by Cobyboy
***
When I went to visit the Indian man again decades later, curious as to why his name hadn't come back up for reaping, I found him playing a game of chaturanga with a young man who I learned later was his grandson.
The man I had allowed to win against me all those years before was somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy-five years old. Yet he looked just as young as he had before, though markedly less sick. He looked... ageless. That was the best word I could come up with.
It turned out that the cosmos had played a bit of a prank on me, letting me think I was doing a good deed and then pulling the rug out with a chuckle.
You see, when a human beats me in a game of chess they are granted true immortality. His or name will never be written in my book again. Their souls will never be reaped.
Sounds like a problem, yes? Well, kind of. The natural order of Earth doesn't really allow for immortality. Even the "immortal jellyfish" will eventually be eaten or catch a disease. But since the universe let this happen in the first place, I figured it couldn't be too bad.
Once I was alone with my immortal friend, as his grandson ran off to do something and he stayed behind to put the game pieces away, I made myself visible to him and approached. When he looked up to see me, I swear there was a hint of terror in his eyes.
"I'm not here to reap you," I said to him. "I was just checking in."
"What did you do to me?" he asked.
"I let you win, my friend. I didn't know this would happen."
He sat down tiredly on his chair, and began fiddling with a game piece.
"Is it an illusion?" he asked. "Am I still decaying, still growing old, beneath the facade of this magic spell?"
I shook my head. "I thought erasing you from my book would simply delay the inevitable. But that's not what happened. It turns out that a man's time of reaping comes only once. If you can bypass it, the cosmos apparently let's you live. Forever."
He nodded. "I can't die. Do you understand what that's like? My grandson... I have had to watch his grandmother die. And his father. My beloved boy. My son. Do you know what that feels like?"
"No," I answered honestly. "Death is not something I have ever truly experienced, I suppose. I deal in it every day, in horrible droves, but it has never touched me personally. I'm a Celestial."
"I can't die and neither can you," the man said, turning his raja over onto its side; a symbol of resignation. "But while you gallivant around your celestial paradises I am stuck here, watching the world slowly change and die around me."
"The world will be around for a while yet," I said. "And don't you people believe in reincarnation? Even if you died, you'd still be back on Earth right away."
"But with no memory," the man replied. "Who knows how many times I've lived before this current life? I don't recall any of those past lives. None of the misery, none of the triumph. To me, this seems to be the first and last time I will ever live."
I tried not to laugh. There are certain regulations which forbid me from speaking the truth of the afterlife aloud. Some religions get more things right than others, but none know the full truth. They are houses of cards which I am not permitted to bring down.
"I'm sorry," I said to the man. "Really, I feel bad. It wasn't my intention to condemn you."
He shrugged. "I can't complain too much. So far, immortality has its upsides. I have always wanted to look into the far future, and see what would become of our world and our people in distant periods. Now I don't have to wonder, I only have to wait. I can see all the generations of my family, and love them all, and watch them fade into the afterlife as I never can. I am the sentinel, the guardian of the Earth, here forever to watch the march of the ages..."
I could see that he was already developing a rather mature, realistic outlook of his endless existence. A pleasant surprise. But it wouldn't be too long - a hundred years more, perhaps two hundred - before he realized the folly of allowing himself to love anything. Even I, having never been subjected to the flow of time, couldn't understand or foresee the various plights he would face. Only time itself could tell. I made a mental note to continue checking up on him over the centuries.
His name... I could remember part of it, from when I wrote it in my book before. It was now nothing more than a blackish smudge, with a new name written over top of it, but a few syllables remained in my mind's eye.
"Mahendra," I said. "You can expect regular visits from me. It will be interesting to see your progression."
I turned and began to leave. At that moment, I had no intention of starting any kind of a relationship with the man.
"If I can say one thing," he said.
I turned back around to look at him.
"I don't want to simply be a test subject," he said. "You're the only creature I will ever interact with who understands what I'm going through. If you would like, if you would be so kind... perhaps we can be friends."
I thought for a moment, then nodded. And that's how I ended up with my first human friend. And close to my last... but not quite.
5
It was the year 899 in a desolate, windswept countryside. The sun was a faint and mostly unfelt source of light behind a swift-moving blanket of gray cloud. A smear of rain pummeled some area of land on the horizon, but these yellowed, rolling hills I stood watch over now were still miraculously dry. In the distance, a herd of dear bolted across a stretch of open land between two oak thickets. The wind had an edge like a knife and a point like a sharpened icicle.
I turned in a circle, surveying the land to all sides.
In the distance behind me rose the grim roofs and cathedral spires of the town of Winchester. One set of towers stood out in particular. It was the building which would become known as the Old Minster, where the victim of my latest reaping would come to be interred.
In those days of old, with the cold and wild word pressing tight around these people, this town and the country it resided in were not nearly as impressive or as safe as they would come to be.
But these lands had been much more dangerous not so long ago. I remember those days of war somewhat clearly. A lot of dead Britons at first, and then a lot of dead Vikings as a great leader finally rose up and unified the nation of England. My history is a little rusty, because I have so many different memories fighting each other, but I think that is pretty much what happened.
I set off down the gentle hill, away from the town. I had my sights set on a camp that had been set up a couple miles away, near the edge of one of those thickets. It was a hunting camp, though no one was out and about doing any hunting right now. The deer moved freely, afraid but unchallenged. Something terrible had happened, and everyone was hunkered in their tents waiting for news.
For any mortal being, getting into the heart of that camp and into the great tent that stood there would have been impossible. It was well patrolled. The guards, though they were small and skinny, were nevertheless an imposing sight.
One thing I couldn't help but notice as I walked invisibly through the camp was how silly everyone's hair looked. Imagine a sixty year old secretary from the mid to late twentieth century, and you'll have a good idea of the type of hairdos these people were rocking.
As I approached the great tent, a few men were just coming out. The one in the white robe was speaking.
"...nothing more to be done," he said. "It's in God's hands. We should let the King rest now. He is not to be disturbed until meal time..."
They moved off. Other than the two guards out front, the tent was unwatched. I slipped inside and found it empty. Excellent! It isn't that I worried about being seen. I cannot be seen except by those I have specifically revealed myself to. But it's a bad look when you see your dying loved one reacting to an invisible presence. It's just not a nice thing, so I always try to avoid it. See? I'm not totally heartless.
I walked over to the bed where a man slept. He was a middle-aged fellow, with a hair style that was just as silly looking as the rest I had seen. But
there was something elegant about him. A royal sort of look. I think I might have picked him out as a king even if I hadn't already known who he was.
"King Alfred," I said quietly, pulling out my book and opening it.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened all the way. He stared up at me, and his mouth fell open. Then his clever brown eyes glimmered with understanding.
"It is you," he said. "Death himself."
"Is it that easy to tell?" I asked. "Maybe I should work on my look."
He stared at me in confusion. I think he was trying to determine whether or not he was dreaming. Surely the Grim Reaper wouldn't show up at his bedside and immediately start throwing sass around.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked him. "What's the problem? Why are you dying?"
I was curious, because he didn't look all too unhealthy. A bit thin, maybe. He had that sort of sunken, unfinished look of someone who had spent his whole life in some degree of illness. Not uncommon in medieval Europe. Not uncommon at all.
"I don't know," said King Alfred. "I'm not sure what it is exactly. And I would rather not discuss the details of it with you. They're rather embarrassing."
"Fine," I said. "Suit yourself. I guess we'll just proceed with the reaping, then. Do you mind if I sit?"
Maybe he did mind, but I sat anyway, forcing his legs to the side. I became aware of a foul stench, as of a bed pan recently filled and not yet emptied. I ignored it. Mostly because of what I spotted near the wall of the tent. A chess set.
I almost asked him if he was any good. But then I remembered poor Mahendra. And then I thought of Alfred's heirs. It wouldn't be fair for them not to have their own shot at the throne. And the world didn't really need any more immortals. So I said nothing.
But Alfred, clever boy that he was, wasn't prepared to go easily into the night.
"I wonder if the legends are true," he said. "The old tales that a man can win his life back if he can best Death in a game of skill..."
"Who told you that?" I asked.
"No one in particular. It's just one of those stories. A myth. Is it true?"
A Celestial cannot lie when he is working, so I couldn't tell him no. I might have just kept my mouth shut, but I've never been any good at that. I also could have refused. I am not required to accept every challenge. But that's like saying you aren't required to help an old lady reach something off the top shelf at a grocery store.
"It is true," I said.
He shifted in his bed, propping himself up on his elbows. I knew he was on the verge of death, but seeing the force of his character and the eagerness for life he still held, I found it hard to believe.
"I know what you're thinking," I quickly said. "Before you open your mouth, you should know that no human has ever challenged me and won. Would you still like to go through with it?"
He stared at me. "Before I answer that, I have a question of my own. If I challenge you and lose, will I be any worse off than if I never challenged you at all?"
"You may get your hopes up during the game and then have them painfully dashed when I inevitable obliterate you. You may go to the afterlife with the sour taste of defeat in your mouth. Other than that, there is no cost."
"Then I will challenge you," he said.
At this point, I had to suppress a sigh. I went over to look at his chess board. The pieces were made of bone, a little bulkier and smoother-edged than what I was used to. The set looked very old. It was an antique that probably should have been kept in a museum somewhere, rather than sitting in this humid tent amid smells of feces and blood. I wouldn't be surprised if it was over a hundred years old. Perhaps it was even older than that.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"A gift from a faraway land," Alfred said wistfully. "I believe from somewhere near Samarkand."
"A priceless artifact," I told him. And I wasn't lying. It was so primal, so crude and ancient. It had nothing on the simple elegance of the sets we use in Heaven, but it had its own beauty. I would have hated to see it lost or damaged. But alas, I am not allowed to interfere in such matters. I would have to rely on the good will of Alfred's followers to do the right thing with this piece.
"Are you a good player?" I asked.
He let out a sigh. "One of the best."
Staring at the chess set, I was overcome by a sense of my own good will. A rare generosity came over me. I looked at the sick man on the bed, this great king who had been a hero to his people and had even been quite gracious toward his enemies. He deserved a fair shot. But he also deserved the dignity of a proper game, with none of the nonsense from my bout with Mahendra.
I brought the set over, perched on a little table. I stood on one side. Alfred, lying pale and weak on his bed, reached over to make the first move.
He was a grand player. A beautiful player. I'm not sure if his genius in battle fed into his brilliance in chess, or vice versa. But my game with Alfred was one of the better ones in recent memory.
It stayed evenly matched for the majority of its duration. We were shuffling pieces around, back and forth, capturing a pawn here and there, not really getting into the heat of any serious battles. That is what often happens in an evenly matched game. And, as much as I hate to say it, the two of us were somewhat evenly matched. Did you get that? Good. I probably won't be saying it again.
We were figuring each other out. Trying to goad each other into rash moves. It was hard. We were both stubbornly patient bastards. And neither of us had anywhere better to be.
And then we reached a turning point. All chess games have one, sometimes more than one. A really good chess game tends to go back and forth. It might seem obvious that one player is going to win... and then his opponent does something brilliant to put himself back into the running. It's possible to come back from a lot of dire situations.
Other times, though, there is only one turning point. A series of two or three moves that makes it clear who is in control of the game and who is probably going to win. My game with Alfred was one of those. He was great, but in the end I was better.
I was in a hairy spot with my queen. He had a bishop ready to take her. And his second bishop was right behind that one, not an immediate threat to my queen but in a potential checking position.
It was my move. Unless I got my queen out of there, she was going to be taken. The most powerful piece in the game, gobbled up by a bishop. Losing a queen is not the end of the world, but it sure feels like it sometimes.
What to do? If I lost my queen, I also lost my best chance at defense. I still had both my rooks sitting on the back rank with my king, but Alfred also had both his rooks. And his queen. And both bishops, ready to provide support for his inevitable attack.
One wrong move on my part would most likely seal the deal. Alfred would win. He would win fair and square, by virtue of superior skill.
Could I let that happen? No. I don't care if the man was on the verge of death and I could save him. I don't mess around when it comes to chess.
But again, what could I do? If I moved my queen ahead, toward his back rank, I would be putting her in a position to be captured by some other piece. I had nothing in that area of the board to help protect her.
I could move her back, but that would be as good as waving the white flag. Alfred would be emboldened; he would shove forward, attack me relentlessly, probably win.
Maybe my salvation had nothing to do with my queen at all. Maybe I should just write her off. Let her die. Maybe I should sacrifice her.
And that was what I did. After a few minutes of thought, I reached out to finally make my move...
...and one of Alfred's caretakers came in.
I was not visible to the man, but it definitely threw off my concentration. He came up to the bed, passing through me as easily as walking through a thin curtain of mist, and offered the king a bowl of gruel. It didn't look like royal fare to me, but I learned later that Alfred's ailment was digestive in nature; the gruel was likely the only thing his inte
stines could handle at that time.
"What is this then, sire?" the caretaker asked before leaving. He was gesturing at the chess set.
"That?" asked Alfred innocently. "I'm just playing a quick game against Death."
The caretaker nodded and left without a second glance. I guess this sort of behavior wasn't uncommon with Alfred.
"Where were we?" he asked after the man had left. He took a spoonful of his thin slop and slurped it between his lips.
I had nearly forgotten what move I had been planning to make. The appearance of the caretaker had startled me so.
But, upon looking over the board again, I reached out and moved my bishop to E6, in a position where it was attacking the rear of Alfred's two bishops but not making any immediately visible threats to any of his other pieces.
Alfred took my queen with his leading bishop. Of course he did. He would have been foolish not to. He had to know that I had other plans in mind, but the chance of taking out my most powerful piece could not be ignored. No matter what my plan was, it would have gone of better if I still had my queen. That was what he was thinking. And his thinking wasn't wrong.
I took his rear bishop with the bishop I had just moved. This placed him in check; I was staring straight down at his king, nestled between the two of his rooks on the back rank.
Alfred moved his king one tile to its right, taking it out of check.
That was the only thing he really could have done. After that, I was relentless. Using a careful shuffling of my knight, which opened up his king to constant checks from my bishop, I didn't give him a single moment of rest.
At one point, I took his remaining bishop with my pawn. The pawn had been standing in front of my rook. But now it was out of the way and the rook, with an open line, was threatening his queen where she stood on Alfred's left side of the board.
A flight from his queen. A shift forward from my rook, threatening the queen again and protecting my bishop.
I expected to beat him not long after that, but he gave a strong effort. It was a bloody hunt, a long and breathless one. Our pieces moved like glaciers across the board, ending up in far flung squares, in strange positions. I was never able to capture his queen. Because I had better things to do.