Мартин Гринберг - My Favorite Fantasy Story

" 'Jinkins to wit,' said Tom.

" 'Lor', sir!' exclaimed the widow.

" 'Oh, don't tell me,' said Tom, 'I know him.'

" 'I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,' said the widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.

" 'Hem!' said Tom Smart.

"The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her handkerchief and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her: whether he thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his back: why, if he had got anything to say, he didn't say it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way; and so forth.

" 'I'll say it to him fast enough,' said Tom, 'only I want you to hear it first.'

" 'What is it?' inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom's countenance.

" 'I'll astonish you,' said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.

" 'If it is, that he wants money,' said the widow, 'I know that already, and you needn't trouble yourself.'

" 'Pooh, nonsense, that's nothing,' said Tom Smart. ' I want money. 'Tan't that.'

" 'Oh, dear, what can it be?' exclaimed the poor widow.

" 'Don't be frightened,' said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, and unfolded it. 'You won't scream?' said Tom, doubtfully.

" 'No, no,' replied the widow; 'let me see it.'

" 'You won't go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?' said Tom.

" 'No, no,' returned the widow, hastily.

" 'And don't run out, and blow him up,' said Tom, because I'll do all that for you; you had better not exert yourself.'

" 'Well, well,' said the widow, 'let me see it.'

" 'I will,' replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the letter in the widow's hand.

"Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow's lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.

" 'Oh, the deception and villainy of man!' said the widow.

" 'Frightful, my dear ma'am; but compose yourself,' said Tom Smart.

" 'Oh, I can't compose myself,' shrieked the widow. 'I shall never find any one else I can love so much!'

" 'Oh yes, you will, my dear soul,' said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest sized tears, in pity for the widow's misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow's waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clapsed Tom's hand. She looked up in Tom's face and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.

"I could never find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn't, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.

"At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour after, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-colored gig with red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down."

I think all Zelazny stories tend to be special, but some more so than others. In the early Eighties I was putting together an anthology having to do with chess, or chesslike games, and naturally (hopefully) I asked Roger to contribute something new.

What I didn't know was that two other anthologists had made similar requests at almost the same time— one seeking a story about unicorns, the other a tale set in a bar. Roger, being a practical man, wondered if one story might satisfy all three of us; and being a considerate gentleman, he was careful to clear the idea with all of us before proceeding.

So here it is— a unicom who plays chess in a bar.

—Fred Saberhagen

A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature— swirl of black ashes assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.

Gone again. Back again. Again.

Power, you said? Yes. It takes considerable force of identity to manifest before or after one's time. Or both.

As it faded and gained it also advanced, moving through the warm afternoon, its tracks erased by the wind. That is, on those occasions when there were tracks.

A reason. There should always be a reason. Or reasons.

It knew why it was there— but not why it was there, in that particular locale.

It anticipated learning this shortly, as it approached the desolation-bound line of the old street. However, it knew that the reason may also come before, or after. Yet again, the pull was there and the force of its being was such that it had to be close to something.

The buildings were worn and decayed and some of them fallen and all of them drafty and dusty and empty. Weeds grew among floorboards. Birds nested upon rafters. The droppings of wild things were everywhere, and it knew them all as they would have known it, were they to meet face to face.

It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound from somewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasing into existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as a rainbow in hell, that but the naked presence remained beyond subtraction.

Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. The cue. Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weathered board above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned atop.)

Pause and assess.

Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Empty bottles. Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables to the left and rear. In various states of repair.

Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi's. Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against the wall to his left.

Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of a chessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.

The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partly open.

He could no more have passed up a chess set without working out a problem or replaying one of his better games, than he could have gone without breathing, circulating his blood or maintaining a relatively stable body temperature.

It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dust behind it, but none noted them.

It, too, played chess.

It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finest game, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blown up after that— surprised to have gotten even as far as he had— for he never could perform well under pressure. But he had always been proud of that one game, and he relived it as all sensitive beings do certain turning points in their lives. For perhaps twenty minutes, no one could have touched him. He had been shining and pure and hard and clear. He had felt like the best.

It took up a position across the board from him and stared. The man completed the game, smiling. Then he set up the board again, rose and fetched a can of beer from his pack. He popped the top.

When he returned, he discovered that White's King's Pawn had been advanced to K4. His brow furrowed. He turned his head, searching the bar, meeting his own puzzled gaze in the grimy mirror. He looked under the table. He took a drink of beer and seated himself.