A Game of Kings
It all happened so fast. Too fast for Michael to have any comprehension of events. Of the two of them, he was alone in his ignorance. The old man, calm and collected, had cheated death once before and understood exactly what was at stake. “We must play chess,” he said.
Michael rubbed his head. Chess? He hadn’t played for years. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. The room was spacious and exposed. An enormous, open fire roared, in front of which sat a wooden chessboard on a small table. Two large, comfortable-looking easy chairs, positioned either side of the board, invited a game to be played. There was no other furniture in the room. No shelves or paintings on the windowless, grey walls. Perched on the edge of one chair was an old man, shriveled and hunched, his chin resting gently on his hands, face towards the board. A rickety, wooden staircase, with a landing that incorporated the room in which Michael stood, disappeared in both directions - up and down -–in one corner. He could not tell how far up or down either set of stairs went. There seemed to be light coming from somewhere at the top of the upward flight but the downward steps disappeared into darkness. He had no memory of ascending or descending either stairwell to arrive where he stood and it did not occur to him to strive for one. The floor was bare like stone, cold and hard. The light, which appeared to have no source, was dim.
“We must play chess,” the old man said once more.
Michael regarded the man before him. Already seated, there seemed to be an urgency in his voice. He was in his 70s, maybe 80s, grey stubble protruding at all angles from his sallow cheeks and chin. He wore a disheveled suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie. Wisps of grey hair stood out of place on his balding crown. Furrows of concentration creased his forehead. His expression was studious, his gaze fixed upon the wooden board and pieces, which were set and ready to go.
“We must play,” he said again, still not looking up, undeniable agitation creeping into his voice. He motioned vaguely towards the fire: “Time is running out.”
Michael sat down opposite the old man. The chair was warm and agreeable. He felt a sense of calm come over him. He would play chess. He would beat this little old man in his creased suit and go home. He took the corner pawn closest to him, intending to offer both clenched fists to his opponent in order to determine who should be white and who would be black. The old man raised his hand in protest:
“The board is set. Just play lad.”
Michael’s confidence surged. The board was set for him to play white. The opportunity to stay one step ahead of the game was all his for the taking. Suddenly his mind was filled with distant college memories of playing chess into the small hours. He’d been pretty good at the game and, years later, when his peers were busy raising families - and he was nursing a bruised ego in isolation following another bitter split from a woman - he had signed up to several chess websites. He had done extremely well on one site, entering international competitions and once reaching the last sixteen. He realised it must have been more than ten years since he had last played but he felt confident his ability would not let him down. He made his opening gambit.
The match begun, the old man’s impatience eased. He played a measured game, like a computer, apparently considering every eventuality before making each move. Michael did not care for this manner of play, believing that experienced players already know the opening permutations of the discipline - for that is how he saw it - and all their ‘what-ifs?’. But the old man’s style further lifted his spirits. He would enjoy this game. He would beat the old man and go home. It would be fun. The fire crackled loudly and Michael felt warmed as he eased himself back in his chair.
The contest progressed slowly. There seemed no need for conversation and there was none. The old man maintained his methodical and cautious approach, as Michael noted with some disdain. There were no pawn swaps on offer, no knight swaps. The old man avoided any potential bloodshed and seemed to be arranging his pawns in an apparently random manner, pushing them forward to avert any stand-offs. Michael began to formulate a game plan. The old man clearly knew nothing about the Game of Kings. Rusty though he was, it would not be difficult to set up a robust defence and attack from within it. He would be king today.
“Kids?”
Engrossed in thought, Michael jumped. He wondered if he had misheard the old man, or indeed if the old man has spoken at all. The fire spat and hissed.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
“Do you have any kids?” the old man said, almost briskly. He still didn’t look up from the board. “I saw you eyeing my pawns.”
Michael could not see the link between the old man’s pawns and whether he had any children. But he did, so he said;
“Yeah, I do. I have a daughter and a son. Grown-up now, of course. You?”
Michael thought it odd that the old man had not once looked up, that he had yet to have a proper look at his opponent’s face, particularly as they were now engaging in conversation. But he remained calm, unperturbed by his adversary’s elusiveness. He had a serene feeling it was supposed to be like this, that everything was ok.
“Best thing I ever did,” the old man said, eyes fixed on the board. “Got three sons, me. They’d do anything for me, they would.” He pushed another pawn forward, once again purging the danger of a swap.
Michael pondered the old man’s move. Another amateur shove of a pawn, as far as he could see. He wondered for a second if the old man was up to something he hadn’t seen, if he had a brilliant master plan. Dismissing the idea his thoughts turned to the old man’s words. ‘They’d do anything for me’. He couldn’t say the same of his own progeny. The truth was, he would have difficulty recognising them were they to walk in the room right now. His best bet was to threaten with his bishop.
He reached forward and took hold of his clergyman. As he did, a jolt of electricity ran through him, flinging him back in his chair, as an image of an oncoming car flashed before his eyes, the old man behind the wheel. Regaining his composure he leaned forward again and placed the bishop on the board. Without raising his head, Michael stole a furtive glance at the old man, to see if he had noticed. It appeared he had not. Once again, he relaxed. He wondered if the light in the room was dimming.
The game wore on. They chatted intermittently, the old man revealing he had pushed his children as far as he could to make them the best they could be. Michael refrained from talking about his own children. He had not seen them for many years and the old man’s pride in his own offspring unnerved him. It crossed his mind that he’d like to see his son and daughter. Perhaps they were married, perhaps he had grandchildren? He felt a yearning, keener than anything he’d ever felt before. He would contact them both, the minute he got home. Sooner if he was able.
“You’re looking good here son,” said the old man quietly, “but you don’t want to take your time so. Only one of us can be king today.”
Michael absorbed the chessboard. He relaxed. He was sitting pretty, no doubt. By now several pieces were off the board, most of them the old man’s. He noted that the captured pieces - both his own and his opponent’s - were nowhere to be seen. Fleetingly he wondered if the old man had been throwing them on the fire, but the remaining pieces, on the board before him, demanded centre-stage in his thoughts and drew him back to the challenge in hand. The end-game was coming into sight - if the old man didn’t retire first. In preparation for the final throes, he castled, thus linking his rooks, shivering slightly as he did so.
The fire had burned down and there was a chill in the air. Where there had been several, large tongues of flame filling the enormous grate, there was now only a small, sorry-looking pile of embers in the middle, one flame dancing capriciously over it. Michael looked around the hearth. There were no bellows or tongs, no poker. To his dismay he saw no wood or coal either. He looked at his opponent in his suit and tie. The old man didn’t look cold. Michael stared hard at him, hoping he would look up so he might get a head-on glimpse of his face. It crossed his mind that the old man didn’t appear as wizened as his first impressions had led him to believe and his suit no longer seemed so disheveled. In fact, he was beginning to look in rude health, a healthy glow filling his cheeks. But still he didn’t look up.
The end-game was in play. Michael had the game wrapped up, of that there was no question. If the old man didn’t resign it would be over in three moves. The old man had had no gameplan. His play had been messy and erratic. He’d scattered his pieces naively around the board, defending or moving them when it would have been better to let them go. Michael felt pleased. He began to doubt whether the old man realised he was so close to defeat. He glanced at the dwindling fire, by now a pitiful, spluttering heap of ash and ember. It was no longer giving off any heat and Michael was cold, fully shivering now. He would finish the old man off and go straight home. Maybe he would find a bus stop? More likely call a cab. No. What was he thinking? He’d find a landmark and get someone to come and get him, wherever he was, and take him directly to his warm flat, his warm bed and his warm and long-suffering girlfriend, whom he had never loved. He felt a pang of remorse for the way he treated her and his mind drifted back many years to his children and the midnight flit he had performed, out of their lives, which, he reflected morbidly, must have affected so many more worlds than his own. It was the first time he had ever thought this way and he felt it physically drain him of his strength. He fell back into his chair, gripping the arms tightly with his hands, unaware it was his move. An unshakeable feeling of hopelessness and dread took hold of him. Finally the old man looked up.
“It’s not for you, is it lad?” he said, benevolently. Michael studied the old man’s face in the poor light, relief washing over him as if he had successfully completed a long and strenuous quest. The old man held his gaze. His eyes sparkled, piercing and blue, and he looked full of vitality. His face was kind and smiling. He was clean-shaven and probably not out of his 60s. The light had definitely changed, Michael thought. The lines on his face, from his eyes to his temples, betrayed years of happiness and goodness. Michael felt the scowl, adopted by his own face so many years before, begin to melt as his facial muscles relaxed for what seemed like the first time ever. The same calmness that had descended upon him when the fire was roaring and the game was young enveloped him once more. Suddenly he understood. Everything was going to be alright after all.
Michael was one move from mate. He knew what he had to do but he had no desire to do it. The old man was right. It wasn’t for him. He closed his eyes and felt himself sinking ever deeper into the chair. The head-on collision that had flashed through his head earlier now took on a vivid form. He was angry, not concentrating, on a single-track road. He sped, too fast, round a corner and there was the old man, coming straight at him in his aged banger, a look of sheer terror on his face. Their cars collided and he opened his eyes.
The old man was on his feet. He moved around the board, approaching Michael. The last of the embers in the fire glowed a dim orange, on and off. In a dreamlike trance - and without fully registering it - Michael discerned that the chessboard had been reset, all pieces present and correct.
“Time’s up kid,” said the old man. “You lost. I have to go now, before it gets too cold and the light fades completely. My sons are waiting for me.”
The old man took Michael’s hand. It was warm and Michael felt a last surge of life course through his veins. The old man looked him in the eye, holding his gaze for a second. Then he said: “One of us was always going to make it home. I guess you didn’t want it enough. I guess I’m the king today.”
Michael stared back at the old man pleadingly, not wanting him to let go, but the old man pulled his hand away and turned to leave. He strode purposefully towards the stairwell.
“Where will I go?” shouted Michael, unable to move, despite his rising panic. Without turning, the old man raised a hand and waved it dismissively.
“You’ll find your way lad. They all do,” he called over his shoulder. He reached the foot of the upward stairwell, still lit by something far above, and took the handrail.
“Good luck lad,” he called back to Michael who was still slumped in his chair. Then he disappeared up the stairs towards the light.
The last ember in the fire fizzled and died as the old man’s footsteps faded into the stillness. Michael remained in his chair for several minutes. His panic abated but the chill was undeniable. The light in the room had faded rapidly as the fire had died down and was now very low. The silence rose to a deafening crescendo until it roared and filled his whole body. He knew what he had to do. Summoning one last effort he hauled himself out of the chair and staggered through the gloaming, over to the staircase. His frozen body moved in autopilot, his brain already departed. By the time he reached the staircase he no longer had any control over his actions. It neither registered with him, nor mattered, that the stairs the old man had ascended, towards the light, were gone. The only way was down, into the black. He paused at the top of the apparently endless steps as a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He made no attempt to wipe it away. Taking a firm grip of the handrail he began his descent into the darkness.
Michael rubbed his head. Chess? He hadn’t played for years. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. The room was spacious and exposed. An enormous, open fire roared, in front of which sat a wooden chessboard on a small table. Two large, comfortable-looking easy chairs, positioned either side of the board, invited a game to be played. There was no other furniture in the room. No shelves or paintings on the windowless, grey walls. Perched on the edge of one chair was an old man, shriveled and hunched, his chin resting gently on his hands, face towards the board. A rickety, wooden staircase, with a landing that incorporated the room in which Michael stood, disappeared in both directions - up and down -–in one corner. He could not tell how far up or down either set of stairs went. There seemed to be light coming from somewhere at the top of the upward flight but the downward steps disappeared into darkness. He had no memory of ascending or descending either stairwell to arrive where he stood and it did not occur to him to strive for one. The floor was bare like stone, cold and hard. The light, which appeared to have no source, was dim.
“We must play chess,” the old man said once more.
Michael regarded the man before him. Already seated, there seemed to be an urgency in his voice. He was in his 70s, maybe 80s, grey stubble protruding at all angles from his sallow cheeks and chin. He wore a disheveled suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie. Wisps of grey hair stood out of place on his balding crown. Furrows of concentration creased his forehead. His expression was studious, his gaze fixed upon the wooden board and pieces, which were set and ready to go.
“We must play,” he said again, still not looking up, undeniable agitation creeping into his voice. He motioned vaguely towards the fire: “Time is running out.”
Michael sat down opposite the old man. The chair was warm and agreeable. He felt a sense of calm come over him. He would play chess. He would beat this little old man in his creased suit and go home. He took the corner pawn closest to him, intending to offer both clenched fists to his opponent in order to determine who should be white and who would be black. The old man raised his hand in protest:
“The board is set. Just play lad.”
Michael’s confidence surged. The board was set for him to play white. The opportunity to stay one step ahead of the game was all his for the taking. Suddenly his mind was filled with distant college memories of playing chess into the small hours. He’d been pretty good at the game and, years later, when his peers were busy raising families - and he was nursing a bruised ego in isolation following another bitter split from a woman - he had signed up to several chess websites. He had done extremely well on one site, entering international competitions and once reaching the last sixteen. He realised it must have been more than ten years since he had last played but he felt confident his ability would not let him down. He made his opening gambit.
The match begun, the old man’s impatience eased. He played a measured game, like a computer, apparently considering every eventuality before making each move. Michael did not care for this manner of play, believing that experienced players already know the opening permutations of the discipline - for that is how he saw it - and all their ‘what-ifs?’. But the old man’s style further lifted his spirits. He would enjoy this game. He would beat the old man and go home. It would be fun. The fire crackled loudly and Michael felt warmed as he eased himself back in his chair.
The contest progressed slowly. There seemed no need for conversation and there was none. The old man maintained his methodical and cautious approach, as Michael noted with some disdain. There were no pawn swaps on offer, no knight swaps. The old man avoided any potential bloodshed and seemed to be arranging his pawns in an apparently random manner, pushing them forward to avert any stand-offs. Michael began to formulate a game plan. The old man clearly knew nothing about the Game of Kings. Rusty though he was, it would not be difficult to set up a robust defence and attack from within it. He would be king today.
“Kids?”
Engrossed in thought, Michael jumped. He wondered if he had misheard the old man, or indeed if the old man has spoken at all. The fire spat and hissed.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
“Do you have any kids?” the old man said, almost briskly. He still didn’t look up from the board. “I saw you eyeing my pawns.”
Michael could not see the link between the old man’s pawns and whether he had any children. But he did, so he said;
“Yeah, I do. I have a daughter and a son. Grown-up now, of course. You?”
Michael thought it odd that the old man had not once looked up, that he had yet to have a proper look at his opponent’s face, particularly as they were now engaging in conversation. But he remained calm, unperturbed by his adversary’s elusiveness. He had a serene feeling it was supposed to be like this, that everything was ok.
“Best thing I ever did,” the old man said, eyes fixed on the board. “Got three sons, me. They’d do anything for me, they would.” He pushed another pawn forward, once again purging the danger of a swap.
Michael pondered the old man’s move. Another amateur shove of a pawn, as far as he could see. He wondered for a second if the old man was up to something he hadn’t seen, if he had a brilliant master plan. Dismissing the idea his thoughts turned to the old man’s words. ‘They’d do anything for me’. He couldn’t say the same of his own progeny. The truth was, he would have difficulty recognising them were they to walk in the room right now. His best bet was to threaten with his bishop.
He reached forward and took hold of his clergyman. As he did, a jolt of electricity ran through him, flinging him back in his chair, as an image of an oncoming car flashed before his eyes, the old man behind the wheel. Regaining his composure he leaned forward again and placed the bishop on the board. Without raising his head, Michael stole a furtive glance at the old man, to see if he had noticed. It appeared he had not. Once again, he relaxed. He wondered if the light in the room was dimming.
The game wore on. They chatted intermittently, the old man revealing he had pushed his children as far as he could to make them the best they could be. Michael refrained from talking about his own children. He had not seen them for many years and the old man’s pride in his own offspring unnerved him. It crossed his mind that he’d like to see his son and daughter. Perhaps they were married, perhaps he had grandchildren? He felt a yearning, keener than anything he’d ever felt before. He would contact them both, the minute he got home. Sooner if he was able.
“You’re looking good here son,” said the old man quietly, “but you don’t want to take your time so. Only one of us can be king today.”
Michael absorbed the chessboard. He relaxed. He was sitting pretty, no doubt. By now several pieces were off the board, most of them the old man’s. He noted that the captured pieces - both his own and his opponent’s - were nowhere to be seen. Fleetingly he wondered if the old man had been throwing them on the fire, but the remaining pieces, on the board before him, demanded centre-stage in his thoughts and drew him back to the challenge in hand. The end-game was coming into sight - if the old man didn’t retire first. In preparation for the final throes, he castled, thus linking his rooks, shivering slightly as he did so.
The fire had burned down and there was a chill in the air. Where there had been several, large tongues of flame filling the enormous grate, there was now only a small, sorry-looking pile of embers in the middle, one flame dancing capriciously over it. Michael looked around the hearth. There were no bellows or tongs, no poker. To his dismay he saw no wood or coal either. He looked at his opponent in his suit and tie. The old man didn’t look cold. Michael stared hard at him, hoping he would look up so he might get a head-on glimpse of his face. It crossed his mind that the old man didn’t appear as wizened as his first impressions had led him to believe and his suit no longer seemed so disheveled. In fact, he was beginning to look in rude health, a healthy glow filling his cheeks. But still he didn’t look up.
The end-game was in play. Michael had the game wrapped up, of that there was no question. If the old man didn’t resign it would be over in three moves. The old man had had no gameplan. His play had been messy and erratic. He’d scattered his pieces naively around the board, defending or moving them when it would have been better to let them go. Michael felt pleased. He began to doubt whether the old man realised he was so close to defeat. He glanced at the dwindling fire, by now a pitiful, spluttering heap of ash and ember. It was no longer giving off any heat and Michael was cold, fully shivering now. He would finish the old man off and go straight home. Maybe he would find a bus stop? More likely call a cab. No. What was he thinking? He’d find a landmark and get someone to come and get him, wherever he was, and take him directly to his warm flat, his warm bed and his warm and long-suffering girlfriend, whom he had never loved. He felt a pang of remorse for the way he treated her and his mind drifted back many years to his children and the midnight flit he had performed, out of their lives, which, he reflected morbidly, must have affected so many more worlds than his own. It was the first time he had ever thought this way and he felt it physically drain him of his strength. He fell back into his chair, gripping the arms tightly with his hands, unaware it was his move. An unshakeable feeling of hopelessness and dread took hold of him. Finally the old man looked up.
“It’s not for you, is it lad?” he said, benevolently. Michael studied the old man’s face in the poor light, relief washing over him as if he had successfully completed a long and strenuous quest. The old man held his gaze. His eyes sparkled, piercing and blue, and he looked full of vitality. His face was kind and smiling. He was clean-shaven and probably not out of his 60s. The light had definitely changed, Michael thought. The lines on his face, from his eyes to his temples, betrayed years of happiness and goodness. Michael felt the scowl, adopted by his own face so many years before, begin to melt as his facial muscles relaxed for what seemed like the first time ever. The same calmness that had descended upon him when the fire was roaring and the game was young enveloped him once more. Suddenly he understood. Everything was going to be alright after all.
Michael was one move from mate. He knew what he had to do but he had no desire to do it. The old man was right. It wasn’t for him. He closed his eyes and felt himself sinking ever deeper into the chair. The head-on collision that had flashed through his head earlier now took on a vivid form. He was angry, not concentrating, on a single-track road. He sped, too fast, round a corner and there was the old man, coming straight at him in his aged banger, a look of sheer terror on his face. Their cars collided and he opened his eyes.
The old man was on his feet. He moved around the board, approaching Michael. The last of the embers in the fire glowed a dim orange, on and off. In a dreamlike trance - and without fully registering it - Michael discerned that the chessboard had been reset, all pieces present and correct.
“Time’s up kid,” said the old man. “You lost. I have to go now, before it gets too cold and the light fades completely. My sons are waiting for me.”
The old man took Michael’s hand. It was warm and Michael felt a last surge of life course through his veins. The old man looked him in the eye, holding his gaze for a second. Then he said: “One of us was always going to make it home. I guess you didn’t want it enough. I guess I’m the king today.”
Michael stared back at the old man pleadingly, not wanting him to let go, but the old man pulled his hand away and turned to leave. He strode purposefully towards the stairwell.
“Where will I go?” shouted Michael, unable to move, despite his rising panic. Without turning, the old man raised a hand and waved it dismissively.
“You’ll find your way lad. They all do,” he called over his shoulder. He reached the foot of the upward stairwell, still lit by something far above, and took the handrail.
“Good luck lad,” he called back to Michael who was still slumped in his chair. Then he disappeared up the stairs towards the light.
The last ember in the fire fizzled and died as the old man’s footsteps faded into the stillness. Michael remained in his chair for several minutes. His panic abated but the chill was undeniable. The light in the room had faded rapidly as the fire had died down and was now very low. The silence rose to a deafening crescendo until it roared and filled his whole body. He knew what he had to do. Summoning one last effort he hauled himself out of the chair and staggered through the gloaming, over to the staircase. His frozen body moved in autopilot, his brain already departed. By the time he reached the staircase he no longer had any control over his actions. It neither registered with him, nor mattered, that the stairs the old man had ascended, towards the light, were gone. The only way was down, into the black. He paused at the top of the apparently endless steps as a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He made no attempt to wipe it away. Taking a firm grip of the handrail he began his descent into the darkness.
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