fiction
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
Pawn
The camera of the mind’s eye floats aimlessly over the open sea. It starts to move, faster and faster, skimming along the wavetops. There are chalk cliffs on the horizon, a sandy bay. It is an object in this bay, glinting in the afternoon sun, that we are rapidly approaching. The glint is from the broken glass of the window in a neglected beach house. This decaying castle has finally been conquered by the elements; there are holes in the roof, the once brilliant white paint is flaking, and water laps at the lower steps up to her. Slowing down, we follow a ray of light in through an empty windowframe.
The attic is musty. Dust motes are lit up as fireflies, dancing around the room. Their slow, spiralling waltz brings some to rest upon a tattered cardboard chessboard laying on the floor. It is in a similar state to the house itself, well-used and fraying at the edges. Only three pieces remain in the box that lies nearby, the White King and two pawns, one white, one black.
Picture the dusty floor, the board and the box. Now look a little closer…
A gloriously hilly stretch of rolling English countryside at the end of a summer afternoon. The Elysian fields of Britain stretching off as far as the eye can see. The twittering of birds in the hedgerows is beginning to die away, following the lead of the sun’s rays, disappearing over the horizon, soon to leave this idyllic landscape in the pool of a balmy night.
In the centre of it all lies a battlefield, marked out by a wizened old apple tree at each corner. Roughly three hundred metres square, it is divided up into sixty-four squares, alternating huge solid slabs of dark stone with squares of lush green grass. It is strangely familiar, the way that the unruly trees are beginning to extend their roots to crack the stone slabs. The grass is overgrown and a crop of poppies is giving it measles.
The only evidence of humanity comes in the form of a cottage (this is stretching the definition a little), very small with smoke wafting out of the chimney and two small glazed windows. Now I know it’s rude to eavesdrop through other people’s windows, but…
An old man is sitting in a worn, overstuffed armchair by a stone fireplace which fills the room with a warm, orange light. His poise and the twinkle in his eye as he looks over his half-moon glasses at the two attentive ‘youngsters’ sitting cross-legged on the carpet, tells us that a story is about to begin.
The White King carefully lifts his crown of dulled white gold down from the mantle-piece.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks the boys on the floor.
The one dressed in the black tunic immediately raises his hand, and at a nod from the King replies,
“The white crown sir,”
“Well done lad. This story is of the last battle of all. It concerns a certain White Pawn a long time ago.”
The position of Pawneight has always been the lowliest amongst all the pieces, and this particular Pawn was feeling the effects of this very strongly. He knew, as all pieces did, that if one died gloriously in battle, sacrificing oneself so that it could be won, then when one was reincarnated, it would be as a more powerful piece.
This Pawn had never had the chance to prove himself. There was not much more he could do out on the edge of the battlefield than get in the way. He was scorned by all. All except one, Rye-trook, a veteran and loyal subject of the King. This huge, stocky archer was the embodiment of stability, always behind Pawneight at the beginning of each battle, always ready with a word of comfort or encouragement.
One day in late autumn (or was it early winter?), Pawneight was standing on a hilltop, leaning on his sword, his white tunic and pale hair billowing around him. He was watching the sun come up over the horizon like an enormous celestial half-lemon. He imagined shapes in the early morning mist, dancing through the skeletons of hedgerows and the frosted piles of golden leaves. He was doing this to try and keep his mind off the prospect of remaining Pawneight forever and never moving off his square again.
It was while he was failing at this that Rye-trook came up the hill in front of him. Seeing the glum expression on his face, he tutted.
“Now now Pawneight. Oi may not be the brightest o’ folks, but oi know oi don’t loikes to see anyone un’appy. Show us yer smile lad,” he chastised. Pawneight managed to force a grin.
“That’s better. Now you jest foller me. There’s another battle about to start.”
They started walking in silence, exchanging the songs of the winter birds for the clank of metal armour and the familiar hubbub of anticipation. They both took up their positions on the right of the battlefield. All around them, pieces were preparing to engage with the ‘Blacks’: The Rooks were stringing their seven foot longbows, the Knights were testing the swing of their battle-axes, one Bishop and polished his heavy mace while the other knelt in prayer, and various pawns were putting the finishing touches to the edges on their shortswords. Finally, the White King was raised up into his gargantuan suit of armour. He raised his visor to deliver some stirring words to his men:
“Um. Show them what you’re made of chaps.”
The pre-battle sounds were drowned out by a hunting horn signalling the start of the battle. The light atmosphere that had existed beforehand was washed away by a wave of silence which immediately swept across the battlefield. Clouds of steam rose from the nostrils of the snorting war-horses.
The King gave the signal for the first pieces to move into the centre of the field. Nothing happened for a while as the pieces weighed each other up. Then the Queen’s Pawn brought his sword up high and slew an enemy Bishop in one swift movement. There was a flurry of sacrifices, attacks and counter attacks, the clash of steel against steel, the crunch of steel against bone, and the shearing of metal. A Black Knight leapt into the fray, uttering an unearthly screech of a battlecry. He was accompanied in this macabre song by yells from every single soldier on either side. Battle had been joined!
Pawneight did not see most of the battle. Early on a Knight had moved in front of him, obscuring his view. Instead of the promised glory of combat, he spent most of the time staring at the large wrong end of a smelly horse. He got an idea of what was going on shouted down at him by Rye-trook.
From what he could gather, the Black Queen -a dark screaming woman in a chariot with blades on the wheels- had ploughed into their left flank and had gone down screaming and laughing maniacally, but not before taking several pieces with her. They were taking heavy losses on the far side, but the ‘Whites’ were putting pressure on the centre of the board.
This was not enough. He soon became tired of these jumbled descriptions. He thrust his sword into the earth and slumped down beside it in utter frustration and despair. Rye-trook saw him.
“Don’t you fret yerse’l lad. Tis’ early days yet. You’ll get your move, oi c’n feel it in me bowstring” He comforted.
“But even if I do get to move. How will I know what to do?” asked Pawneight.
“Oh you’ll know all right. One of the myst’ries of nature that.”
As if on cue, the Knight’s horse reared up and he leapt away to deal with a troublesome Rook, axe swinging menacingly. Pawneight saw the battlefield open out in front of him.
Then he felt the calling.
No piece had ever satisfactorily been able to describe this feeling.
It was an intense longing to move. It was impossible to argue with. It took control of the muscles so tightly that an attempt not to obey it would result in a broken leg. Before he knew what was happening, he had cleared two whole squares in one leap. Pawneight was a naturally nervous Pawn and sight of the various body parts that littered the battlefield, along with the strange feeling that had come over him were not doing a lot to relieve this. Put simply, he was terrified.
He became aware of a huge shape blocking out the sun. It was the second Black Knight. His pure black horse stared at him down it’s long nose through maddened bloodshot eyes and snorted at him, the foul stench making his eyes water. Pawneight’s eyes slowly clambered up past the horse to the rider. He sat straight on his steed, completely encased in black steel armour, topped by a shield-shaped helmet, completely featureless save for a pair of curving deer antlers.
Through his fear and awe, Pawneight felt his body brace itself against his will. He jerked forward, and slashed at the horse’s rear, causing it to rear up discarding it’s rider and galloping off the battlefield. Before he knew what he was doing, Pawneight was astride the fallen Knight with his sword in both hands. Without thinking, he thrust downwards. He saw the blood on his hands, dropped his sword and promptly fainted.
When he awoke, it was to the calling again. The next few moves were as in a dream. The field had been cleared and he was one of only a few pieces left. The first thing that he noticed was the echoing of his iron-shod footsteps across the field. The noise of the battle had literally died away. All that was left was the eerie silence of the endgame.
Pawneight found himself one square from the end of the board, on a diagonal from the towering mass of the Black King, looking in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me,” he asked timidly. The King remained facing in the other direction. Deciding that this was no way to carry himself, he rapped his sword sharply on the King’s back and loudly proclaimed
“Check!”
The King turned slowly around, the plates of his armour screeching in pain as they ground against each other. First he looked surprised, and then started to laugh as he prepared to crush Pawneight under his foot. The pawn’s life began to flash before his eyes (an unusual occurrence amongst pieces, most do not live in one form for long enough). Having seen it all before, he came back to reality. A tiny twanging noise behind them both, killed the King’s laughter. A gruff voice said
“You touch one hair atop his head an’ you’ll be dead ‘afore you hits the ground,”
Pawneight breathed a sigh of relief
“ Rye-troo…”
Suddenly a Black Bishop came charging in out of nowhere, foaming at the mouth and screaming in some harsh language. With a sickening squelch he delivered a fatal blow to the back of Pawneight’s head.
As the ground rushed up to meet him, he heard a cry of rage from Rye-trook as he rushed in to avenge his friend. The King tried to stumble backwards, but this left space for Lef-trook to come swooping in from across the battlefield, neatly cornering him. The battle had been won, thought Pawneight to himself. As the world dissolved around him, he heard the proud words of Rye-trook.
“Well done lad.”
When he awoke, it was in The House. ‘So this is what reincarnation feels like’ he thought. He sat up. Daylight was streaming in through both of the windows. He felt a heavy weight on his head. He reached up, and lifted down… a crown of white gold…
… And in that moment, I knew that I was King.”
“So, you were once Pawneight!” exclaimed the White Pawn. The White King shrugged,
“Somebody had to be.”
“What happened then?” asked the Black Pawn.
“Oh, we made peace and found different ways of settling our differences. There were several expeditions which went off to seek new lands. They are probably still out there somewhere.” Said the King staring wistfully into space. Then he stirred himself;
“Now that’s enough questions for tonight. Time for bed.”
Now turn away from the window. Darkness is falling. Pretend that you are an eagle and soar high above the scene. The pinprick of light that is The House winks out. In the failing light you notice that the fields around it are very long and thin and are arranged in rows. From up here they look almost like floorboards, dusty floorboards, and in the middle of the attic, a chessboard, and a box.
As the last rays of sunlight are cast onto the floor, the dance of the dust motes comes to a stop.
By Duncan Stuart a.k.a Bronze Hedgehog
The camera of the mind’s eye floats aimlessly over the open sea. It starts to move, faster and faster, skimming along the wavetops. There are chalk cliffs on the horizon, a sandy bay. It is an object in this bay, glinting in the afternoon sun, that we are rapidly approaching. The glint is from the broken glass of the window in a neglected beach house. This decaying castle has finally been conquered by the elements; there are holes in the roof, the once brilliant white paint is flaking, and water laps at the lower steps up to her. Slowing down, we follow a ray of light in through an empty windowframe.
The attic is musty. Dust motes are lit up as fireflies, dancing around the room. Their slow, spiralling waltz brings some to rest upon a tattered cardboard chessboard laying on the floor. It is in a similar state to the house itself, well-used and fraying at the edges. Only three pieces remain in the box that lies nearby, the White King and two pawns, one white, one black.
Picture the dusty floor, the board and the box. Now look a little closer…
A gloriously hilly stretch of rolling English countryside at the end of a summer afternoon. The Elysian fields of Britain stretching off as far as the eye can see. The twittering of birds in the hedgerows is beginning to die away, following the lead of the sun’s rays, disappearing over the horizon, soon to leave this idyllic landscape in the pool of a balmy night.
In the centre of it all lies a battlefield, marked out by a wizened old apple tree at each corner. Roughly three hundred metres square, it is divided up into sixty-four squares, alternating huge solid slabs of dark stone with squares of lush green grass. It is strangely familiar, the way that the unruly trees are beginning to extend their roots to crack the stone slabs. The grass is overgrown and a crop of poppies is giving it measles.
The only evidence of humanity comes in the form of a cottage (this is stretching the definition a little), very small with smoke wafting out of the chimney and two small glazed windows. Now I know it’s rude to eavesdrop through other people’s windows, but…
An old man is sitting in a worn, overstuffed armchair by a stone fireplace which fills the room with a warm, orange light. His poise and the twinkle in his eye as he looks over his half-moon glasses at the two attentive ‘youngsters’ sitting cross-legged on the carpet, tells us that a story is about to begin.
The White King carefully lifts his crown of dulled white gold down from the mantle-piece.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks the boys on the floor.
The one dressed in the black tunic immediately raises his hand, and at a nod from the King replies,
“The white crown sir,”
“Well done lad. This story is of the last battle of all. It concerns a certain White Pawn a long time ago.”
The position of Pawneight has always been the lowliest amongst all the pieces, and this particular Pawn was feeling the effects of this very strongly. He knew, as all pieces did, that if one died gloriously in battle, sacrificing oneself so that it could be won, then when one was reincarnated, it would be as a more powerful piece.
This Pawn had never had the chance to prove himself. There was not much more he could do out on the edge of the battlefield than get in the way. He was scorned by all. All except one, Rye-trook, a veteran and loyal subject of the King. This huge, stocky archer was the embodiment of stability, always behind Pawneight at the beginning of each battle, always ready with a word of comfort or encouragement.
One day in late autumn (or was it early winter?), Pawneight was standing on a hilltop, leaning on his sword, his white tunic and pale hair billowing around him. He was watching the sun come up over the horizon like an enormous celestial half-lemon. He imagined shapes in the early morning mist, dancing through the skeletons of hedgerows and the frosted piles of golden leaves. He was doing this to try and keep his mind off the prospect of remaining Pawneight forever and never moving off his square again.
It was while he was failing at this that Rye-trook came up the hill in front of him. Seeing the glum expression on his face, he tutted.
“Now now Pawneight. Oi may not be the brightest o’ folks, but oi know oi don’t loikes to see anyone un’appy. Show us yer smile lad,” he chastised. Pawneight managed to force a grin.
“That’s better. Now you jest foller me. There’s another battle about to start.”
They started walking in silence, exchanging the songs of the winter birds for the clank of metal armour and the familiar hubbub of anticipation. They both took up their positions on the right of the battlefield. All around them, pieces were preparing to engage with the ‘Blacks’: The Rooks were stringing their seven foot longbows, the Knights were testing the swing of their battle-axes, one Bishop and polished his heavy mace while the other knelt in prayer, and various pawns were putting the finishing touches to the edges on their shortswords. Finally, the White King was raised up into his gargantuan suit of armour. He raised his visor to deliver some stirring words to his men:
“Um. Show them what you’re made of chaps.”
The pre-battle sounds were drowned out by a hunting horn signalling the start of the battle. The light atmosphere that had existed beforehand was washed away by a wave of silence which immediately swept across the battlefield. Clouds of steam rose from the nostrils of the snorting war-horses.
The King gave the signal for the first pieces to move into the centre of the field. Nothing happened for a while as the pieces weighed each other up. Then the Queen’s Pawn brought his sword up high and slew an enemy Bishop in one swift movement. There was a flurry of sacrifices, attacks and counter attacks, the clash of steel against steel, the crunch of steel against bone, and the shearing of metal. A Black Knight leapt into the fray, uttering an unearthly screech of a battlecry. He was accompanied in this macabre song by yells from every single soldier on either side. Battle had been joined!
Pawneight did not see most of the battle. Early on a Knight had moved in front of him, obscuring his view. Instead of the promised glory of combat, he spent most of the time staring at the large wrong end of a smelly horse. He got an idea of what was going on shouted down at him by Rye-trook.
From what he could gather, the Black Queen -a dark screaming woman in a chariot with blades on the wheels- had ploughed into their left flank and had gone down screaming and laughing maniacally, but not before taking several pieces with her. They were taking heavy losses on the far side, but the ‘Whites’ were putting pressure on the centre of the board.
This was not enough. He soon became tired of these jumbled descriptions. He thrust his sword into the earth and slumped down beside it in utter frustration and despair. Rye-trook saw him.
“Don’t you fret yerse’l lad. Tis’ early days yet. You’ll get your move, oi c’n feel it in me bowstring” He comforted.
“But even if I do get to move. How will I know what to do?” asked Pawneight.
“Oh you’ll know all right. One of the myst’ries of nature that.”
As if on cue, the Knight’s horse reared up and he leapt away to deal with a troublesome Rook, axe swinging menacingly. Pawneight saw the battlefield open out in front of him.
Then he felt the calling.
No piece had ever satisfactorily been able to describe this feeling.
It was an intense longing to move. It was impossible to argue with. It took control of the muscles so tightly that an attempt not to obey it would result in a broken leg. Before he knew what was happening, he had cleared two whole squares in one leap. Pawneight was a naturally nervous Pawn and sight of the various body parts that littered the battlefield, along with the strange feeling that had come over him were not doing a lot to relieve this. Put simply, he was terrified.
He became aware of a huge shape blocking out the sun. It was the second Black Knight. His pure black horse stared at him down it’s long nose through maddened bloodshot eyes and snorted at him, the foul stench making his eyes water. Pawneight’s eyes slowly clambered up past the horse to the rider. He sat straight on his steed, completely encased in black steel armour, topped by a shield-shaped helmet, completely featureless save for a pair of curving deer antlers.
Through his fear and awe, Pawneight felt his body brace itself against his will. He jerked forward, and slashed at the horse’s rear, causing it to rear up discarding it’s rider and galloping off the battlefield. Before he knew what he was doing, Pawneight was astride the fallen Knight with his sword in both hands. Without thinking, he thrust downwards. He saw the blood on his hands, dropped his sword and promptly fainted.
When he awoke, it was to the calling again. The next few moves were as in a dream. The field had been cleared and he was one of only a few pieces left. The first thing that he noticed was the echoing of his iron-shod footsteps across the field. The noise of the battle had literally died away. All that was left was the eerie silence of the endgame.
Pawneight found himself one square from the end of the board, on a diagonal from the towering mass of the Black King, looking in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me,” he asked timidly. The King remained facing in the other direction. Deciding that this was no way to carry himself, he rapped his sword sharply on the King’s back and loudly proclaimed
“Check!”
The King turned slowly around, the plates of his armour screeching in pain as they ground against each other. First he looked surprised, and then started to laugh as he prepared to crush Pawneight under his foot. The pawn’s life began to flash before his eyes (an unusual occurrence amongst pieces, most do not live in one form for long enough). Having seen it all before, he came back to reality. A tiny twanging noise behind them both, killed the King’s laughter. A gruff voice said
“You touch one hair atop his head an’ you’ll be dead ‘afore you hits the ground,”
Pawneight breathed a sigh of relief
“ Rye-troo…”
Suddenly a Black Bishop came charging in out of nowhere, foaming at the mouth and screaming in some harsh language. With a sickening squelch he delivered a fatal blow to the back of Pawneight’s head.
As the ground rushed up to meet him, he heard a cry of rage from Rye-trook as he rushed in to avenge his friend. The King tried to stumble backwards, but this left space for Lef-trook to come swooping in from across the battlefield, neatly cornering him. The battle had been won, thought Pawneight to himself. As the world dissolved around him, he heard the proud words of Rye-trook.
“Well done lad.”
When he awoke, it was in The House. ‘So this is what reincarnation feels like’ he thought. He sat up. Daylight was streaming in through both of the windows. He felt a heavy weight on his head. He reached up, and lifted down… a crown of white gold…
… And in that moment, I knew that I was King.”
“So, you were once Pawneight!” exclaimed the White Pawn. The White King shrugged,
“Somebody had to be.”
“What happened then?” asked the Black Pawn.
“Oh, we made peace and found different ways of settling our differences. There were several expeditions which went off to seek new lands. They are probably still out there somewhere.” Said the King staring wistfully into space. Then he stirred himself;
“Now that’s enough questions for tonight. Time for bed.”
Now turn away from the window. Darkness is falling. Pretend that you are an eagle and soar high above the scene. The pinprick of light that is The House winks out. In the failing light you notice that the fields around it are very long and thin and are arranged in rows. From up here they look almost like floorboards, dusty floorboards, and in the middle of the attic, a chessboard, and a box.
As the last rays of sunlight are cast onto the floor, the dance of the dust motes comes to a stop.
By Duncan Stuart a.k.a Bronze Hedgehog
