COURTING THE MOMENT

By Thomas Canfield

            “The single turn of a card. Think of it! Such a simple thing, so very ordinary. And yet –how pregnant with consequence!” A’dar stared at Lansdale from across the table. His eyes glittered with a fierce, blistering intensity.

            “And if I should refuse?”

            A’dar leaned back with languid grace. His manner was cool and disinterested. “Certainly you retain that right. Your wishes will be respected. We do not insist that you follow the local custom. It would not be a bet, after all, if it were coerced.” A’dar smiled, revealing a glint of teeth and black gums. “That would be very bad form.”

            Bad form! The Vaus were great observers of etiquette. The most elaborate and refined ceremony governed all facets of social intercourse. Dinner had been an exquisite, choreographed dance, a symphony that contained not a single false note. Everything, from first to last, reflected a commitment to perfection. Yet these same Vaus were the vilest torturers and sadists, cruel and unfeeling, devoid of empathy. In everything they found a means of extracting pleasure. Moderation, restraint – these things were unknown to them. Unwelcome.

            “Five of my men, five of your retainers – those are your terms?”

            A’dar inclined his head, tapped the deck of cards with one finger. “My proposal is quite fair and equitable, Captain. Neither of us stands to gain more than the other. Or to lose more. We are equally exposed and equally vulnerable. That is the beauty of it.”

            A’dar’s eyes danced with relish. If he won, what a prize! Five members of a new species he might torment, scourge and flay, with whom he might explore new realms of agony and pain, new, unimagined, delights. And if he lost – he might still savor the supreme moment of suspense, the blind adrenalin rush when all hung in the balance, when fate and chance aligned, either for or against him. He could never truly lose, no matter the outcome.

            And just as surely, Lansdale could never win. If he lost, he lost. If he won, he acquired possession of the five retainers, owned them outright. He acquired, that is, a blot upon his name, a reproach he could never live down.

            But to refuse? It was an insult to his host and to an ancient and proud People. It was a judgment Lansdale was not fit to render, the easy and empty condemnation of one who stood outside and apart. And it was a direct violation of his orders - which were to procure the goodwill of the Vaus and solicit their future aid and assistance. Lansdale was too much of a Company man to flout such orders, no matter how repugnant and disagreeable they might be.

            “It is not the custom of my people nor my personal preference.” Lansdale’s voice sounded harsh and brittle. He endeavored to moderate his tone. “However, I will defer to my host.” Lansdale managed a half-hearted smile. “That is our custom, always.”

            “Excellent!” A’dar flashed more of his black gums. He spread the cards out, manipulated them with quick, deft movements of his hands. The deck was red and black, adorned with curious figures of silver. A’dar held the cards aloft, shuffled them so that they flew through the air, inscribing an undulating, sinuous curve that resembled the figure of a snake, black body and glaring red eyes. The eyes peered into Lansdale’s own, sought out his soul with cold, lethal certainty.

“You say it is not your custom,” A’dar inquired. “Your people do not gamble then, Captain?”

            A shiver passed down Lansdale’s spine, lodged in his ribcage like the blade of a bowie knife. The cards flickered and collapsed in a compact deck again. “Yes, of course they do. It is quite popular, in fact. But the stakes are nothing like what you propose. We gamble principally for money and the like.”

            “A mistake.” A’dar caressed the cards with the tips of his fingers. “One should wager largely and expansively – or not at all. To approach matters with too great a sense of caution renders life tasteless and insipid, drains it of all piquancy. Do you not find it so?”

Lansdale frowned. “I would not express it in quite those terms. Moderation is a virtue we prize highly – and abandon with reluctance. But then, that is a matter of philosophy and rather beyond my depth.”

            “Ah, philosophy!” A’dar dismissed this with a casual flick of his hand. “The refuge of an arid mind.” A’dar pushed the cards across to Lansdale. “Examine them, Captain. Please. I want you to feel completely comfortable. If you have any concerns do not hesitate to express them.”

Lansdale turned the cards over mechanically. He had never questioned A’dar’s integrity, not for a minute. What mattered to the Vaus was not winning or losing but the stakes involved. Allowing chance to decide the issue – courting that moment, living in that moment – was a form of release, an immersion in the divine. It catapulted the Vaus to new heights, stripped all tedium and ennui from their souls. It was so even amongst his own people. The Vaus only carried it to greater extremes.

            “I’m satisfied.” Lansdale pushed the cards back to A’dar. He gripped the edge of the chair, forced himself to be still. “Shall we proceed?”

            A’dar inclined his head. “We call this game Scuppers. I will draw two cards from the top of the deck and deal a third to you.” A’dar’s voice was husky yet his vowels remained soft and sensual. “In turn, you will select two cards from the bottom of the deck. The third you will deal to me. The color ascendancy of black-silver, black-red or black-black is what we refer to as Silver Antagonist.” A’dar made a delicate gesture of apology and regret. “I am afraid the expression loses much of its vigor in translation. Should you spend more time amongst us, as I hope you will, you will discover that our language is quite subtle and versatile. It expresses an intimacy of thought and feeling which, at first, is not apparent.”

            A’dar leaned forward, selected the first card, placed it on the table. “Red on Black,” he declared. He wet his lips, selected a second card. “Red on Black,” he repeated. There was a sly, self-deprecating irony in his words, an acknowledgement that the hand was quite an ordinary one and did nothing to enhance his prospects.

            A’dar eased sideways along the table, one hand poised in the air. His movements reminded Lansdale of a cat – the perfect fluid grace and naturalness, the utter concentration to the exclusion of everything else. Lansdale understood that, for this fleeting instant in time, nothing else existed for A’dar. The universe had contracted to this one essential and vital act, this supreme confrontation with that elusive and seductive quality that men referred to as ‘chance.’ Or perhaps, Lansdale reflected, contracted was not a just or accurate characterization. The universe had expanded – that was more in keeping with how the Vaus perceived things.

            A’dar selected a card, slid it across the table to Lansdale. “Silver on Black,” he said and made a gracious gesture conceding that, for the moment, the advantage rested with Lansdale.

Lansdale drew two cards from the bottom of the deck. His fingers felt stiff and unwieldy. He wished that he could emulate the perfect poise of A’dar, the confidence and ease of a man immersed in his element. But his nerves were on edge. A tide of adrenalin had seized him and swept him away. He turned over the first card:  Silver on Black. And the second: Black on Black.

            Black on Black! Lansdale could barely suppress a strangled cry. The combination wiped out all the advantage that had accrued to him, left him dangling over the edge of a precipice. One final card – and it would break him or spell his salvation. Lansdale felt almost physically ill.

            “Well, Captain, it is as I said: The single turn of a card.” A’dar’s eyes were distant and dreamy, awash with ecstasy. “Everything is reduced to this one simple gesture. The outcome resides here, within you. You stare, as it were, into the abyss of yourself. It is a reckoning every man must face, whether he would or no.”

Lansdale sat sweated to the chair. He stared at the deck of cards as though it were a poisonous serpent. Were he to move, were he to stretch out his hand, the serpent would strike and destroy him. The snake was real, he had not imagined it. It lay coiled deep within the matrix of the cards. The red eyes stared at him, measured him – found him wanting.

Lansdale lunged forward, seized the cards. He drew one out and slapped it down defiantly. Red on Black. Game, set and match, the Vaus had won.

            A’dar stared straight ahead, lips very slightly parted, hands and body immobile, frozen in the moment. He appeared so remote that his physical form resembled a shell, an empty husk, forsaken and abandoned. The real A’dar, the essential A’dar, cavorted and exulted in the comet’s fiery tail, grappling with that incandescent force that governed the universe – fate, luck, blind, inscrutable chance. A’dar shuddered, blinked, passed his hand over his eyes.

            “Thank you, Captain,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper. “A most engaging pastime. Life affords little that compares with it. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will devote ourselves to business.

“Do not consider that you have lost at cards. For, without knowing you as I know you now, I should never have considered your proposal. One must study a man under duress to know his true nature. Only then does he reveal himself. All else is empty posturing, an exercise in concealment. Confronted with a challenge you did not seek to duck or avoid it. You faced it head on, with all the resources you could summon. If this is ‘moderation’ we will have more of it.” A’dar paused, smiled, revealing black gums, black on black as the card had been black on black. “We shall make a Vaus of you yet.”