No More Lonely Knights, a short story from First Lies, by T.F. Torrey

from First Lies by T.F. Torrey

I knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped into my room. It wasn't the way he looked; he looked just as always, five ten, one hundred fifty pounds, dark complexion, dark hair. It was his overall impression that I found unfamiliar and strange. He carried with him an aura, an aura which seemed familiar to me, but which I couldn't quite place. Looking at him threw pictures of deer on a foggy highway into my mind.

"Care for a game of chess?" he asked.

"Well, I've really got a lot of things to do, I'm working on a thesis for Hack and—"

"It can wait," he said, "let's play a game of chess." He'd been extremely depressed for the past few days, but today he looked better. Maybe that was what was causing my senses to go awry. Maybe things were looking up for him. I hoped so.

"You know where I keep the board, Clint, let's play." I swung my chair around to face the center of my dorm room as Clinton Irving grabbed the chess pedestal from the corner and put it between my chair and the other, careful not to upset the pieces, and took a seat. His hand shook a little as he moved his queen's pawn forward.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Fine," said he. He looked at his watch and then to the ceiling, eyes fairly squinting, calculating. Then he smiled. I moved my queen's pawn forward to his.

He stared at the board a long time before moving, then made a move unworthy of such a thinking time, again with a faintly shaking hand.

I glanced at the board and moved. Again he studied the board, and again he made a move that seemed senseless with a quivering hand. Then he sat back, leaned way back in his chair, wiped his fingertips across his brow, and closed his eyes.

"You sure you're all right?" I asked again.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said, "but these lights are giving me a bit of a headache. Could we turn out a few?"

"Sure," I said, moving to turn out all the lights but one dim light to play by. "Would you like some aspirin for that headache?"

"No thanks," he said. "I took some Tylenol."

"Is it working?"

He looked at his watch. "Yes. It's working."

"When did you take them?"

He looked at his watch again. "About two and a half hours ago."

"And you still have the headache? Maybe you should take some aspirin." I moved to get them for him.

"No," he said, catching hold of my wrist with his hand. His palm was moist and cool. "My head feels fine with the lights down like this. Let's just play chess." His eyes were calm, but the hand on my wrist was shaking.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Fine," he said. "It's your move, Denis."

I glanced at the board and moved, then he moved, then I moved again. He looked at the board for a long time, then he spoke. "Remember how we got to be friends?" he asked.

I said I didn't.

"It was at the beginning of last semester," he explained. "We were at Melody and Jesse's party and everyone got talking about religion. You captured an audience by telling people your belief in weird soul stuff, about how we live many lives here on Earth and elsewhere while our real life, the life we live as souls, exists in another dimension, remember?"

I nodded.

He looked intensely into my eyes. "You weren't just talking, were you? Just telling stories to impress the girls?"

"Clint, we've talked about this a hundred times, two hundred maybe—"

"Not that many times," he interrupted.

"Well, at least twice. You know I believe in that more than I believe in anything else in the world."

"Good," he said, and moved his knight into a precarious attack. I captured his knight with a pawn. We made another few quick moves in silence.

He spoke again unexpectedly. "Remember at that party you were talking about what you believe about people, and you said that for every male there is one female who is exactly right for that male, who is his partner for eternity, his perfect match,"

"His soul mate,"

"Yes, that's what you called her." He paused and then continued. "Remember how you said that our first purpose in life is to find that soul mate, because the rest of the problems in life are better tackled by two?"

I nodded slowly, wondering what he was getting at. We played a few more moves, then he continued, "And remember how you told us about being able to communicate with other people through our dreams—"

"Astral projection," I said. "While we sleep we travel to alternate dimensions, where we can meet and communicate with other people of the past, present, and future. Some people, such as myself, believe these experiences to be reality, while most prefer to think of them as—"

"Dreams," he interrupted. "Most people think they're just dreams. You believe that even now, don't you? You believe in all those things, right? You weren't just talking for the sake of talking, you really believe that, right?" He was nodding for me.

"More than anything else in the world," I said.

"Good, then I'm not insane." He made another bad move. I made a good one and started to doubt his last remark. He made another bad move and I finally couldn't take it any more.

"Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"I'm just curious," he said.

"Curious?" I looked at my watch. "At ten-thirty on a Tuesday night you're curious?"

"Yes," he said simply. "It's your move." He seemed quite a bit more cheerful.

I looked quizzically at him and at the chessboard. He didn't look drunk or smell of alcohol, but his pieces were staggered all over the board in what amounted to neither an attack nor a defense.

"Are you on something?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Don't give me that. What are you on? Valium? Cocaine?"

"I'm not on anything," he said. "I've just been doing a lot of thinking the past week, and none of it was about chess."

"I can believe that," I said, looking at the haphazard positioning of his pieces.

"Why don't we just finish the game, then I'll go and leave you to your work."

That sounded like a good idea to me.

We played a few more moves now. His concentration improved, but I was too far ahead. Soon his king stood alone against my queen, knight, and king. I chased him around the squares a while, then pressed him to the edge of the board, threatening to checkmate him with my queen and knight. He leaned down close to the board, studying the pieces. "With both queen and knight," he announced, "checkmate is inescapable." He nodded to himself, still watching the board. "But without the queen the knight could not force checkmate." He looked up into my eyes. "A lonely knight can not mate. But," he added, "the chances of you losing your queen are fictitious at best." He extended a hand and knocked over his king, resigning. "Since I cannot hope to win, I have no logical choice but to make my loss a quick and painless one. Premature termination is better than a slow and painful death, especially when you can reset the pieces and start over again with your queen. Don't you agree?"

By now I knew what he was talking about. I stood up and moved a step toward the door. "You and I better go for a walk," I said. "We've got some talking to do."

He didn't get up, but leaned back in his chair, watching me, knowing what I intended to do. "I've found her, Denis," he said.

"What?"

"I've found her," he reiterated. "I know who she is, and I know where she is."

"Who?"

"My soul mate."

Now I was really confused. I went back to my chair and sat down. I looked at him for a while, thinking. Finally I thought of a question. "Who—why—what—" I thought for another few moments and decided to start simply. "You found your soul mate?"

"Yes," he said, and from the look in his eyes I could tell he believed in what he had said.

"Then why—what—" This line of questioning wasn't getting anywhere. "Who is she. What's her name?" There was a relevant, logical question.

"Diane," he said, and his eyes shined. "Diane Kraft."

"How—how—"

He smiled. "I'll tell you how I met her," he said, leaning back in his chair. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, puffing for a moment in silence. Then he began: "I met her in a dream," he said.

I sat back in my chair too. This was going to require an unusual amount of open-mindedness. "Yes," I said, not too convincingly. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

"It was a strange dream," he said. "It was quite incredible."

"I'll bet it was."

"And you would win. I was walking down this road."

"Which road?"

"I couldn't tell, really. It was about eleven-thirty at night. I was alone. The moon hovered low on the horizon."

"When did you have this dream?"

"About two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago was a new moon. New moons don't hover on the horizon."

"I know. This was a half moon, and it hung low on the horizon."

"What kind of road was it?"

"It was a slightly paved road."

"A slightly paved road?"

"Yes. It was about wide enough for two cars, but was full of holes and patches and swept over in some places with gravel and dirt and the shoulders were rocky."

"OK. Where was this road?"

"It was near here, I think. It was some kind of back road that wound through the hills in the countryside. The trees, pine trees and birch and kinds like that, pressed down to the shoulder of the road, but there were a few big clearings here and there, and the road kind of wound through the valley."

"And you were walking down this road."

"Yes. I walked along; it was pretty chilly, so I was wearing a thin jacket, but I was swinging my arms at my sides."

"So your hands were getting cold."

"Well, not really. It wasn't that chilly."

"Could you see your breath?"

"No. I told you it was a strange dream."

"And you walked along and then …"

"I came to a junction. The new road cut off to my right."

"Was it a good road?"

"No, it was about the same as the road I was walking on."

"Did you take that road?"

"I didn't have to, because in the intersection was—" He took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. "—a car." He looked at the ceiling, remembering.

"What kind of car?"

"A small, two-door car. Hatchback, I think."

"What color?"

"Blue."

"Light blue? Dark blue?"

"Light blue."

"Was the car moving?"

"No. It was stopped. It had stopped cross-wise on the road. My road. It looked like the car had been driving towards me on the road, had almost missed the turn, had cut the corner sharply, and had stopped, a little better than perpendicular, across the right lane of my road."

"Pointed towards the pine trees or one of those clearings?"

"No. Pointed towards the junction. They would have made it."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Two guys—I couldn't see them clearly, but I'm sure they were guys—were lying on their sides in the right lane of the other road—right before the junction."

"Were they moaning and writhing, as if in pain?"

"No. They weren't moving at all. I could see them as black forms in the hazy edge of the headlights' beams."

"How do you know they were the drivers of the car?"

"Actually I don't. They just seemed like they were the drivers."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing the car doors were open, and the dome light was on, so I could see that there was no one else in the car."

"Except for the two dark figures."

"No, the dark figures weren't in the car. There was really no one in the car."

"So why were the figures in the road and not in the car?"

"I don't know, and it doesn't matter, because standing in the open door of the passenger's side of the car was a girl."

"A pig-faced dog blond?"

"No," he puffed again on the cigarette. "She was brunet, thin, pretty. I could tell, even in the dim light of the half moon, that she was a winner."

"And she was your soul mate?"

"And she was my soul mate."

"How could you tell?"

"It was a dream, but it was real, you know, and I could tell. I knew. I knew that she was the one I was meant for. I knew that she was my soul mate."

"Did she tell you?"

"No. She didn't say anything. She was standing in the open door looking across the hood at the dudes in the road."

"Was she cold 'cause it was chilly?"

"No. She was wearing a coat."

"What kind of coat?"

"It was a light coat, like the kind a skier might wear, nylon with a band of corduroy going around it about halfway down."

"What color was it?"

"Gray?" he said, and puffed on the cigarette. "Gray."

"And then what did you do?"

"I walked up to her, kind of unbelieving at first, you know, because I'd been looking for her for such a long time, and it was kind of hard to believe that I'd finally found her."

"And in a dream at that."

"Yeah," he said, and looked positively into my eyes. "In a dream."

"So what happened when you got to her?"

"I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to face me."

"And what did she do when she saw you?"

"Nothing. That's where the dream ended."

"Did she even see you?"

"No. The dream ended before she could see me."

"So you never got to talk to her?"

"That's right."

"So how do you know she was your soul mate?"

"It was a dream, but it was real. I knew when I saw her she was the one for me."

"Lust at first sight?"

"No! I knew she was the one I was looking for. Something deep inside me told me. Something unexplainable. Something …"

"Is that the only time you ever saw her?"

His eyes met mine; he smiled. "No," he said. "I saw her again the next day."

"In another dream?"

"No. In a newspaper."

"A newspaper?"

"That's right."

"Show me."

He rose weakly to his feet, clutching his stomach with one hand and making a sour face, and I followed him out of my room and down the hall to his. I stood in the doorway while he crossed the dark room, turned on the bedside lamp, and took a seat reclining on his bed, his head leaning against the padded headboard, watching my reaction.

I stood in the doorway blinking in the dim light, not because the light bothered my eyes, but because I had a hard time believing what they were seeing.

What once had been an average college dorm room had been transformed into what could only be described as a shrine dedicated to the worship of an intensely attractive girl. Pictures, some obviously cut from newspapers, others originals taken with a cheap camera, lined every wall, always of that girl. She was definitely a pretty brunet, and she definitely looked good in short skirts. She was a cheerleader, and I recognized the team colors as those of the local high school.

He pointed to a clipping beside his headboard. "This is the first one I saw," he said. "The day after I had the dream." The picture was of a high school basketball player scoring a basket, but captured in the foreground was the cheerleader. The caption of the picture told the girl's name: Diane Kraft.

I noticed the date in the caption. "This was last Monday," I said, "just eight days ago."

"I know," he said.

"How did you get all these pictures."

He lit another cigarette, playing the role of the great detective. "First, I went down to the newspaper archives that the college library keeps, and I looked at all the photo-coverage given to high school sporting events in the past three years."

"Three years?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a drag. "She's a junior in high school."

"OK."

"She had her picture in the paper quite a few times."

"I can tell," I said, looking at the walls plastered with clippings and photos.

"Her cheerleading group went to the state finals last year, took second."

I nodded, turning to look again at the walls. "What did you do after you found out she was so close?"

"I went down to her school and watched for her."

"Was she there?"

"Of course."

"What did you do when you saw her?"

"At first my pulse went up to about one eighty."

"And then what?"

"My head started to throb."

"And then?"

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out weakly in a nearby ashtray. "She got on a bus and rode away."

"And?"

"Well, what do you think I did? What would you have done?"

"I'd have followed her."

"And that's precisely what I did. I followed that bus until she got off and went into her house, and then I parked my car and walked right up and knocked on her door."

"Did she answer it?"

"Yes."

"Did she recognize you?"

"No."

"No? Then what did you do? Try to pass yourself off as a guy selling subscriptions to a magazine?"

"No, I told her straight out what was happening."

"What did you say?"

"Something like, 'Come with me, my darling. You're my soul mate and we are going to make beautiful sweet love together.'"

"And she slammed the door in your face."

"And she slammed the door in my face." His voice was getting breezy. "But," he said, "I was undaunted. I knocked on the door again. Her stocky father answered."

"And then you were daunted."

"Yes," he said. "But only for the moment, for I knew that she had to cheer for a basketball game on Friday."

"Four days ago, two days after her father daunted you."

"Yes."

"Clinton," I said. "Didn't all this hassle kind of make you think that maybe she wasn't your soul mate?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the day I saw her first in the flesh, at her school, and followed her home, she was wearing the gray coat from the dream."

I sighed a little, looked at the floor. "Isn't it possible that you had the dream of the girl and the coat after you saw her picture in the paper, after you went to her school?"

"No," he said, as positively as a weak voice can. "The dream came first."

I looked at the pictures again, tried to think of something to say, some reason why this beautiful brunet cheerleading whiz couldn't be Clinton Irving's soul mate. I couldn't.

"Thursday I stayed here all day, trying to think of some way I could convince her that I was telling the truth, about being her soul mate."

"Did you think of ways to convince her father?"

"No, but I decided that the best way to convince her that I was the one for her was to ask her out and show her what a great time we had together."

"At least that's a plan. Did it work?"

"Well, kind of. I took my camera—"

"—and about eight rolls of film—"

"—and a few rolls of film to the game, so I could pose as a photographer for the campus paper and get right up next to the floor."

"Right up next to the cheerleaders."

"Exactly. And I stayed away from them in the first half, to get my courage up."

"And just in case her father was in the audience."

"They did this show at halftime."

"And you got some great pictures."

"After the game I went up to her. She recognized me and smiled."

"Her father was probably home sharpening his axe," I said, but I don't think he heard.

"We talked for a while. She agreed to go out with me last night. To a movie."

"Then why?" I began, but he cut me off. My words were falling on deaf ears.

"Just before she left she let me take a picture of her. The best of the bunch. It's over the dresser."

I never saw the picture. My eyes stopped at the top of the dresser. "Why?" I cut myself off this time. On top of a clipping on the dresser were two empty Tylenol bottles, lying on their sides next to each other.

"It would have been so nice," his thin voice said.

I pushed the bottles away and picked up the clipping, but I knew what it would say before I read it. I read as much as the headline, and put it back down on the dresser.

Tragic Crash Claims Local Cheerleader.

I looked at Clinton Irving as he lay, barely breathing, on his bed, and I looked at the pictures on his walls, for what seemed to be several minutes, thinking.

And I walked, closing the door behind me as I left, back down the hall, and sat in my dim room. After a while I reset the pieces on my chessboard.