"Henry"

A collaboration by Pierre C. Arseneault and Angella Jacob

The dark blue mountain bike that Alex Billingsworth was riding whizzed past the majestic oak trees that lined the green near the waterfront. Across the bay, Oakwood Island could be seen through the hazy summer air. It was a hot August afternoon in the town of Anchor's Point, and only a slight warm breeze carried off the water and onto the mainland. Alex, a slim and meek teenager, decided to stop by Anchor's Point Park before he started his late shift at the hardware store that day. Having been employed at the store as a general clerk meant that he was always the one being called on for errands and the small jobs that nobody else wanted. He had done cleanups, carry outs and restocking since he was hired at the end of the school year, a few months prior. He liked his job. The money he made was spent on expanding his growing collection of vintage comics and cinema outings with his friends. As much as he liked his job, he felt the summer had gone by without much time for relaxation. To balance things out, Alex had been going to the park every week to meet up with the regulars that brought along their chess pieces to play on the chess-top tables in the park. About half a dozen of these tables adorned the green. The players were mostly older gentlemen, longing for companionship and healthy competition. Alex had played most of the faces that gathered there just after lunch on weekdays. He knew which ones would try to distract him and slide a piece when he wasn't looking. He remembered who had grandchildren and who never talked of anything but the weather and the game. Yes, most faces he recognized and could predict his win or loss on the checkered tabletop. As his bike neared the park, he slowed down a little, eyeing the possible challengers. He saw that all the tables were occupied, and games were in progress. All tables, except for the furthest away, which sat square in the middle of the green, where no oak tree stood over to provide shade and relief from the sweltering sun. As he made his way across the thin gravel path with his bike, through the green and between the trees, he recognized who sat at the sun soaked table. As on every other heat record-breaking days during summer, he could be found sitting at the most uncomfortable and sizzling table at the park. The man was the only regular that Alex had yet to play, and he wasn't altogether sure that he wanted to either. Henry appeared to be in his mid to late seventies, based primarily on the lines and wrinkles that adorned his face. He consistently wore the same ragged clothes to the park. His deep brown leathery skin always moist with perspiration, the dark circles that seeped through the underarms of his off-white button down shirt seemed as fitting as the ketchup stain down the front pocket. The old man's brown fedora hat sat perched on his head, the edges frayed by years of use. On the few occasions that Alex had seen him on the green, he had studied him with sympathetic curiosity. Henry was obviously a vagrant, or a drifter, usually sitting alone in the park. If someone happened on him and their eyes locked, he would grin widely and eagerly invite the passerby: “Play you for your soul....” he would say in his deep and hoarse voice. Most people would walk away with a quickened step, smiling sympathetically, but uncomfortable with the old man's obvious mental state. His dark eyes would hold a stranger in a stare for what seemed like an eternity, and this was exactly what made many locals reject him. Nobody really knew where Henry lived, or if he had any family in Anchor's Point. One day he had just arrived in town, carrying his black velour bag that held his game pieces. Nobody talked of him, but exchanging glances with each other, the locals all knew what they needn't say out loud. The game of chess seemed to be the only true friend that Henry had found in Anchor's Point.

Alex's slowed down as he approached the middle of the green, near the centre table where Henry sat. The old mans' eyes tracing the path from which the young boy had made his entrance. He cocked his head downward and to the right, his eyes peering over the rims of his glasses, staring intently at Alex as he brought his bike to a complete stop. Alex inexplicably had a shiver run up his spine, even though his work shirt was starting to get damp in this record-breaking heat wave. Alex stood over his bike, examining the old man, trying to somehow uncover the dark secrets that laid behind those intense eyes. What caught his attention were the game pieces that Henry was setting out on the table. Black, hand-carved pieces lined up in two equal rows on Henry's side of the board. Ignoring a slight hesitation from within, Alex stepped down from the bike and started walking towards the centre table, every fibre in his body warning him to turn back, hop on his bike and just go wait out the start of his shift at the local pool, where he could eye some pretty girls in bikinis. Instead, the old man's stare pulled him in. With a chuckle in his voice, he smiled through a mouthful of rotten, old yellow teeth and asked Alex the same question he'd asked so many others before, “Play you for your soul....”

Alex smiled back and nodding he replied, “Sure buddy, let's set up my side of the board and we'll see if you can have it or not”. The old man chuckled and brought out the white hand-carved chess pieces, lining them up one by one in their respective spots, perfectly spaced on the miniature royal courtyard that was the tabletop. Once the board was set, the game started and the conversation ended. They laboured over every move, taking time to ponder the possible ones that were coming next. The sun penetrated the pair's space, moving ever so slowly, casting shadows alongside the pieces, growing longer with each passing minute. The game seemed to take make time stand still, each move longer than the prior, an indication of both their strong skill of play. Alex was a bit surprised that Henry was this good. He had thought him to be disturbed, but it became obvious with his adept moves on the board that this wasn't his first go round. Eventually, the few remaining pieces on the board set out to be in Henry's favour, and Alex swallowed hard before he said “Well I guess you win today....I can't believe you beat me old man, but you did....” Henry grinned again, his stare uncomfortable. “I have to get to work now mister, thanks for the game....” As Alex began to get up from the table, Henry reached across to collect the pieces of the game, but not before brushing the young mans' hand with his own. An electrifying sensation came over Alex in the instant the man's hand touched his.

The old man stared intently as Alex inexplicably became agitated and anxious. He backed away slowly, unsure of exactly why his heart had begun racing and his breathing had become rapid. He turned and grabbed his bike with both hands, jumping on it and pedalling off as fast as his skinny legs would allow, not looking back even once, for fear that Henry would be following him. Feeling the man's eyes on the back of his head was enough confirmation to Alex that he would not be accepting any more chess challenges from this fellow.

Although it was very hot that day, Alex felt his body become unnaturally hot as he made his way toward the hardware store. He didn't feel ill, but he was starting to burn up. Wiping the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead with the back of his hand, he felt the red-hot heat emanating from his skin. He could feel a few blisters forming, even though he had been wearing his ball cap. He knew for certain that this was no sun burn. He kept riding towards the store, his shift soon to start, he rode his bike as fast as he could. While he made his way towards the centre of town, he tried to replay the moves of the game he'd just lost against old Henry. He rarely lost a game. He'd been to plenty of regional and even provincial tournaments and won most of them. When he did lose a game, which wasn't often, he retraced the moves to see where he'd gone wrong. He obsessively went through it in his head, his legs pumping to keep moving as fast as he could. With his thoughts on the game, and the increasing heat spreading throughout his body, Alex never noticed the delivery truck making the left turn onto Water Street just as he was cruising down in that direction.

* * *

Bill was making his usual Tuesday afternoon delivery run to the hardware store. He had rolled down his windows, the breeze flowing in. He enjoyed the trip to Anchor's Point as he loved the smell of the sea. Following the green near the waterfront, he made his way down the road. The regular sight of sunbathers, dog walkers and chess players in the park, Bill smiled and drove on. Just as he was about to turn onto Water Street, he noticed an old black man standing on the outer edge of the green, with his long outstretched arm waving an old brown fedora hat. Bill felt a knot in his stomach, though unsure why, he waved back. The old black man grinned widely, with a strange look on his face, then placed his brown hat back onto his head. As soon as Bill set his eyes on the road again, turning onto Water Street, he saw what he could not avoid. The teens' eyes were as wide as his own, shock filled them both.

Bill the delivery driver, stunned, slammed on the brakes hard, but it was too late. Alex's bike smashed into it, his body hitting the truck with a powerful force, bones crunching on impact. As the driver came out running, he yelled over to the gathering onlookers to call 9-1-1. Across the street, still standing on the green in his dirty white button down shirt, the black man stood watching. Bill called out to the stranger, a lump forming in his throat: “I never saw him, I swear....”. The old man nodded with a smirk and whispered “I know Bill...I know....”. Looking down at Alex' contorted limbs and bloody torso, Bill swallowed hard. He was in disbelief of what he was seeing, this young man had greeted him often at the hardware store when he had brought deliveries. He recognized him only by the green and yellow polo uniform shirt with the name “Alex” on the name tag. The only difference now was that the tag belonged to a battered young man instead of the vibrant and energetic one that had opened the door to him every Tuesday all summer long. Bill looked up again to call the old man over to help him move the tangled metal off of the teen's legs, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. The green was empty of people now, every last one of them had rushed alongside the road to see what had happened. The old man seemed to have simply vanished into thin air. Bill looked down again as Alex gurgled, his own blood starting to slowly drown him from within.

* * *

Alex, though still conscious, was only aware of one sensation, and that was the heat that grew stronger and hotter from within. His eyes staring up at the blue sky and the brightness of the afternoon sun, he felt his boiling blood pumping through his veins. Then, the sensation seemed to ease up and the world went dark around him.

When the ambulance arrived a few short minutes following the accident, Alex was hardly recognizable. Severe blisters covered his face and his broken body. It was obvious he had died of his injuries due to the impact of the truck, but it was unclear to everyone however, how the blisters had formed. Looking at him, the paramedics assumed he'd suffered burn injuries, but they couldn't make sense of why he'd been riding his bike if this was the case. They closed his inanimate eyes and covered his body with a blanket, while people watched with morbid curiosity the scene of the accident on Water Street.

Across the street, past the crowd and the green, below the boardwalk and onto the shore, there were a set of footprints in the damp sand. Each one deeply imprinted, they walked straight out from the bottom step of the wooden boardwalk and towards the water's edge. Before the prints reached the sea however, they abruptly disappeared, almost as though whoever had walked that path had simply vanished before reaching the sea. Where the foam of the swaying waves formed, several small pieces of black and white floated with the current. The pieces were hand-carved, wooden kings and queens, knights and rooks, and small pawns dancing together merrily on the open sea, carrying them towards Oakwood Island. Their path clear, they floated with accurate precision towards their owner, who would once again fetch them in his black velour bag when they were needed.