by Gavin Chait
Joshua, dizzy, trembling, follows. Out into the city beyond.
39
‘Knight to F6.’
They would be the first to admit that it is an inconvenient place to play their weekly game of chess. The small platform floats somewhere towards the middle of Tethys, Achenia’s ocean.
The two players have no board between them. The one reclines on a comfortable sofa and within the shade of a linen awning. The other is a puff of colour draped over the deck and stretched out in the sunshine.
Once they spent a decade playing beneath the cascade of a waterfall. Their games have attracted a following on the connect, with occasional lobbying for even more outlandish locations.
‘I do suggest that next time we choose a spot where my coffee doesn’t take half an hour to reach us. The last cup wasn’t quite hot.’
There is a considered silence as potential moves are surveyed and analyzed.
‘You have not said.’ The words are spoken tactfully, an almost reticence of reserve.
‘That is because unless I direct all my concentration towards the game I will lose inside of thirty minutes. I hope to, at least, last forty-five.’
‘It is not that bad.’
‘It is indeed that bad. I have not won a game in seventy years. Over two thousand games since you even fumbled. Could I suggest we switch to something that requires an element of luck? We could try backgammon. This game is far too regimented.’
He notes, with grim discomfort, that the current betting has him falling in another three moves.
The colour dapples, spreads further over the platform and on to the water. It could almost be said to be purring.
‘There is still the potential you may win. For many years we were evenly balanced.’
‘It took you thirty years to understand the nuances of the game. Now, cease your distractions.’
The man in the shade pinches the bridge of his nose and commits himself, ‘Knight to C3.’
Another flurry of wager changes and he sighs as the consensus is that it will be checkmate in two. He cannot see it himself.
‘I do appreciate your advice, though. It would mean a great deal to me if you would guide me. I have never written a samara before.’
‘It’s easier to be a judge than an entrant. I’ve never written one either.’
The colour intensifies, returning to the craft.
‘Very well, tell me and I’ll do my best.’
The colour quivers in pleasure.
The Three’s tale
Level Ball
A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.
Joel 2:3 King James Bible
‘We are the fire before the flame.’
The captain’s voice, captured and transmitted to the millions watching, is fearless. His team stand behind him dressed in haggard clothing. Faded, threadbare, carefully patched and spotlessly clean. They are barefoot and their legs and arms sinew and bone. Knotted on each shoulder is a red cloth. In their eyes is the yearning of the many who wait in the Upper Level and of those who are no longer with us.
‘We are the ice that binds.’
The opposing captain is equally unafraid. His voice amplified across the Lower Level and into the distant stadia surrounding the turf. His team jump and hop. Heavy muscle shielded behind cold blue padded uniforms and silver helmets. Their white boots grip the dense lawn, sharp metal studs churning the grass.
There are no umpires. There are no rules.
Save for one. A single goal ends the game.
Each year, a few moments from now, the game ball will fall from beneath the Upper Level and on to the field of the Lower Level. Each team will fight to secure control of the ball.
Each will attempt to bring the ball to their own goal and there to score.
For the blues, victory will return the game ball to the endless tunnels that will see it fall, a year from now, and restart this game.
For the reds, victory will end the confinement of all those who struggle in the Upper Level. The great gates will open, and they will be released back into the world from which they were forced. The game ball will be lost for ever and the game ended.
That is the way the game has been played for centuries. That is the way it was created. A joke at the expense of the reds. They cannot win. Their anguish and striving for freedom have been turned into televised entertainment for the viewers at home and in the stadia on the Lower Level.
Maybe, once, there was a memory of why they should suffer so. Perhaps some below wonder at the unfairness and fear burdened upon those above.
That is cast aside now. Nothing matters on game day save for who will secure the ball.
The words have been spoken. Cameras hover above. Silence descends upon the field.
The players look up.
The ball falls.
Each team is already moving. The blues have formed an attacking wedge and charge directly at the red captain. His team scatters.
There is laughter in the commentary box. The cowardice of the reds means the game will be over before it has properly started. The shortest recorded game was only five minutes.
The red captain does not move as the blues maul into him. His body is smashed to the ground. His flesh torn apart by the talons on their boots. Red stains on white leather.
The blue captain is at the head of the wedge. The ball bounces for the first time right behind them. And is instantly snatched.
The blue captain shouts. His voice ascends with the roar of the crowd.
The reds did not flee. The sacrifice was a diversion. Watch them now as they run. Complex patterns. Running ahead and behind and across.
The blues cannot see which of them has the ball. They are still in a tight ruck from their attack. Their captain is behind them. He does not realize what is happening.
The blues open up, watching carefully. There are only so many exits to the chains and ladders, so many ways to the Upper Level. A group of reds breaks for C gate. The blue captain nods but does not chase. He sends a group of five. He is watching for the diversions.
Another group of reds exits the chaotic cross-hatch of runners and makes for E gate. Again, the blue captain directs a group to follow.
So with the groups heading to G, K and D. Then he leads the last of his team to B gate, ignoring the remaining three red runners attempting to distract them on the field.
Players are already ascending the stairs, squeezing through the maze of alleys and ladders that lead hundreds of metres up into the sky. Just because you are ahead does not grant security. The ladders move, unexpectedly ending, leaving men stranded.
The blues chasing up C gate have caught up with the reds, cornering them on a chain ladder. They are twisting it, shaking hard. The reds cling on. One falls ten metres and lands on his back.
There is no advantage to entering the ladders first. All the blues need do is return the game ball to the Lower Level. It doesn’t matter if a red is still holding on to it at the time.
Up and up they go, gradually hauling in the clambering reds.
The cameras follow the chase. Their rotors are silent, their eyes unblinking. They are now 100 metres up. Only three of the red groups are still moving. The blue captain has signalled to his team to consolidate, to focus on these remaining sprints. The blue groups who have dispatched their red quarry are now working their way around the remaining groups, channelling them into a single set of ladders.
The ball has still not been seen since it first bounced. It does not matter. It will be found when all the reds have been forced back to the ground.
No red has ever made it above 250 metres, and they still have a long way to go.
The men are unflagging, but the game is slowing. Ladders are wet with sweat and blood. A blue slips, misses his grip and plunges. No matter, they still outnumber the reds.
The original K
group of reds has found a ladder that appears to offer them a clear run. The player at the bottom notices a group of blues heading to cut them off. He scrambles across, leaping for a parallel ladder, and pushes himself to get ahead and above.
With a scream, he flings himself into the pursuing blues, binding himself to them. Four of them plummet with him towards the field below.
The blue captain roars in frustration. He pulls his men in tighter and sends them up against the remaining reds.
The reds are exhausted and will soon be crushed. Then, a shout from one of the blues.
His captain looks to where he is pointing. Far across the tangle of ropes and ladders. Three reds. The ones they ignored below. They are much higher up. They have had a clear run.
The blue captain feels his heart stop. One of the reds is grinning. He is holding the game ball.
Too late. He must now chase. His men are almost spent. Not only must they gain height but they must cross the vast expanse of the chain-ladder field.
Quadrotor cameras weave through the levels, moving to get close to the dwindling reds.
Three hundred metres. Four hundred metres. Higher than the game has ever gone.
Pandemonium in the commentary box. Panic in the stadia. Terror at home.
The cameras are now following the red carrying the ball. He is young. Scarcely into his teens. His body is drenched with sweat, his breath hardened gasps. His eyes, though, black and unyielding.
They are entering the final level.
The ladders here are oiled. Slick on purpose.
The exhausted blues struggle. Their boots slide. Two more fall.
Everyone moves carefully.
Triumph at the top. The reds have reached the gates. They tumble through L on to the Upper Level.
The blue captain has abandoned his attempt to catch them in the ladders. He has focused only on getting to the top. A few minutes later they are through H gate.
There is chaos.
Cameras have never been to the Upper Level. The programme director and his crew are struggling to figure out where to send them or how to present what they’re seeing.
The blue captain still has eight of his men. He stands aghast.
There is no field. They have arrived in the midst of a tangle of cardboard and wooden shelters. It is cold up here, and people are clustered around fires burning inside standing barrels. The shacks lean against each other. Narrow passages between them.
The people are gaunt, barefoot and clothed in rags. Yet they are cheerful. There is a tumultuous bustle of activity. Single-room shops. Traders carrying food. Children running through the alleyways. Chickens squawk from the rooftops barely above head height.
Smoke from tens of thousands of cooking fires lingers over the sprawling city. There is mud and the smell of manure and offal.
Somehow the blue captain must find his way across towards L gate and the goal beyond. He forms his team into a wedge and they run straight.
They smash through houses, trampling chickens and furniture beneath them. There are shouts of outrage behind them and angry faces in the wreckage.
Ahead of them the cameras have finally found the red team. The three are running through narrow streets. Tiny shops selling vegetables and cooking oil give way to a wider thoroughfare.
Now people are gathering. A cry goes out. Our team, they’re here!
The blues are in pursuit. They can see the cameras hovering in the air above the reds. They ignore the people and homes around them. They go direct. And they are gaining.
Suddenly the blues are in a clearing. It is an open, muddy square. Benches have been set up around it. Thousands of people are standing behind those benches. As the blues emerge, the crowd screams and whistles and blows trumpets.
Waiting at the far end are the three remaining reds. They are standing at their goal.
The blue captain offers a final run with every last moment of his being.
The young red player grins. Sweat and mud are smeared across his face. He drops the ball into the goal.
The blue captain collapses, sliding in the mud. His team stutters to a halt.
They have lost.
Behind them, the four remaining reds arrive. They nod, giving the honour to the young man.
He says the words.
‘Ice on fire and flame forever unbound.’
The wall of noise subsides. And, in the distance, the first hesitant cries as great gates to the outside open.
40
‘It will be a bit dark for the competition, don’t you think?’ The man in the shade drains the last of his mug and sets it carefully on its tray.
‘It is still an early draft,’ says the colour.
‘I appreciate that. I’m not sure about the narrative voice. Perhaps a first-person account? It is certainly very striking. Fire before the flame? Or are we the ice that binds?’
‘There are many games and not all take place at the same time. Neither is every opposing side so clear in their position. We should be aware of our potential for both.’
The man swivels his feet on to the deck and sits up with his elbows against his knees. He nods. ‘That is true. No matter how unintentionally, sometimes one is both.’
‘I believe we will win our game and the gates to the universe will open for us,’ says the colour. ‘But I am mindful of those we will leave behind when Achenia sheds the dust of this planet. They also deserve to win, and we should honour the memory of those who fall so that others may rise.’
‘Who would your samara describe now, then?’
‘I believe that one of our new guests may have ideas of his own.’
The man looks into the connect and nods.
‘Now, my dear Shango,’ says the colour. ‘Knight to F6. Checkmate.’
The man sighs, stands and stretches. ‘Remind me again why I ever made you?’
The Three, resonating in a colour that could be described as laughter, floats at his side as the platform rises and heads back towards the shore.
41
Joshua is on a sandy path, the white grains fine and soft beneath his feet.
The city rises up out of the forest all around him. The great sweep, blending organically, rising in cliffs and swaddled in trees and flowers. A waterfall pours down from hundreds of metres above him, sheeting to a gentle mist and into a great lake extending across the valley. The city continues, rising again out of the forest, over the water and into a sky of a brilliant blue above.
He can see what must be apartments, recessed in the undergrowth above him. Shapes flying in the sky, stopping or leaving points on the cliffs.
Clouds drift, wisps in the air. The only sound is the roar of the water and a soft breeze blowing cool through the valley.
Joshua feels Fodiar’s hand on his elbow, steering him towards the end of the path where it opens into a shady grove. A small group of people waits.
As he nears, he sees her. She is beautiful. Dark hair, pale skin; her body is slender, fine. Her green-cobalt eyes are reddened. She could only be Shakiso. Joshua looks away, down. She is barefoot, her toes dusty. She runs to him, embraces him, and he feels her tears wet against his shoulder. He can smell wild flowers in her hair, and the warmth and the strength of her are all around him.
She releases him, steps back. Raises her hands to his face, rests her eyes in his. He feels as if she knows all of him, that he has nowhere to hide.
‘Thank you. Thank you for returning my love,’ and then she is gone, Samara floating alongside her as she disappears into the woods. Fodiar, too, has vanished.
A man steps forward. He looks the same age as Samara, and there is a family resemblance, but he is dark skinned and his face is jarring in its familiarity.
The man takes his arm, holds his hand. ‘I am Nizena Isoken, Samara’s grandfather. Forgive Shakiso, she is quite overcome.’
‘You are his grandfather?’ asks Joshua. ‘You are African?’
‘More than that,’ says Nizena, with a grin. ‘Th
is is Airmid, his mother, and my wife Kosai.’
The women are strikingly beautiful, dressed in simple unadorned dresses that shimmer and trail in the air, like cobwebs in a morning breeze. Joshua realizes that, even compared to these two, Shakiso is lovelier still.
‘This is our son, Joshua Emiola Ossai, of the people of Ewuru,’ says Nizena.
The women each embrace him. Holding him tightly, intimately. He is uncomfortable and, noticing, the women quietly withdraw, leaving him with Nizena, Kosai kissing him on the cheek as she goes.
‘You have our gratitude,’ he says. ‘Please,’ holding on to Joshua’s arm, leading him through the woods.
‘My child,’ says Nizena, for he can see that Joshua is struggling. ‘There is much to tell you. Much you must wish to know. You are welcome here. There is no need for your concern. You are not out of place.’
Nizena stands in front of Joshua. ‘Look at me. You knew when you saw me.’
Joshua shakes his head. It cannot be. Nizena stares calmly. Joshua feels a peculiar sense of comfort, as if being taken into the warmth of his parents’ house.
‘I was an old friend of your great-grandfather. More than a friend. We were cousins. We studied together in Abuja. You are welcome here. This, too, is your home.’
Then the man is holding Joshua, and Joshua, surprising himself, is weeping. Trembling sobs. He has not wept so since he was a boy. He is a child again in his grandfather’s arms.
‘Thank you for bringing my grandson home to us. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet the great-grandchild of a dear, dear friend.’
He holds him until Joshua is calm once more. Then Nizena takes Joshua’s hands, looks at the story told there, touches the still-healing groove left by the bullet, smiles and bows his head. He leads Joshua on to a black sheet, resting on the ground.
‘Don’t worry, you will not fall,’ and then the sheet is rising up above the trees. Joshua hangs on to Nizena’s hand.
