Opening Gambit "What the hell is that?"
The cousin's voice was scathing. He'd spent the entire forenoon making disparaging comments about the décor, furnishings and ornaments in our recently-deceased grandsires' last home - I was beginning to lose patience with him.
I looked where he was pointing. 'That' was a large metal chest, closed and secured with a huge brass padlock of antique design, and studded with sinister-looking metal knobs. It was why I was here… I shrugged, pretend-nonchalantly, quivering with excitement inside.
"Granmama was a strange old bird. It's probably just full of old bedlinen or something equally useless. Nice trunk, though. I could always use it as a side table - it'll go nicely in the study."
The cousin glanced sharply at me, ever-suspicious. I kept my breathing calm, my expression impassive, and gazed around the room. He watched as I sauntered over to a shelf filled with various exotic souvenirs from their travels, pretending to be interested in a bizarre and rather hideous knickknack made - apparently - from shell, horn and a handful of feathers. I turned to him, grinning (those drama classes were really paying dividends today!)
"This is amazing! If this is what I think it is…. You wouldn't mind if I have it, would you?"
He was at my side immediately, scowling.
"You think it might be worth something?"
"Well, I'm no expert, but…"
He grabbed it from my hands and turned it over, examining it from all sides. Then he grinned at me.
"Tell you what. You let me have this, and I'll let you have the old chest."
My jaw dropped.
"But I found it first! That's not fair!"
He pinched my cheek, rather harder than was necessary, and pulled himself up to his full height. He was a lot bigger than me. And stronger. And used to getting his own way.
"That's life, kid. Deal?"
I made my voice bitter. "Do I have a choice?"
He shook his head, his eyes glittering. "No. C'mon, I'll give you hand carrying the chest."
I let my shoulders slump. "OK…"Later, at home, laughing gleefully to myself at how easy it was to dupe such a bonehead, I studied the chest carefully. The outside was ordinary enough, if ancient. It hadn't been too heavy to lift either. But the padlock posed a problem.
Granmama had given me a heavy iron key, what seemed like centuries ago when I was just a child. She'd told me then to keep it safely: it would open a fabulous treasure. Just before I'd left the family home, on reaching maturity, she'd shown me the closed chest, and promised me it would be mine when she died… But she'd left no instructions or will, hence my subterfuge to gain possession of it. I couldn't wait to see what it contained! Only, as I had just found out, the key didn't fit…
I sat and frowned at the offending device, then began to examine it, stroking and pressing every part of the rough metal. Nothing happened.
I dredged back through my memories. Had Granmama ever said anything about unlocking the thing…?
Nothing came to mind. Frustrated, I held the heavy padlock in my hand.
"I wish I knew how to open you!"
There was a quiet click, and the catch sprang open… I gaped, then laughed aloud. Of course! Granmama and her jokes. She'd teased me mercilessly about my continued and continual use of "I wish…" when I was young…
Reverently, I lifted the lid.
Inside, the chest was lined with what looked like fur, luxuriously soft and thick and slightly musky. A lighter coloured, silky pelt covered the contents. My heart pounding, I carefully peeled back the first layer, and gasped soundlessly at what was revealed.
Shapes gleamed and sparkled there, beautiful shapes, delicately carved from crystal and gold and precious stones. Fingers trembling, I gently lifted one into the light.
The figure was female, graceful, a slender form with uplifted webbed hands, its body ending in a sinuous fluked tail, its hair swirling upwards in a sparkling, bubbling blue-crystal mane. The eyes were chatoyant blue gems, the skin a translucent turquoise, the fins gleaming platinum beaded with minuscule crystal droplets. It was exquisite.
Awed and breathless, I placed the figure very carefully on a low table and lifted up another, then another, then another… Eventually I had twenty-six figurines - winged and horned and finned and furred - shimmering and glittering on the polished wood.
Beneath them, glowing softly in the chest, was a gaming board unlike any I'd seen before. It was in five large wooden pieces that fitted together like a jigsaw: the surface shone brightly in swathes of green and blue and tawny gold… On closer examination, it resembled a map, with mountains, forests and deserts, cities and rivers. To one edge was a broad expanse of plain; opposite, the shores of an island-speckled sea. Faintly etched into the patterned surface were dotted lines and small, irregularly shaped - zones, I suppose I should call them. I laid the board on the table and looked back into the chest.
A fragile piece of parchment lay on top of what looked like a book. Faintly inked onto the vellum was a diagram, showing how the carved figurines should be placed on the board at the commencement of the game. With trembling fingers I positioned them all in their appointed places and laid the parchment very carefully on the table beside the board. Underneath the diagram, in Granmama's flowing script, was a letter.Greynvoald - the game you are about to embark upon, little favourite of mine - is ancient and venerable. There are those who say it is also a riddle, a map, a story, the chronicle of a lost race and a means to discovering a great treasure. I have never solved the puzzle, and I know of no-one who has. Perhaps you may be the first.
Your moves must be determined by the tales in the book. Read the stories, move the gaming pieces, and if you play the game correctly, you will find your reward. Or so they say.
But even if not, you will enjoy the game!It didn't make a lot of sense. But then, neither had a lot of my Granmama's 'wise words'! It didn't really matter. I love stories anyway - and playing a game with the beautiful pieces would be a pure joy.
I took a deep breath, made myself collect a cold drink, then settled down to read……
© 2002 September 15th Joules Taylor
First Move
© 2002 WordWrights
Darkside