Rules of the Game

All of life was a game. Ryman had always known that.

He made his work into a game. Adventure and sport, those were deadly games, and love was the sweetest game of all. Throughout his forty-odd years, Ryman had learned the rules to each of life’s games, but never had he found an opponent worth spending much time on (except, perhaps, for that blonde he had met back in Sicily, eighteen years ago...)

He had traveled widely – around the world, even, though not in the classic eighty days. Ryman had never understood why anyone would want to rush through such a fabulous tour. The six years (and better, some 2000 nights!) he had spent working his way around the world seemed much more enjoyable than Verne’s version. For love of the game (and the bedding of various women), Ryman had fought a shoot-out at high noon, rafted the Nile during the rainy season, wrestled a polar bear, and freed numerous “princesses” from their “castles” (so to speak).

But Ryman’s tour ‘round the world was long over and, due to certain misunderstandings, he had no good place to go back to (except, again, perhaps to Sicily, since that blonde was always interested when he dropped by). He had briefly toyed with the idea of actually settling down somewhere... But if all of life was a game, then it hardly seemed sporting not to play it!

Fortunately, the dice had rolled in his direction this time. The blonde from Sicily had sent him a message suggesting a pleasant rendezvous. Actually, it was a rather strange letter, coming from her. Generally, her messages were fairly abrupt: “Come back here so I can make love to you.” This one was more round-about and mysterious. Still, with nothing better to do (and a great many glorious memories), Ryman decided to turn his horse in the direction of Sicily – or more specifically to the isle of Salina, north of Sicily. During his trek back through the Ottoman Empire (carefully avoiding Constantinople, just in case the Sultan or his niece remembered him), he wondered what had prompted her to move to the island. Well, who knew how a woman thought? The uncertainty was all part of the game.

He was shortly stored aboard a ferry bound for Salina. He had sent notification of his arrival from the mainland and again from Sicily, but had heard no reply. Her silence should not have worried him, but Ryman found that it did. Ever since their younger days, he and Melina – er... the blonde – had kept in touch. Whenever he had ridden through Italy, he’d made sure to stop by. Similarly, she had always found ways to contact him, no matter where he was. It was a game between them – one of their many games; the second-best they played.

Now she had fallen silent, and the silence weighed upon Ryman. Could she be ill? Angry at him? Ryman didn’t know and he didn’t like not knowing. Knowledge had always been his friend, and not having it made him nervous. So nervous, in fact, that he was half-a-day up the mountain trail to her villa before he realized that he could have asked about her in town. He blamed the lapse on age.

As he rode, it dawned on him that in the last decade, he had stopped by her Sicilian home at least once a year, sometimes more. Perhaps it was time to distance himself from Melina – that is, the blonde. Ryman frowned. He tried to think of his women as objects with descriptions, not people with names, when he was away from them. It caused less jealousy among the others. The realization that Melina – the blonde – had become a name made him double up on his decision to avoid her.

After he made sure she was alright. After this trip.

Yes, it was definitely time to get some distance from Melin— the blonde’s magnetism. Even if he would miss their little games. He didn’t even realize he was cantering until he saw the tiled roof before him and heard his poor horse’s exhausted breathing.

“Melina!” he cried, roughly tying off his horse in the courtyard.

Much to his relief (which he pretended not to feel), she came to the door, looking as alive and healthy and lovely as ever (well, not quite as lovely as she had eighteen years ago, but Ryman knew the same could be said about him).

“Ryman! It’s good to see you again, old love.” She gave him a deep kiss that quite took the thoughts from Ryman’s mind. “Would you come inside?” She gave him a look he knew all too well. “I’ve a nice large tub for bathing here, and an even larger bed. Join me?”

Ryman was halfway to the door when he stopped, reluctantly moving to take care of his horse.

Melina shook her head. “Don’t worry. My boys will take care of him. Come inside now.”

Ryman smiled and followed.

Various activities took place at that point, reminding Ryman of precisely why he always made sure to stop by Sicily when it was even vaguely on his way. It wasn’t until the next morning, when they made their way to the dining room that Ryman thought to wonder again why Melina – the blonde – had been so mysterious in her messages.

When he asked, she smiled oddly at him. “Knowledge can be a deadly friend, old love. Especially when you’ve spent eighteen years playing a game to which you didn’t know all the rules.”

Ryman was still frowning over that response when they entered the dining room. He froze. Sitting at the table in front of him were three boys and two girls, ages about four to (oh, God help him) about eighteen. Every one of them had his dark hair and green eyes.

“Children,” said Melina, “greet your father.”