The Yearly Gambit

He blinked rapidly and snatched up the receiver on its third ring. His salutation was muffled and sloppy, but the voice that answered sobered him quickly.

“Mr. Mishki. I trust you’re feeling well?”

“Yes. I am feeling fine.” Mishki nervously tugged at his thick beard. He was an old man. This sort of scare wasn’t healthy. “You of all people know I’m not sick. This is Mr. Porter, right?”

“Yes. This is Porter.” His voice sounded slightly amused as he affirmed his identity. “Mr. Driscoll is waiting. As always, Mr. Weston, Mr. Farley, and myself will be on hand. We enjoy watching your matches very much. Mr. Driscoll swears this is the year he finally breaks through.”

“Yes, well, if it is, may we all be ready.” Mishki coughed slightly, trying to hide the trembling in his voice. “Tell your friends I will be there as soon as I can. Jorgensen Park?”

“Jorgensen Park. We’ll see you soon, Mr. Mishki.”

He didn’t have to check the calendar on the wall to know that it was August 12th. It was always the same day, every year. Mishki wasn’t sure what was so unique about this particular day, but it must have held a special place in Driscoll’s heart. The time of the match never mattered. Only the date. Driscoll wouldn’t mind waiting a bit. Fact was, he had all the time in the world.

Despite this, Mishki felt that he had to hurry.

He showered quickly, scrubbing his old skin and shampooing his downy hair and scruffy beard. He brushed his remaining teeth arduously, wanting them to gleam. He picked out his nicest suit, shaking out the few wrinkles. He considered wearing a hat, but it was in need of mending.

He paused as he started to pass through the doorway. As far back as he could remember, he had never played a game of chess without his obsidian queen and king, a gift given to him so many years ago by his father. Since using these pieces, Mishki was unbeaten. When he was younger, he won tournaments and prize money using his obsidian pieces. Although he hadn’t participated in tournaments or for money in what seemed like ages, he still never played without the shiny black pieces.

He remembered his father’s proud smile as Mishki’s obsidian queen thrashed the opponents. After dispatching each of his opponents, they would inevitably ask how he had come across the beautiful glassy pieces. His father would only gloat about the brilliance of his son.

This pride grew out of control for his father. He would find opponents that doubted Mishki’s talent, and goad them into wagering on the outcome. It became an insatiable obsession for his father. He lost his job and relied on his son's chess winnings for income. Mishki remembered being awakened in the middle of the night to duel with an alleged ‘chess master’. He remembered his father watching with greed as Mishki humbled one opponent after the next.

Despite all of this pressure, he felt only love for his father.

Yet here he was, walking away without the pieces. “Must be age, finally catching up with me,” he muttered.

They stood over his fireplace, on the mantelpiece. He had no family pictures, nor any portraits over the fire. The obsidian king and queen were his only meaningful possessions. He gently placed them in the inner pockets of his jacket.

He took a taxi to Jorgensen Park.

Jorgensen Park was a gloomy place to say the least. The trees stood tall and bare, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers from a harridan’s hand. There was an oak standing in the middle of the park. It was the only tree still bearing its leaves. That was where his opponent would be waiting for him.

There was a horse pasture at the edge of the park. The children liked to stand by the edge of the wooden fence and watch the horses run. Likely many of them dreamt of what it might be like to ride those horses. Children often had those sorts of dreams, Mishki supposed. His childhood consisted only of chess, so running horses would have brought him much enjoyment.

There were only four horses in the pasture now, all of them tethered to the fencepost. They were all different colors; one was white, one was red, one was black, and the final was an indistinguishable shade. Only one word could describe the last horse: pale.

There were still kids in the park, but like every generation before this one, these kids were completely different than the ones from ten years before. They were running around, wearing baggy pants and donning bandannas to look like the rappers on MTV. Mishki nodded at one of the little blonde-haired boys, who promptly responded by hoisting a middle finger in his direction. "Kids today are so rude," Mishki thought sourly. "Perhaps it is time that I finally lost a game."

He was only halfway across the park when he saw Mr. Porter. He was frail and sallow, with thinning hair and splotches on his skin. Massive sunglasses framed his sunken face. He raised a hand to greet Mishki, who waved in return. Porter’s associates, Weston and Farley, stepped from behind the tree to greet Mishki as well.

First was Farley. He was incredibly thin, to the point of haggardness. His eyes were sunken and anemic, yet there was a light of desperate intensity within, the sort of gleam a man searching for any sort of sustenance might have. He was wearing a tattered suit that was little more than sackcloth. Still, he smiled amiably enough when he saw Mishki.

Weston was a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered man with a bluff, blocky face. His hair was shaved on top. He wore aviator sunglasses and a uniform of some kind, with dozens of gleaming medals hanging from his left breast. If he was in the service, he never introduced himself by rank or branch of the military. He only called himself Mr. Weston, and instead of waving, he gave Mishki a gruff salute.

“We’re glad you came,” Farley said with a ravenous grin. “I have a good feeling about this time.”

Weston nodded briskly. “Yes, this is the time, I’m sure of it. No reason of delay anymore, really. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Mishki?” His smile was angry, almost instigating. It was as if he was picking a fight.

Mishki ignored this, shrugging. “God will decide when the time is right. If I am to lose today, then I am to lose.” He gave all three men a confident smile, which he doubted looked very convincing coming from such an old face. “I do not plan on losing, though. What will come, will come.”

“Yes indeed,” Mr. Porter said. “Que sera, sera.”

Mishki walked around the tree, and there was the table. It was a simple folding card table that someone might find in a yard sale. Atop the table was a chessboard, with all of the pieces standing out, save two. Mr. Driscoll knew that Mishki was adamant about using his obsidian pieces.

Driscoll himself was seated before the white pieces. His face was shadowy and difficult to see; not surprisingly, this fit his character and occupation. He was wearing the same long black overcoat that he always wore, as well as a dark fedora that he liked wearing outdoors. The most visible aspect of his features were his bright blue eyes, which regarded Mishki with respect. Driscoll gestured toward the opposite seat with a brief nod of his head. Mishki nodded in return, and took his seat.

The two opponents faced each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Mishki’s watery brown irises seemed frightened and unsure. Driscoll’s blue eyes looked completely certain. If someone had seen these opposing stares, they would have been sure that it was Mishki that had never beaten Driscoll. Yet in all of their matches, Driscoll had never been able to penetrate Mishki’s defenses. Every year Driscoll came with a new plan, and every year he walked away, befuddled once again.

“It’s good to see you.” Driscoll’s voice was faint and scratchy, like the wind tugging at autumn leaves.

“I cannot bring myself to say the same,” Mishki responded with a nervous whisper.

Driscoll’s eyes danced merrily, but he did not laugh. “Few desire to see me, and none would care to see me as much as you have. Still, as always, I set my offer on the table. Forfeit, and let me set out on my work.” He gave Mishki an appraising look. “You’re an old man, my friend, older than you should be. I suppose I have a bit to do with that, or maybe even all to do with that, and I know living for so long is no treat. There are aches and pains that have no end. Forfeit, and I promise you that they’ll come to an end. A rather abrupt one, at that.”

Behind Driscoll, the other three men chuckled softly. It was plain that they shared Driscoll’s feelings.

“I have played you for many years, Mr. Driscoll,” Mishki replied. “I never believed that chess was a game that I was very fond of, but instead a game that I was simply very good at. The same way that some are born with a natural hunter’s eye or fisher’s patience. I was one born to be a tactician, one who could create a impenetrable chess defense. Am I proud of this? No. I would gladly forfeit, were it simply up to me.”

Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “It is your choice, old friend. Simply tip your king to me, and all will be done.”

“It was my father who made this wager, my father in his foolish pride who thought that my talents were greater than all things, even your work,” Mishki replied. “I did not know what this game meant until I was an old man. Had I known who you were from the beginning, I would not have allowed myself to participate in such a deadly match. My father was a good man, but pride ruined him. The pride he held for his son. The pride for his little chess champion. Don’t you see? I cannot forfeit, lest I wish to dishonor my father. It is his will that I do this, and I will not question his will, not even now, decades after his death.”

“You still wish to play?” Driscoll asked, his eyebrows raised. “I can see you are feeling weary and beleaguered. Why delay? For the sake of a dead man?”

“Yes." Mishki replied. He extended a hand. “The best of luck.”

Driscoll reached forward. His hand was only bones, devoid of skin and flesh. “And luck to you as well.” The bones were chalky to the touch. Mishki took the skeletal hand without flinching.

Porter watched intently. His eyes blazed behind the sunglasses, and on the playground, the children began to cough. Farley was squatting impatiently, his fingers toying idly with a brass set of scales. Weston was standing at attention. At his side, he held a flaming sword.

Driscoll turned his eyes to the heavens and spoke in a distant voice. “O Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long before thou wilt judge and avenge our blood on those who dwell upon the earth?" He laughed dryly. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, held back by a mere game of chess. Our duty is a thing of prophecy, old man. Why hold it back any further, when the world is simply begging for it in these dark days?”

“For my father,” Mishki responded with a smile. With his fingers he gently took the obsidian pieces from his jacket and placed them on the board. Light glinted off of the pieces, and Mishki could see his father’s smile in that glimmer. “Your move, my friend."