THE SEVENTH SEAL

(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles., Vol. 1, No. 1)
861 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative


JANUARY 17, 1994

Conor Murphy sat in his living room in Walden Puddle. Conor was playing chess with Death. He had done so for fifteen years.

Death is what Conor called Miguel.

Conor and Miguel, whose last name was Contreras, had become friends in high school, warming the bench of the Walden Puddle Purple Finches for four seasons while their teammates played baseball on the field.

After high school, carrying butterfly nets, the two had worked together in the quality control department of the Walden Puddle Cheese Consortium. They were guided by a motto they'd invented while removing a catcher's mitt from a vat of cheddar.

The motto was: "What people don't know can't hurt them."

The catcher's mitt was Conor's, and he had rarely used it. Now, disillusioned, he threw it away. Miguel watched with empathy as his friend's dreams of glory sank into the brine.

The mitt would have stayed there, eventually ending up as small, stringy imperfections in sandwiches and party snacks from Bennington to Nashua to Boston, but a supervisor saw Conor do it, and she made the boys fish the foreign object out.

Their creativity stifled, Conor and Miguel started playing chess on the job, each preferring chess to work. They continued playing, through the mail, after Miguel moved to California. Now they communicated their moves to each other by the Internet.

In fifteen years, Conor had never won a game.

When Miguel e-mailed his moves to Conor, he would type on the subject line: Checkmate Inevitable. He would sign off: “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

This game was different.

Distracted by food poisoning, Miguel had blundered badly, leaving his queen undefended. Conor never would have noticed, but a chess-playing friend happened to be visiting as he executed Miguel’s disastrous move.

“She’s naked,” said Conor’s friend.

“Where is she?” said Conor, looking around.

“Utterly naked.”

“Good. But where? Where is she? Where is she?”

“The other guy’s queen,” said Conor’s friend, pointing to the chess board.

Miguel’s position was now perilous. Conor’s friend explained to Conor why this was so, and how checkmate could be attained in five moves or less.

He explained it many times.

“I don’t want any help,” said Conor. “This is a game for gentlemen.”



Six months later, Conor had Miguel on the verge of checkmate.

“In your face, Death,” he muttered, as he prepared to e-mail Miguel the fatal blow: Knight to queen’s bishop seven. At the end of the e-mail, in capital letters, he typed a word he had never used before: CHECKMATE.

Just as Conor was about to click-and-send his triumphal message to Miguel — after fifteen years of what he rightly perceived to be humiliation — the news came on the radio.

There had been a magnitude 6.7 earthquake in the Los Angeles area during the early morning hours, causing a number of deaths, hundreds of injuries, and significant damage to many homes and businesses. The quake's epicenter was thought to be in Northridge, ten miles from Miguel's home. Conor lunged for the telephone. He dialed. Death answered.

“Hey, man, are you guys okay?” Conor asked his old friend.

“Yeah. We’re okay. Lot of broken glass. No one's going barefoot here. But we’re okay.”

“Thank God for that,” said Conor. Miguel was moved by the urgency and concern in his friend's voice. “Because now,” continued Conor, “I am about to kick your ass.”

“What?”

“Your king is dead. Long live my king.”

“What?”

“Knight to queen’s bishop seven. You’re toast, pal. Want a rematch?”

“Conor. We’ve got enough trouble here at the moment, and for the record, my computer got fried.”

“What?”

“Power surge. During the quake. Hard drive. Gone.”

“You don’t use a surge board?”

“No. In retrospect, perhaps I should have.”

“You can’t get e-mail?”

“We can't get running water.”

“Then look at your chess board. Just move my damn knight to queen’s bishop seven and take it like a man.”

“Conor. What do you think happens to tiny little chess pieces during a magnitude 6.7 earthquake?”

“Ahhh.”

“At some point, maybe we’ll reconstruct the game, when I get a new computer. Right now, I have to think about reconstructing parts of my house.”

“When will you get a new computer?”

“In the future.”

“Not enough! I demand satisfaction now!”

“Sometimes, Conor, to paraphrase Mick Jagger, we can’t get no satisfaction.”

“You’re faking this! There was no earthquake!”

“Why, then, do I see the bright blue sky when I look at my ceiling?”

“You lie! Sore loser!”

“Calm yourself, Conor. Do you want to know how violent it was?”

“Sure. Make something up.”

“This is true, Conor. In the fridge, we had seven containers of yogurt. Each of those containers had, across the top of it, a freshness seal.”

“So?”

“The earthquake was so powerful it ripped open the freshness seals on six of those seven containers of yogurt. That’s how strong it was.”

“It ripped open six seals?”

“Six seals.”

“That’s only six,” said Conor. “The seventh seal is intact! Play chess, dammit!”

Miguel sighed. He had known Conor a long time. “Let me check,” he said.

Conor waited. Miguel looked in the refrigerator.

“I was wrong, Conor. It ripped open the seventh seal, too.”

“The seventh seal?”

“The seventh seal.”

They were silent.

“So I can’t say checkmate to you?”

“Conor,” said Miguel. “We’ve got some pretty heavy stuff to deal with on this end. Can we call this game a draw?”


THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE

On October 18 at 7:00 p.m., the Walden Puddle Chess Club will hold a Beginners-Only Blindfold Chess Tournament.

"If you're an average-t0-poor player, blindfold chess is fun," said Clive Rensworth, the club secretary. "You'd probably make the same dumb moves if you could see the board. We'll also have a piñata."

No radios or other sophisticated musical devices are allowed on Chess Club premises.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The 12th annual pre-Columbus Day softball game between the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative (WPWU) and stagehands from the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts was called after one inning — for the twelfth consecutive year — because of the mercy rule. The score at that point was 41-0.

Whitman Bowman, manager and founder of the WPWU Softball Initiative, has told us, "It's getting to the point where I hate those brutes."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The pre-Halloween luncheon at Walden Puddle First Unitarian has been moved to the church's old fallout shelter. It will be held on Sunday, October 25, right after the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker, pastor, has, in her words, "facilitated a sensitive and inclusive worship meeting."

The presentation topic at this year's luncheon will be: "What Can We Learn From Wicca?"

"You don't have to attend church to enjoy the food," the Rev. Dr. Walker emphasizes. "Just come whenever."

Because many have asked: Mrs. Agnes Stuart has again offered to treat the congregation to her wild-mushroom cobbler with homemade elderberry preserves.

You didn't hear it from us.


NEXT POST: October 26, 2009

FEATURING: "The Possum Referendum," including a spirited town meeting, angry words, threats of mayhem, and a broken bone ... yet absolutely no violence. How can that be? It can.

INTRODUCING: "The Bears of Walden Puddle," to be offered regularly as a public service, since bears outnumber humans around here. It will be written by freelance animal behaviorist Dr. Ursula Whipple, author of many unpublished scholarly articles and poems about bears, and referred to by herself and her mother as "the Jane Goodall of the North Woods."

BONUS ITEM: How to make a good impression at the Last Judgment.


All printed matter in Walden Puddle © copyright 2009 by Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos and artwork reproduced with permission.