Shatov and the emu

Proverbs 27:6 – Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.


Prologue (sort of)


The forest is still, save for the crunch of dry leaves beneath Jack’s boots.
Above, the pale moon trails him like a grand inquisitor, cold and unblinking.

He reaches a small, weathered cabin. On the door hangs a portrait of Catherine the Great, her painted eyes gleaming with the quiet satisfaction of something just fulfilled. Inside, the emu waits.

In his hands, a worn copy of The Queen’s Gambit by Walter Tevis. He kneels and sets it gently on the step, as if afraid it might wake someone. He draws a slow breath, takes one last sharp look at the portrait, then offers a small, solemn curtsy before turning away into the dark…

---

Sometimes I think it began that night, with the book and the cabin and the portrait.
But maybe that’s just what I tell myself.
It really started with the chickens.

We were sitting on the bench in my backyard, feeding them. Jack tore off a piece of bread, pinched a small portion, and tossed it toward the chickens - always aiming for their heads so the bread would bounce and scatter, sending them into a frenzy.

“Don’t do that to my chickens,” I glared at him.

He ignored me, handed over a crumb, and gestured for me to try. I did and the same frenzy followed.

We both laughed.

I glanced around for Shatov, the gnome who’d taken refuge among my tomatoes. I told him to harvest some asparagus, and he happily obliged - then offered to grill them for us.

We were having pasta, after all. And really, why not pair it with grilled asparagus?

An hour passed. Still no asparagus.

“What’s taking him so long?” Jack asked, grating cheese over his plate.

Moments later, Shatov appeared from the back door, carrying a large plate of asparagus: seasoned and glistening, still steaming from the grill. I helped him up, and together we began setting the food on the bench.

Jack stayed quiet, still wary of him, and deliberately kept himself out of the conversation about capitalism. Eventually, the subject veered toward hyperindividualism - something Shatov seemed to be a master of.

Sometimes I enjoy listening to his philosophy, mostly because I know Jack would completely disagree. What begins as a monologue always turns into a debate.

Then, as if on cue, a hawk dives from the sky, aiming straight for the chickens. Chaos erupts, but we stay frozen in our seats.

The rooster charges forward, wings flaring, the hens rallying behind him. In seconds, the hawk retreats - empty-handed.

We rushed straight to the chicken that had been hit and were relieved it wasn’t badly hurt. We both sighed in unison.

Then I noticed Shatov was gone.

We scanned the garden, but he was nowhere in sight. The back door hung slightly ajar.

Inside, the kitchen was quiet. I wandered in, thirsty, and noticed one of the drawers wasn’t fully closed. I pushed it shut, then froze. That was where I kept my seeds.

A cold feeling crept through me. I pulled the drawer open - it was empty, except for one packet clearly left behind. My asparagus seeds. I turned it over in my hand. On the back, freshly scribbled, it read:

Asparagus takes three years to harvest. Three years.

That lazy bastard. Seed thief.

I stepped outside. Jack was feeding the chickens again. I sat on the bench, staring into the distance.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Jack muttered, as if stating a fact.

“And he took all my seeds. Well, not all.” I waved the packet of asparagus seeds. “I thought he was a good friend… He was very active in the garden. He helps me with everything. And I really like his bedtime stories.”

I grumbled. “Those were heirloom seeds! I got them from my grandma.”

Jack sat beside me, patted my back, and handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

He didn’t respond. Just looked away, smiling faintly.

I opened it. Inside was a single note with the date of my scheduled chess rematch with the emu.

My heart sank. Not the emu again.

^{Asparagus takes three years to harvest from seed. Which is exactly how long it’ll take me to forgive Shatov.}