The Chess Ghost

Willow-Ford sat on the river. At the town's tail lived Old Zhou, near seventy, who had loved chess all his life. In his youth he kept a stall at the ferry and gambled at chess — won his share of coppers, lost a share of his temper. His wife died early, his son went far; in the house only an old set of cloud-stones remained, worn bright with use.

Each deep night Old Zhou would play alone beneath the window, setting his left hand's stone, then moving the right's for the opponent, talking to himself for company. The neighbors laughed at his folly; he did not mind.

One night after the autumn equinox, the rain stopped. The door creaked; in came a lean young man, old blue gown, mud on his shoes, as if from the riverbank. He did not greet, only said, 'Lend me a board.' Old Zhou was glad and spread the grid between them.

The young man's play was fierce and strange, his stones like knives, yet he spoke not a word — only when the lamp-wick popped would he lift his eyes to the water outside. Old Zhou lost three games straight, sweat on his brow; in decades he had met no such player. The fourth, he poured out all his cunning and forced a draw. The young man's lip twitched, half smile, and he rose: 'That move of yours, Dog-in-the-Closed-Door, is still the old trick.'

Old Zhou froze — Dog-in-the-Closed-Door was precisely the cheat he had lived on at the ferry stall in his youth.

After that, on every rainy night the young man came uninvited, took no coin, played only. Old Zhou began to feel the wrong of it: the man never ate; his shadow on the wall was thinner than a man's; asked his name, he answered only 'Guest beneath the Willows.' One day Old Zhou turned up his dead wife's old ledger and found a pressed page: a certain Duan-yang, a Candidate Liu bound for the exams came to the ferry, wagered chess with a youth, lost a pair of silver hairpins and a blue gown, and threw himself in the river that night. The youth was young Old Zhou.

Old Zhou's hand shook. The next rainy night he set out wine to ask it plain. But the young man spoke first: 'That hairpin was my mother's. I went in the river — not that I blamed you for winning, only that the game was never finished.' And he slid the cloud-stones gently across the board: those very black-and-white the Candidate had staked, which Old Zhou had kept and treasured for decades.

Old Zhou was struck dumb. He thought how all his life he had played men, won what was lost, forgot what was lost, and in the end even the stones in his hand were another's.

The last night, the rain was heavy. The young man came and said, 'Tonight one game only, to a winner.' Old Zhou took black, calmed his heart, and for the first time in his life used not a speck of guile. Mid-game he found himself pressed on every side, plainly losing. Yet suddenly he felt light, as if something had slipped from his shoulders. At the end, black lost by seven. The young man gathered the stones into his pouch, bowed: 'A fine game.' He pushed into the rain and was seen no more.

Old Zhou sat alone by the lamp, listening to the river's endless sound. The next day he sank the cloud-stones in Willow-Ford and gave up chess for good.

The Chronicler says: The world's players fret over the gain or loss of a single stone, not knowing the stones in hand were never their own. Old Zhou loved chess all his days, and every win and loss was another's debt; only when he played one honest game did he learn that beyond winning and losing there is nothing to cling to. And did the ghost, too, wait? He waited for an ending to one game, and for one man's remorse.