Short Fiction - The Lansby Contest

In the Danish town of Lansby, nestled beneath the largest hill in North Yorkshire, the contest was well underway.

The three contestants stood equidistant from each other upon the town green, which was half the length of a football pitch. Those who gathered to witness the affair did so from the comfort of their wooden benches, which bracketed the green in a stadium-like formation. Samuel Sterns, the stuffy vicar of Lansby Parish, judged the competition from a solitary card table at the feet of the crowds. Engaged and quick to comment on the form and technique of the contestants, Sterns aggressively jotted notes with a golden ball-point pen into his moleskin. To the casual observer, one could reasonably conclude that he had come to terms with the proceedings. However, when he first assumed his ministry some 40 years ago, he had made his disdain for the occasion well known, even petitioning to ban it, albeit unsuccessfully. When a compromise was reached, in the form of granting him oversight into the proceedings, the vicar was reasonably pacified, much to the relief of his bishop, The Right Reverend Sir Lawrence Kincade. (Kincade was only one of three other clergy members to have ever participated in the game—and won!—and was, therefore, an ardent supporter of it.)

The returning champion, Warren Chalmsworth, donned his Royal Navy military dress, standing at attention with his left arm raised directly above his head. He wore a thick, textured glove, which extended down the length of his arm. At the wrist, forearm, and armpit, it was tightened with an array of porcelain buckles to give him extra comfort and support throughout the day. He wore a flame retardant facemask—a gift from his father—which protected the wearer from sustaining horrible burns and injuries. As his father reminded him daily, “Ish tah avoid the feish, iv you can…” Despite how grotesque the extra layers appeared, they were well-warranted. The Chalmsworth line had already won a record 38 times since the tradition reportedly began in the late 9th century.

Newcomers Alice and Jefferey Tunstille, twins from the western edge of town, stood adjacent to Warren and each held their jam jar confidently. While it was not common for the contestants to be related, the lack of participation from the general population allowed for this year’s exception. Alice, with her left hand placed on her hip, held her container overhead in her right. The hem of her peach-colored sundress gently brushed against the uneven tufts of the green, billowing in the occasional gust of wind. Her brother, likewise—whose green eyes sparkled when the occasional ray of sunlight broke through the overcast sky—sported a wrinkled, peach dress shirt and gray trousers. Each exuded a scrappy countenance below their strawberry curls, girded only with their youthful defiance. Jefferey carelessly tossed his jar up and down in the palm of his right hand, with his left shoved into his front pocket. Although neither Tunstille could see the expression on Warren’s face, it was clear their disdain for decorum caused their opponent to sway ever so slightly off balance.

Lansby was far from the nondescript “quaint” town that its many tourists often referred to it as. (Many came home to remark with unintentional condescension, having apparently never experienced a genuine moment of peace and quiet in their lives themselves, how lovely the cottages looked, how well-dressed their people, how benignly boring was the pace of life, when it was their lives that were so fraught and bereft of stillness.) There was, firstly, the contest, the memorial plaque for Thomas White—the young man so cruelly cut down in his youth by the Hindenburg zeppelin, which unceremoniously crushed him when it first concluded its maiden voyage at Lakehurst, New Jersey in 1936—and, also, Dr. Morris’ garden gnome collection! But, as many would begrudgingly admit, there was a peculiar draw to the annual display of wondrous bravery. The contest was first clearly outlined in the Lansby Royal Charter, adopted into writing when Henry II granted autonomy to the various towns and settlements of Northern England (circa 1155AD), with special consideration given to each contestant, whether or not victory was achieved. An appeal raised approximately a year’s worth of wages, awarded to the victor, with a run-off charitable donation to the second and third place contestants, anticipating their considerable hardships thereafter. In 1967, the BBC first attempted to document the event as well and, upon it’s conclusion, received a bracing review from the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association. As Vicar Sterns recalled it, “I had no business as a child of seven years witnessing such carnage and meteorological barbarity. Such quixotic revelry is beneath us as a Christian nation!” Nevertheless, Lansby profited off the legacy of the tourney with several giftshops.

Though the day started with a picturesque sunrise, with warming rays illuminating the rolling hills of the Lansby valley, the sky gradually darkened as the day went on. By 2 o’clock, the angry clouds swirled above, evoking the rage of a displeased pantheon. Alice brushed the first drop away from the bridge of her nose, a movement that Vicar Sterns scrutinized, making certain she did not use it to prop her other hand higher. (Making oneself functionally “taller” was prohibited. Warren’s personal protective equipment was the notable exception, as concessions for safety were made after his father’s accident 5 years prior.) She giggled confidently, shouting something at her brother over the high wind. Jeffrey, in reply, winked and placed the jar upon his head. Witnessing all this, Warren shook his head woefully.

Another year, another contest, another opportunity for tradition to advance into the new millennium, for King and Country…

Although the general shape of Lansby was irrevocably altered that year, the contest continued in earnest. A year after Warren and the Tunstilles competed, a plaque was erected beside Thomas White’s headstone commemorating the terrible mudslide that occurred shortly after the first rain fell, which killed all three contestants, and some of the spectators. Vicar Sterns provided the eulogy, and not without some awkward insinuation that the “Lord was fit to judge, by His perfect will, the sins of his children. Amen.”