The Game Everyone Wants to Play

2174

June 19

British Columbia, Canada

***

A boy with bronze hair held in a ponytail hauled a bucket through a throng of villagers towards a lake. Cal was twelve, but his hands were chipped and bruised from years of hard work. He was also small for his age, only five feet tall. His white shirt and red pants looked like they had been dragged through mud—in fact, they had been, he and his friends had spent the morning wrestling.

Cal knelt by the lake and filled his bucket with water. It weighed down his arm, and he gritted his teeth. Grunting, he carried the water away from the market stalls and towards the village of tents. Some tents were large enough to hold a family of ten. Others were small enough for a single man. Clothes dried on lines that crisscrossed between the homes.

There was a small gathering by the table outside Old Man Siva's hut. Men stood huddled together in loose, brightly colored tunics and pants. They were hunched over as if they were watching something. Cal wedged his way through them, getting assaulted by cuss words as he made his way to the front. He swore at them as well, making them laugh at the courage of a little boy. Albert, a tall and hairy man who worked as a gunsmith, ruffled Cal's hair and said, "Don't let your mother hear you talking you like that." The scent of smoke and rust waltzed up Cal's nostrils. He ignored the need to hold his breath and inhaled slowly.

Cal smiled. "Don't worry. I only insult those who deserve it."

Albert chuckled. "Check out the balls on this kid."

Vince, a small hunchbacked fellow, said, "He's got twice as much as Thomas."

Thomas, a young blacksmith with a face coated with black ash, said, "Oy, knock it off, Vince. I get three times more women than you do."

Vince countered, "Only when he sleeps. The man can't tell the difference betwixt dreams and reality."

His joke earned him a chorus of laughter.

Though Thomas' face was messy, his ears were bright pink. "Shut it. Raheim is up." They all focused on the flat-screen TV leaning against a pile of bricks. They were watching Relar, the most anticipated reality TV competition of all time. For poor people like Cal, who couldn't afford much, participating in the game was an opportunity to advance their class. The players were between the ages of sixteen and twenty and could earn thousands of dollars from completing quests. It would be their opportunity to provide a brighter future for themselves and their family; excitement swelled within Cal. Raheim was a friend from his school, and everyone in the village was rooting for his success. Cal stared at the tall, lean figure of Raheim. He had to be sixteen or older to participate—four more years. Cal couldn't wait for his opportunity to come.

It was one thing to see Raheim in person. It was another to see him on screen. He looked like a superhero in his all-black outfit, carrying a sword in a brown leather scabbard on his back. A black bandana covered his mouth. Raheim shielded his eyes as he stared at a dangling rope on the side of a glass building. It must have had thirty-five floors.

Scar stood next to Cal. A long-jagged line ran down the side of his face from the time his wife had slashed him. She had just given birth to her fifth child, and at the time, she hadn't been mentally sound. To this day, she apologized for what she had done in her mad state, but she swore any woman would have done it with a husband as infuriating as Scar. His long black hair was wild and tangled, reaching the middle of his back. He was a wood sculptor. But the business was slow unless there was a flux of tourists, so he mostly drank and played cards. On the upside, the man was terrific with a sword and gun. Cal's ma had said that Scar had probably been a mercenary before, someone who had done the government's dirty work. He had taught Raheim how to fight, and now, he was teaching Cal.

"What's his quest?" Cal asked breathlessly. He felt nervous for Raheim and set the bucket down; his sisters could wait on their tea.

Scar said, "Climb the tower for twenty thousand dollars."

"Is he going to do it?"

The crowd shushed him.

He swallowed and focused on the game.

On-screen, Raheim grabbed the rope. He started off well. It wasn't until he had passed the tenth floor that he had started to show signs of fatigue. Cal held his breath, chanting in his head. 'Come on, Raheim. You can do it.'

Raheim breathed heavily. Beads of sweat soaked his dark skin. He paused to hang on the rope. Scar breathed in through his teeth and cursed. He said, "He's just wasting his strength, hanging like that."

Thomas said, "If he's already struggling, he should climb down, gather his strength and take up the challenge another time."

Scar said, "If he had any sense, he would do that. If his muscles give out...." Scar imitated the sound of something falling from a high place and colliding with the ground at high velocity.

As if hearing Scar, Raheim started climbing again, pulling himself up the rope inch by inch. He ignored their advice. His feet kicked at the glass building, wanting a foothold and finding none. He gritted his teeth and continued climbing, a vein ticked in his jaw. He reminded Cal of the Greek titan, Atlas, he was carrying the world on his shoulders—his parents and nine siblings, his whole community.

He hung from the rope, his face tight from exertion. His eyes were dazed, the life slowly extinguishing from them. He had a death grip on the rope. Only ten floors remained. He reached his right hand up, intending to climb a bit higher. Raheim's left hand, which was holding the rope loosened. Cal let out his breath. It was over. He yelled 'No!' in his head but said nothing aloud for the other men to hear. Panic crossed Raheim's face as his future crumbled. People trained their whole lives for this competition, pushing their bodies to their limits. Raheim's dreams were snuffed out like how two fingers extinguished a candle's flame.

The left hand released the rope, and Raheim started his quick descent to the ground. Cal shut his eyes and looked away. One of the men behind him, muttered, "Poor Martha."

Scar's rough hand touched Cal's shoulder. "Everything has risks. Every action must be weighed against its possible outcomes. Never do anything without acknowledging how it might end. Raheim's downfall was his overconfidence. Learn from that. Never accept a quest you don't have the ability to complete."

He felt Scar walk off. The crowd surrounding him dispersed, chorusing their discontent. When Cal opened his eyes, the word's flashing across the screen were; 'Player Raheim Dead'.

Tears wet his eyes. He wiped them quickly. He was too big to cry, so he stopped himself before they flowed down his cheeks like floodwaters. The screen changed to a different player— a redhead attempting to swim a hundred metres with a bag pack weighing seventy-five pounds. He struggled to keep his head above the water. Though progress was slow, he never let himself sink too far and kept pulling himself closer to the finish line. Old man Siva poured himself a drink, a lackluster expression on his wrinkled face. He offered a cup to Cal, but Cal shook his head.

"Someday, I'll finish the game. I'll do what Raheim failed to do and survive to the very end. I'll make all of you proud."

Old Man Siva said, "If you ask me, we would be better off without those games. Too many young people take up the challenge, and far too many of them die as a result. Home is where you are needed."

Home?

Cal surveyed the tents planted on the green grass; men walked their horses through the crowd, and women took buckets of clothes to the river to wash. Cal digested the yelling, the cussing, the singing, the bells jingling, and sheep bleating. This wouldn't be his home for much longer; he picked up his bucket and made his way back to the kitchen.

His little sister, Anya sat on a welcome mat outside their main tent; it was dark green, and long with a rectangular base. This was where they slept and relaxed, protected from the sun. There was a separate tent for cooking set up behind it.

A smiling woman carried a bucket of water on her shoulder; her maroon skin damp with sweat. She wore a red blouse and khaki pants. A grey scarf wrapped around her head in the fashion that African women liked. Martha smiled, "Tell ya mah, I will drop off some steamed fish later. You growin' every day. You need to eat lots to stay strong, big boy."

Cal's heart swelled with sorrow at the news she was about to receive about the eldest son. The one who had bragged about bringing home lots of money with a huge smile on his face. Raheim had made a lot— 150 000 dollars in fact. That would have been enough for him to rent an apartment in the city for a few months. But he had wanted more. The more rewards a quest gave, the more difficult it would be. Cal avoided her, bright, laughing eyes, which seemed to capture the sun's rays.

At the very least, the game's administration team would give her Raheim's earnings.

Cal knew his friend was worth more than any comfort money could provide.

His fingers curled into a tight fist. He didn't want to be the one to break the news.

If he didn't tell her, someone else would.

He thanked her and promised to tell his mom about the fish. He watched her leave then carried the bucket of water into the kitchen. Their pots and pans were piled in one box. The plates, cups, and utensils were kept in another set of boxes. He set the solar-powered hot plate on the centre of a wooden table and boiled a pot of water for tea.

Anya buzzed by his side, talking excitedly about today's adventures. She and her friend, Asia, had defeated a goblin. Anya wore her red hair in two long ponytails. She wore a purple bow at the end of each because she swore it made her look prettier.

Steam whistled out a hole in the pot cover as the water boiled. Cal checked their tea supply. They had a box of peppermint, and one packet of hot chocolate left. He needed something to cheer himself up after watching Raheim die. The two of them were like brothers. They had raced together. He had passed on his old clothes to Cal. Cal wanted to tear his shirt off. It carried the stink of the dead; he would have nightmares about Raheim.

He could already picture Raheim's dead body walking towards him. He ignored the urge to take off his clothes and took out the package of hot chocolate. He was almost a teenager; he wouldn't succumb to such nonsensical beliefs. Ghosts didn't exist; Raheim was gone for good and didn't haunt the clothes he left behind. He made two half cups of hot cocoa for him and his sister and said, "So tell me about this goblin."

"It was a big, hideous thing with green skin and smelly breath."

"And you killed it?"

"With my magic powers." She smiled, revealing her missing front teeth. She waved her hands in front of her like she was controlling the wind.

"Good girl." He patted her head and took her into the tent where they slept. There were five sleeping bags on the floor— three for his sisters, one for him, and one for mom. The money he had earned from running errands, he had used to buy the textbooks he had stored in his corner of the room. He walked over to them and opened his science textbook. He picked up a small, rock shaped device. Once, it sensed his hand, it gave off a bright white light that he used to read.

He memorized the change of states from solid to liquid to gas and the space between the particles in each state. In his heart was a wish to become a Relar champion, and from there, he would use his accomplishment as a steppingstone into politics. The country's current president had topped the game's leaderboard over thirty years ago. What was there to stop him from doing the same?