Redemption - J. C. Laird (recommended reading .TXT) š
- Author: J. C. Laird
Book online Ā«Redemption - J. C. Laird (recommended reading .TXT) šĀ». Author J. C. Laird
Although seated some distance away, the woman had distracted Simon enough to have cost him his speed chess game against Charlieāone of the oldest chess hustlers in Roosevelt Parkāalong with their ten-dollar bet. She was sitting at a table under one of the giant cottonwood trees scattered throughout the green, urban oasis, staring at the chess game laid out in front of her, her defeated opponent having already vanished.
A feeling of unease, of apprehension, grew within him as he approached her. Wearing a tailored, black pant-suit, red silk blouse, matching red high heels and a string of small, black pearls around her neck, she was like a beautiful, exotic flower in the midst of a field of weeds. Unexpectedly, Simon felt himself blushing.
The young, dark-haired woman began putting away her chess set.
Sudden panic gripped him. āHello, my name is Simon Mathews. How about a quick game of speed chess?ā he blurted.
Dark brown eyes coolly dissected him, a slight smile curving her mouth, her lips the same shade of red as her blouse and shoes. āSorry, not my game.ā She dropped her opponentās king into the wooden box, closed the lid and held out her hand. āIām Sarah Coventry.ā
Simon noticed that her manicured nails were that same complementary red. Her hand was smooth and cool, her grip firm. She held his hand for several seconds before letting goāher dark eyes boring into his disconcertingly. He swallowed, pushed on. āA regular game of chess, then. And you can name the stakes.ā
Her smile remained, but her eyes darkened. Her next words drained the flush from his face. āYou might want to reconsider that offer, Mr. Mathews. I only play for menās souls.ā
Simonās awkward grin froze as he waited for the jokeās punch-line or some obscure metaphor. But none came, the silence stretching several uncomfortable seconds as the beautiful, pale-faced woman continued to look at him with that enigmatic, half- smile on her full lips. Simon finally found his voice, albeit hesitant and a little strained. āSoā¦uhā¦who are you supposed to be, the Devil?ā he asked.
Sarahās smile widened. āHardly. I guess you could say Iām one of Satanās minions, or to put it more alliteratively, Satanās assistant.ā She picked up a small, black canvas bag from next to her chair and slid her chess set inside.
Simon was staring at her slack-jawed; if it wasnāt an elaborate joke, then maybe mental problems or drugs? But she seemed clear eyed, articulate and apparently seriousābesides being very attractiveāso Simon decided to humor her. āOkay, but whatever happened to the simple āselling your soul to the Devilā?ā
Sarah laughed. āSelling your soul is still acceptable, but people can be more easily tempted if they are given the opportunity to obtain their heartās desire and keep their soul, too.ā
Simonās mind was starting to catch up. āSoā¦what about all the Devilās deceptions and morbid tricks? With Satan, nothing is ever what it seems.ā He figured he had her there.
Sarah picked up her chess clock, hesitated, then placed it in her bag. āPlease, Mr. Mathews, tricks and deceptions are against the rules. Satan is actually a straight shooter in that respect. You win, you get what you want. You lose, goodbye soul andā¦well, you know how that story goes. But be positive, as someone once said: āBetter to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven.ā ā
She shook her head, pursed her lips and continued. āTemptation is the only weapon my Master uses, the only one necessary. Manās greed and ambition, his conceit, arrogance and self-worship, his belief that he can be God, do the real work. Our job is to offer āopportunities and improvementsā to his earthly life. He has the choice whether to bargain his immortal soul against them or not. Minionsāassistants if you pleaseāare for those easily tempted, undecided or lacking in that 'faithā thing. Other minions do other things well, but my forte is chess and Iām very good at it. And by the way, Satan doesnāt have horns, a forked tail or cloven hooves; he just isā¦like God just is. Itās just that Man is so imaginative and melodramatic.ā
Now, grim-faced and slightly flushed, she continued. āGod gave Man...and Woman...an immortal soul and the rules to live by. But He also gave them free will, and not only do they break the rules, look at the evil they commit against their neighbor and fellow man. The majority of people have already mortgaged their souls, āthe walking damned,ā so to speak.ā She took a deep breath and stood up. āAnd that, Mr. Mathews, concludes your condensed Theology 101 course.ā
Sarah was shorter than he had thought, 5ā4ā at best. At 6ā3,ā Simon towered over her. He guessed that she was in her late twenties, considerably younger than his forty-five. Yet, he somehow felt cowed, unnerved. Again, he blurted impulsively. āWhat if I still wanted that chess game?ā
Her look was almost one of regret. āYes, if you want.ā She bent and picked up her purse, red of course. She removed a small card and envelope. āWrite down what youāre wagering your soul for, and seal it in the envelope. Bring it with you tomorrow, 10:00 am, this table. Be specific: āall the money in the worldā or āto live foreverā wonāt work. And my Master canāt raise the dead; thatās reserved for God. As for the chess game itself: standard tournament rules, forty moves in two hours. If the game is not completed at that time, white will write down and seal their forty-first move, and the game will continue the following day.ā She turned to leave. āIt was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Matthews.ā
āWaitā¦Ms. Coventryā¦have you ever lost a chess game before?ā
She turned back to him. āTwice. Once in 1797 and again in 1878.ā
āHuh?ā Simon was gaping at her again.
āWhat did you think, eternity for me started in the twenty-first century?ā she said. āAnd Satan paid off on the wagers: one player became one of the richest men in the world and the other became President of the United States. My Master was not happy with my losing; he made me pay in ways you couldnāt fathom.ā Her voice was as cold and bitter as a winter wind, and Simon imagined he actually saw a tremor pass through her body. With eyes as black as a bottomless pit, she continued. āI havenāt lost since, and I donāt plan on losing again.ā
Before she could turn to leave he queried softly, āWhat about you?ā
Now it was her turn to look confused. āWhat?ā
āHow did you lose your soul, Sarah?ā
She was staring at him as if he had just slapped her, her mouth parted, eyes wide. She licked, then bit her lower lip; Simon didnāt think she was going to answer. But she did.
āIt was 1649. I was twenty-eight, living in London with my husband, Richard, and ten-year-old daughter, Mary. One night we were returning from my grand-pa-paāsāmy original chess teacherāin nearby Greenwich, and were set upon by three drunken brigands. They murdered my husband, raped and murdered my daughter and raped and left me for dead. But I lived.ā Sarahās voice was flat and emotionless. āRevenge, Mr. Mathews. It took me over a year, but I tracked down all threeāplanned, plotted and killed them. When I was done, I drowned myself in the Thames River. And here I am.ā Now she did noticeably shudder.
āIām sorry,ā he whispered.
He could see her jaw muscles work as she clenched her teeth. āSorry for what?ā
āSorry for your life, for your death, for your now.ā
Storm clouds swirled in her dark eyes. āIāll see you in the morning, Mr. Matthews.ā She turned and left the park.
Simon was still staring after her when Charlieās voice came from behind him. āDonāt bother following her, sheās gone.ā
Simon turned and looked at him questioningly.
Charlie continued. āSarah is sort of our local āurban legend.ā She isnāt here every day, or every week, just when she has a game scheduled. She first appeared about fifteen years ago, about six months after I started hanging out at the chess tables. I tried following her two or three times, kept losing her on the path leading out of the park, then dropped that idea when those three gang-bangers went after her and wound up deadāā
āWhat?ā
Charlieās lined, grey-whiskered face split in a wide grin. āAlthough Roosevelt Park is located near Albuquerqueās āWar Zoneāāhome turf to several area gangsādo you see any of them in the park, or even any graffiti anywhere?ā
Simon had been coming to the ten acres of shaded green for over two weeks, enjoying the cool, spring days of May and an occasional game of chess, but realized that Charlie was right. College kids, retirees, and several families were enjoying the bright sunlit day, but no unsavory characters were present in the clean and well-kept park. āNo, itās one of the nicer parks Iāve been in.ā
āIt was pretty rough back in ā96,ā Charlie said. āA couple of the local gangs claimed this turf; fights, harassment, and graffiti were common. Three bangers followed Sarah out the second time she was here. I read in the paper the next day that their bodies had been found, victims of apparent gang warfareāaccording to the police. A few more weeks and a few more obituaries, and the gangs started avoiding this place like the plague.ā
Simon stood there musing aloud. āShe looks to be in her mid to late twenties. If so, in ā96 she would have barely been a teenager, if that.ā He coughed, clearing his throat nervously. āAnd would you believe she gave me this spiel about the Devil, being his minion and playing chess games for peopleās souls?ā He laughed uneasily. āPretty crazy, eh?ā
From Charlieās expression it was apparent he didnāt think it was crazy at all; he didnāt seem surprised in the least. āIām telling you what I know,ā he said. āSarah looks the same now as she did back then. She hasnāt lost a chess game here that I know of. And after losing, all of her opponents have never been seen again. Iād think twice about taking her on, no matter how good you are or how bad you want something. Iād hate to lose you; good competition is hard to come by.ā
That night Simon sat alone in his darkened apartment with the dayās events looping through his mind, the possibilities and consequences ricocheting through that loop. He turned on the desk lamp and stared at the framed picture of his wife and daughter, three years dead now. He began to relive the accident: the out of control 16-wheeler running the red light, the crash, the screams as it broadsided their SUV. He stopped the always agonizing train of thought, but couldnāt halt the question that always followedāwhy had he lived when they had died? He sighed and looked at the blank card that Sarah had given him.
In college he had been president of the chess club and had been ranked by the U.S. Chess Federation as a Master, only a few points shy of a Grand Master ranking. He believed that he was as good, or better, than he ever was. But, maybe, that was part of a damning conceit and arrogance that Sarah had alluded toā¦
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Sarah was sitting at her usual table when Simon arrived, looking beautifully stylish in a black skirt and a burgundy, long-sleeve silk blouse, the string of small, black pearls accenting her slim neck. In his tennis shoes, blue-jeans and blue polo-shirt, Simon felt suddenly shabby.
She smiled and held out her hand. āGood to see you, Mr. Matthews.ā
Probably his imagination but, as he took her hand, he sensed a look of disappointment in her ebony eyes. Simon sat down, opened his canvas bag, took out his chess set and clock and put them on the table.
Sarah gave a small laugh. āDonāt trust me?ā
āConsidering the stakes,
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