by Cameron Jace
“And?”
“It’s true. He can’t kill Wonderlanders.”
The Queen blew out a long sigh—and an accidental fart of mirth, though her dogs moaned in agony.
“Unless he finds the pieces,” Mr. Jay continued.
The Queen stood erect, horrified by the implication. Did Mr. Jay really mean what she just understood? “Pardon me?”
“In order to kill a Wonderlander, the Chessmaster has to find the chess piece that represents that character in Lewis Carroll’s chess squad.”
“You mean the ones he made from his bones are magically connected to us?”
“I’ve just been told so,” Mr. Jay said. “It seems that the Carroll chess pieces aren’t of a normal character. They’re chess pieces magically attuned to some of the most important Wonderlanders. If the Chessmaster gets them…”
“He can kill us, just like humans,” the Queen said. “So the White Queen piece killed Fabiola because she was the White Queen in Wonderland?”
“Exactly.”
“And the rook?”
“Margaret was the Duchess,” Mr. Jay said. “She’s always been your right hand. The ‘rook’ in the corner of the castle you’re counting on. It protects you from harm.”
“My God.” The Queen collapsed on her chair. “The Duchess is the rook. That’s why she’s dead now.”
“And I’ve been told something else,” Mr. Jay said.
“What is it?” The Queen could sense the concern in his voice.
“I think you should run away, as far as you can.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ve been told that Alice and the Pillar just found the third piece.”
The Queen swallowed a lungful of her own fart right now. “Don’t tell me it’s a…”
“A queen. A chess piece of a black queen.” Mr. Jay sounded disappointed. He definitely didn’t want to lose the Queen of Hearts. She’d always been a great asset. “I’m thinking you and Fabiola had always been competitive. If she’s the White Queen, then you surely are the Black Queen in Carroll’s eyes.”
There was a long silence in the room and on the line. Even the dogs went silent, waiting for Mr. Jay to spell it out.
“I think you’re going to die within a few hours,” Mr. Jay told the Queen of Hearts. “If not sooner.”
47
Somewhere in Tibet
“If you were a chess piece in Carroll’s army, who’d you be?” the ever-playful Pillar asks me.
Now that I know the third piece is a black queen, and that the clue inside it was a yellow note that clearly pointed at Kalmykia, I have nothing to lose but to play along. “The queen, of course,” I say jokingly.
“Queens and kings are lame,” the Pillar says. “They stay back by the end of chessboard, hiding behind hordes of protective chess pieces, and do nothing but eat and get fat, just like in real life.”
“Still, they’re the most important pieces in the game. If you checkmate the king, the country will fall, just like in real life, by the way.”
“It’s a horrendously stupid idea, don’t you think? Having one king or queen or president representing the masses.”
“I agree. I mean, how could one man be everyone?” I say. “But you didn’t tell me who you’d be in a chess game.”
“I’ll tell you in the end. I have a firm answer. It never changes. I am curious to know if you’re like me.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “If not queen, I’d be a rook.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s a strong part of a castle. Essential, and it strikes me as brave.”
“Rooks remind me of scapegoats,” the Pillar says. “Just someone to take the blame.”
“You have a point. How about bishops? They move diagonally in the chessboard and have no limits.” I am trying to remember the little things I know about chess, as I am far from being good at it.
“Bishops are a joke,” the Pillar says. “First of all, a bishop piece is an elephant. Why they ever called it a bishop escapes me.”
“Hmm…haven’t looked at it from that angle before.”
“It’s an elephant. Elephants are big and slow, so how is it supposed to have no limits? It’s a flaw in the logic of the game, if you ask me.”
“Then I have no choice but to become a pawn,” I say, noticing I feel dizzy uttering the words. I wonder if I am remembering something. “Pawns stand brave, first in line. They fight like real men.”
“Alice. Alice. Alice,” the Pillar says. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pawns are nothing but the poor soldiers, pushed to the front line, defending our countries. They make movies about them and hail their names everywhere, but in reality, governments use them as sacrifices. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
“Are you saying soldiers are useless?”
“Soldiers are the pride of our countries. We owe them our lives. They’re the best humans with the best intentions, but they’re manipulated, like pawns in a chess game. How many pawns did you see die in chess? Hell, how many idioms mention pawns in a sacrificial and humiliating sentence?”
I take a moment thinking about it. I hate to admit his point of view. I love soldiers who die for the freedom of their countries, but the Pillar’s point is solid. Pawns are also used as puppets by government authorities.
“Still, don’t underestimate pawns in chess games,” I remind him. “If a pawn reaches the other side of the board, it can become any other chess piece. It’s called promotion. I read it’s one of the best tricks used to win a weak game using just one pawn.”
The Pillar smiles again. “Nice touch. You’ve been practicing chess behind my back?”
“Just with a few Mushroomers back in the asylum. I don’t think that counts.”
“I wouldn’t say so. Actually, the most prominent chess players in the world learn their best moves from homeless people.”
“Really?”
“They’re called Savants,” the Pillar says. “It’s a well-known fact. Savants live on the streets and usually are genius at chess, but they never realize they can make money out of it.”
“So it’s you who’s been reading behind my back.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Had to use my phone between the giant’s punches. After all, you say the notes you read mentioned a final chess game that would mark the end of the world.”
I let out a sigh. “So we’re really collecting those pieces to play a final showdown against this Chessmaster?”
“It looks like it.”
“Neither you and I can play chess, Pillar. We’ll let the world down.”
“I think the final chess game is rather metaphoric. Soon we’ll arrive and see what’s in store.”
“So tell me. You said you have a favorite chess piece on the board,” I say. “What is it?”
“Haven’t you guessed yet?”
“I did. It’s the knight. You love the knight, but why?”
The Pillar takes a moment, thinking it over, then says, “A knight moves in an L-shape, regardless of whoever stands in his way. A knight is a unique, unpredictable piece, and you will never see him coming.”
I wonder if the Pillar is telling me something about himself. Something that I am not supposed to see coming.
48
Radcliffe Asylum, Oxford
Tom Truckle didn’t quite grasp Inspector Dormouse’s visit. He stood behind his desk welcoming the sleepy detective, who’d just taken a long ride from London and still slept occasionally on the sofa in the room.
“Inspector Dormouse?” Tom Truckle said, shaking the man a little.
“Oomph.” The inspector sprang up on the couch. “I guess I fell asleep again.”
“You did,” Tom said impatiently. “I am really wondering why you visited if you intend to sleep between every couple of words you utter.”
“Can’t ever sleep at home,” Dormouse said. “Kids and their mother, not to mention the leak
ing tap that drips out of tempo.”
“I can send you my plumber, if that will help,” Tom said. “Now, if you don’t have something useful to tell me, could you please just leave?”
“No,” the inspector said, standing up and pulling his sleeves down. “You’re the only one who can help me.”
“Help you?” Tom walked back to his desk and sat. “What are you talking about?”
“I have important information that no one thinks is important, not even Margaret Kent.”
“Then maybe it’s not important.”
“Of course it is.” Inspector Dormouse yawned. “You will be interested, I’m sure.”
“Why so sure?”
“My information concerns Carter Pillar.”
Tom wasn’t interested yet. Though he wanted to know more about the Pillar, he sometimes preferred not to. The professor had been a headache when he was in the asylum, and Tom still had nightmares about the Pillar escaping his cell without anyone seeing him. How did he do it?
“What exactly do you know about the Pillar?” he asked the inspector.
“I know why he killed the twelve people.”
“Come on.” Tom puffed. “Don’t tell me the professor had a meticulously calculated reason to do this.”
“It’s stranger than you’d ever think.” Inspector Dormouse sounded awake and alert. “Did you know that the twelve men had something in common?”
Tom tilted his neck, interested.
“The twelve men the Pillar killed were using fake names,” Inspector Dormouse said.
Tom didn’t see how that played out. It seemed strange, but not something that would interest him. “Fake names, you say?”
“All of them,” the inspector said. “They changed their names sometime around the last five years.”
“Are you saying they did it at the same time?”
“In the same year.”
Tom itched his neck. The thought of popping another pill occurred to him, but he didn’t. This seemed to be going somewhere. “Is that all?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it was.” The inspector pulled out a long list of names and shoved it toward Tom. “This is a list with their names before they changed them.”
Tom put on his glasses and began reading. Most of the names were foreign, not English, but that was all. “If there is a catch about this list, I’m not seeing it,” he told the inspector.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the inspector said. “Neither did I in the beginning.”
Tom grimaced, his face knotting, waiting for the inspector’s punch line, which didn’t come. Instead, he watched the inspector yawn and fall asleep while standing.
“Inspector!” Tom rapped upon his desk, thinking about those pills again.
“Ah.” The inspector woke, stretching like he’d been napping for an hour. “So where were we?”
“You said there is something special about the twelve men’s names before they changed them. What is it?”
“All those foreign names on the list are a translation to one name in English,” the Inspector said.
“One name?” Tom grimaced. “Are you saying the twelve people the Pillar killed shared one certain name—in different languages—then changed it to a fake one in the same year?”
The inspector nodded proudly.
“That’s odd,” Tom said. “Definitely interesting. But I don’t see how this exposes the Pillar’s reason for killing them.”
“Not when you know of the name they all shared in the past.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Most definitely.”
“What is that name?” Tom asked, not expecting the inspector’s answer.
It was such a strange answer that he had the inspector repeat it to make sure he’d heard it right the first time.
“Carter Pillar,” the inspector said. “The twelve men shared the name of Carter Pillar.”
49
Close to Kalmykia region, Russia
“What are you doing?” I ask the Pillar, as our balloon floats closer to the ground.
He looks up from his phone, which he has been using to play chess for some time. “I’m playing chess against the computer.”
“I see that,” I say. “You’ve been clicking buttons like a child for half an hour now.”
“I have the strongest thumbs.” He grins, still staring at the screen.
“The weakest mind, too.”
“Love you when you’re nasty like that.” He clicks a side button and plays a song, which has lyrics saying, I’m feeling kinda mean… Blah, blah, blah. “It’s a song by Double Vision.”
“So?”
“I need to feel mean and practice chess in case we’re playing against the Chessmaster with Carroll’s pieces.”
“And a couple of computer games will make you good at it?”
“I am playing against the commercialized version of IBM’s Deep Blue.” He still grins like a child, making a move against the machine.
I’m beginning to get curious, peeking to see how far he went. “Any luck?”
“Nah,” the Pillar says. “This is the seventh game I’ve lost in a row.”
“In only a couple of moves, apparently.” I point at the screen.
The Pillar glances toward me. “I think we’d better give in and let the world end. Neither of us can beat the Chessmaster.”
“You’ve just said it may be another sort of chess game,” I remind him. “Besides, there must be a point in collecting Carroll’s pieces.”
“Of course, but we don’t know what it is.”
“Maybe you can only beat the Chessmaster with Carroll’s Knight. It’d make sense why Lewis scattered the pieces all around the world.”
The Pillar seems to like the idea. “Not bad thinking for a mad girl who’s a mere character in a children’s book.”
“Stop the joking. Be serious for a few minutes.”
“Can I be seriously joking?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Stop it, really.”
“Seriously mad?”
“Pillar!”
“I was thinking seriously funny. Now that’s new.”
“I’m not going to warn you again. Now tell me what’s in Kalmykia. I’m sure the chess piece didn’t say just to go there without further clues.”
“You want to know what’s in Kalmykia?”
“Yes.”
“Chess City.”
“Chess City? What is that?”
“A large complex devoted to chess competitions, located east of Elista, Kalmykia, in Russia.” The Pillar tucks his phone into his battered pocket. “A small town, actually, with a domed Chess Hall.”
“A center for playing chess, you mean?”
“Yes, but that’s not Chess City’s main attraction. The small city is an Olympic-style village of Californian-Mediterranean Revival Style architecture. It has a conference center, public swimming pool, and a museum of Kalmyk Buddhist art.”
“And?” I tilt my head. Clearly nothing of what he’s mentioned is what we’re after.
“Chess City also has a complex feature of sculptures and artwork devoted to chess. One of them is a statue of a man called Ostap Bender.”
“Who’s that?”
“A fictional character of books written by Ilya Ilf and Yevgeni Petrov, Russian authors, equally infatuated with Alice in Wonderland.”
“What were their books about?”
“The character in their books proposed the creation of a world chess capital.”
“That’s interesting.” I’m curious to see where the Chessmaster fits in.
“Earlier, Chess City had been used to host holy men like the Dalai Lama and such, but then, when completed in 1998, a millionaire from Kalmykia, ruler of the republic since 1993, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, made this city into something much madder.”
“I’m listening.”
“Kirsan Ilyumzhinov was also president of FIDE, the international governing body of chess, at the time,” the Pillar explains. “A f
anatical chess enthusiast, and totally against the IBM scam with his friend Garry Kasparov, had the city expanded and built for the thirty-third Chess Olympiad.”
I am not saying a word. The Pillar’s story seems complex, so I keep listening eagerly, waiting for the punch line, because with the Pillar, there is always a punch line.
“Since then, Chess City has hosted three major FIDE tournaments. Kirsan Ilyumzhinov had future plans for hosting watersport and skiing events, but that never happened.”
“Why?”
“You want the truth or the newspaper headlines at the time?”
“Start with the version told by the newspapers at the time.”
“They claimed that due to Kalmykia being a poor republic of approximately three hundred thousand people located in the barren steppe regions in the southeastern corner of Europe, with scant natural resources, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov was corrupt and stealing the poor people’s money,” the Pillar says. “As a result, the construction of the opulent Chess City was abandoned.”
“Abandoned?”
“It became a dead city,” the Pillar says. “As beautiful as it was, the investigations never ended, and no one lived there anymore.”
At this moment, the city starts to show itself beyond the fading white of snow in the distance. Slowly, I am absorbing the ridiculously beautiful and larger-than-life aspect of it. From this far, I can already see an endless chessboard built on the ground, much, much larger than the one in Marostica.
Beyond it, the rest of the city’s buildings are colorful and enchantingly designed, reminding me of the ridiculousness of everything Lewis Carroll imagined in Wonderland.
“I can’t believe how beautiful it is,” I say. “How come such a place is abandoned?”
“Which brings us to what really happened with Kirsan Ilyumzhinov,” the Pillar says.
“I’m curiouser and curiouser,” I say.
“In reality, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov was a dear friend of…”
“Of whom?”
“The March Hare.”
It takes me a second to connect the March to these events, but once I remind myself of the light bulb in the Hare’s head, my brain lights up with the answer. “Are you telling me Kirsan Ilyumzhinov was searching for Wonderland?”
