Chapter Four

Art managed to avoid his mother for the rest of the evening. As soon as she captured his king, she challenged him to a rematch. But he couldn’t stand another half-hour or so of that choking noise in her throat, watching her kill and collect piece after piece, until she finally slid a triumphant finger across her throat, imaginary carnations of victory spilling out of the slit she made. He shuddered every time he thought of it. The cloak did nothing to help. 

“I think I’ll go lie down for a while,” he said. 

“Really? Too scared to play your mom?” 

“Actually, I’m too tired.” 

“Oh.” She frowned. “Okay, then. Get some rest.” 

She kissed him briefly on the cheek and let him run off to bed. His room was down the hall from the kitchen, with a creaky wooden door but some much-needed privacy. Dad had placed his suitcase on the single, blue-blanketed bed. Art pushed the bag off and flopped down on the mattress. This was too much for him. He felt like sleeping even though it couldn’t be too much after noon. The bright gray sky outside was irritating; the sun was doing its best to shine down upon him, a red eye in the sky masked by clouds. He wished it would go away. 

He closed his eyes. His head felt like a lake of dark waters, disturbed by a giant stone dropped in the center. The stone was the last twenty-four hours. The stone was this house. The stone was his mother and father. 

The stone was the Chessmen. 

He was hungry but didn’t care. Mom dropped by a can of heated Campbell’s tomato soup as well as a few saltines, but he took a few sips and felt sick. When Mom came by to collect the untouched dish, she frowned and placed a hand on his forehead. 

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?” 

“No,” he said. “Just tired.” 

“Okay. Just don’t take the cloak off. I’ll get you an extra blanket, but don’t take the cloak off.”

But he wanted to. Wrapping himself in the cloak was like sitting in an ice-cold bath. It didn’t quite feel wet, but the layer of fresh cold was enough to keep him wide awake as the sun made its way across the sky. Kept him awake as night fell and the world grew alive with the sounds of the Chessmen. 

He heard Mom outside, probably sipping a cup of coffee with her ivory fingers. Dad was in the kitchen, and there was a sound of two pieces of metal grinding against each other. The sound of sharpening knives. 

He wanted more than ever to throw the cloak off. But it clung to his skin like wet and clammy clothes, sticking to his bones. He shivered under the blankets. 

The knives stopped grinding. Dad said something hushed – perhaps, “I’m going to sleep,” and Mom grunted in agreement. He heard them go into the room, shut the door, and lock it. And the house went silent as the Chessmen stirred in the woods, branches scraping against ivory with the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. The sound of advancement, a troop running through the darkness towards a target. The sound of death, rushing and roaring, sleek and towering, coming closer. 

Art felt himself go stiff. His heart jumped into his throat and stayed there: a large, juicy fruit to choke on. He shut his eyes, and wrapping himself in the cloak was like taking refuge underwater. He couldn’t breathe – he was suffocating in the liquid darkness of the room and needed to come up for air. And he needed to look. He wanted to see what was happening. Wanted to see what was advancing. Wanted to see if Mom was right, if this wasn’t just a game, if her games weren’t really games but something he should be afraid of. If he could trust her, mostly. If he could believe her when she kissed his cheek and muttered I love you and made him feel safe. If he could forgive her for taking him to this house in the middle of nowhere. If she cared about him enough to avoid lying. If she loved him. 

He slid the covers down. Hovered them above his chin so he could escape in a flash. 

The window was glass as clear as water. 

And what advanced from behind the window could have been seen even in a thick fog. It was so brilliantly white, so blinding despite the night, that it flared like a flashlight during dark hours at summer camp. It broke through everything, breaking all barriers of darkness while still carrying its special kind. It galloped from the woods, advanced towards the window, in sync with his thudding heart. 

A knight. Like the one Mom had captured during the chess match with a strangled sound. Only it wasn’t an innocuous chess piece this time – not some treasure knocked off the board by Art’s mother. It wasn’t as big as your index finger, and it couldn’t be hurled across the room in a fit. This was a live piece, a Chessman, riding across the frozen grass. It was like a centaur – the kind Art read about in those Percy Jackson books years ago – but covered in slick marble the color of raw moonlight. It had a horse’s body, and where the torso and legs ended there was a human frame, chiseled and lean, with burly arms holding a silver sword. But when your eyes found the neck, the horse part of the creature resumed, and there was a white stallion rearing back, red eyes glittering like angry beetles, a sneering face familiar in nightmares only. 

It swayed and snorted, screamed in a high, whining sound. The human part of it – the hideous torso and arms – tightened its grip on the silver sword. Sharp, white teeth were exposed as the knight grinned at Art from behind the window. The sword flashed as the arms swung around and around, testing it before getting ready to slash.

Art hugged the cloak closer to himself. He felt the watery material cool down his burning face, putting out the fire of terror burning inside of him. He didn’t like the cloak, but it made him feel protected, nevertheless. The knight’s eyes fixed on him, and for a terrible moment, Art thought that it would charge, a storm of cold skin and ivory strength, and slit his throat with the sword like Mom mimed. But the red eyes, which were cloudy and slightly dazed-looking – not dumb but indiscriminate – did not flare in fury. They decreased in intensity, and the knight backed away, not turning but running backward as it kept its gaze on it, waiting for Art to reveal himself under the cloak. 

Outside the window, waiting. 

Vanishing into the cover of the woods, waiting. 

Leaving a shadow on the dead grass, in the shape of a horse. 

Waiting. 

And Art ran to Mom and Dad’s room, the cloak wrapped around him like the blue blanket he wore when he was three, jiggled at the lock, but realized it wouldn’t budge. He pounded at the door, but his muscles were jelly, and the sound was only a few weak taps. It was him, but it wouldn’t open.

So there was Art, frozen outside of the room. 

Art, not knowing when time started or stopped, if it kept going or not, if any of it passed at all. 

Art, slipping into dreams of white noise and screams as he stood like a statue. 

Art, outside of the door. 

Waiting.