The Greatest Value: A Tale of Sakhmet Solitaire

     The tent is small, crowded, and hot. Even lifelong denizens of the Lost Desert find the temperature oppressive. Yet they sit at their tables and sip on chilled drinks, mixed by a grizzled Aisha older than anyone you’ve ever seen. Her ears—all four of them—droop, and her eyes squint through decades’ worth of wrinkles. She’s worked here longer than you can remember, and may well have been here when the tent was originally raised. Her mixture of rare fruits and exotic spices is offered freely—a strange luxury.

     The Aisha grins at you toothlessly and offers you a drink. You take the glass with a nod of thanks, of course, and sit at a table. Into a bowl in the center of the table, you throw a few coins. They clatter against the pile and threaten to spill over the bowl’s lip.

     Idly, the Chomby sets a deck of cards before you as he moves to tend to the incense burner. He takes the bowl to a sectioned-off area in the back of the tent. Eventually, he will return with it emptied. You lift the deck and fan through its cards briefly. Countless hands have touched this deck. Its corners are worn and the gilded embossed design on its back has flaked away. At one point, these cards would have been luxury goods. Now, you wonder why they haven’t been discarded. In any case, you shuffle the deck.

     Nobody cuts the deck, and nobody deals cards to one another. In fact, nobody sits across from you. This is Sakhmet Solitaire, and every other Neopian in this tent plays by themselves. Here, you find community in isolation—or is it the other way around? Whatever the case, you find some fleeting comfort in the others’ presence. The energy from individuals seems to float through around the tent like the incense smoke, and reaffirm one another’s existence.

     The cards thoroughly mixed, you arrange them into staggered rows. The shape of the playing field comes into existence, perfectly formed from your memory alone. The remainder of the deck sits to your left. As you draw stacks of three cards at a time, you sift for aces, and stack cards based on their value and the color of their suit. You can’t recall how many times you’ve actually played this game. Nor can any of the others here, for that matter.

     You realise, at some point, that there are no valid moves left for you to make. All that you need is buried under layers of unturned cards, forever lost. As much as you’d like to peek, see just how close you were to winning, such an action is strictly forbidden. The Chomby counts the cards you have gathered in your stacks of aces, and pays out a small sum from the bowl at your table. Some of your winnings go right back into the pot. You shuffle the deck again.

     Beneath the silence, your ears start to pick up a tune so quiet that you wonder if your ears are ringing. Maybe the incense is bothering you? You can’t be sure. In any case, the tune—like a low whistle—creeps ever down in the scale. It gets lower, lower, lower… but it never seems to end on a final, bass note. You glance around, and see the Aisha polishing a glass with a golden handkerchief. It’s the squeaking of the glass making that sound, most likely. She continues her work and eyes her patrons one by one. She smiles a bit too broadly, flashing a set of sharp, white teeth. The whistle of the glass persists, louder in your ears than you’ve ever noticed.

     Before you realise it, you realise that your cards have dried up. You scan the board, but no cards can be moved. No matter how many cards you’ve stacked up onto your aces, failing to clear the board is still a loss. Still, the Chomby pays out your earnings. You pay another entry fee into the bowl. You play again. You lose again. You pay up. You lose. You pay up. Just how long has that whistle been sounding? The Aisha isn’t even cleaning drinkware right now. She’s just standing, staring, smiling.

     Your pocket is heavy with earnings, more than you began with. The house never seems to come out on top. The flow of coins never runs out. Just how could they be making a profit here, on top of the free refreshments they provide?

     Perhaps something else is the currency?

     A haggard-looking Meerca, with scars and patches of missing fur, suddenly slams his fist on the table, swats his cards to the floor, and yells out, disgruntled. You jump in your seat and turn to look. Everyone else snaps out of their trance and glances around. The tent is eerily silent after the outburst.

     Even the whistling is gone.

     Without hesitation, the Chomby looms over the Meerca and takes him by his short arms. Grumbling and grunting, the Meerca is escorted out. The Aisha clicks her tongue and goes back to preparing drinks.

     That’s when you really notice. Her ears stand upright at attention. Her wrinkles are gone, and her face should look softer, but her expression is hard. She glares as she pulverizes bright red Cheops fruit into pulp with her claws.

     You look around at the other card players. Everyone here suddenly looks so tired, so old. You try to convince yourself that you’re only seeing things, but the backs of your hands—etched with raised veins and bony knuckles—tell a different story.

     The other players haven’t noticed yet. Each one continues turning card after card, and coins keep flowing from their palms and into the bowl, from the Chomby and into their pockets, and back. The decks are shuffled, arranged, stacked, and shuffled again and again. A Krawk allows himself an indulgent chuckle as he clears the game for the second time in a row, but fails to notice that one golden fang drops out of his mouth and to the floor.

     You stumble to your feet and stammer, desperate to get their attention, to put an end to this endless cycle, but the words don’t come. You can’t articulate a single thing, and only receive annoyed glares from the others here.

     The Chomby approaches you and places his hand over your deck of cards. He pays you a paltry amount of coins for an unfinished game.

     “I think it’s time that you leave,” he says.

     Your knees shake, but you leave with the knowledge that in Sakhmet Solitaire, you pay for your wins with something far more valuable than any currency.

     The End.