The World's Most Exclusive Chess Club

   The World's Most Exclusive Chess Club

My fascination with chess started at the age of six. I used to watch my father play with his brother Bill, each rapt as they studied the board. They would tolerantly pass me one of the captured pieces to play around with, so long as I didn't put it in my mouth. As I grew older they both taught me and played with me. Sometimes when the grown-ups were talking though, I would take down the great big volume “A History of Chess” and gaze at old photos of masters and soak in all sorts of chess trivia, which was a delight to my elders when I recited it from memory later.

When Uncle Bill passed on, eight years ago, he left me his chess set and this desk I write at. It was maybe an odd thing to leave his favourite nephew, you might say, but he knew I loved it, being an antique writing desk adorned with strange old carvings. Many times as a child I had sat in his study, staring at the patterns and imagining strange faces in the swirls. I was a student when he died, reading Social Sciences, and the desk served me well, sentiment aside. When I graduated I worked for various Social Care bodies, depending on when each had funding, occasionally moving house but the desk was the mainstay, my anchor through this time.

One rainy March weekend in Uddingston, at my rented rooms, I was idly tracing the patterns on the desk with my index finger when I noticed something: at first my eye passed over it, then I did a double-take. One of the carvings was fractionally out of alignment with the others. Curious now, I prodded gently at the panel, thinking it had maybe jostled loose and needed repair. My probing fingers touched something and I heard a faint click. The panel came away in my hand and I spied a cavity behind containing a small box and an envelope. Enchanted at discovering a hidden secret, I pulled them out.

I noticed to my slight shock that the envelope was addressed to “Stephen” and was in Uncle Bill's handwriting. My thoughts started spiralling – had I by chance found something he meant me to have all along? The envelope was unsealed; drawing out the contents I saw a letter from Bill and an older manuscript enclosed in its folds. I admit, my hands were shaking as I read Bill's letter; it said:

“Stephen, what you learn today I hope you will only ever share with one person. For reasons that you will come to understand I will say very little here, other than the fact that every word in the attached treatise is true and that you must safeguard the amulet at all times. When the moment comes you will choose someone you have similar trust in. Yours lovingly, Bill.”

Thoroughly bemused now, I carefully picked up the older document. Yellowed with age, slightly worn and neatly folded, it screamed for reverence; I almost didn't want to read it. I had put Bill's death behind me till today, having grieved – this mysterious note from him alluded to things hitherto never guessed at. Nonetheless, I read on:

To my dearest son Ian Ritchie Dalziel, I render this missive in the hope that it finds you fit of body and sound of mind. I entrust to you my tale and a secret I hope you will pass down responsibly through the family in the same manner. Fear not, my boy, this is no scandal to haunt our name but a revelation of wonder. Tell no one else of this letter; what I will relate to you could cause great damage to those I love as a second family; said persons who I know will welcome you too.

Some twenty years and more ago I was a member of a chess club meeting in Edinburgh at a local hall. We had eleven members then, all stout chaps who attended regularly, twice a week. One winter's evening there was snow deep outside and falling still. I and some of my fellows had abandoned play for a while to watch the weather and contemplate our chances of making it home without being snowed in. While we were studying the snowfall though, a good friend of mine Marcus pointed out a slender figure struggling in the road outside. He had no coat on and looked bereft of protection otherwise also, wearing light clothing in general. We cried out in unison, however, as the figure stumbled and fell face-first in the snowdrift, a mere thirty feet from our door. Duty would have compelled any good Scotsman to help and we all rushed out and gathered him up, bringing him in to sit by the roaring fire we had going. We wrapped him up in a couple of jackets in lieu of any blankets and fetched some hot tea with a little whisky in it from one member's hip-flask.

All games of chess had been abandoned now, obviously, and we gathered round the little man as he started to thaw out. He blinked repeatedly, looking confused, then seemed to focus more as we rubbed his hands and feet to get the circulation going. Scottish men are not in general tall and in that regard he could easily have passed for a native; something in his features, however, spoke of an Eastern European background. His clothing was of a fabric I did not recognise, the colours a fairly neutral range of browns and the style almost like a military uniform. When he finally spoke, to express his gratitude, his speech was soft with no trace of an accent and his manner was firm. Shortly afterwards the snow did stop falling and the members start to take their leave, it being after ten in the evening. Assured by the stranger, who named himself just as Michael, that he was well again, we pressed on him a jacket and scarf – one of our members lived locally and had no great need of them, wearing a thick jumper anyway. Michael left, thanking us profusely and promising to return the borrowed items on our next club night, the Thursday.

I put the letter down for a minute. I was beginning to feel like I was there with the writer, who was god knows what - some ancestor of mine and Bill's? There certainly were Dalziel's in our history. My curiosity was getting to me about the box; what was this “amulet”? I opened the little box and saw indeed an amulet sitting there, about an inch and a quarter across, shiny metal with a red rook design on it. Didn't look immensely valuable but time would tell. I left the items on the desk and made a coffee, as much to get some fresh perspective on matters as for the drink itself. Refreshed now, I returned to the page.

Indeed, Michael did return three days later as he had said, earlier in the evening as we were just setting up the chess-boards. While he waited for his benefactor to turn up so he could return the clothing he watched us start to play, a look of growing interest on his face. “What is this?” he asked, to my surprise. “A game, called chess” I replied, wondering who in the world would not recognise that most noble of pursuits. As more members turned up again, Michael was warmly welcomed on sight. He asked if he could be permitted to watch the games being played and we readily agreed. There is nothing chess players like more than an admiring audience. This became a regular thing at the club, Michael spectating over the weeks that followed till one day he summoned the courage to sit and play a game. He lost but we all knew he was another convert from the speed with which he set the pieces up again for another game. Over that first year from when we had met him Michael became an honorary member of the club; each member felt some kinship to this wee fellow we had rescued. His play had improved too – he could at least give a good game to most of us. At the end of that year, however, Michael asked one evening if he could address our club; we, of course, agreed but what he said none of us was prepared for:

“Friends, you have all been good to me, partly in saving me when I would have perished and almost more importantly in giving me the gift of learning this beautiful game of chess. I wish to reward you in turn; I know no reward was asked for but you are all worthy people that I trust. Nonetheless I have to say that what I will show you is in the most absolute confidence. Firstly, I have a small trinket for each of you.” Here he handed out a small box to each of us, which we opened to find a little amulet inside with varying chess-piece designs on the front. He went on “This is no bauble of jewellery though – the simplest way to explain this is to say that I represent a group of people with unusual talents and access to devices not known to most of the world. If you would all press the chess-piece motif on the amulets, things will become clearer.”

I was about to press mine when I saw my friend Marcus disappear into nothing! Then another, Randall, vanished similarly. Those of us still there looked at each other in shock and disbelief. Michael smiled and said “Please, trust me now, there is nothing to fear. Press the symbols and you will begin to understand.” I took a deep breath, pressed the red rook and was instantly elsewhere.

I know this is hard to lend credence to, my son, but you know me and know I have never been a fool. I will say nothing of where I went to, what I saw, save that I had never known such joy or wonder before. I write these words now, small explanation though they are, to direct you to take the amulet from my person, for if you are reading these words then I am deceased. The others will explain all. Yours faithfully, John Robert Dalziel, 25^th June 1859.

I re-read the last 3 paragraphs. This was some sort of practical joke, surely. Feeling like a clown for even considering it possible, I picked up the box with the amulet again, thinking “nothing for it but to press....”

(...A moment of dizziness and darkness; the sensation of falling forward...)

“...Dear lord, what the...?” I blurted out loud. I was in another place! Some sort of large wood-panelled room with tables and chairs set up. As I took in my surroundings, people located around the room, mainly seated at chess-boards, broke into applause, all looking at me.

A man came over, hand outstretched. “Welcome, friend, you must be William Ross's nephew, yes? We knew you would come some day – expected it to be sooner, mind. You must have so many questions.” All I could do was open and shut my mouth inanely like a goldfish. I had dreamt of fantastic adventures but the reality of stepping into one took me aback. The man, who introduced himself as Donald, guided me to a comfortable green leather armchair by a wall and fetched a glass of water from a jug nearby. As I sipped this, he sat in a chair opposite and waited patiently; the other people returned to their activities, mostly playing chess, some studying pieces of paper on the wall or generally chatting. As he had observed, a dozen questions did spring to mind, including Where am I, Who are you people, What do you mean expected and so on, nevermind the even more mundane How is this possible...

In the end, to fill the deepening silence, I ventured “Did you know Bill, then?” Donald laughed and replied “Very good aplomb. And no, I actually didn't – I started coming here just five years ago when my father passed on but I understand he knew him well. Our custom is for the most recent member to greet the newest arrival: that way we find the mentor's sense of wonder at the sights is still fresh and we can empathise with the experience the new recruit is having. Besides which,” he added with a conspiring look, “None of us is in charge nor knows everything anyway. I suppose we had better start with the rules. You must never discuss this place outside its walls nor try to contact members you meet here. No violence is to be committed within this club” – he winked at me here, “not an easy one to contend with, chessplayers being the passionate beasts they are. And, last of all...” he paused for effect “...we never go through that door.” He pointed to a painted red door in the far wall. With that small set of restrictions laid out, he stood and proceeded to give me a brief tour. I will not give an intricate account of the toilets and basic amenities, save to say that they were immaculately presented. There was, however, far more of interest – not everything was gleaned that first day; some of my observations were over time but I will give them to you as part of a more completed description.

Donald saw that my eye had been automatically drawn to, for want of a better term, an exhibit – something I recognised instantly from drawings in the chess history book I had read as a child: The Turk or Kempelen's Automaton as it was otherwise called. It was a mechanical figure of a Turkish gentleman, or his top half anyway, fixed to a large box with a chessboard inlaid on the top. In legend, now, for it had supposedly been destroyed in a fire at the museum where it had come to rest, in 1854 Philadelphia. My guide explained that Michael and his friends had intervened to rescue it and subsequently had upgraded it. As we approached it, the ancient machine spoke, to my shock. “Greetings. I understand you are the newest member. I am the Turk – would you care for a game?” Donald cut in “Not right now, my Arabian friend, just giving him the tour at present. Undoubtedly later.”

I looked at the box in slight puzzlement – the doors at the front were open to reveal the workings inside, underneath the Turk – they looked exactly like the drawings I had seen of him but the compartment to hold a small man in the original design was empty. “Upgraded how exactly?” I asked Donald; he answered wryly “As far as we can make out it is some sort of Artificial Intelligence. It certainly plays a fierce game – no member has ever beaten it. Michael got a draw once, though, or so the story goes...”

This reminded me of a detail that had been bothering me... “Is this Michael a descendant of the original Michael from the first encounter in the snow?” Donald looked a little sheepish here “To be honest we just do not know what the relationship is but generally we are just too grateful to him for the facility he and his friends run here to question our good fortune.” I queried this remark about his friends and Donald explained that there were five of them – staff, he supposed; all faintly similar in appearance, but that may be largely a factor of the uniforms they each wore.

“Do you follow opening theory much?” asked Donald. I replied “Yes, a little – well in some of the lines I enjoy but not enough to play very competitively.” He nodded and led me over to a bookcase on one wall. In it were a large number of volumes which from their spines were identified as each pertaining to an opening or variation of one. “An impressive looking display” I commented truthfully, for the volumes all matched outwardly in format and style and were very smart, “But how current are they? Surely books nowadays struggle to keep up with online databases?” My guide grinned and said “Bang up to date. Try one and see.” I lifted down one volume labelled Sicilian – Classical as I knew a Theoretical Novelty in the Richter-Rauzer that had been played at grandmaster level a week or two before for the first time; when I opened it and followed the theory chain I was rather taken aback to see the new move there, in print, complete with side analysis as given by the players. “Surely not!” I cried out. Donald smiled and explained that although the pages had the look of paper they were a clever enhanced screen technology which formed a semi-permanent record; some evolved descendant of LCD. The records apparently updated via a computer built into the bookcase itself, through the spines of the books. Amazing. I had only been able to determine that the pages felt a little glossy. With awe in my voice, I asked Donald to lead on.

“I don't begin to understand half of the stuff here,” said Donald, “But their company has access to the highest level of military tech in the world, from what little they say. The screen/imaging technology dazzles us most, I think; here is another fine example.” He led me over to a board set up next to an oil painting of two monkeys playing chess. He motioned for me to sit at the black pieces and played an exploratory pawn-to-king-four. He raised an eyebrow at me, from which I admit I did not fully discern his meaning but responded anyway, by playing the Sicilian defence, my favourite. “Notice anything yet?” asked my guide/opponent. I wondered what he meant but could only look blankly at him. Then, as he developed a knight, I suddenly spotted it. In the picture, the monkey on Donald's side of the board had also picked up a knight and deposited it on an identical square on its board. This was no oil painting but a living canvas, to all purposes. I realised then that the picture had originally been of a completely reset chessboard with no moves played, till we had played ours. This was delightful. I played another pawn move and watched my monkey mimic it perfectly. The play continued with this double entertainment till I started to lose the game then noticed to my chagrin that my monkey was slumping further in its seat till it had its head in its hands! With a laugh, then, I resigned my clearly lost position and shook Donald's hand. “Ah, but there's more,” he said and clicked on a small part of the picture frame. The two monkeys were instantly replaced by two venerable sages with long white beards; another press of the tiny switch and they were lovers reclining on twin couches, the board between them. Further transformations displayed, with no seeming loss of quality of the painting: pairs of cats in waistcoats, nuns, clowns on unicycles with the board on a platform balanced on another wheel, robots and finally a very lifelike depiction of Capablanca playing Kasparov – a true fantasy match-up!

I marvelled at all these devices; the mind that had designed and built these systems was that of a true chess devotee, it seemed. As if on cue, the red door opened and two men came through; both were, as described in John Dalziel's letter to his son, dressed in uniforms of shades of brown. One of them smiled and sat down at a table where a club member looked to be waiting for him. The other, though, marched straight over to where we stood and stuck a hand out. “Welcome to the Oddities Chess Club. My name is Michael. I see Donald has been helping you settle in; what do you think of things so far?”

“Very impressive,” I replied, “I am Stephen, Bill Ross's nephew. A true honour to be here, although a bit of a shock to the system.” We chatted for a few minutes, Michael proving how adept he was at putting me at my ease. The more we spoke, the more I got the impression that he was the heart of the club; his calm, pleasant manner seemed to flow outwards across the room. Finally, having secured my agreement to play him sometime, he politely asked Donald if he would continue with my introductory tour. Donald grinned and said “Sure thing, chief.” Obviously there was a good camaraderie there; I had been present just over an hour and already felt a growing bond with this funny little place in God knows where.

“So to leave here I would just press the amulet again, I'm guessing?” “Of course,” answered Donald, “You can leave and return at any time, the place is always open but most of us live in central Scotland so generally the evening is when we congregate. The occasional night-owls will stay longer though.” For now, we continued round the hall. Most of the available wall-space was lined with articles by famous players stretching back a century and a half. I stopped, though, at a display board on the wall, of the type masters use at press conferences after matches. “Tell me that's the regular tournament type and I may faint” I joked. “Well, now you mention it...” Donald laughed and started setting up a complex King's Indian position. He paused and looked at me; I looked again at the display and realised two squares were softly pulsing, indicating a piece to move and a destination square. Maybe not the most hi-tech thing I had seen here – any computer could predict the next best move but another lovely example of the creative engineering this place utilised. I whistled appreciatively.

Next up was quite a thrilling little experience. Donald and I trailed over to where two players were playing a very unusual game of chess. They were calling out the moves and what appeared to be holographic pieces were animating and attacking each other with swords and other medieval weapons, to play out the moves called. I had seen similar programs on computers but this went way beyond that – each battle felt almost individual, nevermind the 3D effect. “If you could market this it could really make chess appeal to the youngsters” I whispered to my guide. He nodded. As I looked closer I noticed that the moves of the game were also getting automatically transcribed onto tablets beside each player as they were called out. I pointed this out to Donald and he informed me that they could be printed if desired. Certainly this looked like the kind of chess that popular culture could embrace, even if it was not really for chess purists.

Other players were using more conventional boards, with nice wooden pieces of standard Staunton design, I was pleased to notice. One thing Uncle Bill had impressed on me when selecting a chess set was that pattern recognition was key; never go for one of these fancy Napoleonic sets unless you want it just to sit there and look pretty but collect dust. What would take some getting used to was that they didn't have to press a button on the chess-clocks they were using: they would make a move and the clock would switch over, the active one highlighted. Certainly useful for time scrambles though. The clock seemed to trigger the split-second the hand left the piece. The same score-sheet tablets were built into these playing tables also.

I was beginning to wonder what more could Donald possibly show me. There certainly was enough here to while away all the spare hours I had. We walked over to some more of the comfortable armchairs seated round a low circular column. It reminded me at first of the listening points in music shops, where you sample albums, as there were a number of headsets hooked into the column. Rather than just being headphones, however, they included goggles attached. We sat and, as directed, I put a set on. A display appeared before my eyes while a pleasant yet androgynous voice read out what it said. I was to wave a control stick, which was also obtained from the central stand, to navigate the menus of available matches – these turned out to be every GM tourney I could think of, going back to 1906. I dipped into one at random, labelled Kasparov vs Kramnik 2001 Botvinnik Memorial and suddenly was immersed in a three dimensional virtual reality viewing of the match as if I was seated in the front row of the audience. Bizarrely, it did not feel like a simulation, more of a recording. I watched a little, while Kasparov brooded and then advanced a pawn.

I noticed that at the edge of the view provided there was a small arrow pulsing away; by using the control stick I was able to pull on this indicator to give a range of functions like on a CD player: pause, fast-forward, rewind and so on. It was as if someone had sat in the front row with a complex recording device and absorbed the sights and sounds, complete with spectators rustling and scribbling notes, just on edge of earshot. I used a menu function to eject from viewing that game and scrolled back into the earliest archive from Maroczy vs Blackburne 1906 Ostend. I was stunned to experience the same quality of sensation. The players so real-looking I felt I could stand up and shake their hands. Surely there was no technology anywhere on the planet of this nature, especially back then...? Maybe this was just simulation after all. To give the lie to that though, a few minutes into this show, someone crossed in front of the field of vision saying “Excuse me. Sorry.” I stared on, compelled; it certainly looked authentic enough.

I took off the headset and asked Donald “Is this real? I mean is this actually recorded or just simulated?” He shook his head and said “Don't really know. When we ask Michael if its real he says its as real as it can be; come to think of it, that's not much of an answer. Things can be like that here; best just to accept them.” He was right, really; I was just so grateful to be there with all these wonders that I let it go, then and later. The VR helmet was definitely something I would go on to enjoy at length. For now, though, I was conscious of keeping my mentor waiting so reluctantly hung it back up on the stand.

“Finally, the piece de resistance” announced Donald, “Are you hungry?” He winked at me with this. “Actually, I suppose so” I answered, not really knowing what to expect. He replied “We have a game for that...” We went over to one of the game-tables and he proceeded to sweep the pieces into a drawer built into the side of the table. To my surprise (lord, how I still had the capacity to be surprised after these few hours, I don't know) the pieces cascaded straight into the felt slots in the drawer for each of them, like highly specific magnets were working their fields on them. Chess-board without pieces....stranger and stranger. This job complete, he strode over to one corner of the room where an odd device stood. It reminded me of, and I had taken it for this at first glance, a microwave oven, having a glass-fronted door and a large array of buttons.

Donald pulled two thin pairs of light transparent gloves from a dispenser on the side of the machine, not unlike the sort that nurses wear in hospitals; he handed one pair to me while donning the other. He pushed a couple of buttons on the microwave-type machine and it flashed briefly then the door popped open. Inside, where there had been nothing visible, lay a tray of what looked like cardboard with a dozen or so small cakes on it. I did a double-take at this manifestation and saw that they were fashioned into chess pieces yet made out of fruitcake. “That's impossible” I cried out, drawing a few looks and knowing smiles from other members seated nearby. I felt a little foolish after that outburst – with all I had seen this day, could I claim anything was impossible any more? The very method that had brought me here was straight out of science fiction and defied explanation. “Not only possible but downright edible” quipped Donald. “It's a food synthesiser – you just hit what type of cake you want and confirm. I'll leave you to pick while I fetch us a pot of coffee.” He took his little tray of delicacies over to the table we had cleared and headed for the coffee machine. I studied the buttons: each had a picture of a cake and was labelled; aside from the fruitcake Donald had selected there was battenburg, carrot cake, chocolate cake, madeira cake, banana cake, fairy cake and something called mooncake. Spoiled for choice, I selected carrot cake in the end, then pressed confirm. Again the miracle of creation. Pulling them out, the cakes felt moist and looked delicious; I took them over to where Donald waited with the coffee and his tray.

“Right then,” he said, “The pieces you play with are the ones I selected – when I capture one I eat it; vice versa for you, obviously.” I should say: although the cakes were crafted in the shape of the pieces, from which you would imagine that they would crumble apart, especially the cross on the top of the king's head, they somehow held their shape despite their light composition; master baking indeed. With our thin gloves on, we set to play. I swear, no cake had ever been so scrumptious and succulent as that first captured pawn. We were playing just for the hell of it, though; halfway through as the positions were fairly level, we switched sides so each could eat the other's cake pieces. The fruitcake again was the best of its kind I had ever had. We eventually, bloated with the spoils of our battle, agreed a draw. It was diverting but quite a strain to eat that much cake. Donald did say, however, that often they would have consultation games where a pair of players would make alternate moves against another pair and usually that spread the captures and subsequent consumption roughly equally.

It had been an unbelievable first day; it left me, however, exhausted. I bade a reluctant adieu to Donald – he knew as well as I did that barring major calamity, I would be back the next night. I pressed the rook motif on my amulet and was back home at my writing desk, scarcely believing my luck. I would have to be careful nobody was in view of me when I triggered it, I mused.

Over the next few months I got to know all the members better, in addition to sinking ever deeper into the home-away-from-home that was the club. I marvelled daily at the features, in particular the VR headsets: I would revel in the feeling of being so close to the players I had stared at in the chess history book as a child. I did also play against Michael and some of his similarly-clad friends; they all seemed to enjoy the game but none so much as Michael. He had a passion for it I have never seen in anyone and I had played with quite a few ordinary clubs over the years, as I had made a point of playing with one wherever my work had taken me. I asked him one time if he had ever played in tournaments, as he was ferociously strong in his play; he just smiled and said that he loved the game, not the winning.

For a few idyllic months things went on this way. Work was like a phantom existence – I flitted around, living only for the time I could get out and head for the Oddities Chess Club. More and more, I sensed the same was true for all my fellow members: they had the calm repleteness there of the truly content. Looking back, I should have known that disaster would strike. For all that the club had been going strong for over 170 years, this happiness was just too good to last, as they say.

It was August and there were just a few of us in the club as it was 1:30 am; the only reason anyone was there at all was it was Saturday morning and we did not have work the next day. I was playing some quick games with Michael while Donald and Frank, another member, were finishing a longer game. The time control on our clock was just ten minutes each per game and I played a quick bishop move, stalling for time, a little bit unnerved as Michael was sitting staring at the board. His expression did not even flicker as I made my move and I started to realise something was wrong. “Michael?” I asked, concerned. No response. I hastily got up and clapped him on the back, not knowing what else to do. The others noticed and came straight over, too. Michael suddenly slumped to one side and I barely caught him, so abrupt was his collapse. I have no medical training but I could not feel a pulse and this obviously scared me. I told the others this and they both looked at me, slightly panicked. Everyone liked and respected Michael and we felt powerless to help him now when he needed us. There was no one else around and only one avenue help could come from. Donald and Frank started hammering on the red door and calling for aid.

Desperate now, I took Michael's passkey-card for the door from round his neck and flashed it at the card-reader. The door clicked open. All we had seen before when Michael and the others had passed through was another short wood-panelled corridor ending in a T-junction. I wandered as far as this junction still calling for help. I looked up just as running footsteps reached me from the left and saw two of the others. “Through there, its Michael, he's not breathing and I can't feel a pulse” I pleaded. They bore him up and took him through the red door and it closed behind them. Left with Donald and Frank, all we could do was sit and wait, worried. For all that I felt the same as them, I could not stop my mind going to what I had seen beyond that junction. The wooden corridor was clearly just like that far enough to allay suspicion for anyone viewing from the playing hall. Beyond that were metal walls and portholes onto space.

Space. It didn't really shock me: everything was just too far advanced. And, I was surprised to note, it did not scare me – Michael and his...his crew...had proven their friendship over the decades. The fact they were alien at least put my questions to rest about ...well, about everything. After a while, the two crewmen came back out – they assured us that although Michael was not conscious he was stable. It was a defect in his heart that could only be cured by a specialist they would have to take him to. Frank and Donald looked a bit more relieved at this. Myself, I wondered just how far away this specialist was. My fears were confirmed when one of them, called Raymond I think, announced that the club would have to close while they sought help for Michael and may not be open again for some time. We nodded at this – without Michael the Oddities was just a collection of devices, marvellous though they may be. The amulets would work just long enough till when the last of the eleven members checked in, to make sure everyone knew. All the members would be told also that the club would probably not be available for quite some time but to keep their amulets safe; they would start to vibrate when the club reopened.

Raymond asked me to stay a minute after Donald and Frank left. He explained that Michael was now held in stasis but would be easily healed back home; the condition was not unknown to them. They would wait for the other members then head back – they were essentially a survey ship tasked with sending back data, a duty which they had faithfully discharged but had gotten incidentally caught up in the love of the game of chess, through their captain and his encounter that fateful evening back in 1837. Yes, he was the original Michael, a fact that I had known really yet still filled me with awe. No doubt, Michael would want the club re-established once he was fit again; meanwhile they would take back their knowledge of chess to their people – probably by the time they returned most of the crew would be different as more people would want to try this fascinating game in its home environment, on Earth. I assured Raymond that their trust was justified.

I said my goodbyes then; I did not know then and do not know now whether I will see them again. I keep the amulet in my pocket always, hoping. Occasionally I see one of the members across a chess tournament room and we exchange a sad smile. We all lost a lot when the aliens left – we all would keep our secrets till they returned. I, for one, write this journal so that my own nephew will know what joy awaits him when he succeeds me as bearer of the amulet. I know not whether they will return in my lifetime but I hope. I daily hope. For now, I will teach him this treasured and beautiful game that has reached across cultures and worlds and I will wait.

Great!

Thanks.  Longest piece I have done or am likely to do.

You have a gift, sir; engrossing from start to finish.  Thank you.

Bravo! A nice, entertaining bit of story-telling - on a subject we all love.

[COMMENT DELETED]

It had been in reply to someone's generous help about publishing advice; I think the moderators must have removed his comment as it mentioned outside sites.

  A very engrossing story!

Thanks to everyone for the kind comments.

Just stumbled upon this story while doing a search.. wow!  I would have never imagined such a creative short story could be written about chess..  Excellent job!

THIS IS AMAZING. My chess coach, Micheal (coincidence? I think not...) told me to look for interesting things on the forums and then I found this... *Emailing story the Micheal* Excellent job!

Thanks guys.  It came as a shock to me to realise that was 2 years ago since I had looked at it.  Not writing a lot at moment due to outside influences but am in middle of finishing 8th chapter of something I regret taking on - it was too big a job for my chaotic life.  I am genuinely touched by both your messages, thanks.

What a wonderful story! Thanks for sharing.

An interesting work indeed,...but from the other comments, they obviously don't have an amulet themselves.  I haven't used mine for awhile, as my work has kept me busy in the hospital where I work.

definitely not plagiarised

Reading it I thought you wrote it yesterday