John Gardner - The King's Indian - Stories and Tales

“ ‘Then kill him,’ says Flint, just as cool as can be.

“ ‘No!’ shouts I, and my mind all the sudden is busy as thunder with pictures of those sailors being axed on the head. I go down on my knees like the Englishman. ‘I’ll do what ye like, sir. Ye don’t need to put me in a Mesmerized state. The fact is, I’m Mesmerized already, been Mesmerized for years. I’ve learned to, you might say, compensate — act normal, don’t ye know, though in fact I’m a walking deadman. God’s truth. It happened one night in Philadelphia—’

“ ‘Hush yer tongue!’ says Flint.

“ ‘Yessir. Yer wish is my command, sir.’ Crying like a baby.

“Now Flint drops his arms down, and slowly he pulls his right hand over, still scowling like a grizzly bear, and rubs his chin.

“ ‘I still say kill him,’ says Wilkins, at my back.

“The bird’s still shaking his head, disgusted.

“ ‘A point to consider,’ says Flint, still scowling, ‘is, a fellow as quick with his tongue as young Upchurch might be useful if a man could just depend on him.’

“ ‘I’m yer servant!’ I cry, and I wring my hands, crawling toward him on my knees. The bird’s still shaking his head, sometimes rolling his eyes up as if praying for patience. I think about it, meanwhile bawling, ‘Let me be yer disciple! I’m an eager learner and devoted heart and soul to yer daughter — if I have yer approval, that is.’

“ ‘Yer a good groveler,’ says Flint, and gives a nod. ‘Yer a real professional.’

“The big white bird is getting furious now, moving back and forth like a parrot on a perch, and I strain to read his mind. It pops into my head: There IS no Wilkins. Flint’s throwing his voice. My eyes widen and the bird spreads his wings out. I thought ye’d never guess! thinks he, and I read it.

“I’m weightless, suddenly. As free as the bird. I can rush the old man — big as he is, he’s no match for me. I’m already tensed to do it when I think: On the other hand, for most of my life I’ve been walking around scared to death of him, and now suddenly he’s a humbug, an impotent old goof hardly better than the puppet he scared me with before. My heart fills with joy and I can’t resist.

“ ‘I’ll work hard, sir!’ I say, and crawl toward him some more. ‘I’ll shine yer shoes and brush yer top-hat and feed the pigeons and rabbits, and I’ll learn to play blackjack for when you need some amusement, or chess, if ye prefer, if ye’ve the patience to teach me.’ But then I hesitate.

“ ‘There’s just one thing,’ I say, and crawl toward him some more. I stretch one arm up pitifully and I make my fingertips tremble. ‘It’s not for me to say, but if ye mean to make me yer lifelong slave, you ought to win me, seems to me. It would make me more valuable, so to speak. Ye should win me fair and square, by yer own honest wits, and not by these magical powers — yer command of deadmen. Send away the ghosts, and let us contend in some honest test of ingenuity, as long as it ain’t chess.’

“Flint smiled — a terrible thing to see. Without hesitation, he said,? chess game, or nothing.’

“I widen my eyes. ‘Chess, sir?’ I say. I look terrified, pitiful. ‘Chess is a difficult business, I understand.’

“ ‘Chess or nothing, my friend. Only dumb farmers give even odds.’ He smiles, benevolent, and puts a point on his mustache.

“I ponder the question, and at last I bring out, ‘I don’t think lightly of my cunning, as ye know. Show me the moves and I believe that even in chess I might stand some chance against you.’

“ ‘Done!’ says Flint, and with a snap of his fingers brings Miranda to. She blinks her eyes. I have a curious feeling she’s faking it, never was asleep at all. As for the rest of them, they stand there asleep like a field full of horses in October. She opens one eye wide now, with a befuddled look, and, remembering her ragged half-nakedness, she covers her bosom with her hands and turns away.

“Her embarrassment touches me, makes a fool of me, and I suddenly blurt out: ‘Since yer taking such advantage, let us raise the stakes higher, so if I win, by some fluke, I win big, just the same as you would.’

“Dr. Flint cocks his eyebrow, puts his hands on his hips.

“ ‘Say if I beat you — by some miracle — I win … Miranda.’ ”

“ ‘Never!’ cries Flint’s daughter, with a horrified look.

“He glances at her. She’s misshapen as a gnome, lumpy as a kitten that’s been mauled by a dog. It tickles his fancy. ‘Done, my boy.’ He smiles, looking sly. ‘Yer a mighty confident young fellow, seems to me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear ye were secretly acquainted with the game.’

“ ‘I’m a whiz at checkers, sir, that much I’ll say.’

“Dr. Flint gives once more his benevolent smile.

“So off we go to the Captain’s cabin where the chessboard stands waiting, and we seat ourselves, Miranda peeking out from behind the door. What she’s thinking is more than I can say, but one thing’s certain: Whatever it is she thinks of me, it stands to reason she’s looking at her daddy with brand new eyes. He’d trade her away to captivity for a chessgame — his own daughter! — after all she’s done for him! The door’s behind Flint’s back; he can’t see her look. I muse on it, pretending I’ve got all my attention on the moves he’s explaining, and it comes to me she might not be wholly opposed to being traded into Upchurch captivity. Flint asks me, sly, if I follow the explanation. He’s been purposely confusing. I fumble with the pieces, show my ignorance. She watches me, whether in delight or alarm I’ve no sure way of telling. He explains again, more confusing than before. The ship lies as still as the solid land. At last, I allow I’m ready. With minimal chicanery, I happen to draw white. Perspiring, fingers trembling, I begin the game. Quick as you please we’ve played six moves each.

“Then, like a wild man, Flint leaps up. ‘That’s no game of a beginner!’ he bellows. ‘You’ve opened with the damn King’s Indian!!!’

“ ‘Ambushed!’ cries Miranda, and her face goes wild.

“The old man went white, reaching over toward me. Before I could move, he had his hands around my throat. I pulled away from him, yelping — his hands on my throat were like seething fire — and I raised my fists to defend myself but, alas, no need! Before my flabbergasted eyes — God’s own truth — his face went from chalky white to yellow, from yellow to a terrible, blood-dark red. Sweat came washing in rivers from his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut, his temples bulged, and all of a sudden he was smoking like a pile of old rags, and belching steam. The room filled solid with unearthly stench, and before I could even cry out, he was on fire, a great black furnace on legs, flaming, the top-hat sending up smoke and bits of soot like a railroad-engine chimney.

“ ‘Spontaneous combustion!’ I gasped, and in horror turned my face away. But even as I did so, I leaped toward him, knowing by instinct what I had to do. I tore down a curtain to shield myself, then hugged the bubbling, curdling mass, dragged it through the hatch and across the deck to the rail and pushed it over. It sank into the ocean with a snaky hiss. The sailors on the deck below me slept on.

“ ‘Flint’s dead,’ I cried, and waved my arms. There was no sign of life from them.

“From the cabin behind me came a terrible mournful laugh, and I ran to Miranda.”

XXVIII

The end is upon us; I admit it, honest reader. The inexhaustible supply of tricks is exhausted — almost. Dr. Luther Flint has been raised from mere artifice — a ventriloquist’s dummy! — to a touching spokesman for all criminal, all pseudo-artistic minds. His death, though perhaps not unique in all literature, is one that should drive more ordinary villains to a jealous rage. As for Miranda — but that’s a ribbon not yet tied. She sits observing the ancient mariner with thoughtful eyes. She has half a mind to take control of things herself, and she may do it, too. We know her kind. And the angel will support her (whatever, exactly, that may mean). So will the guest.