Orion, for the first time in his twenty-three years was worried, he might be about to lose his title. The upstart challenger Crispin could win this. It was the topiary, why had Crispin put topiary around the chess board? He flicked his tail, felt the sensuous motion of the weeds on his sides. Now was not the time for haste, but for reflection.
Somewhere in a dark cool corner of the pond, Crispin was also reviewing the game, confidently planning his end game. He could feel the victory throughout his body, swam to the bottom creating a frenzy of mud. The tadpoles scattered, praying for legs.
The reigning grandmaster reviewed the moves, the gambits seemed so straight forward at the time, but looking back…
Orion tried to find a hole in his defence, and discover where his opponent’s attack was leading. In all of this at the forefront of his mind was the topiary gambit. What could it mean?
As the grandmaster he had opened, his standard opening, the folly with the gaping opening, taken either as inviting or threatening. That black entranced folly had made Orion’s reputation.
The reply was surprising, a river, fast flowing and rending the board in two. Orion bridged the river. He hated playing a defence so early, but could not risk his folly being isolated from the chequered board surrounding the pool. This was where the end game would be focussed.
Another surprise from the challenger, five suitors appeared on the main board, each holding a heart dripping ice-cold blood. Orion had not seen this gambit since his youth, time to test Crispin’s resolve, and take the match into the middle-game. Orion felt it would be a long cat-and-mouse middle game.
A woman ran onto the field, trailing a long, silk scarf, fluttering in the light breeze that appeared. The challenger faltered, sent one of the suitors in pursuit of the zephyr powered scarf.
Orion saw the moment of weakness and went on the attack. A boat containing a sleeping woman drifted down the river. Cut-and-thrust, back-and-forth, lightening moves. Crispin sent a woman rowing in pursuit. Orion riposted with another drifting boat containing a man serenading his true love with a balalaika.
The onlookers, the ultimate arbiters, were split. Half thought the grandmaster was going for the kill, half bored with what could become a monotonous procession of boats. Crispin took the initiative and produced a picnic. Laid out on a tartan rug, cress sandwiches, champagne, lardy cake. The grandmaster dismissed such a weak image and took care of the remaining four suitors pinning them with a blindfolded woman, a sword in one hand, scales the other.
The crowd showed their appreciation. The young blade had lost the upper hand. Sensing the mood change, Crispin reinforced his previous image. A courting couple by the picnic, the woman’s face a portrait of melancholy. The crowd gaped in awe of this bold move.
The onlookers change of mood made Orion think fast. He produced star-crossed lovers, arms outstretched, either side of the bridge, cracks appeared in the fabric of the bridge. The crowd gasped, this must be the end for Crispin.
And then, disaster, on the brink of victory, Orion saw the topiary spring up, surrounding the inner table. He stopped, the wind taken from his billowing sails. Topiary, topiary? He could not see a way through the foliage. A heavy hand now could lose the game.
He replied weakly, a couple of mounted knights. He had not used knights for the last fifteen years. He had not needed to.
The knight sat atop his white charger, wondering what it all meant, why was he here. A sudden thought stirred and was gone.
Crispin lurking in the weeds at the bottom of the pond, as usual, had his next move planned. He created the tree, gnarled and twisted. A willow, every branch weeping blood.
Orion smiled a secret smile. Surfaced and gulped the air. The mayflies danced over the surface. He had his opponent’s measure, the perfect retort. Crispin was a revivalist, an arborielist.
His heart said lumberjack rolling logs down the stream. His wise head thought of something subtler.
The knight pondering on life, lifted aloft his lance, felt for his trusty secateurs, placed his shears by his side, dismounted with a purpose.
Crispin sensed defeat through every fibre of his body. Released the pent up grizzly bear from the dark-mouthed folly. The crowd, disgusted, swam away to better pleasures.
Orion basked in the warm water at the top of the pond, tickled by luxuriant fronds. He had, possibly for the last time, survived. It was victory. He basked in it. Anxious for tips, the young club players, wallowed in his reflected glory.
The knight strolled towards the hedge, glanced at the goldfish pond. The fish were in a frenzy, crowding one old fish. Nearby a small fish drifted, recently dead. What an easy life, suspended in water, all needs taken care of.
Peacocks? These bushes should never have been peacocks! The shape was all wrong. He set to with a purpose. These bushes were special. As he sculpted the fins and tail, a random thought crossed his untroubled mind. The old fish, how many more winters could he survive? He carried on with his work, oblivious to the roars of the approaching bear.
NiC Roworth – 8th January,1997