Windborne Memories

CHAPTER I - When Pawns Meet Kings

The crimson pawn I place on his grave glosses with sundown. Society does not make men like him anymore. His marbled mausoleum with arches chiselled in antique designs resembles no less than what the old man deserved. Now, he forever oversees our island from his lonesome hilltop. Today, as an old wrinkle wearer myself, much I see has changed since childhood. In those days, with some several dozen dwellings scattered around, from old cottages to wooden cabins or adobe abodes, Windborne remained unknown. Those who lived in our village-like isle worked hard across seasons both harsh and kind. But when idle, hearsays and rumours were received with eager ears, gossips would spread like wildfire, and bored minds remained occupied across long days. I remember that faraway winter morning when my mother had me run an errand and deliver milk in gallons to our neighbours. I had knocked on every door and exchanges were made: from fish, fruit, to potato, or vegetable, and wine; we exchanged to survive based on all goods each household could provide. I had purposely avoided the old man's cabin, however. I was thirteen, and like all children, I was scared. The old man was hardly ever seen to leave his home, and when he did, he seldom spoke.

When I reached his porch, before I was even able to knock, his door creaked open, his brooding blue eyes locked with mine. The man was old, as old as legend, so old that his creases covered his face like an undecipherable map to uncharted lands.

'Milk, sir?' I asked.

The old man slammed his door closed without a word. I was relieved, somewhat, and decided to leave; but before I was able to, his door opened wide once more and in a rasping voice he asked: 'Tell me, boy, have you ever played the Game of Kings?'

This was a phrase I had never heard before, and since all I had known were hoops and marbles, I was even more puzzled.

'Sir?'

The old man ambled over with his cane, bearing an austere air like a philosopher deep in probe. 'Were I an odd number with one letter removed, I would be even. Now, what am I?'

For some while, I stood fixed in my place, my mind blank. But as silence continued, the old man's anxious eyes squinted and looked away. He let loose a disappointed breath and ambled back across his porch. Only when he had reached his door did I summon the will to answer: 'Seven.'

He stopped. Balanced on his cane with one hand, his cheeks creased into a smile, as he beckoned me inside with the other. Like a moth to the light, without quite knowing why, I followed.

Taxidermized heads, from foxes and wolves to leopards and lions, had been mounted across his wooden panelled walls inside. There was a smell of damp mould and rosewood which combined as a unique aroma. In his living room, above an old rounded red rug, two leather armed chairs faced a chequered square table in between. Parallel to such was a hearth, and beside the hearth an old foxhound laid asleep, twitching whenever crackles made sharp snaps and pops beside his ears.

'Take a seat behind whichever colour you like,' the old man declared as he headed to his kitchen. But I stood, studying his unusual table where marble pieces in various shapes were placed on black and white squares. With hands gripped on a silver tray where two cups steamed from; he ambled back even slower without his cane.

'What is it?'

'Mulled wine, lad. This'll keep your body strong and mind steady.'

'Thank you, sir,' I said as I placed the last milk gallon in the corner and strode over to help with the tray.

'So, kiddo, why've you come here?' he asked as he reclined behind the white chess pieces.

'You invited me...', but before I was able to answer, his eyes locked with mine, and his wrinkles creased into a smile.

'When I asked you about the Game of Kings, you made no response, boy.'

I remained silent for a second, 'I don't know, sir.'

He expressed a quick chuckle, 'No need to call me sir, dear lad. Folks around here call me Old Man Leopold. But with customs aside, you can call me Leo.'

'Well,' he sipped his drink, 'are you going to stand there all day?'

I sat on the empty chair behind the black pieces, and Leopold moved his pawn up two spaces without a moment to spare.

'This is called chess, boy, the oldest boardgame in history,' said the old man without a moment's hesitation, locking his eyes with mine once more.

'Each piece resembles a power; each power resembles a move; and each move is schemed to conquer your opponent's king, while securing your own.'

For some while, I looked upon each piece and questioned their purpose in mind, but all I remembered was that pawns move forward one square, two if unmoved, and crosswise to take another piece. The day passed in plays with pawns, as Old Man Leopold checked my king several times over; but a curious intrigue had awakened inside me.

When evening came, I thanked the old man and readied to head back home. Raised from my chair, my eyes remained locked on the board.

'What've you learned today, boy?' Leo's hoarse voice broke the silence.

But I looked towards him, unsure what I had learned aside from basic pawn movements. The old man's face creased into a smile once more as he raised from his chair and ambled to his room, 'Bear with me a moment.'

When he came back, he handed me a basket with a dozen eggs inside and said, 'For the milk, earlier.'

I had been so absorbed in chess that I had completely forgotten why I had come to begin with. Thankfully, the old man seemed to be an honest fellow. Grateful, I wished him a good evening and headed for the door.

'I'll teach you how the other pieces move next time,' said Leo from across the room. I smiled and took leave.

The journey back seemed to pass in seconds. The old man's phrase from earlier, 'The Game of Kings,' lingered in my mind like an endless echoe. I had never known a king, and where we lived, nobody I knew had known one either. Windborne seemed to run without much nuisance. Now, since winter was near an end, hunting season was around the corner. My father and I would hunt each spring and autumn; and in most cases, with either a deer or a buck carried home on our shoulders, our bellies remained full across all seasons. To hunt was an auspicious time, and I would learn much from my father; but this odd game I had now been introduced with seemed to have overshadowed all other ambitions.

When I arrived home, dinner had already been made and served. My sisters, now asleep, snored a triadic symphony which sidled over to where mother rocked back and forth while she knitted. Father had also dozed with a bottle beside the couch. I scurried over to mother, handed her the exchanges, and soon headed for bed.