Redemption - J. C. Laird (recommended reading .TXT) 📗

I’ll be more comfortable using my set and clock.”

 

Simon secreted a white and black pawn, one in each hand, and held out his fists for Sarah to choose. She chose his right hand, hiding the white pawn; she would have the first move. Somehow, this didn’t surprise him. They set up the chess men on the cement table’s inlaid, black and white tiled chess board. Next, each pulled out paper and pen with which to record the moves. Simon laid the sealed envelope next to the clock.

 

Sarah looked at the envelope, then at him, that crooked, half smile back on her face. “Last chance, Mr. Matthews.”

 

He took a deep breath, swallowed. “Anytime you’re ready.”

 

She moved the pawn in front of her king forward; hit the button atop her clock face—which started his clock—then wrote down the move. He countered with a knight, hit his button, stopping his time and restarting hers.

 

And so it went—move, clock, notation. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the chess clock, a slight breeze rustling the cottonwood leaves overhead and occasional voices carried to them on that gentle current from distant parts of the park. Distant, because their seeming oasis was consciously shunned by the aware and unconsciously shunned by the unaware.

 

Simon was focused, his attention lasered in on the board before him. But slowly, inexorably, Sarah’s white chess army began to control the center of the board, then to methodically push his pieces back. He exchanged a bishop, then a knight, in an attempt to slow her advance. But to no avail. His king and its dwindling defenders were forced to retreat, slowly surrounded, the pressure building.

 

Simon felt the panic rising in his chest, his stomach clenching like a fist, the gall rising in his throat. Sarah was slowly crushing him; he couldn’t see a way out.

 

Sarah had been precise, methodical, almost robotic in her game: move, clock, notate, study. She never missed a move, never spoke, never looked at Simon. Until the twenty-ninth move.

 

Simon had been exchanging pieces whenever possible, hoping that he could somehow force a draw. But now he realized even that would be impossible. On her next move she would position her queen, and checkmate would only be four moves away.

 

Her hand lifted and hovered over the white queen, then withdrew and returned to her lap.

 

Simon looked up from the board and saw Sarah looking at him, her eyes brimming with tears, threatening to overflow. Her hand again rose, drifted towards the queen, clenched, opened, wavered, then picked up and moved her knight instead.

 

Simon stared in disbelief. It was the wrong move; it freed his position. He looked up again. Sarah was staring at the chess board, a single tear coursing down her cheek. He counter-attacked and hit his clock. Seven moves later Sarah had been checkmated.

 

Her hands on the table, Sarah slowly stood up, shoulders slumped, head bowed, more tears escaping her eyes. “You win, Simon.”

 

He rose also. “Why, Sarah?”

 

She put her hand to her lips in a losing attempt to regain her composure before continuing. “In over 350 years, you were the only person who cared why I had been consigned to Hell. Everyone else was only concerned about themselves and what they wanted. I just couldn’t do it to you, I just couldn’t.”

 

Simon was unable to suppress a smile. “Sarah, see what I won.”

 

She looked at him with a lost and forlorn look. “Why, what difference does it make?”

 

“Please.”

 

She opened the envelope and read the card. She looked at him. Back at the card. Her hand again went to her lips in another failing effort at composure. Sobbing, she turned and ran from the park.

 

Simon sat back down, breathing deeply, as if he had just finished an arduous and grueling race, tension flowing out of him and relief rushing in. He picked up the string of black pearls that were now lying on the table; he hadn’t noticed when Sarah had taken them off.

 

For several minutes Simon gazed at the treed path that Sarah had disappeared through, listening to the faint rustling of the leaves and enjoying the clean air of the mile-high city. He heard the soft footfalls on the grass next to him.

 

It was Charlie. “I have to admit I didn’t think you’d be here Simon, I didn’t think you could beat her.” .

 

Simon handed him the card. “You just need to have a little faith, Charlie. And I don’t think you’ll be seeing her again.”

 

The old chess player looked at the card and its neatly printed, ‘Free Sarah Coventry’s Soul.’ He stared open-mouthed. “You played for her soul?”

 

“God works in mysterious ways, Charlie. And now I know why I’m here, why I didn’t die in the accident; I provided the road, and Sarah traveled it. Redemption. Oh, and she left me these black…” he looked down at his open hand, at the string of small, white pearls resting in his palm, “…these white pearls.”

 

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Imprint

Text: John C. Laird
Images: istockphoto/Alexandra Laird
Editing: Alexandra Laird
Publication Date: 02-03-2012

All Rights Reserved