http://forum.sfreader.com/ Copyright (c) 2006-2013 Web Wiz Forums - All Rights Reserved. Tue, 14 Apr 2026 13:11:15 +0000 Thu, 05 Mar 2015 09:03:53 +0000 http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Web Wiz Forums 11.03 30 forum.sfreader.com/RSS_topic_feed.asp?FID=18 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_images/web_wiz_forums.png http://forum.sfreader.com/ http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=77&PID=76&title=1st-a-question-of-faith-by-corie-ralston#76 Author: SFReader
Subject: 1st - A Question of Faith, by Corie Ralston
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 9:03am

A Question of Faith
by Corie Ralston

Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. (Hebrews 11:1)

Sidney Miller
Video interviews, 2025

I still remember the exact moment the Miracle occurred: two-twenty in the afternoon, March 7, 2015. I had driven to Atlanta that day to buy a ring for Jane as a surprise anniversary gift. Fifteen years together at that point and I was still crazy about her. 

It happened while I was sitting in one of those shops in the diamond district discussing cuts and impurities and generally trying to pretend I knew something about diamonds. The Miracle was a sudden stabbing joy in my heart, so startling and intense that it eclipsed everything else in an instant. 

The store was gone. Every earthly thing was gone. I was encompassed by the presence of something extraordinary, a being so absolutely beautiful that it was almost terrifying, like something so hot it feels cold. I thought maybe I was dying, and my second thought was that I was okay with dying. My soul was lifted free of the shell of my body and cradled in God's hands. That's how it felt. When I was set back down, I knew I was forever changed.  

When the moment was over and I could focus again, I saw everyone in the store blinking and staring stupidly at each other. I couldn't believe it. I'll be honest here. The Miracle was so intimate, like a private conversation with God, and I was annoyed to discover that I was not the only one who had felt it.

Colin Hersch, Historian
From "A Crisis of Faith: America Before and After the Miracle" First Ed. 2040

The most striking aspect of accounts of the Miracle is the similarity of experience. Ninety five percent of recorded accounts include a reference to the divine. A huge percentage of those interviewed concluded that God, as defined by their particular religion, was speaking directly to them. This is, of course, the reason for the popular term "Miracle". It is difficult for those born after the Miracle to grasp the significance to those who experienced it. But despite the personal nature of the event, America and many other nations underwent vast political and cultural changes following the Miracle. The questions we will attempt to address are how and why "proof" of the divine so radically affected cultural mores and international affairs for years to come.

Sidney Miller
Video interviews, 2025

The day after the Miracle, back in Fox Hollow, Alabama, Jane and I went to All Souls Presbyterian.

We squeezed into the church along with all our neighbors and a whole bunch of other people -- apparently the whole town had the same idea. I knew our minister, Derek Raganeaux, because his son was enrolled in my after-school art program. I had always liked him. He seemed a quiet, thoughtful man. 

"For life is not a paragraph," he said. "And death is no parenthesis." I still remember those words. He was quoting some poet.

He went on to say that everyone had their proof that God existed. "Our lives are completely different now," he said.

I looked at the faces of those around me, many of whom I knew on a first-name basis, and saw smiles and tears and a stunned happiness. People hugged one another and wept. Our town was small, mostly white and middle class, not much more than a remote suburb of Birmingham. Mark and Jason were the only other gay couple that we knew, and I didn't see them in church.  

I remember the last rays of the setting sun angling in through the open doors. I remember the smell of perfume and bodies packed just a little too close to one another. 

I remember the gazes of our neighbors and friends lighting on me and Jane, then sliding away. 

Not everything was different now, I thought. I remember wondering why I hadn't bought that ring after all.

Derek Rageneaux
April 11, 2015

Derek paced from one end of his small study to the other, a notebook clasped in his hands. He stopped briefly next to his crowded bookcase where his well-used tatty copy of the Bible rubbed shoulders with Thoreau, Russell, and C.S. Lewis. He would have liked to sink into the world of poetry and philosophy, to mull over the meaning of the divine and his private memory of the Miracle, but he had a sermon to write. 

It had been difficult to concentrate since the Miracle. His experience of the event had been a crystallized moment of pure joy, a melding with the God he had always loved with all his heart. Never in his years as minister had he felt such certainty about his calling. 

Except that now, only one month later, there were troubling reports from around the world. The small radio resting atop his encyclopedia persisted in using words like "bloodshed" and "Miracle" in the same sentence. It reported on a surge of terrorist bombings all over the world, not just the Middle East, but in Europe and Asia and South America. It chronicled the rise of vigilante groups in Atlanta and machete-wielding gangs in Haiti. 

He stopped at the window above his desk. The sun was sinking into a pink and gold soup at the horizon, visible through the languid arms of the giant oak outside his window. In Fox Hollow, spring expressed itself exuberantly with rainbows of wildflowers strewn across lawns and medians and parks, breezes ripe with citrus and magnolia fragrances, an open defiance to the whispered strife from the rest of the world.

Derek rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands and tried to laugh. God, he thought, thank You for Your Gift, but couldn't You have been a little more specific?

Each drew his sword, on the side of the Lord. Where had that come from? A poem he had once read. Perhaps he could work it into tomorrow's sermon. He reached for his pen.

Jane Trundle
May 1, 2015

Dear God: It feels silly addressing my diary to you again after all these years. I haven't believed, I mean really believed in You since I was twelve years old. I stopped going to church when I was sixteen and fell in love for the first time. I still remember her name -- Erica Juno. I knew it was wrong, and I prayed for You to make me feel differently, but then I had that huge falling out with my Mom and I guess I just gave up. Now You have shown yourself to me and to everyone else in the world and I can't help asking myself "why now?" Why now instead of during the Holocaust? Why now instead of when Jesus died? I keep thinking You are trying to tell us something. 

From the Fox Hollow Daily, Letters to the Editor
May 5, 2015

To all good Christian citizens of Fox Hollow: don't back down now! Our children deserve the best education and that includes learning the love of Christ and that means Prayer in School and daily Bible Classes. It should not have taken a bona fide Miracle to make us take action in the first place. Throw out the proctors! The Feds don't know how to run our town. I ask you this: is it better to satisfy the government or make sure our children go to Heaven? Think about it. 

Excerpt from TeenGodChat, hosted by Christians in CyberGrace
June 24, 2015

Alwaz4Him> u aren't going to believe this -- yesterday my dad shows up at school and says we're going to be home-schooled from now on and then he tells everyone else that their parents are coming for them, too!

WordsWorth> In my town we're opening a Rehabilitation Center for all the Sinners. 

SnoozButton> Alwaz, u r so Blessed. In New York no one is defending God's Word like in other cities

Alwaz4Him> Words, what kind of sinners?

SnoozButton> if God is for us, who can be against us? Romans 8:31.

WordsWorth> Sinners like adulterers and homosexuals and abortion doctors. The dangerous ones like murderers still go to real prison. 

Alwaz4Him> homosexuals are dangerous 

SnoozButton> i'd hate to be home-schooled, my Dad would make us memorize all of Leviticus

WordsWorth> Leviticus rocks. Moses is the man.

Alwaz4Him> Jesus is the Man

Sidney Miller
Video interviews, 2025

At the time I thought the church and the idiotic small-mindedness of our town were the things getting to Jane. But now I think it was the Miracle itself, as ironic as that is. 

I remember one conversation where she asked me if I believed. 

"Sure," I said. "I believe in God. In my own way."

"You can't believe your own way," she said. "That's the whole point. The Bible gives you the rules."

"The Bible was written two thousand years ago by a bunch of misogynists."

She held herself very still. She hated when I said stuff like that, and I knew it, but by then I was really tired of everyone's obsessive talking about religion and the meaning of the Miracle. I was tired of Jane's moping phone calls with her mother and the way she didn't seem to look at me anymore. I was terrified that she was slipping away.

"The Miracle was a test," she said. 

"If it was a test then we failed it." I was thinking about the people who talked about "crusades" to the Middle East. About some of the people in town who talked about reviving the harsher punishments of the bible for sins like adultery.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said. 

I had meant humanity was failing the test. Looking back, I know she meant something different. 

Fox Hollow Daily -- Live On-line Interview 
September 14, 2015

Daily: Minster Raganeaux, what do you make of the local miracle witnessed by Mrs. Hittel that the flowers in her window box are blooming in the shape of Jesus on the Cross?

Raganeaux: Well, it's true that there have been lots of stories about miracles around town. Maybe people are just finally seeing that every day the sun rises is a small miracle in itself. 

Daily: People are starting to worry that it has been six whole months since The Miracle. When will we have another one? 

Raganeaux: Whether we have miracles or not is irrelevant, isn't it? God never abandoned us. Whether or not He shows himself physically to us, He is there for us. 

Daily: Do you think that Hittel's flowers and other miracles are signs from God that we should continue our efforts abroad? 

Raganeaux: I never supported any so-called crusades to other countries. In my bible-study sessions I try to focus on the message of love in the bible. 

Daily: Yes, but getting back to the flower arrangement. Do you believe that--

From the Fox Hollow Daily, AP International News Section
October 7, 2015

The newly-formed International Association of World Religions (IAWR) got off to a shaky start today when the Pope reportedly told interviewers before the meeting that God had spoken directly to him during the Miracle, thereby proving Christianity's truth. In response, the President of the United Arab Council issued a statement that over one billion Muslims worldwide had felt Allah's presence during the Miracle, thus validating Islam as the one true religion. Representatives from Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism and many other religions attended the meeting to discuss ways to bring together people of all faiths to work toward world peace. A small group of Scientologists gathered outside the conference center to protest the fact that they had not been invited. Meanwhile, scientists from around the world continue efforts to determine whether there is a scientific explanation for the Miracle.

Sidney Miller
Video interviews, 2025 My sister started calling from New York almost every week. 

"I saw they closed another Planned Parenthood," she would say. Or: "What's with those mandatory Sanctity of Marriage classes in high schools?" 

I reminded her that gay marriage was banned in over forty states even before the Miracle, back in 2003 or so. That Planned Parenthood had been under attack for years. 

She said there were groups up north who were talking about starting an underground railroad for the people trapped in the crazier states, like Alabama. 

I told her to stop being such an alarmist. The truth is that I could not even imagine leaving. Jane and I had built our lives in Fox Hollow. Jane's pottery sold to shops all over town, and I had been managing the town’s after-school programs for ages.  

I would tough it out, I told myself. People would come around. Boy, was I wrong. 

Jane Trundle
October 12, 2015

Sidney was fired yesterday. I've never seen her so mad. She says it's because she's a dyke, like it surprises her. She doesn't know what people are saying about her. About me. I've been going to church a lot to talk with Derek. He says everyone's been asking him about the meaning of the Miracle and that maybe the meaning is different for everyone. He said if I wanted to check into the Rehabilitation Center that was my own decision. Mark and Jason left two weeks ago. They didn't even say goodbye. I don't feel like I have any friends anymore in this town, including Sidney. She's so angry all the time. I told my mom I was thinking of checking myself in to the Center, and she said she would support me all the way. 

Sidney Miller

Video interviews, 2025

At first it was voluntary, sure. Isn't that always the way it starts? 

Christians have been sending their gay and lesbian children to places like the Center since before the turn of the century. Exodus, Evergreen, the so-called Love-in-Action. The Miracle didn't make those programs exist; they just became more popular. The Center was for all us misfits: homos, drug abusers, women who had abortions. Jane actually went voluntarily a few months before they forced me to go. They never let me see her, of course.

It wasn't a mean place, but let's face it: it was a prison. We couldn't leave. We had strict schedules: meals, therapy, exercise. I had very little privacy. It was the lowest I've ever felt. It wasn't just that I had lost everything I ever valued: my job, my freedom, my partner of fifteen years. It was the feeling that everyone in town, and maybe the whole country, thought I was sick. I started to believe it. I started to believe there was something wrong with me. I started to hate myself.

Jane Trundle
November 28, 2015

I've had a flu I ever since I came to the Center. I can't seem to shake it. I feel so awful. I wake up every night at 3 am thinking God has come to punish me for something and I'm terrified. I pray everyday for Sidney. I also pray for myself. God, why aren't You helping me change? 

Derek Rageneaux
December 24, 2015

Derek followed Josh Turell, head guard of Fox Hollow Rehabilitation Center, down the carpeted hallway. They passed a small library and Derek caught a glimpse of wooden tables, a battered but serviceable couch, a Christmas tree in the corner.

Josh stopped to adjust one of the Christmas light strings that had fallen off its hook above a window. "You remember when we first opened this place?" he said. 

Derek nodded. He knew that members of his congregation had worked hard converting the old factory into the Center.

Josh pulled out a bulb and examined it. "There are people in town who think we don't need this prison after all."

"It's not a prison," Derek said. He glanced at the lights on the walls, the doors decorated in artwork.  It was homey, actually. More like his college dorm, with its mismatched reading lamps, hand-sewn curtains, old-carpet smell. Nothing like a prison. 

Outside the barred window snow flurries danced in an uneven wind.

"Anyway," Josh said. He replaced the bulb. "There's someone who's been asking to see you. Jane Trundle. She made me promise to bring you by."

Derek sensed that Josh wanted to say more, but if he had learned anything from counseling people, it was when to keep quiet. He nodded and followed Josh down the hallway. 

They stopped in front of a door and Josh knocked before unlocking it. A sheet of paper taped to the door stated in careful cursive writing: Who needs Faith when you have Proof? 

Derek didn't recognize the woman who opened the door. Her shoulders were hunched, her gaze unfocused. She seemed to be staring at something over Derek's left shoulder.  

"Jane?" Derek said, trying to place her. These days so many souls clamored constantly for his attention that often all the faces and names blurred together. During the day he went from one meeting to another, and he wrote his sermons at night when he should have been sleeping.  

"You wanted to speak to me?" he said. 

"I wanted--" she turned from him, sat on the narrow bed. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what I wanted." She clasped her hands in her lap, her whole body apologizing for its existence. 

Then he remembered: Jane had come to speak with him several times before the Center opened. He remembered her as a vibrant, interesting woman. He had enjoyed discussing the meaning of Bible passages with her. She had wanted desperately to reconcile her love of God with her love for her partner Sidney. But this woman who stood in front of him was not the Jane he remembered.  

She put her face in her hands. "I feel so sick," she said. "It's a flu that won't go away." She started to cry.

Derek looked at Josh, who stood with his hands in the pockets of his makeshift uniform, his eyes on the snow falling outside the window. 

It had been the coldest winter in the history of Fox Hollow. Everyone spoke of a white Christmas, but Derek would have preferred clear skies. The cloud cover made the days even shorter. Only three-thirty in the afternoon and already the outside lamps were winking on.

Derek thought about the quote Jane had put on her door. 

It's not a flu, he realized. This was a woman who had lost her faith. 

He thought suddenly about his Bible study sessions of last summer which had so frequently veered off into discussions about God's Will and the importance of punishment for sinners. That's when the idea for the Center had surfaced and taken hold. He had often let the tide of conversation wash around him while his mind wandered, tuning in for fragments of conversation or when someone spoke directly to him. Now he wished he had paid more attention, had taken control of the conversation more often. Without faith, people were ruthless in their certainty. 

A quote from John, so popular in those discussions, came vividly back to him: "Our love must not be a thing of words and fine talk. It must be a thing of action and sincerity".

No, the Center was not a prison. But it was not a place of love and sincerity, either. 

Derek felt an unexpected hot shame sweep through him. 

Excerpt from New York Times OpEd: "Stop Talking Bad about the IAWR"
January 5, 2016

The International Association of World Religions has garnered an unfair share bad press lately. Granted, they've had their bickering and in-fighting, but let's look at what they've accomplished. They brokered a peace treaty between India and Pakistan, convinced the mountain fighters in Chile to give up their guns and come home, even pressured the United States into withdrawing some troops from the Middle East. Some people say that the world is just tired of war and starting to rethink their initial interpretation of the Miracle, but I think the IAWR doesn't get enough credit. The tide is indeed turning from war to peace, and the IAWR is playing a key role. 

From the Fox Hollow Daily, Front Page
January 14, 2016

Last night between three and four in the morning a group of the unreformed escaped from Fox Hollow Rehabilitation Center. The group comprised of three homosexuals, four adulterers, and two outspoken anti-life activists. The Center's manager, Sean Poole, expressed deep concern for the escapees. "Several of them were showing promise" he said. "We will pray for them every day." Poole also noted that none of the locks had been broken or the doors forced, indicating that one of the Center residents may have had access to a key. "We are understaffed," conceded Josh Turell, Head of Center Security. "But we will make every effort to ensure the security of the Center." Meanwhile, the Fox Hollow group Citizens For Fairness continues to demand the Center's closure. 

Fox Hollow Community Forum E-Board
February 2, 2016

10:16. I heard the military is going to be deployed to the states that fought for Prayer in School. The Center might be closed. Anyone else hear anything? - Josh Turell

11:01. Good news, neighbors -- My Robbie is coming home! His National Guard unit is coming home at the end of the month! - Martha Newberry

12:23. I wouldn't mind if the Center closed. I miss Joseph, even if he was a philandering b*st*rd, excuse the French, he was funny and he made the best pizza in town. - Nancy

14:13. I can't wait until the government fixes the darn potholes on the interstate and WalMart can get their trucks through again. - Mike F.

Derek Rageneaux
February 23, 2016

Derek set his cup of coffee on the windowsill. He rested his chin on his arms and watched tendrils of fog wisp upwards from the lawn below. A thin sheen of ice that had formed overnight on the window frame was melting, refracting the light into a dazzling rainbow. 

There had been another rash of miracles, though Derek thought he might have been the only one who noticed. They were not reported on any news station in any country, made no hysterical news headlines. But there hadn't been any bombings anywhere in the world in a week, and he knew that somewhere, a terrorist had taken off his jacket, carefully unwrapped the length of copper wire, and set the explosives aside. He saw the armies of the world falter and start to pull back. He heard people in town using words like "love" and "forgiveness" instead of "anger" and "punishment".

He saw that that the human spirit was resilient, and that the only true gift from God was self-determination. 

Sidney Miller
Video interviews, 2025

The eyes gave him away. I always thought Derek had expressive eyes. I could tell it was him, despite the hat and the ridiculously large turtleneck pulled up over his mouth and nose.  

I was scared when the guard woke me up, but then I noticed the group standing behind him: Derek and Cora and Irene, and some of the other prisoners. Derek started talking about how there was a place up north all ready for us. I had heard rumors, but I hadn’t dared hope. The guard brought us down a back stairwell, and got us outside without setting off any alarms. Derek led us to a waiting windowless van and we all got inside. I never saw him again. 

Why did he do it? I don’t know. Simple human decency, maybe. Or maybe God told him to. Maybe He did. 

Jane Trundle
March 1, 2016

Things are pretty much back to normal here. I got the house back. Someone even watered the plants while we were gone. I know it wasn't Sidney. When she escaped the Center she didn't come here. I would have known. I don't know where she went. The house is so empty now. God, I tried, I really did, but I can't stop loving her. And honestly, I don't know if that's so wrong.  

Derek Rageneaux
March 7, 2016

Derek bicycled down the oak-lined street, enjoying the feel of the warm afternoon air against his skin. Spring was his favorite season. It was the time of the year he felt God's joy most keenly expressed in the physical world: dogwoods draped in lush pink and white blossoms, the air alive with a busy insect buzz and steeped in the scent of fresh cut grass. 

He paused in front of Jane's house, hoping to see her outside, but the front porch was empty. She hadn't been to church since the Center was shut down. In fact, his congregation had diminished since he began speaking out against the deployment of troops to foreign countries, since he had backed the closing of the Center. He knew that many people from his former congregation were attending other churches in town. But that didn't bother him so much. 

Derek began to pedal away from Jane's house. He hoped someday Sidney would feel safe enough to come home. Perhaps then Jane would come to see him and they could continue their discussions of the meaning of the Miracle and faith and all the other mysteries that had engaged humanity throughout the ages. 

Why did You talk to us? Derek thought. And then: Why did You stop? But he knew the answer.

A lot could change from one spring to the next. A year was enough time for soldiers to march eagerly off, then hesitate, then finally abandon their wars. Enough time for a woman to break herself on the unforgiving edge of doctrine. Enough time for a philosopher to find within himself the strength of a soldier. 

A year was enough time to start the slow recovery from hearing God's voice.

Edited by Dave - Mar-05-2015 at 9:07am]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 09:03:53 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=77&PID=76&title=1st-a-question-of-faith-by-corie-ralston#76 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=76&PID=75&title=2nd-the-craven-by-edward-knight#75 Author: SFReader
Subject: 2nd - The Craven, by Edward Knight
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 9:02am

The Craven
by Edward Knight

"Coward!" 

Aristodemus ignored the taunt. The accusing citizen spat on his feet as he passed; the bronze sword at his side was no deterrent. Others glared at him as he worked his way out of Lacedaemon. At the city gates, a Spartan hoplite used his spear to block the way.

"Running away again?" the guard said. "I see you still have the device of a Citizen Soldier on your shield, the device of an officer at that. Give it to me."

"What?"

"Give me your shield. No coward can carry a Spartan shield." The hoplite turned the spear, its point inches from Aristodemus' breastplate. 

With a motion as smooth and swift as running water, Aristodemus drew his sword and clipped the head from the hoplite's spear. The hoplite started to draw his short sword, but thinking better of it he shoved it back into the sheath. 

"I won't do honor to a craven by crossing swords with him. Leave. You might carry the shield of Sparta, but you aren't a soldier of the state."

The sun was just rising as Aristodemus stepped through the East Gate. His eyes still burned, his vision blurred by the disease that brought him to this disgrace. Once outside the city, he turned the shield on his back to the south and walked north. Aristodemus didn't know what to do, but he knew who did. He had to ask the Oracle. He had to go to Delphi.

###
It took many days for Aristodemus to get to Delphi. The trek had been long and dry, and he spent the little silver he had for food at the few villages along the way. A heavy mist lay about the mountain as Aristodemus made his way to the top. The path to the Oracle was steep and rocky. At the apex, he came to a pair of stone pillars, an entrance to a stone courtyard. In the center was a dais with a stone seat at the top. Upon the seat sat the Oracle, hooded in dark robes.

"Why have you come?" she said in a caressing, promising voice. "Is it truth or wisdom you seek?"

Aristodemus had to think for a moment. "I seek truthful wisdom."

The oracle stirred. "A good answer--wisdom can't be false, and truth leads to wisdom. One can't exist without the other. Who are you?"

"Aristodemus, a Spartan."

"Ah, Aristodemus, the craven."

He lowered his eyes. 

"You were at Thermopylae weren't you, with Leonidas?"

He nodded.

"Three hundred Spartans were with Leonidas," she said. "They held the pass for many days against an army of two hundred thousand Persians. In the end, Leonidas and all that were with him fell beneath the power of the Persian sword. Did you know Leonidas came to me before the battle?"

Aristodemus looked up, surprise lingering in his swollen eyes.

"Leonidas asked me what must be done to save Greece from the Persians. I told him that a Spartan king must die if Greece is to have a chance to survive."

Understanding came to Aristodemus. There would have been no shame for Leonidas had he retreated from Thermopylae, but Leonidas was a king. Leonidas sacrificed himself and the men fighting with him to save Greece. 

"You survived," the Oracle said. "How is that? It's said that a Spartan will return from battle either carrying his shield victoriously or borne upon it as a corpse. You are neither victorious nor dead."

"The eve before the battle, a disease took my sight," Aristodemus said. "That night Leonidas ordered me to retreat to a small hut a good distance away from the pass. He said I could return when the fever broke and my eyes cleared. The next morning I heard the sound of sword on shield. The Persians had found a path through the mountains. They circled to the rear, trapping Leonidas in the pass. I called to my Helot for my sword and armor. My hair was braided for battle, and I was ready to die; but by the time my blind eyes found the pass, the fight was over. When I returned to Lacedaemon, I was labeled a coward."

"What do you wish from me?" the Oracle said.

"What am I to do?" he asked. "I can't live this way."

"You have a choice," the Oracle said. "It is always good to have a choice."

Even though Aristodemus could not see them, he could feel the Oracle's eyes bearing down. The weight was enormous, the stress intense. He had heard tales about the Oracle's pronouncements. She often spoke in riddles. Every word might have hidden meaning.

"Yes," the Oracle said, "a choice is a good thing to have. Sometimes the choosing is difficult." She stood, and the unseen glare from the shadowed hood intensified. "You may take the easy way. There is a tree just outside Lacedaemon. In the tree is tied a rope. There, you can end your suffering; you can die the craven."

Aristodemus felt a flush of anger rise in his face.

"Easy... it's the coward's way out. Even in the grave I will forever be called a coward."

"The second choice leads down a road that may bring greater dishonor."

"There is no greater dishonor for a Spartan than to die a coward."

"So be it, then. Here's what you must do. Seek out the soothsayer with three eyes. He will lead you to your doom or your redemption. You will find him on the road back to Lacedaemon. Beware the false consul." The Oracle raised her robed arms and with a flash of smoke disappeared, leaving the dais and the stone seat empty.

Aristodemus rubbed his sore eyes, believing them false.

###
Aristodemus got an early start in the morning. Some hours from Delphi, he saw a rider coming toward him on the road. Whoever it was came slowly, apparently in no hurry to get where he was going. As the rider drew near, he could see the mount wasn't a horse. It was a very old mule. 

"Good day to you," the rider said. "He threw a hand up to shield the sun. "Sol is in a joyous mood. It's especially hard on a man with only three eyes."

Aristodemus froze at the statement. Beneath the shadow of the man's hand he could see a patch covering one of the man's eyes.

"Seems you are in need of education," Aristodemus said. "I see one eye in your head."

"Ah, but I have two more leading me everywhere I go." He patted the mule. "Helen, here, sees all and tells no one."

"Three eyes!"

"That's the way I see it." The man laughed at his own joke. "Three eyes are better than two, I say."

"You are a soothsayer," Aristodemus said.

The man's expression turned pale. "Who told you that?"

"The Oracle said I would meet a three-eyed soothsayer on the road today. You are a soothsayer?"

"Some say that I am. Some say I'm a cracked vessel. Others say I'm a fraud." He climbed off the mule's back and stretched. "And what did the Oracle say I am to do with you?"

"She said you would be either my doom or my redemption."

"I'm not generally known for my redeeming qualities. Hmm, don't I know you? Seems I've seen you somewhere?" He studied Aristodemus. "You're the one they call a coward, the one who ran from where Leonidas fell."

"My name is Aristodemus," he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, none of that matters to me. I thought Leonidas a fool. It was like trying to stop a bull with a feather. He never had a chance"

"Leonidas did what he had to do."

"And, so did you. A smart man."

Aristodemus could not respond. 

"So, I'm to be your doom. You look like you might be able to use that sword—if you can manage the courage to draw it."

Aristodemus had the sword drawn before the rider finished the taunt. With the other hand, he dragged the man off the mule and shoved him into the ground. He held the blade to his throat.

"You'll lead me to my redemption," Aristodemus said.

"Now hold on, lad." He tried to push Aristodemus' sword away, but the rock hard arm didn't budge. "What do you want from me?"

"The Oracle said you would lead me to redemption. That's what I want. I want the people to know that I'm not a coward."

"If the Oracle said I would lead you, then who am I to argue. Let me up."

Aristodemus roughly yanked the seer to his feet. The man dusted his tunic and took hold of the mule's reins. 

"What's your name?" Aristodemus asked.

"Demaratus."

"Not the exiled prince?"

"I see bad news travels like dust in the wind. Yes, I was exiled, but I've returned. It seems my reputation needs a little redemption too." 

"Rumor has it you're in Sepias."

"Rumor is wrong."

"I didn't know you were a soothsayer, a seer."

"It's little known, but that's why Leonidas kept me so close, up until a few years ago. My... abilities... made me an excellent consul until they failed me. One time, only once, I read my visions incorrectly. The result was the death of one of Leonidas' brothers. That's why I was exiled. It's a hard king that exiles a man for one little mistake."

"Leonidas wasn't known for softness," Aristodemus said. "But, I loved the man. I should have died with him. But, the Fates didn't allow that."

"I've heard your story during my travels. They say you ran from battle."

"I've never run from anything, no man or no army. I was stricken with disease the eve before the battle. It took my sight. I couldn't see to fight. I tried. I tried to get to Leonidas, but I was too late."

"Hmm, it couldn't be that you lingered a bit on your way to the battle. Maybe you hung about the hut too long—maybe just long enough." Demaratus' features carried an oily grin as he made his accusation. 

"I got there as quickly as I could," Aristodemus said with a sneer. 

"I'm sure you did," Demaratus said doubtfully.

"Which way are you going?" Aristodemus asked.

"Why?"

"You're supposed to lead me. I just want to know which direction you intend to take me."

"I need to consult the inner eye. Give me a moment." Demaratus drew a small crystal from inside his tunic. It was hanging about his neck by a leather cord. He gazed into the crystal with his single eye for several minutes as the sun bore down on the two men and the mule. Finally, the seer came out of his trance. "We will go west, to Plataea."

"Why Plataea?"

"Because the crystal says so." That was all the answer Demaratus gave. He mounted the mule and turned south with Aristodemus following.

###
It was several days before they reached Plataea. When they got there they were surprised to find the city under siege by a massive Persian army. 

"What are we to do now? Aristodemus said.

"We must enter the city," said Demaratus.

"How? The city is surrounded."

"The crystal has shown me the way." Demaratus took the tack off Helen and slapped her on the rump.

"What about your other two eyes?" Aristodemus said.

"They know where to find me when I need them."

They circled the city at a safe distance and came upon a road that approached from the north. They hid in a ditch at the roadside and watched. Several times, they caught glimpses of Persian infantry. The army was massive, over one hundred thousand men. But they were still far outside the siege lines. Demaratus smiled when he saw a cart pulled by two donkeys coming down the road. He dropped deeper into the ditch and Aristodemus mimicked his actions. When the cart eased by Demaratus scrambled out of the ditch, drawing a long knife from his belt as he did so. Aristodemus drew his sword. Demaratus jumped up on the side of the cart and slashed the driver's throat. He grabbed the reins and brought the cart to a stop. Looking in the cart behind the driver's seat, he saw that the cart was loaded with smoked mutton shanks, supplies for the Persians. Demaratus took the driver's tunic. Putting it on, he threw the driver out into the road.

"Kick his body into the ditch and hide beneath the meat."

Aristodemus did as he was told and the cart began to slowly make its way toward the Persians. Before long he heard Demaratus shouting, but he was shouting in Persian—something about supplies to go to the front. The cart kept moving, and as it did so night came. Finally the cart came to a stop.

"Get out," Demaratus whispered.

Aristodemus carefully pushed the mutton aside and climbed out of the cart, withdrawing his shield from the pile as well.

"We're right at the Persian front," Demaratus said. "We should be able to slip right up to the city's wall."

"But how will we get in?"

"I know of a secret gate. Follow me."

Demaratus took the inner eye from inside his tunic. He held it up and blew on the crystal three times. Each time the crystal glowed bright blue in the darkness. A torch atop the city wall waved three times in answer and Demaratus led them to a small gate that was well concealed behind a stunted fig tree. He knocked—a short staccato series of hard taps.

"Who is it?" a voiced called through the door.

"Spartans in need of a bed and a fire," Demaratus answered. 

The man on the other side of the door cracked open a small flap cut into the door to peek at the two men.

"I know you, Demaratus, but what about this other fellow?"

"Would anybody other than a Spartan carry a shield like this?"

Aristodemus held up his bronze plated shield for inspection, its device glowing in the light seeping through the rough cut peephole. A few moments later the door swung open.

"Thank the gods," the guard said. "You're an officer." He was an elderly man, but still strong. He had a battle hardened look that Aristodemus recognized right away. "We have men here, almost two thousand. Nearly eight hundred are Spartan hoplite, but we have no officers. The last one died this morning while turning back a Persian raid. The men need a leader."

"I've never led an army," Aristodemus said.

"Don't tell the men that," the old guard warned. "Look, times are desperate. These men need a leader, a man that inspires courage. I've been a soldier for a long time—too long. I know what is happening here. Fear is taking hold. Without an officer to bring this lot together we won't last past the next raid. You have commanded men in the past?"

"Yes, smaller groups, but never an army." 

"You are the highest ranking officer here. Duty and Spartan law demands that you take charge."

Aristodemus thought for a moment and then nodded solemnly. He had seen the Persian army outside, knew that they greatly outnumbered the army inside Plataea. As he followed the old warrior through the city streets he tried to remember all that Leonidas had taught him. 

"I will need a veteran captain, someone who knows the situation and the men. You can be a lot of help to me," Aristodemus said. "What's your name?"

"Europias," the old man said. 

"That would be Captain Europias," Aristodemus said.

The man grinned in appreciation and rapped his breastplate with a closed fist in salute.

"What's the situation here?" Demaratus asked. 

"The Persians came three days ago," Europias said. "Our scouts saw their movements from the hills and came to warn the Citizens. Everyone came inside the city walls. There was little time to prepare. The Persians stopped all supplies from coming in. In another three days, we'll be out of food. We must break the siege or surrender. We have a few refugees here from Lacedaemon—"

"Lacedaemon?" Aristodemus said.

"According to the refugees, Xerxes' army went there first. He used the same siege tactics he's trying here. He sent in a consul under a banner of truce into the city. Xerxes offered quarter to the Citizens if they agreed to be branded with his mark, making all the people his servants. They refused and Xerxes sacked the city three times. Not many survived. 

"The most experienced soldiers are meeting now in the war-room, but they lack tactical knowledge. Besides the eight hundred Spartans, the rest of the men are made up of Thebans and Athenians."

"It's funny that a common enemy can force a brood like that to come together. A few years ago they would have plotted to kill each other," Demaratus said. 

"They aren't exactly friendly with each other now," the old guard said.

"What makes you think that they will follow my orders?" Aristodemus asked.

"About two months ago, the Hellenic Council sent word that they were sending a great general, a stratego to take command of the force here at Plataea. They never named the man, but when the others see you, they will gladly assume you're him. I don't see any reason to let them think differently."

"There might be someone there who could recognize you," Demaratus said, giving Aristodemus a knowing look. "Somebody will certainly know your name if it is given."

"Oh, are you well known?" Europias said.

"Possibly, but not as a great general."

"Just announce him as Hawk," Demaratus suggested. "There are many Spartan captains who use pseudonyms in battle. It helps to protect their families from persecution should they fail. Now, what can we do to disguise his appearance?"

"Let's stop by the armory on our way to the war-room," the old guard said.

###
"What is it?" a soldier yelled over the din in the war-room.

The door opened, and Europias entered.

"I brought the general you've been waiting for."

A man stepped through the door. He was a large Spartan in full battle armor, a panoply of silver etched greaves and a breastplate to match. His ornate helm had plates that almost completely concealed his face.

"I am Hawk," the man said.

None of the men questioned Aristodemus' authority. They seemed relieved that the burden of command now belonged to someone else. The hoplites were especially glad to see the Hellenic Council had sent a Spartan to lead them. 

"Here's what we are going to do," Aristodemus said. 

Some hours later, Hawk stood before his army as they crammed into the city courtyard.

"Tomorrow, we will meet the enemy, the same enemy that struck down Leonidas at Thermopylae—Leonidas, the man who gave all so that Greece might live a few more days. With three hundred men, Leonidas cut the Persians to half their numbers. With two thousand, we will send them running." 

Cheers erupted from the men.

"Tomorrow we fight to honor Leonidas," Hawk yelled. "Tomorrow we fight to free all Hellenic States from the grip of Persian conquest."

That night, Aristodemus didn't sleep. Thoughts of the upcoming battle wouldn't allow it. There was also another concern. Demaratus was missing. The soothsayer was nowhere in the city.

###
The next morning the city gates opened and the army inside came out to meet the Persians. The enemy broke camp hurriedly, surprised to see the Hellenic force going on the offensive. The Persians quickly formed ranks and began a slow march toward the smaller Hellenic force. They seemed almost lackadaisical in their approach, seeming confident in their superior numbers. 

Quickly, the Theban and Athenian soldiers rushed the Persian lines. The attack was such a surprise that the Persian advance came to a halt for a short time. But, the attack fell back almost as quickly as it started. The Thebans and Athenians were in a running retreat, and the Persians broke ranks and charged in a frenzied attempt to run them down. As the Persians closed, the Thebans broke left and the Athenians broke right. The Persians ran head long into the Spartan phalanx. 

Row upon row of overlapping Spartan shields made an impenetrable mass with nothing exposed but the tips of hoplite spears. On Aristodemus' command, the hoplites advanced methodically, pressing the phalanx into the oncoming Persians. 

Aristodemus positioned himself on the front right corner of the formation, the most vulnerable spot. There, he fought like a madman, a man determined to display his courage. 

The battle lasted hours. Once joined by the Thebans and Athenians, the Spartan phalanx was unstoppable. Persian upon Persian died upon Hellenic spear and sword. The front lines of the formation were a gory mass, and the men in the rear pressed forward with their shields in the backs of the men ahead of them. If a Spartan fell, the man behind him stepped up to take his place. Finally, the Persians broke and ran. Aristodemus reined in his men as they gave chase. The battle was over. 

Xerxes' tent stood on a hill just to the north of the battlefield, a white banner of surrender flying from a standard just outside. Aristodemus chose Europias and a small contingent to attend him. They stepped into the tent with spears leveled. Xerxes sat in a chair behind a small portable desk. Only one attendant in a dark hooded robe stayed to attend him. All the rest had fled before the Hellenic forces. Xerxes didn't stand when the men entered, but he leaned back in the chair and studied the man in ornate armor.

"I suppose you wish to discuss terms," Xerxes said.

"Terms?" Aristodemus said.

Xerxes laughed. "I was told you were a coward, a craven."

Europias leveled his spear at Xerxes' chest. "Hawk is no coward."

"Hawk is it?" Xerxes laughed again. "He has been known to fly. Isn't that right, Aristodemus?"

Aristodemus removed his helm as the men around him whispered words like coward, craven, and Thermopylae.

"I'm no coward," Aristodemus said. "Blindness kept me from the battle at Theropylae, but I was not blind today. Many Persian soldiers will never see home again because of my spear and sword."

"You are a wonder," Xerxes said. "How many men did you command?"

"Two thousand," Aristodemus said.

"Well," Xerxes turned to the robed figure at his side, "at least you got that right."

"I warned you before, Xerxes, that sometimes the inner eye can mislead." The man pulled back his hood to reveal a face with a single eye.

"Demaratus!" Aristodemus stepped back in shock.

"You've made a liar out of me, Aristodemus." Demaratus moved to stand beside Xerxes. "I told Xerxes that there was no way he could lose to such a small force, especially being commanded by a craven."

"Traitor! You've been consulting against your own people."

"His consultation has been flawless, until today," Xerxes said. "He was especially useful when we came through the pass at Thermopylae. The inner eye was working fine when it suggested that hidden mountain trail, allowing us to trap Leonidas."

"You helped him against Leonidas?"

"Yes, I helped him," Demaratus sneered. "Leonidas exiled me. For one missed sighting, one small mistake."

"It seems that Leonidas and I have something in common," Xerxes said. "He lost a brother because of your mistake, and I lost a war. I think you'll find that Leonidas was much more forgiving than I am." 

Xerxes pulled a dagger from beneath his tunic and thrust it into Demaratus abdomen. With a practiced twist and upward shove he finished the killing stroke. Demaratus' eyes glazed and he collapsed to the dirt floor.

"You wanted to discuss terms," Xerxes said without the least bit of remorse for the deed.

"No," Aristodemus said, "there will be no discussion. My terms are unconditional."

###
Aristodemus returned to Plataea at the front of the columns of men he commanded. He returned carrying his shield victoriously.

Edited by Dave - Mar-05-2015 at 9:07am]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 09:02:49 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=76&PID=75&title=2nd-the-craven-by-edward-knight#75 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=75&PID=74&title=3rd-sixteen-pieces-at-a-time-by-jack-mangan#74 Author: SFReader
Subject: 3rd - Sixteen Pieces at a Time, by Jack Mangan
Posted: Mar-05-2015 at 9:01am

Sixteen Pieces at a Time
by Jack Mangan


"What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more."
- Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene IV

This world is subject to my will. Power, money, sex; all of the people in it are mine for the taking. I have no use for such things, however; I only wish to serve my master. The Turk.

I am nothing. 

I know nothing of my birth, nor of my master's. I know not how he became bridged across dimensions, nor how I became stuck in this one. None of these things matter. My existence is of little importance; my identity irrelevant; it's only the tale I tell to which you must attend... 

Jonas held her in his hand, caressing her elegant black contours with his fingertips. After a few seconds' hesitation, he slid her across the board, toppling the white piece with a faint -tick-. He held onto the black Queen another few seconds, then let go, the fallen Bishop rolling at her feet.

"Your move," he said, at two A.M., in Washington Square Park, in autumn. 

"Interesting decision," said Turk. "You know, you can learn everything you need to know about a person by watching them play chess. The mind's link to this simple board and its pieces runs deeper than you realize. If we continue to play, I could strip you of your entire being, sixteen pieces at a time." 

And so the extraction began. 

The Turk and I had roamed Europe, Asia, and the Americas for centuries, seeking out lives for him to devour. It was only a few decades ago that he became rooted to this place, this park. His newfound immobility matters little, though, since his lair is nestled amidst the richest source of lives on the planet. It also allows me to serve my master better. I am not confined as he is, therefore, I can search the city, utilize my sensitivities to find and lure the essence-richest beings to the park. Along the way, I convince them of their desire to play a game of chess against the Turk, to unwittingly serve up their minds for his conquest and consumption.

I'd discovered Jonas in a Greenwich Village bar, at an open jazz jam. His piano playing shone with such vibrancy, such vigor, that I nearly began to salivate for my master to taste him. The other musicians played their parts adequately or better, but the entire tone of the music changed, seemed to awaken, when the focus circled back to Jonas. His improvisations overflowed with life, with striking creativity. I had the sense that he was competing against his musical partners, so that to all who observed, there would be no question as to who was the best on the stage. 

He opened his mind to me through his playing; his childhood, his memories, his insecurities, his desires...  I knew I'd found my man.

Back to the park.

"You see, the game of chess has endured through the ages because of its deep-rooted connection to the human psyche," said the Turk. "Everyone has inherent personal, emotional associations with the pieces when they look at the chess board; eight minor feelings for the pawns, eight more significant slices of mind for the Rooks, Knights, Bishops, King and Queen. These secret values and thoughts are exposed by the way a person plays the game." He looked for a second at the Bishop that Jonas had just toppled, then slid it off the board.

"Fascinating. Will you take your turn now, please?"

"I have nothing much in this world. I am emptiness... Very good at chess, but not a master. What I am, Jonas, is a master of associations. I can see the links you have to every piece on this board. Hell, I know you so well now, just from watching your chess game, that I can create the associations for you." My master then jumped his white Knight out to the center of the board. "Check."

"sh*t, I didn't even see that," Jonas said. I was sitting on the low concrete wall at a slight distance, but I could still read the disappointment on his face. The two of them exchanged a few more moves, but Turk's Knight had hopelessly compromised Jonas's strategy. My master picked his defenses apart with ruthless efficiency, claiming valuable pieces with each turn. 

Finally, he halted Jonas's next move by catching his hand just above the board. "My friend, I've lost only my King's Bishop and two pawns. You're down to eight pieces left on the entire board. Let's flip things around; you can play white and I'll finish out with the remaining black pieces. Here, I'll even grant you the Bishop back." He let go of Jonas's hand and replaced the Bishop in the unoccupied space where it had been taken.

Jonas looked skeptical. "For what stakes?"

My master grinned broadly. "I'll wager a hundred dollars against your piano-playing ability."

"What?" 

"Yes, if you win as white, with the board drastically in your favor, then you get one hundred dollars. If I still manage to win, using only your few remaining pieces, then you give up your ability to play piano – to me."

Jonas laughed. "This is some kind of scam."

"It would certainly appear to be, wouldn't it? But I assure you, there's no catch. I'll even let you hold the money until the end of the game."

Recognizing my cue, I withdrew a wrinkled hundred-dollar bill from my coat pocket and laid it on the chess board in front of Jonas. He furrowed his brow as he picked up the note and examined it, but then pocketed it. "OK, you're on. A hundred bucks." 

"Versus your gift for the piano, yes," said the Turk, and slowly began to rotate the board. 

I couldn't help but to smirk, watching all of the color drain from Jonas's face. 

As the board revolved, the eight major white pieces changed form into eight pale fingers. The pawns hadn't altered appearance, only the white Rooks, Knights, Bishops and royals. The fingers stood crookedly upright in their spaces, each bent slightly at their knuckles. Jonas looked in horror at his hands to see only the two palms, with the thumbs branching off from the sides. There were eight empty, bloodless spaces where his fingers had been only a moment before. 

He stood up quickly, his face a mask of revulsion, his chair toppling over backwards behind him. All of the park's dealers, chess hustlers, and other various pedestrians and inhabitants paused to look in his direction. A strangled cry emitted from his throat, watching my master spin the board into place on the table. He blinked to see the white Rooks, Knights, Bishops, and royals resting in their squares, returned to their proper wooden forms. Jonas held his hands before his frightened eyes to see his fingers intact again and in their proper places. The hallucination had passed. 

My master moved a black pawn. "It's your turn."

But Jonas remained standing. "There's something going on here!" 

My master looked in my direction; his unspoken order was clearly understood. I walked over and picked up the tumbled metal chair, using my subtle power to encourage Jonas to sit down and continue his game. 

"Everything's fine, just fine," I said, as the man returned to his seat at the table. The attentions of the rest of the park's dwellers had already turned back to their own affairs. Jonas settled uneasily into the chair again. The universe folded back down to encompass no more than the tabletop, with only its birdsh*t stains and the chessboard on top of it. 

My master won the game soundly, claiming every last white piece before securing checkmate. Jonas threw the crumpled hundred-dollars back on the table, loudly accused my master of some unseen deception, and stormed away in disgust.

I saw him the following evening at the open jazz jam, struggling miserably, utterly unable to play even the simplest melodies on the keyboard. I'd have pitied him, if I were capable. Apparently, Jonas had doubted the legitimacy of the previous night's chess wager. He seemed convinced now.

I watched him retreat from the stage following an embarrassing rendition of "Freddie Freeloader"; his demeanor exuding his deliciously ripe humanity. He sank into a U-shaped booth, into the comforts of a dark, attractive woman. I moved a few steps closer to absorb the emotions, poured out for this woman to soak up. Her residual vulnerabilities held their own brand of fascination; she was in no way attached to the ring on his finger, she was addicted to pills, she was filled with terror and awe of the city around her -- but I pushed her emanations aside. My focus here was solely on Jonas. 

I'd edged slightly too close; he glanced up from the pillow between her shoulder and bosom and spotted me watching from across the room. He was on his feet in an instant; I moved quickly for the door.

He caught up to me at the place I intended; the street corner just south of the jazz club. 

"What the did you and your friend do to me?" he demanded loudly, grabbing my coat by the lapels. "Huh? What are you guys, hypnotists or something? Why can't I play piano anymore?"   

"That was the bet, sir," I said, prying his fingers away and stepping back. A flatfoot policeman strolled in our direction, but I willed his attention elsewhere. "I'm certain the Turk will grant an opportunity for you to win your talent back."

"Yeah? What would I have to ante up in that game? My liver?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Let's go to the park, you can discuss it with him." 

"I'm not playing any more games with you guys. I just want my music back." His new-found caution had built a slight resistance to my will, but I could feel his desire undermining his own defenses. He'd begun to truly feel the gaping emptiness of the loss of his craft.

The discussion continued like this as we walked along, until we'd traversed the six blocks to the street surrounding the park. I felt relieved to be close to my center again, to see my master sitting there in his usual spot, behind the concrete table, with the chess board set up and ready for a game. 

Jonas saw him too; he turned his back on me and walked directly up to the table.

"Look man, I don't know what you did... but... I'm not rich, you know, but I can give you three hundred; it's all I can manage. I just want my blues back."

Turk smiled up at him, "I did so enjoy your playing, Jonas. Elements of McCoy Tyner and Oscar Peterson, with a trace of Elton John pop sensibility thrown in. So very rich, it's admirable how much of yourself you put into your music. It's been many years since I've experienced anything so delightful."

Jonas gritted his teeth. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"How about another game of chess? You can be white and go first. Each black piece will represent one sixteenth of what remains of your musicianship."

"And what do I put up as collateral?"

"Your mind overflows with vibrant elements, Jonas; powerful, vivid, living pieces. Most of your species can't summon so much ardor for even one thing; but you seem to find passion for nearly all of the objects scattered across your personal landscape," Turk grinned. "My servant has truly found a gem in you, friend; you're rich in quantity and quality. I have become imprisoned here at this park; I see in you the key to restore my liberty."  

For the first time, I saw fear in Jonas's eyes. "My god, you're the devil."

My master laughed sharply. "No, I'm the Turk. Now sit down." He brushed his fingertips lightly across the tops of the arrayed white pieces; a few wobbled but all remained standing. "Let's play chess. See for yourself which elements I hope to win from you this time."

I could see all of the conflicting emotions swirling in the man; his better judgment was telling him to just walk away, to take piano lessons and slowly rebuild his talent. But in his indecisive state, he glanced at me. 

That was his downfall.  

"All right, one more game, Turk," he said, frightened but shoring up his confidence. "I won't make any stupid mistakes this time."

My master merely nodded, and gestured for Jonas to begin. 

Jonas took hold of the King's Knight pawn, prepared to slide it forward. 

But as soon as his fingers contacted the polished wooden bulb atop the piece, I saw the concentration wash from his face. His eyes were suddenly distant and thoughtful, elsewhere, overcome by the sudden unexpected distraction in his mind. 

"Pawns are nuances, usually random memories. It's the back row pieces that will have the more solid, immediate connections," Turk said. "That pawn in your hand there... That's your stored recollections of your grandparents' house as a child. The scent of pork chops frying, mingled with the sound of your grandfather humming softly to himself, news anchors speaking on television. And oh yes – the taste of the hard candies they kept in the glass bowl on their coffee table."

He looked from my master to me, then back to the board, in speechless wonder. He touched each of the other pawns, summoning memories of his honeymoon at Disney World, the recalled taste of a stale pretzel eaten on the Staten Island ferry when he was 10, the unsuccessful struggle to withhold tears at his father's wake, the sting in his tiny hands from hitting a baseball with an aluminum bat, the thrill of watching that ball soar over the outfielders' heads, the dread and discomfort of hiding in bushes as a teenager, stoned and reeking of marijuana smoke, watching the police officers walk slowly past, the elation of his brand new Huffy bicycle, of riding it around that first day, of miscalculating its weight during a curb-jump, of the vicious scrapes on his elbows and knees, and... 

"Ah, the loss of your virginity, with Sandy Zeliznak in her brother's waterbed," My master said as Jonas touched the King's pawn. "The mingled scents, the awkwardness, the ecstasy, the sense of pride, the horror movie playing unnoticed on the room's television; now there's a rich memory. I'm looking forward to it." 

Jonas barely seemed to notice Turk's words as he let go of the pawns and traced his fingers across the back row pieces. Here, he found deeper connections. Here, the fear showed more prominently in his eyes. His geographical roots and familiarity with New York embedded in the Rooks, his aptitude for computer games and programming languages locked into the Queen's Knight and Bishop. The King's Knight contained his bond with his fellow musicians and his circle of friends; the King's Bishop held his connection to his music library, the thousand-or-so records, tapes, and CDs occupying one entire bedroom is his apartment.

His hand hesitated over the Queen; I could sense his reluctance to learn what she held.

"The white Queen is your connection to your ex-wife, Jonas, whose ring you still wear, for some reason. I'd be doing you a favor by capturing her."

"I can't risk all of these things," Jonas said softly. 

"The game is begun. You already have," my master said. "If you walk away, then you forfeit everything. Your only hope is to beat me and keep it all." 

"You bastard," Jonas said. He glanced at the white King, then set his jaw and slid a pawn forward. "Then I will win this game. That's all there is to it."

"We'll see," said the Turk, as he pushed a black pawn. 

Jonas did indeed claim many black pieces, recovering a good deal of what little of his musical talent that my master had not already consumed. 

But. He eventually lost all of the white pieces and the game, checkmated in a trap between the black Queen, a Knight, and the board's edge. 

"That was a very close match, Jonas. You're quite a formidable chess opponent. Shall we play again?"

Jonas made no reply. He shed his stunned expression to glare hatefully at my master, who'd already begun setting the pieces back in their starting positions.  

"If you win, you get everything back that I've won from you. All those memories and connections will be yours again. If I win again, then I claim sixteen more pieces of you."

"Damn you to hell," Jonas hissed, pushing a central pawn forward, shrugging off the memory it raised of his high school graduation. 

In that game he managed to regain three of his mind's fragments, but lost his memories of his Grand Canyon vacation, of dancing close to Stephanie Byrnes at the eighth grade dance, of the progressive rock band he'd formed with his college friends, of winning two thousand dollars during his last Atlantic City weekend, of accidentally discovering the note from his wife's lover in her jewelry box... My master also extracted Jonas's back row connections to his apartment, to the house he grew up in, his favorite foods, his all-time favorite movies, a smattering of his political opinions, along with a few other unique personality traits... 

"I guess you're not much of a Knicks fan anymore," the Turk said. 

" you!" Jonas shouted and stood up, looking distraught and confused. He abruptly flung the board off the concrete table, scattering all of its pieces across the park's paved walkways. I flinched, but the Turk and his grin both remained fixed. The man turned and stalked away, ignoring the stares of the park's other dwellers. 

Neither my master nor I made a move to stop him; we both sat in our places and watched, watched as he approached the park's perimeter. Watched as his footsteps grew heavier and heavier, until he'd fought his way to the curb, and was unable to step forward on to the street. Watched as his shoulders drooped, his livid energy draining, weighed upon by dawning despondency, his belated realization of the trap that had snared him. The same invisible cage that had kept the Turk now held him as well.

"Master..." I whispered.

"Not yet," he replied. "Almost."

After a few minutes on the curb, Jonas turned and walked back to the chess table, which had already been restored and set for a new game. 

He didn't sit down. 

"Look, you've taken enough of me. I don't know what you're about, how you did all this... I just want to leave now. Please."

I stood up, ready to persuade his intent, but my master stopped me with a gesture. I scanned Jonas's mind; his fears and confusion had indeed become too strong a barrier, even for my influence. 

"I can't leave this park yet, why should you?" Turk said. 

"Look! Enough, goddamn it. I'll, I'll make a scene. I'll get the police in here to handle it. Just undo your voodoo spell or whatever and let me go."

"I don't think you'd want to cause a disturbance here; those gentlemen probably wouldn't appreciate the police attention interrupting their business," my master said, nodding in the direction of a few Rastafarian drug dealers. "One more game of chess is all I think I'll require of you. Then we'll be finished."  

"No way, goddamn it. I obviously can't beat you, and you've already stripped me of enough of my life," Jonas said. "What more do you need? My soul?"

"I know nothing about any ‘soul', my friend. If you do possess such a thing, I have no use for it," my master replied. "You see, I've gained more from you than just the elements contained in those white pieces. With each checkmate, you and I exchanged core chunks of our selves, from the deepest recesses of our beings. One more checkmate, and I think I'll have acquired enough of your former identity to fool the barrier, to exit this park."

"And then I'd be the one trapped here forever?" Jonas looked incredulous. "Now why would I ever play another game of chess with you, and risk being imprisoned eternally in Washington Square Park?"

"Well, you're mortal, so nothing's eternal for you. You'd eventually die here. But your real motive to play should be your lack of choice in the matter. I've taken enough of your core being that you've already begun to fade. The bits of myself that I've transferred back will never sustain you. Within two days, your body, your very existence will have disappeared completely. Remembrances of you will fade in the minds of all who ever knew you - except me, of course. Your only hope for survival is to beat me at chess and win your identity back. I'll once again put up everything I've won so far as collateral."

Jonas sat in the chair, but still had not conceded to another match. "I don't trust you to pay up properly, even if I do manage to beat you."

My master shrugged. "Your trust is entirely up to you. But I'm eager to play another game; I've associated some exciting pieces of you into the white back row. That King's Bishop, it represents your love of gambling. And the Queen...." he grinned devilishly. "Go ahead and touch it, see what she represents."

Jonas couldn't resist. I think his strong curiosity was embedded in one of the Rooks. He moved hesitantly, then gripped the Queen's wooden crown.

"No," he whispered.

"Yes, your connection to that waitress at the jazz bar," said the Turk. "My servant informs me that she's quite rich in human components as well. I intend to pay her a visit, as soon as I'm free from this place."

"You bastard!" Jonas lunged across the table, led by his fists, knocking down pieces on both sides of the board. His punch landed solidly, passing though my master's trans-corporeal form, striking hard into the chair's metal back. He stood, shaking his knuckles and looking angrily into my master's placid face. 

"The game is on now, Jonas. You've touched your pieces. There is only checkmate or forfeit remaining."

Jonas's anger wilted, leaving only the growing horror in its place. He sat, and looked at the scattered pieces he'd knocked down. He heaved a deep sigh, then restored them to their proper starting positions, learning their associations as he touched them. 

I observed from my usual adjacent position. There was something troubling in his demeanor as he replaced the last black pawn, as if a flicker of hope had entered his mind. I scrutinized him closely, watching for further signs.

He made his opening move.

The game progressed uneventfully for a few turns. Jonas's strategy this time seemed more aggressive than in previous games, almost reckless. 

It soon came time for a trade of white pawn for black Knight in the center, which would set up a trade of a white Bishop for a black pawn. My master initiated the sequence by claiming the white pawn. He looked up suddenly, though, after the piece's conquest. My disquiet was now confirmed; something was wrong. 

Jonas quickly slid his Bishop and took out the Knight. He picked it up and held the black horse-head shape before his smiling face.  

"Fascinating. Apparently, the largest pieces of our beings are replicated even in our smaller chunks. I seem to have picked up a small ‘mastery of associations' from the fragments of your soul that you traded me during your checkmates, Turk," He stuck the black Knight into his shirt pocket. "And oops, your ability to create associations is gone entirely now, embedded in this little black horsey."

"You-" my master said. 

"That's right. I realized I could load that into your pieces as I was putting them back into place. I realized that you'd created the associations for my pieces in the other games by touching them. It's a pretty simple process, actually."

I was suddenly overcome with dread. I stood up and took a few steps toward them, determined to exert my will, to prevent the man from taking this any further. 

"You sit down," he said, pointing at me. "I might not be able to touch him, but I'll knock your ass out."

I tried to telepathically command him to forfeit, but still couldn't touch his mind. It was now too closely mingled with that of the Turk's. I sat back down on the concrete wall. Satisfied, he looked back to my master. "So what do you say? Let's play some more chess." 

They went through a few more rounds, neither side saying a word. My master was still the superior player; while losing only one more pawn, he claimed three more white pieces. But, they were empty tokens of wood now, utterly devoid of any slices of Jonas's being. He'd removed all of their associations. 

A few turns later, my master leapt his Knight out to the center of the board. "Check," he said quietly. I noted that Jonas had a few choices. If he used his pawn to take that Knight, then he'd leave his defenses open for a nasty exploit from the black Queen, giving her the run of his pieces on the left side of the board. The safer option was to move his King forward diagonally, out of check.

The man laughed and knocked the black Knight down with his pawn. He snatched it up and dropped it into his shirt pocket, where it clicked against the other black horse. 

"That Knight," he said, "Was your mastery of the game of chess, Turk. This one should play out very differently now." 

The helpless realization dawned immediately for me and for my master. 

"No... no!" hissed the Turk. "This isn't fair. I won't let this go any further."

"What, so you forfeit then?" Jonas grinned. 

Scowling, my master attacked with the black Queen. But sure enough, he soon made an amateur error and lost her. 

"Oh, look at that, my pain over my cheating ex-wife is back," Jonas said. "Yes, I could have left that with you." 

Employing my master's tremendous skill, Jonas swept across the board, reclaiming all of the black pieces, imbued with the lost elements of his life. At the end, he deliberately postponed victory in order to hunt down the black Bishop, my master's only remaining piece, other than the King. He finally claimed it, heaving a great sigh of relief.

Checkmate soon followed. 

"Good game," Jonas said, his shirt pocket bulging comically with the black back row pieces that he'd claimed. He stood and took a step toward me, but I darted away in the other direction. After a few moments, I turned to see that he'd already given up the pursuit. 

Jonas stood staring down at the top of the Turk's head, but my master would not look up. His eyes remained fixed on the square grid of the chess board. After a few moments, Jonas turned and walked to the park's border. 

He stepped off of the curb without looking back.
. . .
Since his defeat at Jonas's hands, my master, and I in turn, have grown very frail. Only the weakest minds will now respond to my commands. The Turk is listless and despondent, feeding primarily on the meager existences of junkies and homeless whom we can lure into the park. They quickly fade, and my master's hunger remains unsatisfied.  

We do regain our strength, though. Slowly but surely, through each meager life he drains, our power returns. I'll eventually be strong enough to go out in search of more robust minds again. And in the meantime, my master continues to study chess books and to play against simpleton opponents. His game will reach mastery level again. We have an infinite supply of time to regenerate what we've lost. 

The Turk will eventually be fully restored; he'll eventually be freed of this square park prison. And we're more cautious now; we're taking steps to ensure that no mortal will ever weaken us so badly again. We won't make any stupid mistakes this time. 

Jonas has gone on to garner some renown as an international chess master. If he's still alive when my master finally achieves his freedom, then we'll find him.  

There will be a rematch.

Edited by Dave - Mar-05-2015 at 9:08am]]> Thu, 05 Mar 2015 09:01:47 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=75&PID=74&title=3rd-sixteen-pieces-at-a-time-by-jack-mangan#74