Redemption, J. C. Laird [sneezy the snowman read aloud .TXT] 📗

Redemption

Although seated some distance away, the woman had distracted Simon enough to have cost him his speed chess game against Charlie—one of the oldest chess hustlers in Roosevelt Park—along with their ten-dollar bet. She was sitting at a table under one of the giant cottonwood trees scattered throughout the green, urban oasis, staring at the chess game laid out in front of her, her defeated opponent having already vanished.

 

A feeling of unease, of apprehension, grew within him as he approached her. Wearing a tailored, black pant-suit, red silk blouse, matching red high heels and a string of small, black pearls around her neck, she was like a beautiful, exotic flower in the midst of a field of weeds. Unexpectedly, Simon felt himself blushing.

 

The young, dark-haired woman began putting away her chess set.

 

Sudden panic gripped him. “Hello, my name is Simon Mathews. How about a quick game of speed chess?” he blurted.

 

Dark brown eyes coolly dissected him, a slight smile curving her mouth, her lips the same shade of red as her blouse and shoes. “Sorry, not my game.” She dropped her opponent’s king into the wooden box, closed the lid and held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Coventry.”

 

Simon noticed that her manicured nails were that same complementary red. Her hand was smooth and cool, her grip firm. She held his hand for several seconds before letting go—her dark eyes boring into his disconcertingly. He swallowed, pushed on. “A regular game of chess, then. And you can name the stakes.”

 

Her smile remained, but her eyes darkened. Her next words drained the flush from his face. “You might want to reconsider that offer, Mr. Mathews. I only play for men’s souls.”

 

Simon’s awkward grin froze as he waited for the joke’s punch-line or some obscure metaphor. But none came, the silence stretching several uncomfortable seconds as the beautiful, pale-faced woman continued to look at him with that enigmatic, half- smile on her full lips. Simon finally found his voice, albeit hesitant and a little strained. “So…uh…who are you supposed to be, the Devil?” he asked.

 

Sarah’s smile widened. “Hardly. I guess you could say I’m one of Satan’s minions, or to put it more alliteratively, Satan’s assistant.” She picked up a small, black canvas bag from next to her chair and slid her chess set inside.

 

Simon was staring at her slack-jawed; if it wasn’t an elaborate joke, then maybe mental problems or drugs? But she seemed clear eyed, articulate and apparently serious—besides being very attractive—so Simon decided to humor her. “Okay, but whatever happened to the simple ‘selling your soul to the Devil’?”

 

Sarah laughed. “Selling your soul is still acceptable, but people can be more easily tempted if they are given the opportunity to obtain their heart’s desire and keep their soul, too.”

 

Simon’s mind was starting to catch up. “So…what about all the Devil’s deceptions and morbid tricks? With Satan, nothing is ever what it seems.” He figured he had her there.

 

Sarah picked up her chess clock, hesitated, then placed it in her bag. “Please, Mr. Mathews, tricks and deceptions are against the rules. Satan is actually a straight shooter in that respect. You win, you get what you want. You lose, goodbye soul and…well, you know how that story goes. But be positive, as someone once said: ‘Better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven.’ ”

 

She shook her head, pursed her lips and continued. “Temptation is the only weapon my Master uses, the only one necessary. Man’s greed and ambition, his conceit, arrogance and self-worship, his belief that he can be God, do the real work. Our job is to offer ‘opportunities and improvements’ to his earthly life. He has the choice whether to bargain his immortal soul against them or not. Minions—assistants if you please—are for those easily tempted, undecided or lacking in that 'faith’ thing. Other minions do other things well, but my forte is chess and I’m very good at it. And by the way, Satan doesn’t have horns, a forked tail or cloven hooves; he just is…like God just is. It’s just that Man is so imaginative and melodramatic.”

 

Now, grim-faced and slightly flushed, she continued. “God gave Man...and Woman...an immortal soul and the rules to live by. But He also gave them free will, and not only do they break the rules, look at the evil they commit against their neighbor and fellow man. The majority of people have already mortgaged their souls, ‘the walking damned,’ so to speak.” She took a deep breath and stood up. “And that, Mr. Mathews, concludes your condensed Theology 101 course.”

 

Sarah was shorter than he had thought, 5’4” at best. At 6’3,” Simon towered over her. He guessed that she was in her late twenties, considerably younger than his forty-five. Yet, he somehow felt cowed, unnerved. Again, he blurted impulsively. “What if I still wanted that chess game?”

 

Her look was almost one of regret. “Yes, if you want.” She bent and picked up her purse, red of course. She removed a small card and envelope. “Write down what you’re wagering your soul for, and seal it in the envelope. Bring it with you tomorrow, 10:00 am, this table. Be specific: ‘all the money in the world’ or ‘to live forever’ won’t work. And my Master can’t raise the dead; that’s reserved for God. As for the chess game itself: standard tournament rules, forty moves in two hours. If the game is not completed at that time, white will write down and seal their forty-first move, and the game will continue the following day.” She turned to leave. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Matthews.”

 

“Wait…Ms. Coventry…have you ever lost a chess game before?”

 

She turned back to him. “Twice. Once in 1797 and again in 1878.”

 

“Huh?” Simon was gaping at her again.

 

“What did you think, eternity for me started in the twenty-first century?” she said. “And Satan paid off on the wagers: one player became one of the richest men in the world and the other became President of the United States. My Master was not happy with my losing; he made me pay in ways you couldn’t fathom.” Her voice was as cold and bitter as a winter wind, and Simon imagined he actually saw a tremor pass through her body. With eyes as black as a bottomless pit, she continued. “I haven’t lost since, and I don’t plan on losing again.”

 

Before she could turn to leave he queried softly, “What about you?”

 

Now it was her turn to look confused. “What?”

 

“How did you lose your soul, Sarah?”

 

She was staring at him as if he had just slapped her, her mouth parted, eyes wide. She licked, then bit her lower lip; Simon didn’t think she was going to answer. But she did.

 

“It was 1649. I was twenty-eight, living in London with my husband, Richard, and ten-year-old daughter, Mary. One night we were returning from my grand-pa-pa’s—my original chess teacher—in nearby Greenwich, and were set upon by three drunken brigands. They murdered my husband, raped and murdered my daughter and raped and left me for dead. But I lived.” Sarah’s voice was flat and emotionless. “Revenge, Mr. Mathews. It took me over a year, but I tracked down all three—planned, plotted and killed them. When I was done, I drowned myself in the Thames River. And here I am.” Now she did noticeably shudder.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

He could see her jaw muscles work as she clenched her teeth. “Sorry for what?”

 

“Sorry for your life, for your death, for your now.”

 

Storm clouds swirled in her dark eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Matthews.” She turned and left the park.

 

Simon was still staring after her when Charlie’s voice came from behind him. “Don’t bother following her, she’s gone.”

 

Simon turned and looked at him questioningly.

 

Charlie continued. “Sarah is sort of our local ‘urban legend.’ She isn’t here every day, or every week, just when she has a game scheduled. She first appeared about fifteen years ago, about six months after I started hanging out at the chess tables. I tried following her two or three times, kept losing her on the path leading out of the park, then dropped that idea when those three gang-bangers went after her and wound up dead—”

 

“What?”

 

Charlie’s lined, grey-whiskered face split in a wide grin. “Although Roosevelt Park is located near Albuquerque’s ‘War Zone’—home turf to several area gangs—do you see any of them in the park, or even any graffiti anywhere?”

 

Simon had been coming to the ten acres of shaded green for over two weeks, enjoying the cool, spring days of May and an occasional game of chess, but realized that Charlie was right. College kids, retirees, and several families were enjoying the bright sunlit day, but no unsavory characters were present in the clean and well-kept park. “No, it’s one of the nicer parks I’ve been in.”

 

“It was pretty rough back in ’96,” Charlie said. “A couple of the local gangs claimed this turf; fights, harassment, and graffiti were common. Three bangers followed Sarah out the second time she was here. I read in the paper the next day that their bodies had been found, victims of apparent gang warfare—according to the police. A few more weeks and a few more obituaries, and the gangs started avoiding this place like the plague.”

 

Simon stood there musing aloud. “She looks to be in her mid to late twenties. If so, in ’96 she would have barely been a teenager, if that.” He coughed, clearing his throat nervously. “And would you believe she gave me this spiel about the Devil, being his minion and playing chess games for people’s souls?” He laughed uneasily. “Pretty crazy, eh?”

 

From Charlie’s expression it was apparent he didn’t think it was crazy at all; he didn’t seem surprised in the least. “I’m telling you what I know,” he said. “Sarah looks the same now as she did back then. She hasn’t lost a chess game here that I know of. And after losing, all of her opponents have never been seen again. I’d think twice about taking her on, no matter how good you are or how bad you want something. I’d hate to lose you; good competition is hard to come by.”

 

That night Simon sat alone in his darkened apartment with the day’s events looping through his mind, the possibilities and consequences ricocheting through that loop. He turned on the desk lamp and stared at the framed picture of his wife and daughter, three years dead now. He began to relive the accident: the out of control 16-wheeler running the red light, the crash, the screams as it broadsided their SUV. He stopped the always agonizing train of thought, but couldn’t halt the question that always followed—why had he lived when they had died? He sighed and looked at the blank card that Sarah had given him.

 

In college he had been president of the chess club and had been ranked by the U.S. Chess Federation as a Master, only a few points shy of a Grand Master ranking. He believed that he was as good, or better, than he ever was. But, maybe, that was part of a damning conceit and arrogance that Sarah had alluded to…

 

#

 

Sarah was sitting at her usual table when Simon arrived, looking beautifully stylish in a black skirt and a burgundy, long-sleeve silk blouse, the string of small, black pearls accenting her slim neck. In his tennis shoes, blue-jeans and blue polo-shirt, Simon felt suddenly shabby.

 

She smiled and held out her hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Matthews.”

 

Probably his imagination but, as he took her hand, he sensed a look of disappointment in her ebony eyes. Simon sat down, opened his canvas bag, took out his chess set and clock and put them on the table.

 

Sarah gave a small laugh. “Don’t trust me?”

 

“Considering the stakes,