by Justin Bloch
“Well, that’s fine!” Anopheles said, slapping his leg in delight. His macabre mood had been wiped away like chalk from a blackboard. “Whooee, I haven’t had a good game of chess in quite awhile.” He paused, and a sly smile slipped onto his face. “Course, my board’s a bit different, if you’ll notice.”
Nathaniel looked down, considering the tabletop for the first time. The familiar pattern of black and white checks was there, inlaid in the table’s surface, but the board was only six by six instead of the usual eight by eight. Both sets of pieces had a front row of pawns, but neither had rooks, and while Nathaniel’s side had the bishops, knights, and king and queen, the old man’s side consisted of the royal pair and four knights, each astride a horse of a unique color: white, red, black, and gray. He raised his eyes back to the old man, confused.
The old man sat, smug and silent, his preacher’s hat once more pulled low over his eyes.
“Why’s the board set up like this?”
Anopheles favored him with a brief smile. “This is my board, Resident. My board and my pieces. Oh, the rules are the same,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “no rooks but those above us, but you can still castle if you want. It’s chess, same as ever.” He leaned forward, casting his dark shadow over the game. “You can cry off, if you want. But that’d be forfeiting.”
“The sides aren’t even,” Nathaniel stammered, trying to wrap his mind around this new factor. He wondered how he could have neglected to take a simple look down at the board in all the time he had been sitting there.
“No, you’re right, scale’s tipped to your side,” the old man replied. “Your holy men outweigh my horsemen.” Anopheles sat back and laughed, and the rooks joined their voices with his. “Consider it a handicap in your favor.”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to retort, then closed it, trapped by the truth in his opponent’s words. He pulled his chair closer to the table and moved the pawn in front of his king forward two spaces.
“Excellent!” cried the old man, clapping his hands. The sound echoed in the tall space, and the cackling rooks were abruptly silenced. Anopheles moved his pawn out and the two sides went to war.
They played without speaking for nearly an hour, Anopheles capturing three pawns while Nathaniel managed to take two of his opponent’s knights and a single pawn. Nathaniel deliberated every move with care and the old man seemed content to let him take as much time as he desired. Anopheles simply leaned back in his chair and watched the pieces. He ran his hands around the crown of his hat, flexed his stiff fingers, and always made his move immediately after it became his turn. Nathaniel worked out every play in his head, sometimes figuring five and six steps beyond his next.
He pushed a pawn to a position where it could be taken by the old man without any great gain. He was testing the waters, trying to divine his opponent’s strategy. He sat back, rubbed his chin with one hand, gazing at the board, waiting for Anopheles to make his move.
The old man was staring at him. He made no motion toward his pieces. “Your friend abandoned you,” he said plainly. His eager eyes watched for a reaction.
Nathaniel winced, stung. It was true, the karma policeman had abandoned him. After all his talk of duty and protection and importance, at the first sign of some power beyond him, Sol had fled, leaving Nathaniel to fend for himself. No, the stubborn voice corrected, to die by myself. The voice seemed to take some bitter pleasure in the fact that it had finally been right about something, which Nathaniel thought was rather self-defeating.
He pushed away the thoughts, tried to concentrate on the game. “Come on, you wanted to play chess, so play.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the old man grumbled, annoyed. He shook his head, moved a hand toward his chest and paused. “Bother you if I smoked, son?”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, t’be honest, no, but I thought I’d be polite just the same.” Anopheles reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, so old the brand name had faded away, shook the pack, and plucked one from its home. He stuck the filter between his dry lips and let it dangle while he replaced the pack, then reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a book of matches. The cover, Nathaniel could see, showed a nude woman with a 60’s hairstyle, bent over and looking back over her shoulder. Anopheles broke off a match, laid the book on the table, and flicked the head with a rough thumbnail. It sparked and blazed, cast a dim light that deepened the old man’s wrinkles into gullies. The smell of sulfur slunk through the air. He leaned forward and touched the cigarette’s end to the flame, drew back when the tip glowed red, shook the match out, and dropped it to the floor. He sat back in his chair, almost reclining, and inhaled deeply. He withdrew the cigarette and held his breath for a moment, then simply opened his mouth and let the smoke creep out from between his lips. Tendrils of it slid up his face and curled around the edge of his preacher’s hat, swirling sinuously in the air like gray ribbons moving through dark water. The smoke floated out over the board, coiling leisurely toward Nathaniel, who watched it with vague interest.
“My turn, I reckon,” said Anopheles, touching the cigarette to his lips again. He exhaled, tilting his head and blowing the smoke upward in a great cloud, then laid his hand on the table and looked down at the chess pieces. A thin, curling line of white streamed up from the smoldering cigarette. The old man used his queen for the first time, sliding the crowned lady across the board to take the pawn that had last been moved.
And why had he done that, Nathaniel wondered. Why would he move his queen to a spot where she was vulnerable, surrounded by a bishop and both knights, just to capture a worthless pawn? Because the pawn was an easy mark, and Anopheles wanted to leave Nathaniel with so few pieces, a victory was impossible. Because he wanted to conquer the board.
Nathaniel smiled the slightest bit, then wised up and wiped the grin from his face. He flicked his gaze to the old man’s face and saw narrow, suspicious eyes meet his. Anopheles had caught the slip in his poker face.
“Why the smile, boy?” the old man rasped.
Nathaniel shrugged. “I was noticing your matchbook. Classy.”
“Huh,” Anopheles commented. “I thought maybe you’d seen something interesting.”
“Well, yeah. The matchbook.”
Anopheles grunted, unconvinced, and turned his attention back to the game. He took a drag on his cigarette as he examined the board, letting the smoke filter from his nostrils.
Nathaniel’s mind whirred as he worked out different progressions, dismissing some, combining others. If Anopheles followed the pattern he had so far, Nathaniel thought he had a good chance of predicting how the old man would counter his moves. If his plan succeeded, he could capture the old man’s king with no trouble, lure him with other pieces to divert his attention. But it meant sacrificing his own important chessmen, and if Anopheles realized the ploy, Nathaniel would be left helpless.
He started to move a pawn forward two spaces, saw a better option, and drew it back. Instead, he sent a bishop on missionary work to an outer square of the board, putting the old man’s king in check. Anopheles castled, his king sliding over one space and his corner knight flipping to the other side, slipping out of check and protecting his king with a wall of pawns. Nathaniel moved a pawn forward, and the old man moved one of his horsemen, readying it to take the pawn on his next turn.
“Don’t you wonder what it was that made your tall friend run scared, son?” he asked. “Don’t you want to know what could frighten a karma policeman? An angel?” He bent forward over the board, pointed at Nathaniel with his cigarette. “It was me.”
He bit his lip, didn’t look up, didn’t move. Fear skittered up his spine like a centipede. Then he smiled, and smiled wider when the old man reacted to the grin. “What am I, a fish?” he responded.
Anopheles gave him a strange look, wrinkling his brows together like a line of frost across a window pane. “A fish?”
“Well, you keep trying to bait me,
” he said, and surprised himself by laughing. He moved a knight, was not surprised when the old man snatched the piece off the board.
“Pride, eh?” Anopheles said, recovering his good spirits. “What a bitch.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, feigning disappointment. “I still have plenty of other pieces.”
“Yep, that’s true, son. But from what I saw earlier with your friend, people on your side seem to have a habit of disappearing quickly,” he said, and guffawed. He leaned back in his chair and the shadow of his preacher’s hat left his face. His eyes glowed in the dim sunlight.
Nathaniel stared at his opponent for a moment, letting all of his hatred show on his features. At last, he turned back to the game, moving a pawn forward to kill a turn. The old man went immediately, the white-mounted knight with which he had castled galloping to a square where it threatened both the queen and a bishop. Nathaniel responded by moving the lady away from the edge of the board, over one spot and out of harm’s way where he had wanted her all along, the king behind and his lone knight to her upper left. It was close now. He did not allow himself to begin to hope for the sunrise, but he could see the horizon beginning to glow.
The old man took the bishop with relish, snatching it up with a dramatic flourish. Nathaniel moved his queen forward one spot to keep her safe from the knight and watched the horseman capture a pawn on the edge of the board beneath his bishop.
Nathaniel slid one of his few remaining pawns to a spot where it was protected by the holy man but threatened Anopheles’s queen. This was the key moment, the biggest risk, when the game could be won or lost. The old man would either capture the pawn with his knight or move the queen to a spot of safety, and only one of them resulted in Nathaniel winning. Beneath the table, he clutched his hands together tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.
Anopheles considered the board carefully. He remembered the cigarette perched between his fingers and took a long, slow drag before flicking it toward the altar. Nathaniel’s eyes tracked it, turning end over end and exploding in cinders at the top of the stairs. He turned back to his opponent and watched the old man’s face, tried to riddle out his thoughts. He had staked everything on this one move, this single turn.
Anopheles exhaled, then reached across the board and picked up his knight. He slid the knight across the board, Nathaniel’s heart dropping further in his chest with each square the horseman crossed, and clinked it against the pawn, lifting the weaker piece into his hand with the stronger one. He set the knight down on the vacated square.
And hesitated.
He sat motionless, considering, both pieces still in his hand, and Nathaniel leaned forward the slightest bit, not even daring to breathe. The old man moved to go ahead with the capture, thought better of it, and replaced both the pawn and his knight. He chose instead to move the queen to her place beside the king.
Nathaniel remembered to breathe, exhaled, took several deep breaths. His heart hammered in his chest. He only needed to make three moves, but there was no longer any room for improvisation. He was wide open to attack and could not afford to delay. He took his turn immediately, hoping to infect his opponent with his haste, sliding his queen forward one spot so that she sat beside his knight. Anopheles moved one of his knights to a spot where he could put the king in check with his next move. Nathaniel pushed the pawn that had threatened his opponent’s queen forward one space. The old man reached for his knight, and Nathaniel’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. Anopheles froze, his hand poised above the board, and his eyes narrowed and flicked from piece to piece. He discovered Nathaniel’s fumble almost immediately and smiled, showing all of his tombstone teeth.
“Well, well, well,” he crooned. “Moved a little too quick, did you, son?” He tilted his head back and brayed laughter. The sound of it was thunderous in the echoing Cathedral, and Nathaniel lowered his head and covered his eyes with one hand, rubbing his temples.
“And worst of all, you gave your own self away,” the old man continued. He laughed again and grabbed his queen, slid her across the board to capture the bishop that Nathaniel had exposed by moving his pawn. “I’d plum missed it, and now what’re you gonna do?”
Nathaniel stared at Anopheles, his face blank and solemn. He reached forward, his eyes still locked with the old man’s, and grasped his queen, then slid her forward two spaces to capture the pawn that rested in front of his opponent’s king. He smiled, unable to contain himself any longer, and laid the old man’s monarch on its side.
“I’m going to checkmate you,” he said, then leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest to keep them from wildly flailing around in excitement.
His opponent’s grin weakened, wobbled, then fell altogether as the old man’s mouth dropped open. His eyes grew huge as he surveyed the board, his king unable to move to either side safely or take the queen, who was protected by Nathaniel’s lone knight.
“You tricked me,” he growled, then slammed a fist down on the table, scattering pieces. Nathaniel pushed back from the table hurriedly, tense, surprised. “You bastard, you tricked me.” He was breathing hard, red-faced, furious, and he stood and launched the table into the air in one fluid moment. It flew down the center aisle, struck the floor and exploded, sending sharp splinters skittering across the dark blocks. The rooks blasted away from their perches, filled the air with their dark, screeching flight. “You played me for a fool!” the old man screamed and rushed forward.
Nathaniel stumbled back, trying to get away, and tripped over his chair, went sprawling onto the floor, the old man dropping with him, punching, clawing, hurling curses. Nathaniel tried to hit him and Anopheles caught his fist, squeezed it, ground the bones together. The old man’s grip grew hot, searing, and Nathaniel screamed in pain, yanked his hand away. Anopheles grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted and slammed him against the floor, his head cracking nastily against the stone.
Nathaniel’s vision went dark and he felt the old man raise him again. He reneged, he thought, unexpectedly lucid in the moment before he was thrust down a second time. I have no idea why I am surprised by that, and now I am going to die.
And then Sol materialized over Anopheles’s shoulder as if emerging from a dense fog, though the air was clear and Nathaniel’s sight had recovered. The karma policeman pounced on the old man and shoved him roughly off Nathaniel. His straight razor was out before Nathaniel had even seen his hand move toward his jacket.
Anopheles sprang at the cop. Sol twisted out of the way, grabbed his assailant in the air and flung him to the ground. The old man recovered immediately, but the cop held one hand out. “I name thee Pestilence,” he intoned, and there was power in his voice, “and cast you from this place.”
The old man slapped one hand against the floor, cursed loudly. He stood up, shoved the karma policeman away. “He’s mine, goddammit,” he seethed. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips. “I claim him.”
“He is not your to claim,” Sol replied.
“You think you can stop me by naming me?” he snapped. “You have no idea what you’ve interfered with, seraph. This ain’t over.”
“It is,” Sol contradicted. “Be gone from this place, Pestilence.”
The old man sneered at him, cast a considering glance at the prostrate Nathaniel, then shook his head. He brushed off his black coat, bent and plucked his preacher’s hat from the floor, set it back on his head and headed for the Cathedral’s entrance. Halfway there he turned back. “This ain’t over,” he called again. “I marked him, and I mean to have him.”
“He is under my watch. None shall touch him,” Sol responded. The cop stood above Nathaniel, watching until the old man had disappeared through the arch and into the sunlight. When he was gone, the karma policeman knelt on the ground, his long jacket pooling around him, and began to survey the injuries the older man had inflicted on the younger. “Are you all right?”
Nathaniel blinked slowly and looked up at Sol. “I’m totally fine,” he said
. “Only hurts when I breathe.” And then he passed out.
He came back slowly, put a hand over his eyes to protect them from the light. There were hushed noises to his right, and he sat up to see where Sol was. A bolt of pain ricocheted through his head and he came close to blacking out again, managed to catch himself as he careened back toward the floor. Sol was suddenly beside him, reaching out, but he stopped and drew back, as if afraid of catching some contagion. Nathaniel eased himself into a sitting position, his eyes pinched shut, clutching his temples. It felt as if something were trying to push its way out of his forehead from the inside.
“Here,” the karma policeman said, pressing manna into his hand, “eat this, it’ll help.”
Nathaniel took one bite, then another, swaying slightly with pain and vertigo, but by the time he was halfway through, the throbbing in his head had already lessened to a dull ache. He opened his eyes, blinked at the sunshine, and touched a tentative hand to the back of his head. There was a large knot there but no longer any tenderness.
“How do you feel?” the cop asked. His face was as calm and placid as ever, but his eyes held sparks of worry.
“All right, I guess,” Nathaniel replied. He could remember only pieces of his fight with the old man, had almost no recollection of anything that had happened after he’d been slammed against the floor. “How long was I out?”
“Not long,” the policeman said, standing. As quickly as that, with his fears allayed, his manner was formal again.
Nathaniel looked around the Cathedral. The grand space seemed less cloaked now that the old man was gone, brighter, more open. The rooks had left, he noticed, but pieces of the shattered table still sat in the aisle and chessmen were scattered everywhere along the floor. One of the old man’s knights sat within reach and Nathaniel picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. It was the white-mounted horseman. Nathaniel looked closer and noticed that the tiny knight wore a crown upon his head.
