by Cameron Jace
“Hardly.”
“But you must remember it,” he says. “And if you don’t, trust me, I will remind you.”
“Let’s stop the talking. You got what you wanted. Release the world’s leaders and wake the cities that are sleeping. I have no intention of getting to know you better.”
“But you will know me better.” The Chessmaster places both hands behind his back and approaches me. “In fact, one day not so long ago, you knew me very well.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“But I will remind you of who I am, and what you have done to me.”
“So this is personal?” I shrug. “I hurt you when we were in Wonderland? Why would I regret hurting a monster like you?”
“You want to know why?” The Chessmaster’s breath is on my face. “Because I wasn’t a monster then. It was you who was a monster, Alice of Black Chess.”
65
Underground kitchen, Oxford University
“So the Pillar killing the Executioner was a hoax?” Inspector Dormouse asked.
“Probably,” Tom said. “He made the world think he was freeing them from the worst drug empire in the world, while executing his brilliant plan.”
“What plan?” Inspector Dormouse asked. “We don’t even know why he killed the thirteen—or fourteen—men.”
“A deal that went awry, that’s all we need to know,” Tom said. “What matters is that it had nothing to do with saving the world or Alice being the Real Alice.”
“I heard a few members talking about this when the Pillar hadn’t arrived yet in one of the meetings,” Chopin said. “They argued that he used Alice to kill the Executioner for him. They believed Alice had certain powers or secrets that helped him do it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tom said. “The man is pure evil. He has the capacity and slyness to fool the world and come out with no blood on his gloves.”
“Still, I need to know what this is all about,” Inspector Dormouse said. “Fourteen people making a deal with the devil, in our case the Pillar, and then being killed years later by him. Why? Did they break the deal? Did he deceive them?”
“Hard to tell, inspector,” Tom said. “Also, none of this tells us who the Pillar really is.”
“Maybe we will never find out,” Inspector Dormouse said. “Chopin, anything else? How about the fourteenth member?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Chopin said. “All I know is that the Pillar couldn’t find him.”
“Any reason why?”
“I overheard the Fourteen mention that the fourteenth member was so sly he managed to hide his identity from all of them,” Chopin said. “Meaning, he changed his name and escaped before the time they’d previously agreed upon.”
“So changing their names was part of the deal?” Tom asked.
“Don’t you get it?” Dormouse said. “This whole deal was about the Fourteen keeping the secret and changing their names at a certain time so the secret dies with them, except that the Pillar broke this deal and, for some reason, had to get rid of them.”
“Probably because he sensed they’d expose him,” Tom said. “But what in God’s name was the deal?”
“I think I know,” Chopin said, putting the knife down, looking agitated. “Look, I’m not sure I heard this right, but since you seem to be stuck, I have to tell you.”
“Speak up,” Tom demanded.
Chopin minded the wound on his newly chopped finger, making sure he wasn’t bleeding anymore, and tucked his lost finger into his pocket—for a later carrot soup, probably. “I don’t believe in magic or spirits or all these things, but here is what I once overheard.”
“Just say it,” Tom said.
“I heard the Fourteen once joke that they sold their souls to the devil.”
66
Chess City, Kalmykia
The Chessmaster’s men usher me toward a building decorated in Buddhist ornaments and architecture. It’s one of the most memorable buildings in Chess City. No one says a word to me.
Inside, a few Tibetan women help me take a bath and put on better, cleaner clothes. They take care of my nails and hair, but they don’t speak my language, so I don’t know what’s going on.
I have no choice but to go along, since the Chessmaster, though having found what he wanted, has refused to release the world leaders.
“You and I, Alice, we have one last chess game to play.” These were his words. “I want you to look good for the end of either your life or mine.”
One of the women brings me a chessboard, books about chess, and DVDs about the Chessmaster’s previous games. This one, unlike the others, speaks English.
“Why those?” I ask.
“You need to prepare yourself,” she says. “The Chessmaster has never lost a game. He even won the game with…”
“God, I know, and I don’t care about all of this propaganda. I don’t have any idea how to play chess.”
“Then you will die.” She grins happily.
“Is he seriously intent on playing a final chess game with me?” I ask. “A real game of chess? I thought it was a metaphor.”
“The Chessmaster loves chess. It’s his life, and just so you know, there is a prophecy about you and him playing the last chess game in the world.”
“I know about the stupid prophecy. I read it in some ancient note,” I say. “But this is ridiculous. He knows I will lose.”
“If you lose, people will die, and the world will end, too.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I cough, almost chortling. “Are you saying I’m playing that same game he killed the Pope with?”
“And all the other world leaders,” she remarks. “He has killed a few more in the last few hours and put more cities to sleep. They say Oxford and London will be put to sleep next.”
“I have to see the Chessmaster and talk to him. He needs to know I can’t play chess. Whatever happened between us in the past, there must be another way to solve it.”
“No other way. Win or lose,” she says. “Remember, after every move, you drink a small cup of poison. The poison makes you dizzy and doesn’t kill you until your seventh move. If you can’t beat the Chessmaster before this one, you will die. Thank you very much.”
67
The last chess game, Chess City, Kalmykia
The auditorium they send me to has bright lights, almost blinding, focused on two chairs with a table in the middle and a chessboard upon it. Carroll’s chessboard, with pieces made of his bones.
Walking onto the stage, I hear murmurs and heavy breathing from the audience, but it’s too dark to see them. This intimidates me even more.
I’m asked to sit on my chair, creepily tagged with the words Alice: Loser.
It looks like a gravestone, not a chair to sit on and play chess. But I have no choice and take my place.
In front of me, I realize I will be playing with the black pieces. The Chessmaster with the white. I’m not sure what’s going on.
Why is the Chessmaster playing with white chess pieces?
Then my eyes catch a strange sight. One of the white pieces, specifically the knight, is missing. It’s the only piece that’s missing on the whole board. I’m assuming this is where Carroll’s Knight is supposed to be.
But I am not catching the meaning behind it.
On both sides of the chessboard I see seven small cups, filled with that poison the Tibetan woman mentioned. I swallow hard. Will I really drink seven cups and die today?
A few tight breaths later, the unseen crowd applauds. Cocking my head, I see the Chessmaster arrive.
He strolls over as if he were Julius Caesar. Brushes his handlebar mustache to the left and right. Even combs the thin hairs on his head, and bows to the invisible crowd in his ridiculous armor outfit.
Suddenly, it strikes me. His outfit is that of a knight. So is he actually Carroll’s Knight? I don’t get it.
The Chessmaster sits with ease and then lightly touches the top of each of his chess pieces for l
uck, or as some kind of ritual. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but then pulls out a chess piece of a white knight, rubs it gently with his hands and kisses it, then places it on the board where it should be.
“My beloved white knight,” he says. “Carroll’s Knight.”
“Congratulations. I figured.” I keep an expressionless face.
“This is what you, Alice, helped me retrieve after all these years.”
“I wonder why it’s so important.”
“I can’t win without it,” he says with a smile. It’s the smile of a psychopath, but it’s strangely genuine.
“I find that hard to believe,” I say. “You’ve never lost a game, and yet you were playing without it.”
“Smart girl.” He claps his hands, the flesh barely meeting, like an aristocratic old lady living in an ancient mansion she’s never left for ages. “That I will answer, but first I need you to listen to this.”
He claps once more and the speakers start playing a nonsensical song. It’s all vocals of children and has no music in it. Probably some sort of a poem. I realize it’s called “Haddock’s Eyes.”
“Remember this one, Alice?” He tilts his head with curiosity.
I do. “It’s a poem in Alice Through the Looking Glass.”
“Bravo.” He claps. “Clever girl. Does it remind you of me?”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“But you do know me. You used to know my children, too. My wife and my grandmother.”
“We were neighbors in Wonderland?”
“Not exactly.” He raises a single forefinger. “But back to your question: why I can’t win without Carroll’s Knight?”
“I’m all ears.”
His eyes dim, and a dark flash of anger and a vengeance-seeking look consumes me in ways I can’t explain. I feel sucked in by his stare, watching him lean forward. “Because Carroll denied me taking my revenge on you and killing you, though he knew what you did to me.” His voice is really unsettling. Not because he is scary, but because he is sincere. A sincere villain isn’t a good thing.
“I get it that I hurt you in Wonderland. You still haven’t explained the necessity of Carroll’s Knight.”
“It’s the only piece in chess I can kill you with, and I have it now. And the irony? You brought it to me. The double irony? That Lewis made Fabiola bury and hide it in Chess City.” His eyes are moistening, and it’s getting to me. “And triple irony? That Lewis made the chess piece I can kill you with in the first place. I guess he was confused about whether to kill you or give you another chance, so he left it to Fabiola, and the random fate of finding Carroll’s Knight.”
There is too much for me to absorb here, but what is most troubling is the Chessmaster’s ability to make me feel evil.
“You can’t win this game, Alice. I’ve mastered the game of chess for almost two centuries, so I will never lose one,” he says. “You know why? Because I was waiting for this moment all my life. You deserve this, Alice. To burn in hell. And all I needed was Carroll’s Knight.”
He pats his beloved chess piece one more time, as if it were alive.
So many questions are on my mind. What could I have possibly done in the past to this man that made him hate me so much? But the one that comes out of my mouth is this: “Why a knight? Why not any other piece?”
“Because I, the Chessmaster, Vozchik Stolb, was a Wonderlander once,” he says in a tone so friendly and naive that I’m starting to hate myself for hurting him. “In fact, I was the funniest, most harmless, of Wonderlanders. Lewis has mentioned me with care and I’m proud of it—though I still hate him.”
“Mentions you in the book?” I ask. “Who are you?”
“I’m the White Knight.”
68
Underground kitchen, Oxford University
“Devil, my arse,” Tom snapped. “You don’t expect me to believe that?”
“Why not?” Inspector Dormouse said. “You believe in the nonsense of Wonderland and not in good and evil and the forces beyond our grasp.”
“Everything is beyond your grasp, inspector,” Tom said. “You’re asleep two-thirds of your life. I’m surprised you know what it’s like to be awake.”
Chopin snickered.
“So you think the Pillar is the devil?” Inspector Dormouse turned his gaze toward the cook.
“I didn’t say that.” Chopin shrugged. “But look, I accidentally chop off a finger every time I mention the Pillar. Diabolic!”
“You heard anything else?” Dormouse said. “Please remember. It’s important.”
“I don’t want to remember.” Chopin pulled his chin up and away, like a silly cartoon character in a manga. “I only have eight fingers left.”
“How about a hundred pounds?” Inspector Dormouse slapped the money on the kitchen table.
“For a finger?” Chopin seemed interested.
“Two hundred pounds.” Dormouse pulled out another hundred.
“I need three hundred pounds,” Chopin said.
“Why? You’ve lost only two fingers.” Tom felt the need to interfere.
“And I will lose a third once I mention that devil again,” Chopin said.
“Here is another hundred.” Tom offered a hundred of his own, not sure why he felt so curious all of a sudden. Maybe he’d like to see Chopin lose another finger.
“Talk!” Dormouse seemed aggressive.
“Say what?” Chopin said. “I will not talk.”
“But you took the money,” Tom argued.
“I didn’t say I would not fulfill my promise, but I will not talk.”
“You’re wasting our time,” Dormouse said.
“No I’m not.” Chopin pulled a flash drive from his pocket. “This will tell you what you need to know.”
“What is this?” Tom squinted at the drive suspiciously. “A bomb?”
“Why would I explode myself with you losers?” Chopin said. “This is a secret recording of some of the sessions. You go over it and hear everything.”
“Why haven’t you told us about this before?” Tom snapped.
“And lose three hundred pounds?” Chopin said.
“But you also lost a finger.” Tom was getting mad.
“The devil took one finger, yes, but I fooled the devil and kept the other when you gave me the last hundred and I didn’t talk.” Chopin looked sideways, as if the devil were hiding in a teapot nearby, listening to his genius conspiracy.
“Give it to me.” Tom snatched the drive, but then something incredibly unexpected happened.
Dormouse found himself standing in a room where both Chopin and Tom fell asleep while standing on their feet. It didn’t take him long to realize it was the Chessmaster’s doing. The madman had earlier announced that he’d make Oxford and London sleep next.
“Hmm…” Inspector Dormouse picked up the flash drive, wondering why he was the only one left awake. “This is weird.”
He took the flash drive outside, preparing to listen to it in Tom’s car stereo—it had an MP3 player that would accept the flash drive—and looked around at a sleeping University of Oxford.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” he said. “I think it’s frabjous. The one man who sleeps the most is the only one awake right now. Could it be that my sleeping has kept me immune to the Chessmaster’s curse?”
69
The last chess game, Chess City, Kalmykia
“The White Knight?” I say, unable to fathom this.
In the books, the White Knight was the gentlest and most beloved creature in Wonderland. In spite of his short appearance, he saved Alice from his opponent, the Red Knight. I remember reading about him repeatedly falling off his horse and landing on his head. He also had those silly inventions: pudding with ingredients like blotting paper, an upside-down container, and anklets to guard his horse against shark bites.
How could this good man have become who he is now?
“I see you remember me now,” the Chessmaster says.
�
�I remember what I read in the book about you,” I say. “That’s all.”
“It will come to you,” he says. “All the things you’ve done to me.”
“Why not remind me?”
“I’m afraid if I do, you’ll die from shock before I can beat you in the game.”
“If so, you should have just told me long ago and refrained from finding Carroll’s Knight,” I say. “Stop playing games. Tell me what I did. I’m very curious how I ever managed to hurt Death.”
“That’s the thing, Alice,” he says. “I never was Death before what you did to me.”
This is a complicated thing. Did I create Death in the past?
“I didn’t even ask to become Death.”
“Now I’m starting to doubt your story. It’d make more sense if you longed to become Death to have your revenge. I’d believe that.”
“Not if there had been a ritual involved.” His words echo in the back of my head, and suddenly I feel dizzy again, as if I’m about to remember.
“Ritual?”
“The unholy ritual that made you kill my daughter.”
My hand reaches for the edge of the table and grabs on to it. More dizziness. Faint memories, blurred by older sins. “I killed your daughter?”
“Two, actually.” The Chessmaster genuinely exposes his pain, and it cuts through and splinters my whole being into ripped pieces.
I have nothing to say, except to wish this hadn’t happened.
“And my wife,” the Chessmaster recounts. “My grandmother and my farm dog.”
“I did that?”
“It’s not easy realizing you were the villain, is it, Alice?” The Chessmaster’s anger is now surfacing. All the fluff is starting to wear off and the demon of vengeance is rising. “Villains are so misunderstood. People see them killing and raging, but they never ask themselves why they’ve become what they’ve become.”
