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of a crucified Jesus flashed into his mind.
    He of course realized that his obsessive focus on the vision could be causing him to see it in his mind’s eye. But when he found himself sitting across from Brother Mark, playing another game of chess, he felt the desire to seek his fellow monk’s advice.
    As Peter waited for Mark to move, he picked up a captured knight and studied it. The detail was exquisite. The set had been hand carved by one of the founders of the monastery. Father Warren had spent years carving piece after piece out of oak, pine or any other inexpensive wood he could get ahold of. It wasn’t until he was satisfied that he had the necessary skill that he brought out the ebony and boxwood he had set aside and began carving the pieces that Peter would eventually play with a hundred years later.
    Every brother who was inclined to play with the set was first told this story and given to understand that the pieces were irreplaceable. After every game, each piece was carefully returned to its slot in the box Father Warren had also carved. Blitz chess, of course, was completely out of the question.
    The story of Father Warren’s chess set was also used to help new arrivals become comfortable with their new way of life. Like Father Warren carving his pieces, they could expect to find life in the monastery difficult at first. The rules, the schedules, would all seem overwhelming. But they would be taken to the lounge where a glass display case stood in the corner. Inside were five shelves, each containing at least twenty chess pieces. The top shelf held the very first pieces Father Warren had carved. The next shelf down held the pieces from his next year of carving, and so on. New arrivals would be shown those practice pieces that Father Warren had carved and could see how they improved from one shelf—one year—to the next. So it was with monastic life. The first days and months would be the most difficult. A new monk would find his tasks overwhelming; he was bound to make mistakes. But as time went on, a brother would find things just a bit easier. Before long, the analogy went, pawns would be no problem at all, and he could move on to carving the more complex rooks and bishops. A new monk would then be shown Father Warren’s final set of chess pieces. They would be told how he’d spent hours on each piece, carefully carving it, hollowing out the base so metal weights could be added, lacquering it, polishing it.
    But that wasn’t enough. Once one had created something so precious, one had to protect it, keep it beautiful. So it was with monastic life. Devotion to God required daily maintenance. The monks were told to never become complacent about their calling, to never let their chess pieces get broken, scratched or dented by careless handling.
    Every year there were a few brothers who took this analogy to heart and began carving chess sets of their own. The monastery now possessed nearly forty hand-carved chess sets, some of them quite good, and as a result most of the brothers ended up taking up the game. Peter himself had played little before coming to the monastery, but had soon become a skilled and enthusiastic player. Brother Mark, on the other hand, had seen some tournament play before entering the monastery and won a good ninety percent of the games he played against Peter.
    Peter glanced around the lounge. When they’d begun their game, a group of brothers had been quietly chatting by the window, but he was relieved to see that he and Brother Mark were now alone.
    Brother Mark made his move, sliding a bishop to Peter’s back rank—which he had carelessly left unprotected by moving his rook forward—and threatening the anchor in one of Peter’s pawn chains. Peter pretended to study the board for a few minutes. Finally he looked up. “Brother,” he said, “may we pause the game for a moment? There’s something I wish to discuss with you.”
    Mark smiled. “Of course.”
    Peter cleared his