Isle of Wysteria: The Reluctant Queen

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Eighlo lowered his arms and stopped cheering. He turned to look at Alder. “You're kind of a killjoy, aren’t you?”

  “I've been called worse.”

  Sevtah, the regional champion, began his match against Twikol, the challenger from District Eleven. Sevtah kicked out the ball with his foot, then punched with one hand, the block of manoi copying his movements. The manoi block hit the ball, sending it speeding at his opponent, who punched it back with his own block. The ball bounced off the roof of the manoi cage, then came back down towards Sevtah’s net. Sevtah blocked and sent it speeding back.

  The crowd went absolutely berserk. So many ale bottles were thrown out onto the pitch that they began to pile up in great heaps against the cage.

  Back and forth the ball sped, bouncing off the manoi blocks and the cage, sometimes so fast it was hard to keep track of it. At times, the players would punch the ball back and forth at each other. Other times, they would bounce the ball against the manoi walls and ceiling of the cage, searching for an obscure angle to get past their opponent and into their net.

  Eighlo jumped up and down in his chair, waving his banners for Sevtah. Hanner ordered another ale. Mina, unable to stand the noise any longer, ordered a bag of taffy and stuffed the soft candies into her ears to block out the sound. Setsuna grumpily threw pieces of popcorn at the back of Athel’s head. Athel pretended not to notice.

  The match dragged on and on. The excitement and novelty quickly wore off as the game revealed a basic flaw in its design. By placing both of their manoi squares together, it was possible for each athlete to completely cover their own net. So, anytime things got moving too fast, both players would cover their own nets and let the ball bounce around wildly until it settled. This constant process of start, then guard, start, then guard, kind of blurred together after a while.

  “How long have we been here now?” Athel complained, leaning on her cheek.

  “About two hours,” Privet answered.

  “What’s the score?”

  “Zero to zero.”

  “Ugh!”

  Eighlo stopped waving his banners and sat down. His excitement seemed indefatigable. “You don’t seem to be having fun,” he observed, snapping open a fresh bottle of ale.

  “That’s because I come from an island with real entertainment, so watching them kick the ball up and down the field without ever scoring a point isn’t fun for me,” Athel moaned.

  “Maybe something exciting will happen,” Privet suggested.

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe the bleachers will collapse.”

  Privet chuckled. Athel forced herself to chuckle as well, but her heart wasn’t in it. She had been running from her responsibilities for so long and now they had nearly caught up with her. She felt defeated. She felt like she had given up.

  “You guys have it all wrong,” Hanner slurred as he drank another ale, his feet completely concealed by the pile of empty bottles on the ground beneath him. “Thizz iz dah greatish game evah!” Hanner stood up and took off his shirt, spinning it around in the air above him. He drunkenly cheered, first for one side, then for the other. “Ole!...Ole! Ole! Ole!”

  It was then that Twikol made a mistake. Hours of exertion had made him slower, sloppier. He pressed an attack too far forward, moving up almost to the midway mark. Sevtah blocked the attempt on his net, then hooked his manoi blocks over Twikol’s and yanked back, pulling Twikol off-balance and knocking him to the ground. Twikol tried to move his blocks to protect his net, but Sevtah pinned them to the ground. Sevtah kicked the ball with his foot, the ball rolling across the field and passing into his opponent’s net.

  “Finally,” Athel groaned.

  The crowd went frothing mad. Fights broke out in nearly all of the stands. Hair was pulled, teeth were knocked out, bottles were broken, people were thrown. In one place, Twikol fans managed to overwhelm security and a dozen of them ran out onto the the pitch, screaming and hollering like wild savages as additional security ran after them. Watching the drunken streakers get tackled turned out to be far more exciting than the game itself had ever been. Hanner, in particular, loved the way the Sutorian’s short little legs flitted about as they chased each other.

  “This is your chance, Princess,” Setsuna prompted with a fresh volley of popcorn.

  The announcer came out, his voice almost completely lost among the roar of the crowd. In his small hand, he held a golden bracelet in the air and handed it to Sevtah. Sevtah clamped the bracelet on his bicep and pumped his fist into the air, shouting in his native tongue.

  “What are they saying?” Alder asked Eighlo, who was in the process of pouring an entire bottle of ale over his head.

  “Since the game ended early, the regional champion is opening the ring to any amateurs that want to face him.”

  “’Bout freaking time,” Captain Evere grumbled. “Now one of us just has to challenge him.”

  Athel perked up. I’m not defeated yet. Not completely anyway. I still have today to be myself, and I’m not going to waste it.

  “Oh, I’m going to do it,” Athel gushed.

  “Why you, lass?”

  Athel rose in her seat. “Because I’m the one who wants it the most.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Privet criticized. “If anything, you should be the last one of us to go out there. What if someone recognizes you?”

  Athel straightened her uniform. “No, I have to do this, because I've never done it before and I want to try new things.”

  “So take up pottery.”

  “Wish me luck.” Athel jumped up and bounded down the aisle, her long red ponytail bouncing behind her.

  “Just remember, all you have to do is get injured so they give you some of the mushroom,” Privet called out as she hurdled over the bars.

  Seeing an opening, Setsuna happily left her seat and came down to the empty seat next to Privet.

  “Oh, sorry, this seat is taken,” he explained, blocking her with his hand.

  Setsuna twirled her green pigtail with her finger. “No it isn’t, see?”

  “Well, she isn’t in it, but it is still her seat.”

  Setsuna’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed.

  “I mean it, it’s a...Wysterian tradition. Very serious, something you would never ever violate, even on pain of death.”

  Alder’s head came up to correct him, but Privet silenced him with a glance.

  Setsuna shrugged. “Okay.” She straightened her short skirt and sat down on Privet’s lap. “I'll just sit with you instead,” she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Ugh”

  Athel shoved aside a local challenger and walked into the center of the arena. The cage walls came down as she approached. Already, opportunistic Sutorians in the stands were giving odds and placing bets. Within just a few moments, a frightful amount of money had changed hands.

  “Who is little girl that comes into the cage with the great Sevtah?” her opponent asked as he raised his fist. His voice was surprisingly deep and gravelly for someone his size.

  “What do you mean little?” Athel quipped. “I’m more than twice your height.”

  The officials looked at each other, uncertain of what to do. One of them took out a small book of metal plates and began scanning through them, looking for a relevant rules declaration. The crowd, for its part, gave off a mixed reaction, some excited to see a foreigner get beaten, some offended at the prospect of an outsider being allowed to participate. Others simply emptied the contents of their stomachs onto the floor beneath them.

  Finally, the officials shrugged at one another and allowed the match. The cage walls came back up, and the scoreboard was replaced by six torches, three behind each net.

  Hardening his two manoi blocks, Sevtah crouched into a fighting stance.

  Taking out her staff, Athel tossed a seed on the ground, and a few moments later, two gigantic roots sprouted up out of the dirt, one on either side of her. “So, what’s the tradition aro
und here, are we supposed to announce our lineage or anything?”

  Sevtah kicked the ball up into the air with his foot, then slammed into it with a block, punching forward as hard as he could. The speed and angle caught Athel completely off guard. Instead of trying to bounce it around her, he had hit it straight at her. The ball hit Athel in the midsection, sliding her back along the dirt. Her roots moved in behind her and kept her from falling over, but she fell to one knee, the wind clearly knocked out of her.

  “This is tradition, to cut down the tall, bring them to their knees,” Sevtah boasted, pumping his fists in the air, encouraging the audience to cheer louder and louder.

  Up in the stands, Setsuna cheered louder than everyone around her. “Yassa! Go Princess! Let him beat the bog out of you!”

  “You're really getting into this, aren’t you?” Privet observed.

  Athel coughed painfully a few times then stood up again, gripping her staff with both hands. She took a step forward to kick the ball, while Sevtah anticipated the direction and moved his blocks into place. A split second before her boot hit the ball, one of her roots grabbed it and pulled in underground. Athel’s foot kicked nothing but empty space, and when Sevtah moved to stop the ball, there was nothing to block. For a moment, they both stood there. Sevtah looked around, trying to figure out where the ball was. Then there was a rumble and Athel’s root reemerged inside of Sevtah’s net, the ball wrapped up in it.

  The crowd booed and roared in outrage. So many bottles were thrown out onto the pitch that had not the cage protected her Athel very well may have been killed. Sevtah pointed at her and yelled at the officials in his native tongue. The officials yelled at her as well.

  “Why does everyone always accuse me of cheating?” Athel complained.

  In the stands, Setsuna grabbed the popcorn out of Privet’s hand and threw it, dousing the rows in front of them.

  “She’s a recalcitrant!” Setsuna yelled. “Toss the bum out!”

  “Why are you encouraging them to eject her?” Alder asked. “If she is disqualified, we won’t get the mushroom.”

  “I’m just getting into the spirit of the game,” Setsuna teased, tapping him on the nose with a manicured finger.

  “She’s always like this,” Privet critiqued. “I don’t know what it is about her, but no matter the game she always has to cheat.”

  “She’s not cheating,” Alder corrected. “At least, she doesn’t see it that way. When you present most people with a problem, they will begin with a framework of rules and then construct a strategy within those rules. Lady Forsythia doesn’t do that. She examines every possibility in the absence of rules, and then selects the most efficient course. It’s just part of the way she thinks. In this case, she selected a method whereby she can score every time she gets the ball without any possibility of being blocked.”

  “Sounds kind of amoral. She'd fit right in with some of the Guilds I know,” Setsuna criticized as she snuggled in close to Privet. “You don’t want to be saddled with someone like that, do you Privet?”

  “It could be amoral,” Alder admitted, “except that she also filters her decisions by what she considers to be right and wrong. That is also part of who she is.”

  “So the only rules she respects are her own?” Ryin summarized as he leaned back and tucked his hands behind his head. “I knew there was a reason she fits in so well around here.”

  “Except that you're missing a huge point, lad,” Captain Evere illustrated.

  Alder blinked and leaned over to him. “What is that, Captain?”

  “She’s supposed to be losing.”

  After some squabbling in their native tongue, the senior official walked up to Athel, his long white goatee nearly touching the ground beneath him. “Your goal does not count, because the ball went below ground.”

  Athel folded her arms. “Can you show me a specific rule that disallows taking the ball underground?”

  “Well...no, but it is expected that...”

  “An expectation is not a rule,” Athel argued. “Doing the unexpected to throw your opponent off guard is part of any game. Are his goals also going to be discounted if I do not expect them?”

  The senior official held up his hand. “I do not wish to debate this with you. Either continue the game or quit.”

  Athel watched the old man slowly waddle away as the cage came back up.

  I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s an accountant, a priest, or a referee; a Sutorian is always a Sutorian.

  Sevtah dropped down again and slammed the ball hard to one side, zig-zagging it across the field to Athel’s side. Athel had a hard time following it, and was forced to use both her roots to finally grab the ball just before it entered her net.

  Sevtah punched one of his blocks forward right at her. Athel leapt up, allowing it to pass under her. As she came back down, he pulled and reversed the block’s direction. Athel brought one root over and caught the block, the air crackled with energy as the two struggled to overcome one another.

  Sevtah spun around, sending his second block around in an angle that came up on Athel’s blindside.

  “Athel, look out!” Privet yelled, but his voice was lost in the crowd.

  The block slammed into Athel, smashing her painfully into the manoi wall of the cage and pinning her there.

  Sevtah pumped his hands into the air as the crowd went wild. “Do you see my fists? Dey are stronger than the steel!”

  Setsuna threw handfuls of confetti into the air and cheered, kicking her feet up and down.

  “Where did she get the confetti?” Ryin asked aloud.

  “Will you stop squirming?” Privet complained as Setsuna nuzzled back into his neck. “When you wiggle your backside like that it hurts my legs.”

  “I can’t help it,” Setsuna purred. “When I’m with you I get all happy and I wag my tail.”

  “Your people don’t have tails,” Privet corrected.

  “Don’t we?” she teased.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Come on, girl, show a little feminine modesty, would ya’?” Mina requested.

  Setsuna covered her mouth in shock and pointed at Mina’s face. “Oh my, are you getting little crow’s feet in the corners of your eyes?”

  “What!?” Mina yelped. She reached into her purse and frantically pulled out her mirror, obsessively checking for wrinkles.

  Down in the ring, Sevtah withdrew his blocks and Athel nearly fell to the ground. Amber-colored blood trickled down her face, and she clutched an injured arm painfully. Fire burned brightly in her eyes. She glanced over at the senior official, who had the whistle to his lips but had not blown it. Despite her injuries, Athel’s root still held the ball.

  Athel held up her staff and the root grew around the ball, concealing it in a round tangle of rootlets. The other root grew into the same shape. Sevtah prepared himself as the two roots spun around each other, so fast that it was impossible to track which was which, then they shot out in opposite directions. Unable to know which one contained the ball, he moved his blocks together to guard his net. Athel twisted her staff and one of her roots wrapped itself around his leg and yanked him towards her. His blocks followed his motion, pulling away from the net just as her second root zipped into the net and deposited the ball.

  For a moment the crowd was stunned, then quickly recovered, delivering a string of obscenities in every language they knew.

  One of the three torches behind Sevtah was extinguished.

  “Put me down, little tree-witch!” Sevtah yelled as he dangled in the air.

  Athel wiped some of the blood from her face and spun her staff back and forth around her as dramatically as she could. Planting it into the ground, she held up her hand over her ear and leaned to one side as if she couldn’t hear.

  “Oh no,” Privet said as he watched.

  “What is she doing?” Alder asked.

  “She’s trying to get the crowd to yell at her louder.”

  “Come on, is tha
t the most noise you can make?” Athel yelled, coaxing the crowd to cheer louder. Normally, the sensation of having so many people hanging on her every move would have been intoxicating, but she felt empty inside.

  No, stop it, she yelled at herself. This is your last day. Enjoy yourself. Have fun.

  The sound of so many people booing at once was impressive, a kind of low moan multiplied thousands of times over, as if the world itself were wailing.

  Sevtah came to his feet and wiped the spittle from his mouth. “Now, I make you cry like little baby,” he threatened.

  Kicking the ball as he ran, Sevtah smashed his two blocks in front of him like a battering ram and charged straight at her. Athel jumped up over the wall and sent her roots around and at him. Her first root split into five segments and pinned her opponent to the ground like a hand.

  Sevtah twisted his blocks and shot them upwards, catching Athel and sending her speeding up towards the ceiling of the cage to be crushed. She rolled away just in time as the blocks hammered into the roof.

  Athel landed next to him, and somersaulted to her feet. His two blocks appeared on either side of her, ready to crush her like a bug, but the officials blew their whistles, stopping the play.

  Sevtah struggled to turn his head as her root held him, but when he finally looked behind him saw the ball sitting neatly in his net. With her second root, Athel had managed to scoop up the ball and drop it in.

  Her root released him. Sevtah hollered with anger and came up to his feet. As his second torch was extinguished, the crowd began to turn on him. Red- quartered banners were discarded, threats breathed out. Fan club jackets were torn to shreds or, in some places, set afire in growing piles. Those that had been taking bets tore up their receipts and scattered the pieces to the wind. So many bits of paper were being thrown into the air that from a distance, it looked like a mist was gathering over the bleachers.

  “Looks like there is one thing that you Sutorians hate more than foreigners,” Athel teased.

  “What is dat?”

  “Someone who loses to a foreigner.”

  Up in the stands, Privet rubbed his temple with his fingers.