by Cameron Jace
“Forget about it, Alice.”
“I want to know,” I grab his arm, stopping him. “Are you dying?”
The Pillar shoots me a flat stare. It’s the one he uses to conceal a big secret. I know him well enough to tell by now.
“Pillar,” I say gently. “If you’re dying, you have to tell me. Is it that skin issue you have?”
“Someone is going to kill me.” He knocks his cane once on the ground, his face strangely unreadable.
“Are you psychic now, knowing someone is going to kill you?”
“I’ve seen it in the future.” His chin is up, avoiding my eyes.
The realization strikes me hard. “Is that why you were the same age when we time travelled in the future? Because you weren’t supposed to be there?” I cup my hands on my mouth. God, The Pillar will be dead fourteen years from now.
“I saw my grave, Alice.”
“And it said you were killed, not a normal death?”
The Pillar nods, though I still feel he isn’t telling me the whole truth.
“So you feel like you basically belong in the hospice, waiting for your death? That’s not like you.”
His flat expression lasts a whole minute, torturing me with his silence, as I fail to read his mind. It ends with him walking away toward the street.
“Where are you going?”
The Pillar doesn’t answer but stops at a café a little later. I stop next to him, watching the café’s TV broadcasting the latest news about the incident in Russia. The host comments on the Pope’s bad moves in the game and that he may be the next to die. The screen shows the world leaders sweating at their chessboards, most of them having played two moves out of the seven. Most of them have also sipped that poison that might eventually kill them.
“How can he possibly play with hundred and thirty people at once?” I wonder.
“It should be easy for a man who played chess with God and won.” The Pillar drags on his pipe.
“You don’t really believe that.”
“It’s a great marketing scheme, instilling fear in everyone. It works. I don’t have to believe it,” The Pillar nears the TV. “Nice handlebar mustache, and look at that armor he is wearing.”
“He is a madman who needs a psychiatrist.” I comment.
“Or a fashion designer,” The Pillar says. “I find it humiliating that the world is threatened by a man so out of fashion that he’s still wearing armor.”
“Do you know him? Is he a Wonderlander?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve certainly never met him before.”
“He looks very much like Wonderlanders,” I explain. “Eccentric, mad, and evil.”
“You’ve just described every politician on TV.”
“This chess game strikes me as a Wonderland theme,” I stare The Pillar in the eyes. “Like the chessboard of life in the Vatican.”
“Are you implying something?”
“I think you know who he is and aren’t telling me.”
“Usually I am, but not this time.”
I try to believe him but can’t. “So why is the Chessmaster doing this?”
It’s exactly this instant when the Chessmaster approaches the camera and begins to talk.
“I will be brief,” he says. “Before I reveal my intentions and demands, I need to make sure only those who are qualified to meet my needs, apply.”
We all watch him pull each side of his handlebar mustache after every couple of words.
“Listen carefully,” the Chessmaster continues. “Because you have no idea who I am. I mean, I am so scary that I sometimes prefer not to remind myself who I am.”
“You think he could be the mad barber on Cherry Lane Road, who’s responsible for half of the male Brits being bald?” The Pillar comments, but everyone in the café shushes him.
“In order to let your world leaders live, I need you to bring me something,” the Chessmaster says in his Russian accent. It makes him sound both funny and intimidating, which puzzles me. “I want you to find something called ‘Carroll’s Knight’.”
Everyone in the café starts to murmur and speculate. I look at The Pillar for answers.
“Carroll’s Knight.” He drags from his pipe. “Sound’s interesting.”
“Don’t bother trying to figure out what it is,” the Chessmaster says. “Only those who already know will understand.”
“I guess my work is done.” The Pillar is on his way out of the cafe. “Because I don’t know what Carroll’s Knight is.”
“Wait,” I say. “The Chessmaster must be a Wonderland Monster. Carroll’s Knight sounds Wonderland related.”
“To get what I want, I will ask you to solve the following puzzle,” the Chessmaster says. The Pillar stops at the door. I guess he can’t resist puzzles. “If you are the few who are capable of getting what I want, you should be able to answer the following question. It’s a puzzle of which its answer leads to a place.”
Everyone is listening.
“The puzzle is: where is Miss Croatia 1454?”
Chapter 11
The Streets of London.
The Cheshire was now possessing a politician’s body. A middle aged minister in an ironed suit and tie. After ordering people left and right, he sat back in his comfortable chair and glanced at the rainy London from his office’s window.
It’s not like the Cheshire hadn’t possessed politicians before. Only this time he made sure not to let his persona overcome that of the politician. Instead, he let the man’s mind seep through, so the Cheshire could read it all.
It wasn’t surprising how the politician didn’t give a damn about the world’s turmoil at the moment. The man rocked in his chair, lit a cigar, and started thinking about how he could benefit from the crisis of the Chessmaster holding the world leaders hostages.
His thoughts were like this: Would the American dollar rise or decline in such times? Never mind the British pound. It may be as strong as a rock, but it means nothing in the world’s economy. Should I be investing in certain things now? Should I start planning to take the prime minister’s place?
In short, the politician was a scumbag, and the Cheshire was far from surprised. It’s what he’d always expected from humans, though he’d began mildly sympathizing with humanity, especially since when he time traveled to the future and possessed Jack’s soul.
Of course, it baffled him how he partially remembered that journey when he shouldn’t know anything about it. He couldn’t explain it, and he didn’t remember much anyways.
All he remembered was that fuzzy feeling in his chest toward Alice, which were Jack’s feelings, of course.
But the Cheshire felt a bit changed since then. Not that he had converted to loving humans — the politician he was possessing made sure of that — but he was confused.
Part of the Cheshire’s confusion was that he still didn’t belong to a body or identity. It seemed like it was time he stuck to one person and lived their lives. But who?
He picked up the remote and turned on the TV.
There was a show about cats, where a woman loved them and fed them and took care of them. All cats looked really neat, too cute, too loving.
“Disgusting.” the Cheshire said and turned the channel, wondering how much they paid those cats to act like they enjoyed the company of humans.
As he flipped through channels, he suddenly remembered that at some point he’d possessed the knowledge of the whereabouts of the Six Impossible Keys, but then had forgotten them when he returned to the present again.
“Dang!” he said in the politician’s voice.
He stopped at the channel that broadcasted the Chessmaster in Russia and laid the remote on the table.
The Cheshire knew a few secrets about the Chessmaster. He even had an idea why he maybe be killing the world leaders. A few secrets the Cheshire preferred to keep to himself.
The one thing he didn’t know, and puzzled the purrs and furs out of him was what, or where, Miss Croatia 1454 wa
s?
Chapter 12
On the Train, somewhere in Europe
I’m fidgeting in the seat next to The Pillar and slightly rocking to the train’s movement. He doesn’t pay attention to any of my questions, but stares at a paper he’s discreetly pinned into the back of the woman sitting in front of him. She has bushy hair and probably hasn’t washed it for some time, so she doesn’t feel it.
“Aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask him, disappointed that I’ve failed solving the puzzle.
“We booked two tickets for Croatia, didn’t we?” He says, still staring at the paper, which reads ‘Miss Croatia 1454.’
“I know, but this couldn’t be so easy.”
“The puzzle says Croatia, so it must be,” he says. “All we need is to figure out what 1454 means. Could be an address.”
“You mean a street or house number? Come on, he said only few people will be able to solve it. This doesn’t sound like a puzzle designed for few people to get.”
“I agree, but I can’t solve it. Let’s stick with the Croatia idea. What do you think the numbers are?”
“Coordinates?”
“I checked. It’s not.”
I let out a sigh. Today seems to be the day of disappointments. Earlier, I couldn’t defend myself against the Reds and now I am clueless to this puzzle. “Are you sure this isn’t a Wonderland puzzle? Something Lewis Carroll wrote in his book?”
“I am. Lewis only left England to travel to Russia. I doubt it if he’d ever known anything about Croatia?”
“Not even the 1454 number?”
“Nah, but wait,” The Pillar waves his gloved hands in the air. Those were new gloves the woman at the hospice had given him with her phone number on the back.
“What is it?”
“1454 is a year.”
“I thought of it, Googled it, but found nothing of importance.”
“Not even in Croatia?”
“I don’t think Croatia existed in 1454,” I say, wondering if he is testing me. Usually he knows more, though today he strikes me a little off balance with his worrying about dying within fourteen years. I wonder about the real reason he visited the hospice. I wonder if there is still a part of what he’d seen in the future that he hasn’t told me about. And I hope he isn’t really dying because I am not sure what I’d do without him.
The Pillar pulls out a marker pen and stretches his arm forward, then crosses the word ‘miss’ out. Instead he writes, ‘Ms.’
“What different does it make?”
“All the difference in the world,” He looks like he’s got something.
Then I get it. It only takes a minute to see it, and I am proud of myself. “It’s an anagram.”
“Indeed,” he says. “The words ‘Ms. Croatia’ are meant to be shuffled and changed to give us another word.”
“The Chessmaster is brilliant. In order to make sure very few can solve it, he made it harder by substituting ‘Ms.’ with ‘Miss.’”
“I wouldn’t say that,” The Pillar comments. “He said Miss Croatia, never wrote it. So it was up to us to interpret it the way we want.”
“But now that we know, ‘Ms. Croatia’ is actually the word…” I am trying to figure it out without pen and paper.
“Marostica,” The Pillar says. “I am beginning to think I’ve underestimated the Chessmaster.”
“Marostica?” I Google it. “That’s in Italy.”
“Yes, it is,” The Pillar pulls the paper back and the woman flinches, glaring back at him. The Pillar sticks out his tongue like a kiddo, making her feel uncomfortable, she looks back immediately.
“So the message is Marostica 1454?” I whisper to him. “What happened in 1454 in Marostica?”
“Something beautiful,” The Pillar says, booking train tickets to Italy on his phone.
“Something beautiful?” I squint. “I doubt the Chessmaster is inviting us to something beautiful.”
“Dear Alice, buckle up and take a deep breath,” The Pillar says. “The Chessmaster might be some sort of Wonderlander after all.”
“I’m not following.”
“Let me put it this way: in the year 1454 in Marostica, Italy, the first chess game in the history of mankind was played. Something Lewis had been very fascinated with.”
Chapter 13
Marostica, Italy.
The train stops at Bassano del Grappa, the nearest railway station to Marostica. Most tourists take the buses but The Pillar insists on taking a private taxi in case someone is tracking us we could see them in the mirror. Who knows what the Chessmaster really has on his mind?
The Pillar converses with the driver in Italian, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. All I know is that the driver seems pretty amused with the professor, and at some point it seems they’re talking about national football teams.
Marostica itself is one exceptional town. I’d imagine Jack taking me here and us having a good time. But Jack is part of my past now. I shouldn’t be thinking about him, even if I want to.
Since we don’t know where we should be going in Marostica, the taxi driver starts giving us a little tour. He shows us a few landmarks and recommends a couple of restaurants. But none of that piques our interest. Not until he shows us two castles, one at the top of the hill above town, the other in the main square, Piazza Castello. It’s the one in the square that piques our interest.
The square before the castle is one large chessboard laid out in paving stones. I am not making that up, it’s true.
The view with the upper castle, Castello Superiore, behind it is enchanting. The lower castle, directly overlooking the chessboard, is Castello Inferiore, and it guards the main entrance through the town walls as well.
We stop and get out and the taxi driver refuses to take any money, which doesn’t strike me as an Italian behavior. He shoots me a pitiful glance then says in English, ‘I pray for you’ before he guns away.
“What was that all about?” I ask The Pillar.
“I told the taxi driver you were an insane girl who still thinks that Wonderland exists,” The Pillar says nonchalantly.
“Why?”
“It helped us get a free ride, didn’t it?” He pulls my hand and shows me ahead. “Now let me tell you about this place.” He points at the people gathered around the large chessboard. “The famous Chess Game, or like the Italian like to call it: Partita a Scacchi di Marostica.”
“So this is where the Chessmaster wants us to obtain his Carroll’s Knight?”
“It has to be. Right here, the first ever chess game in history took place.” He points at the live chess pieces, men and women dressed as such, gathering, each upon a block and pretending to be bishops, pawns, rooks, knights, kings and queens.
“Really?” I say. “I mean I never thought the first chess game was ever traceable.”
“You’re right about that. Let’s just say this is the first documented chess game in history, here in Marostica in 1454. There is no doubt this is where the Chessmaster wants us to be.”
“The only question is why.”
“I imagine we’re about to find out,” The Pillar says. “Usually there is a yearly festival in the memory of that game, in September of each year.”
“It’s not September, so why are people gathered and celebrating?”
“My assumption would be that it’s been planned by the Chessmaster.”
A woman wearing what looks like a rook’s top on her head approaches us and asks for tickets. The Pillar talks her out of it. She smiles pitifully and tells me she is going to pray for me.
“You have to stop that.” I tell him.
“It got us a free ticket, didn’t it,” The Pillar says. “Besides I’m only telling the truth. You’re a mad girl who thinks Wonderland exists. The game we’re about to see, accompanied by dancing and music, involves scores of costumed participants and human chess-pieces.”
“So this isn’t really a chess game?”
“N
o such thing. They’re reciting a traditional story of a local ruler with a beautiful daughter. She had two suitors, but rather than letting them fight a duel, the lord proposed a chess match with the winner receiving her hand in marriage and the loser marrying her younger sister.”
“So she didn’t have a say in the matter of her marriage?”
“They’re not called the dark ages for nothing,” The Pillar says. “What strikes me as interesting, though, is the fact that the first documented chess game in history was about two men trying to win one woman’s heart.”
“Are you trying to sound sentimental?” I mock him.
“Nah, I’m trying to remind you of your similar situation. You still don’t know who you’ll end up with. Jack or the mysterious future husband, but anyways, let’s…”
This is when the Chessmaster’s plan starts to reveal itself.
A tall man dressed as a black knight in the game on the large chessboard acts like he is about to checkmate the white Queen, but with a mallet in his hand, he threatens to knock off her head.
Chapter 14
I am about to run toward him and stop him, when The Pillar squeezes my hand, pointing at the armed men in the higher castle, all pointing their weapons at the crowd below, including us.
People panic in a rage of murmur, unable to comprehend or object against the situation. None of us understands what’s going on until a large screen nearby broadcasts the Chessmaster live on TV.
“So, I believe that two persons have solved my puzzle,” the Chessmaster rubs his handlebar mustache, staring too close at the camera. “And that’s where the game begins.”
“Who is broadcasting this?” Someone asks, but none answer due to their paralyzing fear.
The Chessmaster proceeds. “Whether you’re watching this on TV or are actually in Marostica in Italy, you will get to see live footage of what’s happening now. To put it simply, the man with the sword will chop the head of the woman in the Queen’s outfit if my next puzzle isn’t solved. Anyone who interferes will be shot by my men in the higher castle. Any other interference by air or military, I will kill the next president,” he looks sideways at the sweating leaders of the world, trying to figure their next move in the chess game that may save their lives. “I believe I’ve clearly explained myself.”
