" 'Oh, the deception and villainy of man!' said the widow.
" 'Frightful, my dear ma'am; but compose yourself,' said Tom Smart.
" 'Oh, I can't compose myself,' shrieked the widow. 'I shall never find any one else I can love so much!'
" 'Oh yes, you will, my dear soul,' said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest sized tears, in pity for the widow's misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow's waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clapsed Tom's hand. She looked up in Tom's face and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.
"I could never find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn't, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.
"At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour after, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-colored gig with red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down."
UNICORN VARIATIONS
by Roger Zelazny
Chosen by Fred Saberhagen
I think all Zelazny stories tend to be special, but some more so than others. In the early Eighties I was putting together an anthology having to do with chess, or chesslike games, and naturally (hopefully) I asked Roger to contribute something new.
What I didn't know was that two other anthologists had made similar requests at almost the same time one seeking a story about unicorns, the other a tale set in a bar. Roger, being a practical man, wondered if one story might satisfy all three of us; and being a considerate gentleman, he was careful to clear the idea with all of us before proceeding.
So here it is a unicom who plays chess in a bar.
Fred Saberhagen
A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature swirl of black ashes assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.
Gone again. Back again. Again.
Power, you said? Yes. It takes considerable force of identity to manifest before or after one's time. Or both.
As it faded and gained it also advanced, moving through the warm afternoon, its tracks erased by the wind. That is, on those occasions when there were tracks.
A reason. There should always be a reason. Or reasons.
It knew why it was there but not why it was there, in that particular locale.
It anticipated learning this shortly, as it approached the desolation-bound line of the old street. However, it knew that the reason may also come before, or after. Yet again, the pull was there and the force of its being was such that it had to be close to something.
The buildings were worn and decayed and some of them fallen and all of them drafty and dusty and empty. Weeds grew among floorboards. Birds nested upon rafters. The droppings of wild things were everywhere, and it knew them all as they would have known it, were they to meet face to face.
It froze, for there had come the tiniest unanticipated sound from somewhere ahead and to the left. At that moment, it was again phasing into existence and it released its outline which faded as quickly as a rainbow in hell, that but the naked presence remained beyond subtraction.
Invisible, yet existing, strong, it moved again. The clue. The cue. Ahead. A gauche. Beyond the faded word SALOON on weathered board above. Through the swinging doors. (One of them pinned atop.)
Pause and assess.
Bar to the right, dusty. Cracked mirror behind it. Empty bottles. Broken bottles. Brass rail, black, encrusted. Tables to the left and rear. In various states of repair.
Man seated at the best of the lot. His back to the door. Levi's. Hiking boots. Faded blue shirt. Green backpack leaning against the wall to his left.
Before him, on the tabletop, is the faint, painted outline of a chessboard, stained, scratched, almost obliterated.
The drawer in which he had found the chessmen is still partly open.
He could no more have passed up a chess set without working out a problem or replaying one of his better games, than he could have gone without breathing, circulating his blood or maintaining a relatively stable body temperature.
It moved nearer, and perhaps there were fresh prints in the dust behind it, but none noted them.
It, too, played chess.
It watched as the man replayed what had perhaps been his finest game, from the world preliminaries of seven years past. He had blown up after that surprised to have gotten even as far as he had for he never could perform well under pressure. But he had always been proud of that one game, and he relived it as all sensitive beings do certain turning points in their lives. For perhaps twenty minutes, no one could have touched him. He had been shining and pure and hard and clear. He had felt like the best.
It took up a position across the board from him and stared. The man completed the game, smiling. Then he set up the board again, rose and fetched a can of beer from his pack. He popped the top.
When he returned, he discovered that White's King's Pawn had been advanced to K4. His brow furrowed. He turned his head, searching the bar, meeting his own puzzled gaze in the grimy mirror. He looked under the table. He took a drink of beer and seated himself.
He reached out and moved his Pawn to K4. A moment later, he saw White's King's Knight rise slowly into the air and drift forward to settle upon KB3. He stared for a long while into the emptiness across the table before he advanced his own Knight to his KB3.
White's Knight moved to take his Pawn. He dismissed the novelty of the situation and moved his Pawn to Q3. He all but forgot the absence of a tangible opponent as the White Knight dropped back to its KB3. He paused to take a sip of beer, but no sooner had he placed the can upon the tabletop than it rose again, passed across the board and was upended. A gurgling noise followed. Then the can fell to the floor, bouncing, ringing with an empty sound.
"I'm sorry," he said, rising and returning to his pack. "I'd have offered you one if I'd thought you were something that might like it."
He opened two more cans, returned with them, placed one near the far edge of the table, one at his own right hand.
"Thank you," came a soft, precise voice from a point beyond it.
The can was raised, tilted slightly, returned to the tabletop.
"My name is Martin," the man said.
"Call me Tlingel," said the other. "I had thought that perhaps your kind was extinct. I am pleased that you at least have survived to afford me this game."
"Huh?" Martin said. "We were all still around the last time that I looked a couple of days ago."
"No matter. I can take care of that later," Tlingel replied. "I was misled by the appearance of this place."
"Oh. It's a ghost town. I backpack a lot."
"Not important. I am near the proper point in your career as a species. I can feel that much."
"I am afraid that I do not follow you."
"I am not at all certain that you would wish to. I assume that you intend to capture that pawn?"
"Perhaps. Yes, I do wish to. What are you talking about?"
The beer can rose. The invisible entity took another drink.