by Mike Bateman |
|
This story was originally published in CHECK! issue #444 (August 1983) |
 |
I can imagine that the day was bright and full of sunshine, somewhere else. For me, as luck would have it, there was nothing but dark clouds and heavy winds, mixed with the occasional downpour, as I drove up that quiet road. West Coast weather is always dreary...there's plenty of space for the Pacific clouds to fill.
I had been driving for some time along what looked like an old logging road, with only a growing feeling of apprehension for company. The old fellow at the garage 40 miles back had pointed out this road, a bit reluctantly I might add. But what worried me most was the way the trees crowded toward it, their branches flailing this way and that, as though warning me off. I could imagine, somewhere in the moaning of the wind, a voice telling me to go back. It always strikes me as funny what the imagination can concoct on an isolated road.
Rounding a turn, I came upon my destination quite suddenly. I remember thinking this had to be it since the road now opened between moss-covered hills to an old house perched on the brink of the sea. I could see the waves washing the pebbled beach even in this gray light; the road seemed to end at a gate two or three hundred yards in front of the house.
That ominous gate looming suddenly upon me did not lift my spirits. From a distance I had no idea of its wrought-iron immensity. I had to leave the car there in front of it, for even though it was open, there was no path or road beyond it, nor, for that matter, was there any wall. The gate stood by itself, like a monument to some feeble attempt to civilize this wild and rugged coast while, all around the moss-covered rocks straggled toward the sea. It reminded me in a way of the obelisk in the movie 2001 , towering silently over the emptiness of its surroundings.
As I walked through it, I couldn't suppress the feeling that I was walking under a ladder -- one that I should have walked around. A chill went through me as I realized that some of the work on it was in the form of protruding spikes. Like rows of teeth in some great maw, that jutted outward in two horizontal lines, extending ten inches or more beyond the rest of the ironwork. Around the great posts, which were perhaps 15 feet high, wound what looked like dragons...or demons. At the top, an arch was covered from pillar to pillar with gargoyles, creeping and leering in the most grotesque fashion around a central figure of a griffin -- all of whom seemed to be looking directly at me. With great relief, I saw that the gate was rusted in place and had been for quite some time.
I quickened my steps, putting as much distance between me and the gate as possible. It seemed my imagination was getting the better of me, for when I glanced back, I thought I could see a dull red light in the eyes of the strange wrought-iron creatures. The rocks and moss were slippery from the rain, but I hurried on nonetheless.
The house looked very old. It was rather like a native longhouse that someone had made over a long time ago. The log walls were gray with age and disrepair, and although, the all-encompassing moss grew within inches of the walls themselves, none grew on the house. It was as if something within those rotting barriers kept life at bay. The indefinable dread that had followed me on this trip rose slowly in my stomach, its icy hand tightened around my heart as I reached out to knock on the door. For a few seconds I froze, not willing to continue.
But continue I did. Shrugging off my feelings, I rapped sharply on the door. As I waited apprehensively, I reflected on the circumstances that had brought me here.
I have always had what some might call an unnatural need to be the best at whatever I do. Having conquered my chosen task, I move on to a new and more challenging project. I took up chess this way...or, should say, it took me up? Like the hand that grips from the sweet rep poppy, the strength of its call overwhelmed me. At first, I played occasionally but, as my appetite grew, I was no longer satisfied with infrequent tournaments, I took up postal chess. It was during one such correspondence game that I received an invitation from my worthy opponent to come for a visit and a private match. Included was a promise of a sizable reimbursement should I accept. The old gentleman, or so I assumed, was in need of some company and I, being out of work, was, if I may use the word, fatally tempted.
It was more than the money that interested me: in the offer was a hint of new Knowledge about the game of chess. In this I must admit to a certain Faustism , for I might well sell my soul to master this task that had so far eluded my best effort.
I raised my hand to knock again, but it was unnecessary; the door swung open at that moment to reveal my host and benefactor, Captain Rozinski.
He was a small man, bent over with the years. His gray hair and beard were trimmed and there was nothing remarkable about the clothes he wore -- a seaman's clothes, although I couldn't tell from where. His face, though weathered, was even kindly, almost the way I had pictured him. It was when I looked into his eyes that the old fear began to rise again. What was it about those eyes? I could almost see flames dancing in them...or was it just the reflection of the fireplace nearby?
"Mr. Bateman, I presume? His voice was average in its delivery. "I have been expecting you. Not that I get many visitors out here. Come in," he said, stepping aside.
"Thank you, yes," I stammered, walking past him into a large living room. A long wooden table, surrounded by heavy high-backed chairs, stood between us and the fireplace. Three couches were arranged so as to separate the dining room area from a sitting room, lined with rows of bulging bookshelves. There were no windows and only one door, almost obscured by the books, at the far end of the hall. I assumed it led to the sleeping area, although one could have slept well enough right here as the lights lost most of their power in the spaciousness of the room.
"You'll have to excuse me if things look a mess, but I live alone," he said, indicating for me to be seated. "Would you care for some food and drink? Then perhaps some rest? You must be tired after your long journey."
I accepted with thanks, suddendly overwhelmed by it all. My fears began to ebb as we dined and talked about everything in general. In fact, the more he talked, the less apprehensive I became, lulled by the sound of his voice. We talked for some time when suddendly he stood up and announced that if I were ready, he would show me to my room.
"I have some things in the car," I said, as I rose, remembering the gate.
"Not necessary, not necessary, said the captain. "Everything is looked after." He showed me down a dimly-lit corridor to a room at the front of the house.
The room was not unlike a ship's sleeping quarters -- not large, but comfortable -- a reflection undoubtly of the captain's seagoing days. Indeed, the window was round like a porthole, though not the same size. The night was quiet, as was usual out here far from the city noises. The wind blew in gusts and sprinkled a gentle rain against the window, adding to the serenity; I quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Suddenly I was awake, aware of the deadly stillness. I felt cold, as though something had sapped the air of its warmth. The nightmare gripped me, but I was awake. A biting fear rose within me until I thought I would scream. Still, I could see nothing. What was it that had me so frightened? I couldn't tell, although it seemed that in the distance I could hear screams and moans...but from where?
All at once I realized why I could see so well in what should have been the blackness of my room: coming through the window was a dull orange light, as if a fire burned somewhere outside. I got up from the bed and walked toward the light, not of my free will; my mind was wishing the opposite. The screams were not of this world. Not human or animal...so faint... Yet when I looked outside the window, there was nothing to be seen in the impenetrable darkness. Supreme quiet invaded the room.
Even before I turned, I could sense the presence in the smothering darkness. Dream-dazed but not dreaming, I looked behind me, the hair riding on the back of my neck. I stood face to face with the corpse of a grinning native. Long, black hair hung from a half-rotted skull; from within the decaying body, bones showed through here and there. In its raised arm, I saw a shark's tooth war club poised for the blow. All the fear in me exploded; I screamed as the club descended.
I don't know how long I lay there; time didn't seem to be part of this reality. Slowly I awoke, finding myself back in bed. It was morning, early or late I couldn't tell since the light seemed always the same. My watch had not worked for some time -- having no money had hindered its repair. I got dressed quickly and was about to leave the room when something caught my eye. In the shadow beneath the window, on one of the logs in the wall, something glinted hard and white. I reached out, picking it up from where it lay half buried in the wood, and stood staring at the thing in my hand. The terrible dream came flooding back and I dropped it as though it would burn. I resolved then not to say anything about the night to my host...or about the shark's tooth I had just found.
Entering the main, room, I found the breakfast waiting, but no sign of my host. In time, I would learn that he never appeared until late afternoon, so I occupied myself by exploring the beach and his large collection of books, mostly on chess. What he did in the time I did not see him was, of course, his own business; in any case, I did not want to ask.
After that first night, the dream -- or nightmare -- did not manifest itself again, although I was never able to sleep soundly, believing I could still hear faintly those far off screams and moans.
We played game after game of chess, and he would win. My admiration for his talent grew with each passing day and at the end of the first week, I was envious. I am not the greatest player, but I had hopes of some day becoming such. With each game, however, those hopes diminished as he continually found new and miraculous ways to defeat me. Yet there was always that glimmer of anticipation that he would teach me the secret of his success, although I did not plan to wait a long time.
One morning, while awaiting his appeaance, my gazed chanced upon a book I had not previously noticed, nor could I remember having seen it in the room. Picking it up, I saw that it was the diary of Captain Yuri Alexander Rozinski, dated 1782. Undoubtly an ancestor of my host. It was written in a foriegn language -- Russian, I believe. How I was able to read every word as though it were in English should have aroused my curiosity, but it did not. A certain apathy, I suppose, caused by my many losses had dulled my sense of surprise. Leafing through it, I could find only two entries; the first, somewhat lengthier than the second, was dated
March 4, 1782:
"I, Captain Rozinski, have decided to keep a diary, having obtained this book for the first time since I arrived on this desolate shore. I would firstly say that I am not here of my own choice, but by the will of the Devil and the hand of my mutinous crew who cast me adrift in the great Pacific, giving me barely a week's food. For nearly a month I floated on those mountainous waves, coming as near to death as anyone could. How I survived, I will never know. But survive I did. I was found barely conscious by some of these coastal savages who then brought me to this house and the Shaman. I will never know if it was his hand or God's that healed me, but the change that came about in me seemed nothing short of miraculous. In a few weeks, I was as good as new, striding up and down the beach and going for the occasional swim. At times, however, I have felt a great fear come over me when I would walk inland, as if the blackest fate awaited me there. Creatures of my imagination, no doubt, but they seem too real to me; even to the point when sometimes at night I can hear their screams and see a dull red light aglow on the hill beyond the house, as if a portal to Hell was left slightly ajar. I have given up walking in that direction as it only brings on the numbing fear that, for me, it is a fate which I cannot avoid.
"The Shaman lives alone. No one comes except on occasion when the savages bring food and gifts as homage. I believe, for they show a great deal of respect, bordering on fear, of the dark-haired medicine man. There is nothing different about the man, except perhaps when you look into his eyes. They dance with a wild sort of light that seems to come from deep within, as though his very soul were burning, and each casual glance brings to me a dread which I cannot define.
"In return for saving my life and taking me in, I have agreed to teach the Shaman to play chess, in view of the fact that I have little else to offer. Although it helps to pass the time in this lonely place, I have began to wonder if perhaps I might not have been better off still floating on the pitiless ocean, for no sooner did I show him the most basic of moves than he started winning. I could not believe an ignorant savage was capable of beating me so easily, and this has caused me no end of grief, day after day. I believe that because of these lessons, I am going mad, for at night the screams and moans of my tortured mind get even louder. The Shaman says little of his gift but promises to share the secret with me -- and then I will become the greatest player alive.
"The leaden chain of time hangs heavy on my shoulders and beats my brow with every passing moment so that the few weeks I have been here seem already like eternity. I can no longer tolerate that superior look upon a savage face. God knows I am the better man, and tomorrow I will prove it, for tomorrow we play in deadly earnest. If I lose, I will destroy him"
Here was the end of the first entry and the beginning of the second. Although both were made by the same man, it was obvious by the handwriting that a catastrophic event had taken place. The entry was dated
March 24, 1782:
"Today I killed the Shaman and freed his tortured soul. The secret is now mine, but only I am left to guard the gate of Hell. Had I known...had I known..."
Had he known what? Here the diary ended and, although I looked repeatly through the rest of the book, there were no missing pages nor any other entry. An odd bit of information, I concluded, and put the book away. Soon the captain would make his appearance and we would begin to play. Today, however, was not just another day -- today we played for my soul. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that we had made a deal, the captain and me. He gave me the secret of his playing and, in return, I agreed to forfeit my soul if I should lose the game (that is, if you believe in souls). How could the greatest player alive lose? Let alone my soul...
I turned to find the captain making his entrance through the door at the far end of the hall.
"Good morning," he said, sitting across the table from me and ritualistically adjusting the pieces in front of him. It's afternoon, I thought, as I always did in response to this greeting.
"Good afternoon," I said, pointedly as we paused briefly before the start of the game, "and may the best man win!"
I made the first move as I had drawn the White pieces, and the game progressed at a furious pace until, suddendly, I realized my position was becoming less and less enviable. Indeed, after thirty or so moves, it had steadily declined to a point where mate for Black was a real possibility. Until then, we had talked little, but now I felt the overpowering need to distract my opponent, anything to stop his crushing attack.
"I read that old diary," I announced. The old man's eyes met mine and I felt a sudden tug at my heart, as though fingers of ice had reached through my chest and gripped it. But he said nothing in reply and shortly looked back at the board. He moved his knight one move closer, and I could see now that mate was unavoidable.
"What was it needed to be known?", I said again in a last ditch effort to distract. "In the diary...the last part. What was it?"
His hand was hovering over the piece he would use to give mate. He grasped it but did not move it. Instead, he looked at me and, in a voice as hollow as the grave, answered, "Had I known...had I known. The Shaman needed a soul, for he was doomed to eternal vigilance at the gate of Hell! He tricked me into an act which robbed me of what he sought. No more to dance the Devil's jig, a forever guardian..."
You!, I cried, "but that was over two hundred years ago!"
"Checkmate," was his only answer.
"You broke your word!", I screamed as I staggered to my feet, knocking over the chair in the process. "You said I would be the greatest player alive. How could you win?"
"Alive, alive,", came the hollow echo. "You are the greatest player...alive" he said, his face breaking into a hideous grin. The fires leaped behind those eyes, and I realized for the first time that he was not alive.
I watched as the curse, deep and dark, which had held for so long finally let go. I watched as his features melted away, leaving only the grinning skull atop a skeletal body dressed in rags, who pointed its bony finger at me and whose voice came from the depths of Hell.
"Guardian, guardian", I could hear it call after me.
"Christ!" I could hear my voice, I could see my soul, but it was no longer me for I had retreated within myself, running for the door. It was pouring rain outside and, in the black night, rocks and moss were more slippery than before. I fell with crushing force on the slimy weeds, cutting my hands and face, but I ran like a man possessed toward my car. The screams grew louder now until, like the wind, they seemed all around me as I drew closer to the gate. I ran through it without a moment's hesitation; reaching the car, I flung open the front door.
Oh... God the fear in me welled up like vomit from my stomach, choking in my throat, for there in the seat was the corpse of Rozinski, reaching out toward me with those rotting hands, looking at me through dead, empty sockets, calling my name.
I staggered backwards, away from the awful sight, my heart pounding until I thought it would burst, I was blinded by the rain. Back, back...and then I heard a dreadful sound which I recognized instantly as the high-pitched screams of a rusted old gate -- closing. My mind cried out in fear and helplessness as I remembered those terrible spikes; I turned just in time to grab the bars as the gate closed with a muted clang. I could hear the scream, long and pitiful, echoing through the darkness that was me.
The rain relented somewhat as it continued to fall on the upturned face of the body impaled by the spikes, bloody hands still gripping the bars in a frozen effort to push them away. Pools of blood coloured the already wet moss. Lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the top of the gate, where gargoyles and cast-iron demons grinned downward. A flash of rolling lightning seemed to jerk the corpse momentarily, while deep within those empty orbs, the Devil's fire began its dance.
I can hear the surf as it breaks; the rain and fog no longer concern me, nor does being alone, compared to that other. The Devil take postal chess for what it has brougt me -- a fire that burns at my very soul, and creatures that claw at my innards. But it won't last forever. Already I have another round of correspondence chess...
Copyright © 1983, 1999 by Mike Bateman.
All rights reserved.
100s of games in pgn and cbv format for download.