Revolution of the Fish

Lost History #322 - Revolution of the Fish

Part 1

In 1666, there was a great fire in London, which is commonly referred to as The Great Fire of London. 

The King, Charles II, was so keen to look good and make up for all the bad things that had happened which hadn't been his fault that century (gunpowder terrorists, war, Oliver Cromwell, plague, and finally, the big fire), that he decided to give away all the royal chess sets he owned, which was many. He waited until the fire had been put out to do so.

However, the peasants knew not how the board and pieces worked, for the king failed to be in possession of any sort of rule book. He had been heir not only to the throne of England but to the rules of chess and, upon his eventual coronation, suddenly, yet quite naturally, gained the knowledge of how to play chess (he was The King, after all, and this is what happens when one becomes monarch - not that most of us will know what that feels like). He attempted an oral explanation, but nobody who wasn't The King could retain the information for longer than four seconds. This meant that he couldn't even create a rule book of his own, since nobody else could remember what he had said long enough to write it down, and The King couldn't possibly carry out such a lengthy, monotonous task himself. Even if he did, he knew deep down that the people wouldn’t be able to remember the rules after reading them.

"Damn!" The King cried, "This was the perfect opportunity to look like an alright guy. If I can’t pass on my chess knowledge, how else can I make them love me?”

And The King sobbed and sobbed, slumped upon his Queen Anne chest of drawers - which was weird because his grumpy little niece was only a year old and nobody knew quite why she had furniture named after her.

And so, despite wanting to appreciate The King's gesture, the people of London threw away their chess sets. Their houses having just burned down, they simply had no room to keep them. The best thing to do with them, they thought, was to dump them in the River Thames.

The King soon forgot his chess grief; he had wars to charm and women to fight. In time, there were new The Kings and some The Queens. Over the centuries, none of these monarchs tried to impart their inherited chess knowledge to the populace. Instead, they tried to keep it a secret, just like their huge swathes of land, their right to tweak laws that may financially impact their estates, or the fact that paying tax, for them, is a choice.

Yet, no human, divine monarch or otherwise, could have predicted what had evolved beneath the waves... 


Part 2

The River Thames - sometimes called The Thames for short - is a river. A river that flows right through the middle of London, a convenient place into which the people of 17th century London's chess sets could be dumped. Nobody knew quite what was in there. They couldn't see the chess sets any longer, so they didn't feel guilty about dumping them. This also meant they couldn’t see what had started to happen: the Thamesian fish started to play the game of chess.

Upon first hearing this clam - sorry, claim - you consider me a fool. Your absolute belief in what you have read thus far is beginning to come undone at the edges. Disillusion is creeping in, like smoke at a closed door. Well, let me demonstrate, truthfully, how it is indeed 'a fact'.
Firstly, you're thinking, how did the Thamesian fish move the pieces without the ability to grip? One word: mind control. It wasn't something that came instantly to the fish; no fish is born with the innate ability to play chess fins-free. That would be stupid. But, after a solid fortnight of boards and pieces crashing down below the surface (after a gradual acceptance that they weren't under attack), the Thamesian fish began to interact with these new gifts. In fact, they initially played Connect 4 with them, but they soon became certain that the variety of different pieces indicated a more complex game.

One evening in 1674, lightning struck. Literally. Fortunately, a clumsy parlour maid in Lambeth became an unwitting heroine. She had been hard at work chucking waste into the river and accidentally hurled the bucket in too: a wooden bucket with a black metal strip around the outside, holding it together. The lightning bolt, originally heading for the river and all the poor, unwitting Thamesian fish, hit the metal strip, bounced off it, and zapped itself straight into the doorway of the nearby 'Len's Chippie'. The chances of that happening are about three gazillion and two to one, but the universe knew it had better (or battered) fish to fry. The bolt caused scarcely any damage to the shop front, meaning Len didn't have much to complain about so couldn't sue anyone or apply for early retirement on the grounds of lightning trauma (I’ve used the contemporary phrase here - such a condition would nowadays come under the umbrella term ‘storm stress’).

On a side note, 'Len's Chippie' was not in fact named after the creator, manager and owner of 'Len's Chippie', Len, but after the most loyal and frequent customer of 'Len's Chippie', Len. 

Staggeringly, the moment that the thunderbolt crashed straight into the doorway of 'Len's Chippie', nothing happened.

The moment Len swore, however, about the fact that a thunderbolt had just crashed straight into the doorway of 'Len's Chippie' - history doesn't record which of the two Lens it was who witnessed this event and uttered the powerful curse - a mass effect could be felt amongst all the Thamesian fish. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence, perhaps it was the pure-blooded emotion contained within the echoes of Len's expletive cries, but from that moment on, the rules of chess were unlocked inside all the squishy, fishy brains. The scales fell from their unblinking eyes. They were now on a par with The King and, when they weren't spending their time doing other essential fish things, they practised and practised, honing their mind control skills so that they could smoothly glide the pieces across the chequered squares without having any hands.

The second issue you probably had with this 'fact' was that the pieces wouldn't stay still underwater; well guess what, smart arse, the mind control thing has got that sorted too.


Part 3

So now we're in 1998. The Thamesian fish had been battling it out for centuries, crowning champions and laughing at losers. It's quite tricky for a fish to laugh through their gills but it does happen, particularly during moments of superiority. Observe it the next time you’re within viewing distance of a fish. Perhaps the wind will whip a strand of your hair into your face, or a rogue stick. Whilst you deal with this inconvenience, the fish will laugh at your misfortune, not having to deal with such airy elements themselves. If you keep your wits about you, you’ll catch a glimpse of the giggling fish. Please do write to me if you witness it - I have yet to do so.

Some point in either 1843 or 1844 - history fails to be more precise - the Thamesian fish felt so confident in their abilities that, in the enterprising spirit of the industrial age, they invited bigger, more intimidating fish and aqua-dwelling animals to come and play. Wily walruses, jumpy jellyfish and sly seahorses, they'd all take part in tournaments, and sometimes they'd win. Despite this, the Thamesian fish were, for the most part, the champions. For the underwater community, these fish were chess pioneers; the game had originated here. Fans from across the seventeen seas would book chess-themed package holidays and take an excursion to visit the Thames - the Home of Chess - hear the history of its beginnings, swim the hallowed waters and, if they were lucky, get to see a live game in action. Not all water-dwellers wanted to play chess, but they all knew how to, and its importance was acknowledged throughout the watery world.

However, the one animal the Thamesian fish had never been able to challenge was a whale. They'd invited loads of whales, sure, but fewer whales had received their invitations intact, fewer still had been able to read, fewer had been free on the proposed date, even fewer hadn't forgotten on the morning of the day that it was the day, and fewerly fewer had set out towards the Thames Estuary, ready to travel west to the shores of the capital and play a friendly chess match (and receive global glory if they won, plus a commemorative gold plate and a free water converter (fresh or salt, travel any kind of water in style, and survive!)).

Yet there was always one thing in their way: humans. These complex, confusing animals would unfailingly stop the whales from arriving at the matches. They'd travel on boats alongside the whales or sail in circles around them, not even offering any sporting encouragement in preparation. They'd think they were helping the whales, but by blocking the marine highway they'd only heighten the frustrations of the Thamesian fish, who simply wanted to welcome the whales (and give away the crate of gold plates and water converters they'd salvaged from a stretch of the river just near Southwark and had no use for).

One average Monday morning, as the humans were commuting to work, the fish literally flipped.

“Our ONE raison d’etre - to challenge a whale at chess - keeps getting scuppered by these bastard bipeds! We’ve had enough!” - all the fish cried in unison. Gathering into a mass huddle, they broke the surface of the Thames and projected into the air the request: “Let the whales come!”

Of course, these sorts of things get lost in translation, and any humans in the vicinity merely heard a feeble, thudding sound akin to a conker falling onto wet sand.

They were determined not to be defeated. “If they can’t understand our sounds, maybe they’ll understand our actions?” And, re-enacting a sight many humans recognised from Year 9 athletics lessons, the fish launched themselves up from the water and over the edge of Westminster Bridge, some opting for a Fosbury Flop movement, others the Western roll, with two unfortunate fish mistakenly believing they could perfect the scissors jumping technique, despite not having any legs.

“They’ve gone bonkers!” was the general sentiment of the commuting crowds, forced to stop walking to avoid squelching into the five hundred-strong fish contingent that had come up to have a chat. 

“We demand… to speak with… an elected representative” gasped one of the fish.

The humans panickedly looked around at one another. Despite being situated in between both the Houses of Parliament and the recently-opened aquarium at County Hall, neither an MP nor a fish expert could be located. Hurriedly, the humans chose their representative to be a woman called Stephanie, having established she had once donated money to the RSPCA.

“What do you want?” asked Stephanie.

“We want… you to let the… whales come. We want to… play chess with them.”

You must remember that none of the humans knew what chess was, it possibly only being recognised by history experts as a folly of past monarchs. Stephanie quickly thought of a response.

“We don’t know what that is. It sounds like a threat. We’re all about saving the whales. You’re just common fish. You’re nothing compared to them.”

“You what?” replied the fish “That’s a terrible… thing to say… Just cos you’re both mammals… You don’t… care about what we… want?”

“Not particularly. Look, you’ve caught me at a bad time; I need to get to work.” And, due to a lack of anything else to say, Stephanie felt impelled to do something, even though she hadn’t thought it through first. She urged the rest of the humans to kick the fish off the bridge, back into the murky depths of the river below. They agreed to do her bidding, since they all needed to get to work too.

With every kick, each fish was stunned. And with every stun, out of their minds went the knowledge of chess. Curiously, as happens so often in such situations, the knowledge of chess was transferred to the humans as they kicked it out of the fish. Energy does not die, science tells us, it redistributes itself. Where else could this knowledge possibly go? A reawakening occurred, sputtering into life in the head of each person, travelling instantly from foot to brain. It was as if they’d known how to play chess all along. 

“All hail The King from 332 years ago! For he was the one who passed this knowledge on to the people!” At the next Prime Minister’s Questions, a motion was passed to send a parliamentary delegation back in time to Charles II to reassure him that he wasn’t a failure.

Back into the river the fish went, alive, but with all hope lost. Pieces and boards still lay scattered on the river bed, but they sparked no glimmer of recognition in those glassy eyes. Like the appendix, the tail bone or the nose in humans, their functions long forgotten by nature, underwater chess became defunct.

And that’s the story of how chess returned to society’s collective consciousness, having diverted into a water sport for a while. I mean, it’s only right, isn’t it? These fish shouldn’t take what isn’t theirs.

And what of said fish? They’re still there, if you look closely. If you listen even closer, you can hear them as they chance upon a discarded box of Ludo. It couldn’t all happen again… could it?

Lauren Johnston writes for fun but will also do it for money if offered. She works as Keeper of the Books (ok, librarian) at a school in London. Her website is here: https://laurenjohnstonwriter.co.uk