneuvering, was usually the telling trait. For the speeding lance to impact the other’s armor a split second before his own was all it took. In a fraction of a second the full force of horse, rider and Chivalry would hit, causing your own momentum to suddenly reverse itself and send you sailing from your horse to crash-land on the ground with a thud and clatter seldom heard under any other circumstance.
The ground was rushing under the horses now as each rider approached the other. Their lances lowered and their bodies hunkered down to give that last bit of confidence and, hopefully, the edge. The crowd was standing now as the racing combatants were almost on top of one another, both bracing for impact.
In the blink of an eye they met. A loud crack, followed by a loud gasping sound from mesmerized onlookers reverberated amongst the wooden grandstands. A split second later, Sir Hammer’itt, having miscalculated the other’s reach, took the full force of the impact and it sent him tumbling end over end across the back of his horse and eventually into the dirt, mud and sawdust of the jousting lane. Sliding somewhat before coming to a stop in the dirt, he was met rather quickly by the young squires appointed to clear “debris” from the lanes and aid speedy competition. Assisting the Knight to his feet, helping him clear the dirt and grass from his armor, retrieving his horse and reminding him of what day it was comprised their sole duties. Often, a dazed Knight had to be assisted all the way back to his waiting area, slowly regaining his senses as the day wore on.
(Directly after such impacts many of the pages and squires were bewildered to hear their masters demand of them to “answer the phone.” As telephones hadn’t been invented yet one had to wonder just what the source of the “ringing sound” was? Hmmm.)
In the next heat, Sir Bounderbutt faced off against Sir Wisabunch. The heat was a dead even finish as neither scored a direct hit. An argument ensued in which the Dragon ended up ejecting Bounderbutt from the competition because of “unspecified accusations” against his ruling. At one point, Bounderbutt and the Dragon were face to face, carrying on a loud discourse about each other’s contributions to sports and society in general.
Sometime later, in the hand to hand combat, Sir Whoopsalot and Sir Grumbly squared off against each other and when the “umpire”, ruled Sir Grumbly “out”, an all-out donnybrook broke out at mid-field. Before it was all over the Dragon had ejected a half-dozen members of the Knight corps, two squires and somebody’s wife. Instant replay had him clearly out of the “smasher’s box” but several Knights, a squire and the Bagel Vendor erupted in verbal aggression, vigorously maintaining he was “safe”, resulting in tirades and ejections from the games. At one point the Bagel Vendor was in the Dragons face, kicking dirt on his (new) shoes and talking very badly about the Dragon’s heritage, officiating abilities, eyesight and the like. Everyone in the crowd dived under their seats when the Dragon turned his hat around backwards. You get the idea.
The day wore on with many episodes of Chivalry, skill, daring and outright underhandedness. The day ended with one Knight being hailed as the Grand Champion. Actually, it was more of a case of surviving with his wits intact than anything else.
In the concluding ceremonies the Queen gracefully descended from her place in the Royal box suite and presented Sir Lunchalot his trophy and a laurel. He graciously accepted the accolades and then proceeded to faint dead away, crashing face first to the ground with a clatter and a large cloud of dust.
Darkness brought a close to this year’s tournaments. Reputations were upheld, constructed or otherwise misconstrued. The blacksmiths had enough work to last nearly the next year. The Wizard was doing a Land office business at the “walk” (stagger) in clinic. Somebody’s horse was signing autographs. The Dragon and the Bagel Vendor were over at the Tavern, loudly debating the day’s events. The “Purple Shirt” gang was at the table next to them, discussing their prohibitions from participating. There would be a protest filed. Sir Whoopsalot, the Bishop and the King were still sitting in the stands, comparing wager cards. When all was totaled the King owed Whoopy a small fortune. The King wanted to know if Whoopy would take an “I.O.U.” Squire and page alike were busy grooming the horses, putting the armor plates back together and bragging about how THEIR particular skills made the difference. And how, one day, they’d show everyone how it was REALLY done out there in the lanes. Carpenters were busy trying to repair a section of the infield barrier wall. One of the horses developed a sneezing fit during the joust and ran headlong into the wall, causing a great hole and scattering wreckage all around.
Twilight came and left a tranquil Kingdom where earlier there had been much
vanity, insanity, and humanity. Oh, and the Dragon of course.
Yep. All was quiet once more in the Kingdom of Plunkersham Forest.
Except, over at Lady Tightbottice’s house……………….!
IT’S a LIVING!
|
|
|
