The Mathemagician’s Gambit
“Uncle, can we play Go?”.
“Anything that has more possibilities than there are atoms in the universe, is too complex in my book”.
“You only say that because you know I’ll beat you”.
“Well, there is that”.
You’ve had this conversation before, always with the same result. You retreat to your workspace and map out Go problems, while Uncle reads his book of chess gambits and makes noises of surprise and intrigue to try and pique your curiosity. It never works, though you appreciate his efforts, while also chuckling to yourself about the irony of him reading a book on gambits, but always using the same ones to signal for your attention.
Today, like every day for the last three weeks, you’re using the Go board not for its primary intended purpose, but rather to represent facets of an equation which has thus far proven beyond you. The problem lies in the number of possibilities. Your ability to perform complex calculations is unparalleled, and at the unlikely age of eight and a half, your prowess is already known around the world. You can definitely do the maths here, but so much of it seems to be just brute force - keep trying the numbers until something fits. It feels so…inelegant. You know that by continuing with this method you could eventually crack it, but it would be tedium without end, and you wouldn’t have actually done anything a computer can’t do, and then really, what would be the point?
You accept that there are things that cannot yet be proven or disproven by humanity’s limited understanding of scientific laws, and so while you absolutely don’t believe in them, you sometimes like to entertain notions of popular superstition that human science has not yet debunked. So you decide to invoke Karma as a reason to learn some chess. maybe if you spend some time with the old chunterer, the universe will reward you with clarity on the gosh darn equation. Gosh darn. You can recite Pi to apparently infinite decimal places, not by remembering it, or by being a savant, but by just seeing the maths that makes it possible, and yet Uncle still doesn’t let you swear in the house.
Maybe a break is what you need. Or some company. Or a different perspective.
“Uncle, maybe you could teach me how to play chess”.
“Which one is it this time? I Ching? Tarot? Karma?”.
“I just thought it might be nice!”.
“That equation has you foxed doesn’t it? Not getting slow in your old age are you?”.
“Pish and tish!”.
“Glad you’ve been reading your Wodehouse at least. I worry about you only reading things with numbers in”.
“What’s that you’re reading, Uncle?”
He clears his throat, lays down “1001 devious chess gambits”, with no small amount of theatre, and begins setting up the board. You smile at the small victory, and watch him lay the pieces out in their peculiar fashion. You notice that he places the the kings facing each other, and the queens alike, ruining the rotational symmetry of the board, and for a moment you are lost in a reverie about whether this placement gives one colour an advantage, or affects the number of possible outcomes, then you remember that you came to spend time with the old man, not to brute force probabilities, so you return your focus to the board. You quickly realise the order of the pieces, but allow Uncle to finish laying them out. Chess is his domain, and so you show the respect of the student to the master, even though you know you’ll soon beat him.
“I know you’re going to beat me”.
“Maybe”.
“But it’s not about winning or losing. It’s about learning. In life, sometimes you lose, and it can feel like failure. But it’s only failure if you choose not to learn from the loss. After I’ve taught you the game, I’ll be privileged to have you teach me about yourself, through the moves you play”.
“By thrashing you. You’re just trying to soften me up. I won’t go easy on you”.
“So, we’ll cover pawns first”.
“Yes, Uncle”.
“They’re largely regarded as the weakest piece on the board, and their movements are relatively simple. Setting an example to all of us, pawns can only move forwards. The very first time they move, they may, if they wish, move two spaces, and thereafter only one square at a time. Directly forwards to move, or diagonally if they are taking another piece”.
“But if they can only move forwards, aren’t they useless when they get to the other end?”.
“You would think so, but no. A pawn who makes it safely to end of the board, becomes a queen”.
“Oh”.
“Oh indeed”.
“But what if there’s already a queen”.
“Then the king takes another queen. It’s called polygamy. We’ll talk about that when you’re older”.
“It seems a little unfair that the queens have to share a king”.
“Well, you’re probably right. I suppose that’s where we see the influence of the patriarchy on the humble board game. Shall we maybe eschew the gender roles for now, and just focus on the fact that the smallest piece, is capable of attaining the powers of the largest piece”.
“Ok, so how about the king is a flower, and the queen is a butterfly, and the pawns are caterpillars? That makes much more sense”.
“Yes, I agree completely, dearest heart. Will that amendment pacify you sufficiently for me to continue explaining the rules?”.
“So what does this piece do?”.
You point to the castle. You know that this one is also called a rook. There’s one at each corner of the board, so there’s no repetition. each colour rests once on itself and once on its opposite. So if you turn the board ninety degrees, does it affect the game? No, it can’t, it just makes the whole thing inconsistent. This irks you, and for a moment your skin feels slightly the wrong size. The feeling passes though, and you return your attention back to the present, just in time to hear uncle return the piece back to the corner where had taken it from. He smiles and tilts his head back slightly, nodding when you eventually make eye contact. He smiles and you blush a little.
“And now you’re back with us, I’ll go over that again”.
“Thank you, I’m not sure I understood it completely that time”.
“Nice save”.
“So they start in the corners?”.
“Yes indeed. They can only move through empty space, in vertical or horizontal lines. They can move as many spaces as they wish, until they run out of space to move into”.
“That sounds pretty dull”.
“Ah, but they have one more trick up their buttress”.
“Up their what?”.
“Castle humour, dearest heart”.
“Oh. So what else can they do?”.
“Well, provided the king hasn’t yet been in check, which we’ll get to in a bit, the player has the option to castle. In this move, the king has to move first, since it’s the only legal move where he…”.
“The flower”.
“Yes, the flower can only legally move more than one space in this specific instance, so by picking up the flower and moving it two spaces closer to the castle, you indicate your intention to castle. You then move the rook, two spaces, over the king, I do beg your pardon, over the flower - again, the only time this is allowed - and the flower is now protected in the corner”.
“You’re a genius”.
“I’m pretty sure there’s only one of those here, and it’s not me”.
You stand up, lean forward, and kiss Uncle’s forehead, mouthing a thank you as you pull away and look in his eyes, distracting his attention while you pick up the book of gambits. You know that he feels vastly inferior, but never lets that be an issue. There is an unspoken agreement that you treat each other as equals. He doesn’t treat you like a child, and in return you don’t treat him like a simpleton. It’s a nice little symbiosis. What he’s especially good at though, is drawing you away from a problem, in order to help you solve it. Always teaching you lessons, never acting like a teacher.
“Penny for them?”.
“Sometimes you see better from a distance”.
“I’m glad you picked up on that. Anything else?”.
“Sometimes the solution is not in the default, but the exception”.
“Bravo”.
“I think I have it now”.
“Will you come back and trounce me when you’re done?”.
“It will be my privilege”.
You return to the Go board, and start placing pieces down, in each case placing down the move least likely to advance the game. It’s not about the most efficient way to do something. And it’s not about trying everything until something fits. It’s about having another perspective, and sometimes it’s about not only seeing the abstract options, but letting them see each other, and seeing how they interact.
As you put the book down, it fell open at a page. “Number 8 - The Mathemagician’s Gambit”. Aha! So he’s been trying to beat you at your own game, the sly dog. Or is he helping? Another unspoken lesson? You place the tiles on the Go board, but this time you mimic the movements in the the gambit. A great calm comes over you, as the realisation hits.
“You did it”. the tears are obvious.
“Did what, dearest heart?”.
You look over at the window, and nod. He follows your gaze, coming to rest on the myriad motes of dust in the single shaft of sunlight through the curtains. You snap your fingers, and as the dust stops still, you turn and see the tear roll dow his cheek.
“You’re going to be ok, Uncle. We stopped time”.
