Aftermath

Two gentlemen stand in the courtyard as the drizzle starts, watching the victor head for the train station.

As one of them steps beneath the cover of a cherry blossom tree – still in tact – a tiny brittle skeleton cracks under his boot.

“I don’t think I’ve proven my point yet,” the gentleman on the left says to the man under the tree. His companion makes no effort to cover himself and drops of rain drip off the rim of his bowler hat and onto his shoulders. Then, the rain strays, the drops falling onto him divert their path so they do not touch him, hitting some invisible shield around him and bouncing off.

The gentleman on the left, wearing a pale grey vest that darkens with the rain, nods at the victor’s retreating figure. “He had such promise. I knew he would win.”

The man beside him regards him impassively as he replies. “He hates you. He will never forgive you for the things he’s done.”

The vested man makes a derisive sound. “And your own students hold no grudges, I’m sure. When was the last time one of them thanked you?”

The man under the tree does not reply. He gazes at the street outside the courtyard, dark with increasing rainfall.

“Best three of seven?” The vested man suggests, turning to his companion.

The man under the tree shakes his head. “I do not think so. I think we can come to a conclusion after that last game.”

“Oh, come on,” the man on the left says. “We must have a tie-breaker. We can’t leave it this way, with equal victories and losses. Or perhaps you are just anxious because you know the odds lean in my favour. They always do.”

His companion says nothing.

“Six games is not nearly enough to determine a winner,” the vested man insists.

“What did you have in mind?” his companion asks.

“Raisings, as usual,” the man says, waving as hand as though to shoo the particulars away. “In private and public. Obstacles. Let’s not have any restrictions on them, yes?”

The companion concedes with a nod.

“And you may screen or audition or whatever it is you do, with my student. But I assure you, my student will be ready. I’ll find one that loves games.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s make is more challenging this time,” the man on the left adds. “Those last two didn’t compliment one another at all.”

The man under the tree does not comment. He sighs as the rain is blow toward him, and the bottom of his pants begin to darken. He turns his fingers in a subtle gesture like flipping the pages of a book, and the raindrops bounces off of him. He begins to dry immediately, until he is almost as dry as the vested man.

The vested man has been staring ahead, not at the street, but through it, pondering.

“How about a venue that neither of us controls? To allow for the most chance? Hm? Start is on neutral ground, do you agree?”

The man under the tree hesitates, then nods.

“That being said,” the vested gentleman continues, turning back to the rain-darkened street. “You can make the first move, if you wish. I got to last game.”

“No. If we are truly leaving this up to chance, let us plan nothing. Whoever makes the first move, makes it. In the mean time, we’ll just have to teach. To keep it fair, I believe we should instigate a disclosure clause. The rules of interference apply accordingly.”

The vested man claps his hand, a sound similar to the rainfall echoing in the courtyard. “Wonderful. Nothing to tip the odds in either player’s favour. Anything from here on in is fair game, is it?”

The gentleman beneath the tree nods.

“No time constraints either, but let’s have none of this prolonged youth this time. Let them work out when they want to end it, with aging as a factor.” He looks around them at the bed of feathers, which shifts and shivers in the wind. The increasing rain is pinning them to the ground, now.

“Eighty three years? I was beginning to think that one would never end. Much too long to wait. Even you were getting restless, I think.”

The man under the tree neither confirms nor denies his companion’s musings.

“Need I consult you about any obstacles or variables I introduce? Is there a certain obstacle you would like to avoid?”

“None whatsoever. Integrate variable at your own leisure, on your own time. Whatever you wish.”

“Marvelous,” the vested man says. “Simply marvelous. I’m excited already.” He grins wolfishly and claps his hands together again.

“How long do you think it will take to find and train your competitor?” the vested man asks.

“Not very long. A few years, I would think.”

“Good, good,” the vested man pauses, then speaks into the shadows beneath the tree. “Do try not to get too attached to your student. You seem to do that quite often, and I wouldn’t want you to lose too much in this game.”

The man under the tree looks up, into the patches of grey sky that appear beneath the tangle of rustling leaves. “Nothing is guaranteed. If you win, I will lose what I lose. But you cannot be certain of the outcome.”

The man in the vest scoffs. “So you say.”

They watch the rain in silence, as it falls so heavily it thunders; yet they each stay as dry and warm as if they sat by a fireplace. When it begins to slow, the gentleman in the vest raises his voice to be heard over the din.

“You’ll see that I’m right. We are here to push boundaries. There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” He grins and turns to the tree to catch his companion’s reaction, but the gentleman that stood there only minutes ago is gone.

The vested man stands a second longer before shrugging and setting off down the darkened street, fading into the grey downpour.

Text by Lucie MacAulay