Written for English Literature class. From William Shakespeare's The Tempest
A Game of Chess
Ferdinand was not interested in books. He brushed their weathered spines with his fingers—books without titles. They lined the wall, row upon row. He wondered if she had read any of them.
"You are not fond of reading?" Prospero approached him; his voice startled the younger man. "You must never touch them," he told him solemnly, taking the boy's splintered hands into his own. He gave a sigh. "Do you play chess?"
"I learned, yes," Ferdinand stammered, a little bemused.
"Very good; there is a board—there." The former duke motioned towards a dark corner, prompting Ferdinand to stoop to retrieve the board that was hidden there, its checkered pattern barely distinguishable beneath gossamer of cobwebs and dust. "Miranda and I have not played in ages. You have finished your task?" He laid the board across the small table between them.
"Yes, I hauled every log."
"No distractions?"
"No," he heard himself say with haste. "No, no distractions."
"Good." Prospero nodded satisfactorily, untying the pouch secured to his belt. Humming a peculiar song—one Fernando had heard before—he loosened the string and let the pieces fall onto the board. "Will you be black or white?"
"Whichever one you choose for me," Ferdinand found himself saying.
"Very well—you are white."
They played in silence. At his every turn, Prospero would hover his hand over a piece, careful that he did not touch it before he had made a decision. While Ferdinand was quick to move his pieces, Prospero took much time. He stared at the table and closed his eyes; "I am envisioning the board," he said, ending the silence, "so that I know what it will look like if I make this move—or that move."
"Ah, I have one of your pawns," Ferdinand said, yawning.
"I let you have her."
"Oh?" He looked up at the books again, narrowing his eyes at them like he could read their spells through their covers. "Everything is your stage," he remarked quietly, shifting uncomfortably on his stool. He had not meant to be bold. "You play the island like you play your game of chess."
"What are you talking about?" Prospero asked, laughing lightly. "It is only a game of chess. There—I have your king in my grasp."
"Why do you do it?" Ferdinand wondered. "Why did you bring me here? I know you know where my father is, and everyone else. The tempest was the fault of your… library, was it not?"
"Perhaps. You are very clever, Fernando. Do you love my daughter?"
"I think so—yes, I do. Very much."
"Good. There is nothing that you should fear, then. You will marry my daughter; Naples and Milan will be united. Everything is as planned. My brother used politics against me; I used magic against him. I have proved my point."
"Am I really in love with her?" Fernando questioned, bewildered. "Or is it all some kind of spell?"
Prospero shrugged again. "That I don't know… love—it's tricky."
Ferdinand sighed as he watched Prospero make his final move. He saw Miranda standing at the door, studying him like a painting.
"There," Prospero said, "I have won." He rose up from his stool to pick a book from the shelf. "Miranda, would you like to play him next?"
