...The train ride to the valley was uneventful. Gableplunk sweltered in the heat. The sun flooded the passing countryside and all that lived flourished. In motion, the old closed car became unbearable; the sun intensified through the windows. Leaving the car, Gableplunk let the soft breeze cool him at each stop.
...From the valley station he followed the ruts in the south road to the old man's drive. Approaching the barn, Gableplunk watched him work. The valley was timeless. The sun, the river and the old man had always been there. Tirelessly he shaved the wooden staves. The valley was the vessel, the old man's casks its gift to the countryside.
...They greeted each other. Gableplunk stopped to talk, but the old man had little time; orders for wine casks were unfilled and the harvests would soon be upon them.
...Gableplunk brushed his horse and fed him a treat. He placed light blankets and the saddle on his back, mounted and waved to the old man ankle-deep in wood shavings.
...He rode to the river. It was widest at the point he chose to cross. It was also the slowest.
...He eased his companion into the waters. The riverbed fell away and he slipped out of the saddle. He gripped the pommel with one hand, held the reins with the other and lay prone on the river surface. The water streamed past his throat. Exhilarated, he was cleansed by the rushing waters.
...Nearly a year had passed since Gableplunk had seen Max. He wondered whether he'd remember.
...The mid-afternoon sun dried him well before he reached the north road. Following year-old directions, he rode west for a distance and turned into a wooded back road. Max lived on the north slope, closer to the railway than Gableplunk. He crossed a bridge over a mountain stream and came to Max's drive. Trees shaded the road and the undergrowth needed trimming. Gableplunk emerged from the forest into an open field. He jumped to the ground. Nearby, a stream cascaded over its rocky bed. Gableplunk stood still and listened to the gushing sound.
...He heard a curious thump in the distance but paid it no mind. Leading his horse behind, he followed the graveled drive. A short distance, a turn and another thump captured his attention. He could see the house near the forest's edge. Before reaching level ground, he heard another thump, a sharper, heavier, more intense sound. He reached the house, hitched his horse and stepped up to the wooden porch; another thump and the wood beneath his feet quaked; Gableplunk knocked and Max came to the door.
...He was a huge man, more than a head taller than Gableplunk. The sun glistened from beads of sweat, forming rainbows on his face and shoulders. He looked down at Gableplunk with a blank expression then, smiling in recognition, he turned and disappeared into the interior. He returned immediately and thrust a guitar into Gableplunk's hands. "When the wind's been right I've heard you sing. Wait. Play until I finish my exercises."
...Max disappeared into the house and Gableplunk walked to the edge of the porch. It extended to the side of the house and he sat in an armless chair. He gazed to the stream gurgling near the wood's edge. A child played on the bank, building something from twigs and paper.
......How simple life seems. With one purpose in mind she pursues her dreams faithfully, hearing only the sounds of music.
...The afternoon was hot. Gableplunk sat quietly, watching the child at play. The air was fresh and clear; the house shivered with rhythmic thumping. Without a thought, Gableplunk perched the wooden instrument on his leg. The rosewood neck was unusually delicate; it was also sturdy. He struck a chord, then single notes. Fingering over the three octave range, Gableplunk realized that he held a master's instrument. Fine tolerances and warm, rich and distinct tones were the work of a loving craftsman.
...The child looked up and saw Gableplunk. She stood. Walking and running, she moved agilely, gliding lightly over the ground. Nearing the strange man sitting on the porch, she sat on a rock and stared.
......How beautiful you seem to be, child with mud in your hair.
...Gableplunk began to play. Barring high on the neck, he plucked a melody in a five-fingered style. The child sat wide-eyed, fascinated. Sun-rays glinted from a golden barrette in her hair. Gableplunk looked into her face and sang; his voice was soft and simple and clear as the air.

"Limpid Child"

..."I feel the same." Max was standing behind Gableplunk. "Come inside out of the sun. We'll have a drink together." The child disappeared and Gableplunk followed Max into the house.
...Max asked Gableplunk his preference and left him standing before thick mats. Stacks of steel in platter shapes lay strewn about. Above a slanted bench, a heavy bar and great weights were cradled in a wooden structure. Smaller barbells lay near a chair.
...Max returned with a pitcher of water and asked Gableplunk his reason. Gableplunk had come on impulse and couldn't think of an answer. "I remembered your offer to speak with me about the game we played at the harvest celebration."
..."Do you remember it?" Max asked.
..."Yes, I do."
..."Good. That's a sign of a good chess player. I remember it, too. You played well, made no blatant errors. You lost because you played passively. I believe I bewildered you."
...Gableplunk found that he agreed.
..."You must play more aggressively, more energetically. When this is learned you must go on to finer movement; you must learn finesse, sophistication and finally, to dance. Only then will you be a Master of the game, bewildering your opponents with your speed and coordination, dazzling and confusing them and finally washing over them as a great tide over the sand crab."
..."Sand crabs understand how to cope with the tide," Gableplunk said; "they lie buried until the tide ebbs then emerge triumphant, claiming the beach as their kingdom."
..."This is sometimes true, but sand crabs shake in fear with each tidal onslaught and most won't survive the hurricane. Only those who can dance between the waves will remain strong and see the light and renew the battle."
...Gableplunk and Max were watching each other as they spoke. At the end of their dialogue there was silence, then they burst out laughing.
..."Why have you come after a year has elapsed?"
..."Because I'm alone," Gableplunk said.
..."I'm alone, too, but for my daughter Elsa. My wife is dead and all I have are memories. And Elsa."
..."It happened a long time ago," Max spoke quietly. "Martine was a frail sensitive woman, strong in spirit, weak in body. We had more love.....it wasn't enough; she couldn't have what she needed."
...Gently Gableplunk asked, "What was that?"
..."Fulfillment of a kind I couldn't give. I don't know what it was. I believe even she didn't know."
...Gableplunk remained quiet. The sun streamed through a window, illuminating particles of dust suspended in the air. They hovered and swirled like golden thistles in the wind until Max reached out to grasp them.
..."I rarely speak of Martine," Max said. "It does me good to speak and not just remember."
...Max sat quietly, watching Gableplunk, yet looking to a place beyond. "She played the guitar very beautifully. It's her instrument you played on the veranda. Now it gathers dust. Elsa has no interest and I won't force her. I'm grateful she's a strong girl."
..."It's a beautiful instrument," Gableplunk said. "Its tones are delicate and rich and it's tuned perfectly. Do you play?"
...Max seemed lost in thought but he answered without pause; "I'm familiar with it but haven't the heart. Look on the wall," Max gestured. "See the picture of the King and Queen? It has deep meaning for me. I treasure it. Martine gave it to me."
...Max filled their glasses from the pitcher and stood.
..."Come into the other room. I play the piano. Perhaps we'll be friends and play together. I've heard your music on the wind at night. I believe I can improvise keyboard adaptations that'll please us."
...Gableplunk followed Max into an adjoining room. Great windows opened directly to the sun. Reaching the roof, they continued across as a skylight.
...It was a comfortable room. Soft furniture and wooden chairs near a shiny music stand. A rug covered part of the oak floor. A chessboard and pieces sat on a table. The piano stood to one side near a window.
..."I won't play today," Max said. "Bring your guitar and music another time and we'll see what we can do together. Perhaps you'd like to replay your game and listen to my criticisms."
..."Fine," Gableplunk replied.
...Max directed him to the board and asked his preference for seating. Gableplunk chose a leather armchair; Max the same. "Chess is a fatiguing game. It's wise to battle in comfort."
...They replayed the game. Max paused at different times to explain a weakness or questionable move. Gableplunk asked questions and made hypothetical moves that led to different variations. They posited theoretical problems and Max stressed again and again the basics: time, space, force and pawn structure.
...The afternoon slipped into evening. Max introduced Gableplunk and Elsa during dinner. Afterwards they continued their game. Elsa sat nearby and Max answered her questions. Gableplunk was surprised by her grasp of the game. She seemed to have her father's instincts but soon she tired and fell asleep on Max's leg. Softly stroking her hair while he talked, she slept near him. After a time he lifted her and carried her to bed. He returned smiling.
..."Your intuitive understanding of the board is exceptional," Max said. "Your ability to abstract, to see what exists and know what must be done is excellent, but you don't know how to do it. Your grasp of the working relationships between the pieces is feeble."
..."So, that's your opinion of my play after one evening, mister Grand Master?"
...Max laughed. Gableplunk tried to smile.
..."I've avoided recognition and have no title," Max said, "but I assure you that I'm completely qualified to criticize your play. I've played and slain the best and you're receiving my valuable instructions without payment."
...Gableplunk's brow furled.
..."You seem incredulous, my skeptical friend." Max chuckled. "It's true. Chess is how I live."
..."What do you mean?" Gableplunk asked.
..."Chess is how I live. It's how I met Martine- at a tournament in the city. Now I give lessons to the wine men or others and occasionally play for stakes."
..."You're fooling me," Gableplunk said.
..."No. I'm not. It's very lucrative and often amusing. Men are extraordinarily egotistical."
..."And you?" Gableplunk asked.
..."I, too, but given equal egos, I'll win because I'm stronger. I've shares in almost every vineyard I can name."
...Gableplunk leaned back in his chair. "Is this why you lift weights, to maintain the discipline and strength necessary for competition?"
..."No," Max said, "energy for chess is a by-product. I lift weights to remain healthy and strong for my daughter."
..."Max, you're a strong man, stronger than you realize."
..."No, not stronger than I realize, as strong as I realize. There's little humility in me."
..."But a great deal of love."
..."It's true. I love my daughter as I loved Martine, more than I love myself."
..."You're a unique man," Gableplunk said. "From deep within most men who ask 'Who do I choose, myself or another?', comes the answer, 'I!'"
..."It seems so," Max said, "and it's never more apparent than when across a chess board, yet it's not this way with you."
..."Me?" Gableplunk asked. "I most of all."
..."It's not true," Max replied. "I've been cursed with fragile hands and a soft heart, but I have, above all, excellent vision. You don't see far enough. You fool yourself."
...They played a while longer before suspending the evening. Gableplunk said goodnight. He mounted his horse and directed him towards the field and forest. Max called, "Watch your footing on the bridge. It'll be wet and you've only the moonlight to guide you."
...As Gableplunk rode homeward, a question came to mind. He didn't know its purpose and it disturbed him. Allowing it to enter, he followed it as it compounded and grew in meaning. Words came from nowhere. A verse. A melody. He felt a movement, heard music inside him. He looked to the forest illumined by moonlight, and his voice, a magic light, sang

"I Call I"

...They crossed the bridge the beams of which, as Max said, glistened in the moonlight. Gableplunk unsheathed his guitar from its water tight case in order to play as he was riding. Remembering Max's admonition and his own less-than-perfect record of guiding his own life, he looped the reins over the horn of the saddle and let his horse guide them.
...Reflecting upon the beauty of his ego Gableplunk also understood its traps. The word ego comes from Latin for ‘I'. Gableplunk was constantly searching for knowledge and pursuing an indefinable essence, one that would provide a deep satisfaction once he grasped it. He began to slowly strum his instrument. Changing his rhythm he played more forcefully on the downbeats and sang:

"Visionary Flowers"
("Pursuit")

...Although his horse was sure footed and focused and they gained the other side safely, to Gableplunk the bridge crossing felt like a bridge to nowhere.
...Jangled. Irritated. Unfocused. He needed something softer, more reflective, music that would bring him back on the right track of his strange and very personal journey. Over a few bars he played changes which transformed his harmony structure to one less grating and with more resolve. As his horse continued to guide them along the rutted road toward home (at least someone knew the way) he sang to an unknowable spirit:

"Somewhere On A Mountain"

...Our inner lives are complicated, not easy to sort out and understand. Gableplunk had reached the limits of his consciousness. He'd had many strange and wonderful experiences, experiences complete and incomplete, of union. He'd investigated many forms of human spirituality that seemed to blend into one great nonsensical or, if one prefers, sensible form. Even the concept of Brahman, the one underlying reality of the world, was only a concept for him, another kind of standardized religious concept falling far short of the promise that lay buried within, which occasionally glared forth from his innermost self, a pulsar from which streamed all the energy of the universe!
...The one thing these experiences and realizations- psychological, mystical, physiological- had in common was their ephemerality, their insubstantiality. Gableplunk's six senses were woefully inadequate. He perceived and often interpreted according to inadequate standards. The very fact that his senses perceived according to forms and patterns and weren't free to perceive without bias, distinction or discrimination was a blight that irritated and antagonized him wherever he turned, yet he was so fond of these perceptions, patterns and attitudes that he refused to take the steps to cause their utter destruction once and forever more.
...That which prevented him from accomplishing the obliteration of his inner manners of performing was desire. Desire bound him to the eternal conflicts raging within because desire was his longing for their resolutions. However, the nature of desire is that it springs anew ever unfulfilled, ever hungry and, as such, it, too, ought to be discarded with his inner conventions, but desire gave Gableplunk so much pleasure that he was firmly attached to these forms until the time they transformed into something greater.*

* 'Atman,' 'Brahman,' 'Samadhi,' 'forms' are Indian terms and go back in time more than six thousand years. 'Forms' is a kind of technical spiritual term. Like 'computerese,' 'forms' is 'spirituese'. 'Forms' would be defined differently from culture to culture. For us they could be loosely defined as any pattern to which we adhere and would include patterns of thoughts, emotions and attitudes to ethics, behaviors and philosophies which have basic underlying assumptions which prove to be nonsensical upon examination. 'Forms' would also include social patterns. Essentially, 'forms' are human nature expressed in ways that give us structure. Why would G. want to rid himself of these 'forms'? Because he's seeking his own uniqueness, his own understanding, his essence. He needs to be his own man.

Essence ~ fundamental nature or quality. A substance distilled or extracted from another substance and having the special qualities of the original substance.

This implies that G. is not anti-life. He merely needs to extract from life that which he feels is his fundamental being. This also implies that G.'s fundamental being, if he ever finds it, would have 'special qualities' of which life, too, is composed. So why can he not see or understand this sameness? This is the age-old paradox of self-not-self which has been with us throughout time and, since the formulation of the concepts of Psychology, is called 'alienation' when it is found it's most exaggerated form. In less exaggerated forms it is called 'spiritual quest'. Spiritual quests are 'forms,' too, and the only way to escape them is to abandon them, to 'empty one's mind' of the desires, the quests and one's attachments (to both the desires and the quests). This way of thinking is a Zen way and also the way of a number of other spiritual paths, for example in Taoism which, in Chinese, means, 'The Way'.