by Cobyboy
He turned away and went about the calm business of maintaining the perfection of His Green Room. I understood that the meeting was now over, God had nothing more to say to me, but I lingered for a moment to watch Him.
Once upon a time, God had molded the universe to fit His blueprints. He collected all the matter and energy, condensing them into a single mass. A ticking time bomb. After that, it was just a matter of sitting back and watching the chain reactions. Other than an occasional nudge or adjustment, or the addition of a forgotten detail, God had been hands-off with His creation ever since the Big Bang. But He still had that custodial, creative urge in Him. He exorcised it with constant projects in His Palace. I think new rooms, wings, and complexes are added constantly. The Palace is an already nigh-endless and still swiftly growing place that most likely dwarfs the Earth and perhaps the entire Solar System in size. Sometimes I pity the big man. The fact that He can't stop building and adding is evidence of a burning, unending desire. A thirst that cannot be quenched.
Whilst I contemplated this, Zanus moved up behind me. I was startled from my thoughts by a stern throat clearing noise. It was time to go.
The angel and I made our way out through the nightmare labyrinth of God's Palace.
8
And the days wore on. The ages turned like spokes on a big, slow wheel. Heaven persisted as it always had, a party for the elite and ageless who watched over the Earth. I got drunk a few more times, tried to seduce a few angels, tried to make Zanus look like a fool... and succeeded only in the latter effort.
Meanwhile, business on Earth was getting more interesting.
You've already read about my game with Alfred of Wessex, Alfred the Great, the last in a litter of four sons who never really should have been King but who did a fantastic job of it.
Out of all the well known figures I've played, Alfred was one of the most skilled. But there were well known figures aplenty. I will describe some of them to you, in no particular order except as they rise to the front of my memory. I'm sure I have forgotten some of them. Probably I have played against some famous people without knowing who they were. But nevertheless, here are some stories of my more memorable run-ins.
***
Have you ever heard of the island of Saint Helena? Chances are you probably have. If you paid even remote attention in history class, or if you have ever seen a movie set in the 1800's, the name may have at least become lodged in your subconscious. A lot of you will probably know, either off the top of your head or after a moment of retrospection, that Saint Helena is famous for being the island to which the great military leader Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled.
But where is Saint Helena located? You've heard of it, you know it's an island, you know Napoleon spent the last part of his life there. But where is it, exactly? Well, you don't need to waste time consulting a map of the world because I am here to tell you. It's off the southwestern coast of Africa, far out in a lonely segment of the Atlantic Ocean. Roughly speaking, it is at a similar latitude to Madagascar and the southern reaches of the Amazon Rainforest.
Going off this approximate geographic location, you might expect Saint Helena to be a paradise. Palm trees everywhere, hot sun always shining, beautiful golden sand, macaws staring at you from the forest canopy and happy little crabs doing their sideways strut in little lagoons.
In reality, as Napoleon well knew, Saint Helena can actually be a hellish place. First of all, there's nary a damn tree in sight. The place looks more like Svalbard or some other sparsely populated northern island than it does a tropical paradise. Nowadays, with population figures easily accessible, you can find out that about four and a half thousand people currently live there. My question is this; why?
Arriving on Saint Helena by boat, your first impression would probably be of a castle fashioned by nature, a place deliberately designed to be as foreboding and inaccessible as possible. That must be how Napoleon felt when he first set eyes on the island where he was to draw his last breath. The volcanic rock is scarcely visible beyond sea mist. Steep mountains and craggy cliffs rise all around. If you arrived there on a sunny day it might look fairly inviting, like some cozy valley in Japan or New Zealand. But I get the feeling Saint Helena doesn't see too many sunny days.
Thankfully, I was not required to arrive there via boat. I touched down, as I always do, light as a feather and about a five to ten minute walk from my destination.
I could have landed right on the place where I needed to be, sure. Sometimes I do, when I feel bored with the whole reaping business. But usually I enjoy getting to see the various environments. It's always a nice feeling when you land for a reaping, look around, and realize you have been here before. I have memories from too many places to go through them all in my mind, but when I arrive somewhere I always feel like I'm in familiar territory.
This was not my first reaping on Saint Helena, obviously. But it is the one I will always remember.
On a miserable, windswept spit of land you will find the mansion known as Longwood House. Sounds pleasant and cozy, perhaps even royal, but the truth is the opposite. When I stepped inside this place, my immediate reaction was to pull my cloak tighter around myself. It was drafty and damp, smelling of mold and sick and some undefined, barely perceptible chemical stench. I wandered through the depressing rooms, finally coming to a place lit by a chandelier full of dripping yellow candles.
At one side of the room was a blackened fireplace, where the remnants of a smoldering fire still belched smoke up the chimney. It looked to have been the type of dim, barely-warm fire you get when you try to burn wet or unseasoned wood. It must have done very little to dispel the cold dampness of the room. I looked around, noting the peeling wallpaper and the mold growing behind it.
At the other side of the room was a bed covered over with a type of canopy, probably meant to keep heat in. The curtains of the canopy, so to speak, were thrown aside. A man lay there, broad of forehead and still handsome despite the terrible pallor and bony appearance of his face.
He, or someone else, had dragged a little table near the bed. Here there was a bottle of what must be medicine, as well as a chess set; the man was engaged in a game against himself, staring at the pieces in the dim light through half-closed eyes. He was bundled up under thick blankets, a stocking cap pulled down to his ears, and yet still he shivered and trembled like a dog left out in the rain.
I was struck by this man. Struck by the dichotomy I saw in him. He was very sick and very near to death. He must know this. And yet he had a certain defiant and commandeering glow in his eyes. A proud man who, even now, had an almost pathological belief in himself and his capabilities. He easily could have lain back and drifted into a long and fevered sleep, but instead he was leaning over the side of his bed and playing a completely useless game of chess.
But it would not be useless for long. I knew, immediately upon looking at Napoleon Bonaparte, that he wouldn't hesitate to challenge me in the game of Life and Death.
His presence in the room, even now, was strong. Without meaning to, I hesitated for a long moment in the corner, watching as he contemplated his next move on the chess board.
Before I could approach, and make myself seen, a set of feet came clopping down the hallway. A stiff, mustached officer, immediately recognizable as being British, walked into the room and threw Napoleon a halfhearted salute. Napoleon didn't even glance up, make a noise of disgust, or in any other way acknowledge the man's presence.
"How are you today?" the officer asked, taking another step toward the bed. "We'll have your breakfast here in just a moment... I'm afraid its just plain porridge again."
"Shut up and go away," Napoleon snapped, eyes still on his game. "If you come in here again, you won't be walking out on your own two feet. They'll have to come in here with a shovel to scrape you off the floor."
The officer and I both knew, unequivocally, that Napoleon probably couldn't even climb out of bed. But still we shrank away from him.
"V
ery well," the officer said, and turned to leave.
When he was gone, I took a step toward the bed and appeared before the sick man. Once again, he didn't show any sign of knowing I was there. But it was certain he did know. I was certain he knew right away who I was and why I was here. But he said nothing. Not a single thing! He didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. You might be surprised to hear it, but I had never encountered that before. Not on a single reaping. Even blind people have a way of knowing when Death has come for them.
For the first time, I was forced into the position of being the one who initiated proceedings.
"This is a nice room you have here," I said.
Napoleon grunted and replied without hesitation. "No it isn't. It's dismal. It's been the death of me. I dare say the British put me here specifically to kill me all the faster. I would much rather die in sunny France... or even in the frozen hell of Russia with crying soldiers all around me. Anywhere but here."
I found a chair, dragged it over, and sat at the table across from him. "I like to think that any place with a chessboard is worth dying in."
Napoleon grunted again. "Chess is a pastime. A way to keep your mind sharp when nothing important is going on. Nothing more."
What do you say to a man like that? I knew better than anyone that chess was far more important than he was saying. But such was the force of his personality that I almost started to believe I had wasted the last billion years of my existence on a stupid, meaningless game. A hobby. If he could have that effect on me, in such a sick state of being, then I can't truly imagine what he must have been like in his prime. What sort of presence he must have been on the battlefield. He probably made his soldiers feel invincible. Because he felt invincible too.
Well, maybe I should knock him down a peg. Humble him a bit before sending his soul off into eternity. I sat back and waited. I refused to say more. I just watched as he moved his pieces around. At one point I saw him make an illegal move, dragging one of his pawns backward. Then I realized what he was doing. He was setting up the board, putting pieces back in their original positions.
"Let's play," he said finally.
So we played. We didn't speak at all for the rest of my time there.
Napoleon was a great General. A fantastic tactician. He already had the right mind to be a great chess player. And he was.
We had a fun little back and forth for a while. Setting up moves, setting up future checks and pawn pushes, but always seeing each other's plans and foiling them. Until...
I had his queen in my sights. My queen could take his queen down. But then his rook would have been able to recapture, making us both queenless. Dragging us both down equally. Not really worthwhile in my opinion. If I had been a more impulsive player, I might not have been able to resist the urge. It is great fun to take a queen, and some people do it without thinking or looking ahead.
What move did I make instead? It was obvious I needed to distract him from doing any damage with his centralized queen.
I don't know how I saw the move I made. What can I say; I'm a genius.
At my back rank, to the right of my king, I had both rooks right next to each other. I pushed one of them forward, taking Napoleon's pawn. Scoffing, he immediately used another pawn to capture my rook.
I already had a plan in mind. So I shoved my other rook all the way back to e7, right into the danger zone. It was able to be captured by his queen. It was the easiest move in the world; just take the second of my two powerful rooks, rendering my offense basically useless. I had sacrificed one rook, and now I was throwing the other one away. I was hoping Napoleon would take the bait, that his megalomania would win out and he would take the rook, assuming that I was an idiot and he was just that much better than me.
He smelled a trap. I knew he did. Maybe if he was healthy, if his mind was all there, he would have seen it. But he just couldn't find it no matter how he looked. In the end, he let out a quiet sigh and took the rook.
I swept in like a tidal wave, crashing over him.
First, I brought my queen in from my right side, taking the pawn which had captured my first rook. This put his king, on a diagonal path toward his back right corner, in check. His king fled to b8. But here comes my queen again to b6. Check.
He interposed one of his bishops. The only thing he could really do, unless he wanted to throw his queen away.
I had a knight waiting and ready. I swung it around to c6, putting him back in check. c8 was off limits as a flight square; my bishop was covering it. So he had to go to a8. The only option available. He did this begrudgingly, making a few noises of disgust in his throat. But even at that point I think he assumed I would have a heart attack or something before I had a chance to win. God would step in, do something, anything, to allow him the victory he deserved.
I brought my queen to a6. Checkmate. Goodnight, sweet prince.
Napoleon sat back with another, longer sigh. He waved a hand, dismissing me. He didn't look bothered. I wondered if he even knew the stakes of the game he had just played with me. I certainly didn't want to spend another moment in that smelly, dreary room with him. So I walked out into the hall, quickened my pace to a jog, and didn't stop until I was out in the open air and far away from Longwood House. Finally, I took out my book and traced the phantom smudge of his name. And that was the last the world ever knew of Napoleon Bonaparte.
***
Boy, that was kind of a downer, wasn't it? I'm afraid all my stories end in a similar way. You know, with someone dying. And that's rarely a very happy affair.
But the circumstances and settings of death are rarely as depressing as that of Napoleon. I have some slightly cheerier tales for you next.
I present to you, for your consideration, the coziest manor house you ever did see, nestled up against a flank of snow-laden hills. Christmas day, the year 1977. A town in Switzerland, a large home of nineteen rooms which had been the residence of a series of people going back to the early 1700's.
On this day, it was to be the place of death for one of the most cherished performers in film history. I had seen his face on posters before, seen his name on theater marquees, during previous reapings. But I had not seen his face in some time, and I can't say I really recognized the face of the man I found.
A long walk through the snowy silence of the early morning. I found an unlocked door, slid into the house, and moved through the darkened halls by instinct. I found Charlie Chaplin asleep in bed. He appeared to be dreaming, eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. His wrinkled old face would, every so often, contort into a pained expression. He was two years shy of turning ninety. I regretted that he would not be able to spend this last Christmas with his family, but it wasn't my choice. The Book of the Dead spoke the will of God; I was there to listen and obey.
I'm not sure what woke Charlie from his sleep. But he saw me immediately, blinking slowly as he tried to focus his eyes on me. To him, I must have looked insubstantial. A shadow in the night. A child would have seen a monster, but Charlie might have thought I was nothing but a coat thrown over the back of a chair.
He clicked on a little bedside lamp and got a better look at me. He moved slow. As though he was already dead, and his joints were gradually locking into rigor mortis.
When he saw me clearly, a look of acceptance came to his face. He drew his lips into a straight line, and breathed out through his nose.
"Play a game with me," he said a moment later. "There's a chess set in the other room. But I may need help getting there..."
By this time, I had long since started carrying a portable chess set. I pulled it out of my cloak now. Using a meal tray tucked under the bed, I set up a nice little game for us.
What can I say of the game? It was not nearly as memorable as the great films and performances that the world remembers. I have no idea how strong a player Chaplin had been at his peak, but it was rather sad to watch him play now. His mind was still there, still intact, but it was like it had been slowed down to ten
percent of its normal speed.
But we had a good time. In the end, I had him write his own name in the book. A signature. But I wasn't going to sell it. I was going to keep it in my book forever and cherish it.
Charlie lay back down and went to sleep. I folded up my chess set and tucked it back into my cloak. I slid his tray under the bed again. And I walked out. Charlie Chaplin faded away in his sleep. Only a few months later, his grave was desecrated by two people who wanted to extort money from his widow. I can assure you that both of these people will spend eternity in Hell.
***
Well, damn. That was kid of a gloomy story too, wasn't it? I'll try to do better.
Well, how about Isaac Asimov? The famous writer. Most people know him as a science fiction guy, but he actually wrote far more books in other genres. Even non-fiction titles. A lot of them are sadly long out of print, but each of them was written with a sharp wit and an even sharper mind.
That guy was a real hoot. Even in terrible health, he loved to hear himself talk. And he made me laugh like no other human has been able to. He had some really crude jokes, and some really smart ones.
He played a decent game of chess, but he was more focused on pestering me with eternal questions and hoping I would slip up and give him a real answer.
Or how about Charlemagne, King of the Franks? He did a lot of fighting, and you would expect that he died in battle. But he didn't. He died in bed. He left behind a good legacy, having united a huge portion of mainland Europe under a single empire.
Or maybe you would like to hear about Leo Tolstoy. When he wrote War and Peace, Napoleon's invasion of Russia had happened only about sixty years earlier. And he died in the year 1910, only a few years before the outbreak of the first World War. He had lived and written during some of the most interesting years of human history. Certainly the very most interesting, up to that point. He wanted very much to play me in chess, but in the end he decided that he would most likely lose (correct) and would rather spend his last moments with his family.