An Old Man and a Duck

The duck stared at the old man menacingly. The old man stared back, unphased. "It's not my fault you blundered your queen," the old man said. "No need to get all hissy."

"Quack!" went the duck.

"Well, you took your beak off the piece. You know the rules. As soon as you let go of a piece, no take backs."

"Quack."

"Don't be a sore loser."

The duck hopped off the stone table and waddled toward the main park pond. The old man smiled and shook his head. "I'll see you tomorrow!" Slowly, the old man collected the pieces. He couldn't remember exactly when the duck had started showing up. It must have been some time after his daughter left for Italy, and the old man had felt particularly low. Low enough to start playing chess with a duck.

The duck always came back. At noon sharp the duck waited for the old man on the same concrete chess table. The duck flapped his wings and quacked belligerently at any who dared approach, marking himself king of the concrete. The old man always brought some cracked corn as payment for saving the table. The duck preferred bread, but ever since the old man discovered that bread caused health problems, he refused to bring it. The duck initially sulked and pouted but soon discovered that he did feel better eating cracked corn than he had bread. He never told the old man. Every day they played chess, the duck delicately gripping the pieces with his beak and shuffling them to the desired spot.

The duck was bad at chess. After all, he was a duck. He had lost in only four moves the very first game he had ever played with the old man, to something the old man called "Scholar's Mate." This angered the duck so much that he returned the next day. He had only started playing chess with the old man because the man had seemed lonely, because the young woman who had usually played with him (and often had food) hadn't been there. But to spit in the face of friendship and beat a poor helpless duck so easily? Infuriating.

The old man didn't question the fact that he could understand the duck or that the duck could play chess. He had been around long enough to detect the subtle but pervasive magic of the park. The old man had noticed the telltale signs - the palpable feeling in the air, the way the light shifted near a pond deep in the park, and the fact that some animals spoke English. The old man really hoped he wasn't going insane. He had also seen, despite the duck's best efforts, the duck perching in a nearby tree or bush rapt with attention, watching the old man play chess with his daughter. The old man suspected that the duck was lonely too.

The duck got better at chess. Noticeably better. One day, the duck won.

"QUACK!"

"Yes, yes, you won," the old man replied. "But I've still beaten you more times than I can count, so don't let it get to your big green head."

"Quack."

The old man scoffed. "You really think you can win again?" Steadily the old man set up the pieces and steeled his nerves. It was not like him to blunder a piece. The duck had baited him into taking a pawn, only to fork his king and queen with a knight. Well played for a duck, but for an ex-grandmaster to miss that? Ridiculous. He shook his head and ran his hand through his thinning hair. His daughter would think him crazy if she discovered that he played chess with a duck, but she was busy playing chess in Italy. The benefits of being a chess prodigy born of a chess prodigy. The old man remembered his chess grandmaster days. He smiled. The duck reminded him of his daughter, with all his arrogance, petulance, and stubborn determination. Deep down in the old man's heart, he knew he had made a friend.

The duck did not win another match that day and bristled with annoyance. "Quack!"

"It must have been a fluke then, eh?" The old man winked. "Come back when you can play against the Dragon Sicilian. It's a main line, Mister Duck."