“The Chess Clock”

Intent as they were, the two old men appeared relaxed as they sat at the chessboard.  Life was just a game; chess was just a game; some lost it, and others won.  One could say this game was tradition; others deemed it mandatory.  The population of this town had been kept at one thousand for fifty-seven years so as families could stay together, live together, die together.

Slowly, methodically, the men, one after the other, lifted the ancient marble pieces into the air, contemplated once again, and replaced it onto another square.  Different beliefs in secular life were debated; different beliefs in religious life were disparaged.  However, different beliefs in tradition could be damned.  This town, now huddled around two frail, white-haired men, believed strongly in tradition.  Anyone who entered the town as a stranger was damned, and anyone who left the town was damned.

One smiling, and then the other, the men exchanged glances after and during each move, probing his opponent’s eyes for a betrayal of information.  What does tradition represent?  Terrible things can happen, but for what is tradition taken thoughtfully?  The good things are what allow tradition to survive.

With one man apparently gaining the advantage, the other attempted to maintain his composure.  Novelties are sudden changes in the traditions of old.  The smallest idea can develop into a concept that might be hailed as mankind’s salvation, or a disastrous ideal gone terribly sour.  Or according to plan.

The chess clock slowly ticked away, pausing ever so slightly as the old men pushed its top after a move.  The disadvantaged man, now clearly sweating, looked around at the townspeople with gaping pupils, at all the familiar faces.  Then he made a rushed move, an unwise tactic, a fatal mistake.

The town breathed a sigh of wonder at this, the winning man, a sigh of relief.  Ever-ticking was the chess clock, like a god of Time oblivious to the human world.

Tick…

Finishing the game quickly, the old man deftly tipped over his opponent’s king.  They both rose to their feet.  One extended a hand as a last sign of friendship; the other just stared.

Tick…tick…

“It’s not fair,” blurted the loser.  The other gave an uneasy grin and lowered his hand.  The winner was handed a small gold-plated pistol; the loser was given a crying baby.  As one accepting his fate, the old man kissed the baby and handed it back to the crowd.  The winner slowly loaded the pistol and handed it, butt first, to the loser.  And still the chess clock sang its solemn serenade:

Tick…tick…tick…

With trembling hands did the old man cock the gun.  He took one more glance at his fellow townsmen, who showed little.  They nodded as a large unified body.  The old man swallowed.  Then he took a deep breath, put the gun to his head, and submitted to tradition.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…

                                          Tick…tick…

                                                                            Tick………

                                                                                                                        Tick………

                                                                                                                                          …..

                                                                                                                                                ………

The End