The Accursed (65 page)

And, in another of the old, ignored books, a passage of Heraclitus that had made him shudder, for something uncanny and prophetic in its words:

Time is a child playing draughts; the kingship is in the hands of a child.

Little could Todd have guessed that, one day, his own life would be in his hands, in a game of draughts.

IT WAS A
distinct advantage that Rat-boy’s skinny frame and sallow skin made him seem younger than he was. A casual glance from any adult in the castle would have marked him as no more than ten, and negligible. Children were rarely seen in the castle, though babies were born; but babies did not long survive in the atmosphere of dank rot. But Rat-boy slipped past much scrutiny, for his small size, and muteness; and his privilege as the Countess’s page, even if the Countess no longer cared much for him, and had allowed his page-finery to become dirty and tattered. The females of the court, imagining him so young, were careless with their dress and toilet in his presence, as with their speech; for Rat-boy did not seem to matter. A fleshy female with a harridan’s face said, with ribald wit: “Rat-boy is but a baby, yet both
too old,
and
too young,
to properly suckle at a woman’s breast.” Blushing fiercely Todd remained very still as the gathering of females laughed.

Imagining him so young, and mute, the court was the more astounded when one night when the evening’s merrymaking was not so strident as usual, the Countess’s shy little page spoke aloud at last, in a high, frail, whispery voice—“Countess? May I speak?”

“
May
you speak? What is this?
Can
you speak?”—the Countess was very surprised. “I have healed you, have I? Is that it? My care of my little Rat-boy page has restored his speech, has it?” The Countess thought well of herself for this miracle, as others congratulated her.

In his frail whispery voice, that was near-inaudible, Rat-boy spoke in the Countess’s ear: “I would like to play draughts with M-Master.”

“ ‘Draughts with—
Master’
?” The Countess stared at Todd with genuine alarm. “Are you mad? You will lose, and your dear little head will be chopped off, and flung to the carrion birds; and your Countess is not prepared for that, just yet.”

But Master had heard the page’s reckless words, that could not so easily be revoked. And through the gloomy vaulted room that resembled, for all its air of febrile festivity, and fires burning in several fireplaces, a vast mausoleum, there were startled exclamations and a scattering of applause, for the possibility of such sport was exciting, or at least carried the promise of excitement, in this morass of
ennui
.

“My page is too young to play draughts,” the Countess protested, “and my brother is a master of draughts who can’t be beaten, or even held to a draw; so it would be only slaughter, and can’t be permitted.”

“All things are permitted,” the Countess’s brother said to her, with a scornful curl of his lip. “All things in the Bog Kingdom are permitted
me
.”

The Count was delighted that his sister’s Rat-boy page had issued such a challenge, for, over the centuries, he had grown so skilled at draughts, and so ingenious and frequently negligent in his playing, he often played with two or three opponents simultaneously, and had begun to find the game, even with its bloody finale, tedious. So he rejoiced that this evening should at least be
diverting;
for in the history of the Bog Castle, dating back to time before Time, no child was ever known to issue any challenge to any adult, still less one of the nobility. And it struck the Count that there was something treacherous, something uncontrollable, indeed something
unnatural
in the very concept of a child. “For is not a ‘child’ a being that will alter by degrees, not quite before our eyes, yet in our presence,” the Master of the castle mused, “and is not a ‘child’ an early version, or mockery, of ourselves?—an image of our despoiled innocence and our blasted hopes? Most intolerably, is a ‘child’ not
one who will replace us
?”

The Count’s pallid frog-face brightened in a smile, that revealed jagged yellow teeth as the Count clapped a hand upon Rat-boy’s head, in a pretense of genial affection; and said that yes indeed, he would accept Rat-boy’s challenge at once, for the evening was unusually slow and dull, and a perpetual wintry rain fell through the bog, and his companions had become cowards who dared not challenge him, or even one another—for there was no fresh blood at the castle, hence no “fresh blood” for the night’s sport.

“Could you have spoken all along, Rat-boy? And ‘held your tongue’ out of cunning?” the Count asked the Countess’s page, with a deceptive sort of sympathy; seeing the Countess frown and shake her head just perceptibly, behind the Count’s back, Rat-boy shook his head slowly to indicate
no,
all the while grimacing, and twitching his shoulders, to suggest that indeed speech was difficult for him, if not painful.

The game board was set up on a stained marble pedestal, in a central position in the vaulted room, several yards from the fire burning without much heat in the largest fireplace. In itself the board was a work of art, or had been at one time, comprised of zebrawood, with squares set individually in place, and painted in exquisite tones of red and black; around the edge of the board, a matte-finished gilding in an abstract design to suggest the Oriental and the serpentine. The draughts-pieces, or checkers, were somewhat larger than the ones Todd had played with as a child, fashioned of carved ivory with serrated edges; and divided, as usual, into two armies, the red and the black.
*

Unfortunately, not fifteen feet away from the game board was the reeking chopping block, a much-abused stump of log taken from the bog; and the deadly ax itself with its sturdy handle worn smooth over the years and an enormous double-edged blade covered not only in dried and blackened blood but in myriad hairs as well. (This repulsive sight clearly worked to the Count’s advantage, as it unnerved the brashest of players, while the Count affected utter nonchalance, as if unaware of its presence.)

The Count led Rat-boy to his chair, and took his place across the board from him, and said in a pretense of sobriety that he supposed the game of draughts as played at the Bog Castle required no detailed explication; but in the event that Rat-boy had forgotten, the novelty of the game was this: “If your army triumphs over mine, you are required to employ that ax—(do look at it, my lad:
do
!)—and with all the strength in you, you must sever my head from my body. You cannot grant mercy because you have not the power: the Bog Kingdom admits of no mercy, even to its masters. Is’t understood?—and you promise not to dissolve into tears at being
required to kill
your host and benefactor, who has tolerated your presence here in his kingdom for so long? However, in the event that your army, these red fellows, are defeated,” the Count said, with a sly smile, “why, our situation is simply reversed; but that event is so remote and unlikely, we need not waste our time in speculation.”

Though this was a feeble sort of wit the hall rocked with malicious laughter; but Rat-boy, poor frightened Todd Slade, sat frozen with eyes affixed to the game board. Clearly in his head the admonition sounding clearly
Do not glance up, do not glance up even once
.

A tankard of pungent dark ale was brought to the Count, and a miniature version brought to Todd, to provoke laughter from the onlookers; diverse sweetmeats were served; and the bloody “cannibal sandwich” that had once sickened Annabel. These dainties the Count nibbled on through the game, wiping his sticky hands on his velvet clothing, while Todd declined to eat at all; though in truth he was faint with hunger.

As the hollow-sounding bell of the castle tolled midnight the game began, with Master allowing Rat-boy the first move, as his army was red; and the idlers of the court, including sulky Countess Camilla and her retinue, drew around. With some hesitation Todd made his first move, taking up one of his first-row pieces; but felt a sudden fear of releasing it from his fingers.

“Come, come!” the Count chided, “—you must let go; there is a time limit for such ploys, beyond which the offense fingers are
chopped off
.”

Then, it was the Count’s turn. Fearfully Todd raised his eyes to take in that queer flaccid green-tinted face in which, lurking beneath its ugly exterior, one could almost discern a reptilian sort of nobility. Was this the very personage whom Todd’s cousin Annabel had loved, or had been hypnotized into believing she loved; was this the very person that had precipitated the ruin of the Slades, and the devastation of Crosswicks?

“Take care!”—the Countess hissed at Todd, with some disgust.

For, in the mere instant required to gaze at the Count’s face, and think his melancholy thoughts, Todd’s cunning opponent had managed to knock from the board two of Todd’s pawns . . .

On all sides the Master’s sycophants chuckled. So swiftly had the frog-Count moved, so stunned was Todd to see his army already reduced by two playing pieces, the boy was unable at first to fully comprehend what had happened.

A stern voice admonished him
Your only hope is never to glance up from the board
. So he’d been warned clearly enough, yet like a fool he’d forgotten.

The Count naturally betrayed no awareness of having cheated, still less of his child-opponent’s look of dismay.

For some minutes the game proceeded in a more or less normal fashion, though with painstaking slowness on Todd’s part, for again he was reluctant to lift his fingers from a checker; and recalled how recklessly he’d played as a boy, at Crosswicks, trusting to good luck and inspiration to carry him along, as frequently it did, to his grandfather’s delight. When the Count asked, in a kindly voice, if Todd would like another sort of beverage, one more suited for a child, Todd knew that he must not be deceived, and look up at the man; he must only just shake his head
no,
but keep his eyes fixed to the board.
I will not be drawn into my own death. I must concentrate exclusively on the game of draughts.

By contrast, the Count moved his black pieces swiftly, and with a show of indifference, never failing to snap his chin up after a move, that he might beguile Todd into glancing up at him and locking eyes; but Todd clenched his jaws and did not surrender to the impulse.

Concentrate!—Grandfather Slade had counseled him. Only in concentration can you succeed.

So the game proceeded slowly. At one o’clock a number of the onlookers muttered among themselves that the game had grown “tedious”—and they might be up until dawn at this rate. Countess Camilla dared to taunt her brother by observing that it was clear he wasn’t half so gifted a player as he prided himself, if a mere child of ten years or so could keep him at bay. “Move for move, and piece for piece,” the provocative woman said, “the lord of the manor and the lowly Rat-boy seem to me near evenly matched, neither being sparked by genius.”

This rude remark was meant to annoy the Count, as it did; he disguised his vexation by yawning, and stretching, and sighing; and drawing out of his vest a worn leather pouch filled with a sharply poignant substance smelling of bay rum and heat. He dipped his fingers into the pouch, and raised them to his nose: the familiar motion of “taking snuff” in one nostril, and then in the other; as Todd couldn’t watch him directly, these motions were distracting; and so he surrendered to the instinct to glance up another time.

Poor Todd!—in that instant the fiend’s free hand darted across the board and so blithely removed one of Todd’s crucial checkers, which was in a position to guard his back row, that, a second time, Todd blinked in confusion and incomprehension. How was it possible that anyone could cheat with such quicksilver skill?—and such seeming innocence?

Again, everyone laughed. Even the Countess laughed in disgust. And the Count merrily sneezed, and blew his noise most repulsively into his handkerchief; and urged Todd to make his move—“For the hour is growing late for you, my lad. Soon, it will be your
bedtime
.”

By this time Todd was both demoralized and terrified; his poor red army had been depleted by three pieces, at no cost to the black army; like a crippled old man he sat rigid and hunched over the board; dangerously, his eyes flooded with tears. He had to blink rapidly to clear his vision; but did not dare wipe his face, for fear that his opponent would take advantage. In a mock-kindly voice the Count was saying, that draughts, having little of the subtleties of chess, should really be played in a carefree manner. Wasn’t it the quintessence of
childhood
—a game of straightforward simplicity, all its elements visible to the eye, and requiring little ratiocination? “In draughts one may as well move a piece quickly as after deliberation,” he said, “for it will make little difference, eventually.”

So tense had Todd become, when finally he made his next move, and lifted his fingers from the checker, he saw to his horror that he’d made a terrible blunder—and could not now retract it.

Concentrate!
—so Winslow Slade admonished.

Never glance up from the board!
—so the elderly servant admonished.

As if suspecting a trap, the Count hesitated; then proceeded to leap over not only the luckless piece Todd had moved, but a second; and bore them off this time in honest triumph from the battlefield.

At which the gathering of sycophants and idlers responded with hand-clapping, and murmured compliments to the Master on his prowess.

Sullenly the Countess said, “It was the boy’s mistake, not the Count’s ‘prowess.’ ”

Now a sickly sort of realization came over Todd, as he feared he’d forgotten the rules of the game. At Crosswicks, when he’d played so heedlessly with Annabel and Josiah, he’d often violated the rules, and his cousins had not much minded.

“Come, Rat-boy,” the Count said, “my little army is roiling for the kill. And you know, caution is useless.”