The Night Psamathe Did Defy the Gods: The Arm-Wrestling Tourney

By Eleawen Galathiel

Whilst the stars did lean oer Psamathe as though they fain would watch the follies of men, that eve was one of those rare nights. Laughter did ring through the pub at the village gate, torches did dance like drunken fireflies, and the air was so thick with energy that one might have lit a lantern by but breathing upon it. I was there, armed with mine quill, mine camera, mine irony, and a cup of that Amazonian drink which, I do suspect, could make a stone speak.

The gathering was so great that for a moment, I did think the very trees had drawn nigh to see the better. Queen Linda Wetteel, as mighty as an ancient oak and as cunning as Erevan himself, had arranged a tourney of arm-wrestling. « To remind all who doth rule here, » she did laugh, as though the contest were already won. Yet the Trickster God, he doth love a twist of fate…

First did Queen Jula Marin-Maeviir dare to challenge Linda. The two queens, one of the Amazons, the other of Durakiss, did face each other ‘neath the cheers of the crowd. Muscles did strain, smiles did freeze, and for a moment, one might have heard a leaf fall. Then… Jula did smile. « Next time, I shall not be with child! » And with a swift motion, her hand was overturned by the Amazon queen. Then it was another’s turn to try.

But ‘twas only the beginning.

Then came Dame Theresa of Durakiss, a woman whose fame as a fierce warrior is as dread as her right arm. She did approach the table with the grace of a panther and the resolve of a rock. The duel was short, fierce, and without mercy. Theresa did crush Linda’s hand with a speed that left the crowd mute. « First to win, » I did write in mine notebook, « and likely the last to dare challenge the queen and Dame Theresa this night. » I was wrong, for many others did step forth, even those with no hope to prevail.

For then Lokiel, the dragon, did decide to join the fray. Aye, one of the dragons that walk among mortals in these lands, not one of those that do perish in the caves of Arche Terre. The duel that followed was epic. Linda’s veins did bulge like ropes, sweat did bead upon her brow, and Lokiel did seem as easeful as a cat in the sun. For a full quarter of an hour. Fifteen minutes of tension, laughter, wild wagers, and looks of disbelief ‘mongst the folk. In the end, ‘twas Lokiel who did win… but by a hair’s breadth.

And then there was Myrna Magnus Maeviir, behind the bar. By Erevan’s horns, this woman could make the moon forget to shine with her charm. Her leafy top—or mayhap a memory of the forest—did leave little to the mind’s eye, and less still to the gaze of the modest. She did serve the drinks with a smile that could melt a glacier, whilst commenting on the tourney with a wit that would make a sailor of Port Saban blush. « Come, Linda! Show him that even a dragon may have a sore arm! » she did cry, all whilst filling mine cup without me asking. I did let her.

As for the place… Finding the pub where the event did unfold was a simple task. One need only follow the arrows drawn upon the ground. Arrows everywhere: upon the stones, upon the tree trunks, even upon the back of a sleeping hound. « One might think the soul who drew them had but discovered chalk, » I did murmur to mine neighbour, who did laugh and nod. « Or mayhap they feared we would lose our way… or mayhap they did but have too much chalk. »

Even the mightiest queen must sometimes bend her elbow… yet ‘tis in such moments that true courage doth reveal itself. And forget not: in Psamathe, the arrows ever lead to the feast, and the feast ever leads to a lesson from Erevan.