The Antique (2024)

Author's Note: This will be an experiment in memory and writer's development. The original story was written 31 years ago, and I will be re-writing it from memory. After I submit this story, I will dig out the original 1992 manuscript and transcribe it for submission on Vocal.

In the darkness of the old widow McGinley's attic, a slender shadow picked its way through the stashes of the ninety-year-old woman's possessions, the collections of her life's memories and archives of her family's past. With every slight creak, the shadow halted, sure that this time the old woman will awaken and discover the intruder. He breathed through his mouth slowly, deliberately, to minimize the sound, while his heartbeat pounded like bass drums in his head. His flop sweat drenched his dirty tee, rubbing against the inside of his studded leather jacket, adding its musk to the tannin scent. He gingerly stepped onto the next floor joist, waiting for the old wood to betray his presence. Little did he know that the widow was soundly passed out on her settee, having sipped a cordial of obscure origin she had been convinced to try, purchased at a nearby charity shop. And beneath all of the sounds he imagined, a still small voice in the recesses of his head quietly directed him to his prize.

Presently, the shadow stood bent over an old wooden box covered with a thick layer of dust. It was two meters in length and a third that square. The wood was in a decrepit state, and he wondered if he could even pick it up without damage. The figure reached slowly for the box, and began to make his way back to the vent window from whence he came. He carried it under one arm, while the other reached out to each successive rafter to steady him as he went. The box was quite heavy, and had a tendency to swing the figure around as he tried to move at a snail's pace towards the other end of the attic. Minutes, or hours maybe, he wasn't sure anymore, he reached his octagonal escape route, dim light from street lamps seeping inward. His craggy features belied his youth in the feeble light, his nervous twitching made worse from the need for a fix. He slowly set the fragile box down as the voice in his head instructed, then pushed the window aside. It seemed tighter now than when he first arrived, so he pushed harder. The window finally gave way, almost slamming against the brickwork outside. He froze, listening for the inevitable approach of the old woman, or worse the bobbies!

Having satisfied himself and the inner voice that no arrest was forthcoming, he climbed through, reached back in and drew the box out of the window and onto the roofover that covered the landing facing the street. Careful to return the window to a closed position, he looked around the street before he carried the box across the rooftops until he was away and climbed down. The dawn was coming soon, and the young punk who stole a rickety old box from the widow McGinley's attic loped down back alleys and through yards before the light could expose him.

*

Ten of the clock, and a greasy, sweaty craggy-faced young punk in a studded leather jacket, ripped jeans and scuffed up old Doc Martens stood before the door to a charity shop, wondering why he should be bringing a crappy old box that was about to fall apart to this place? And yet, that still, small voice reassured him that he was on the right track, yes this was where he needed to be. He sniffed, hocked and loped into the shop, mustering as much courage as he could while still jittering from withdrawal. The interior was nearly as dim as the attic, overstocked everywhere with all manner of junque, old crap from days and years gone by. If he had still possessed a decent sense of smell, the musty odors would have been overwhelming, the scent of old books times ten thousand. Some would have relished the smell, the punk would have just bitched about it. He slowly stepped through, wondering where to find some help, squinting to see what was before him. Eventually, he called out "Oy! Ya here?" A small voice towards the back replied, "Back here, young man... I've been waiting fer ya..."

The punk thought that was weird, maybe he meant waiting coz I took too long? Never mind, let's get this thing gone. He strode with a bit more swagger to a counter near the back of the store, a meter or more tall, and placed the box there. Looking around, the punk at first could see no one, but then out of the shadows arrived a wizened old fellow, a codger who looked ancient to him, and took him aback at his sudden appearance.

"Kin eye hep yer, young fella?" the old man said.

"Yeh, eye's wondrin' whut ye gimme fer this ol box?"

The old man looked over the box slowly, carefully, taking a pair of reading glasses from the top of his head to gaze more closely at it. The punk was nervous, shifting back and forth, and as the old man pored over the dilapidated planks of the box, the punk wondered if he should have even bothered to bring it there. Surely the poor condition of this crate would mean it had no value? The old man came around and saw two brass clasps holding the box secure. He looked at the punk and quipped, "Yew dint even look inside, didya?" The punk just shook his head, realizing that yeah why didn't I have a gander? The old man smiled, a knowing smile that weirded the punk out. He thought he might actually have something there and not even know it.

The old man pushed each clasps up in turn, barely able with his gnarled fingers to raise them. He pushed up on the lid of the box, to reveal an object covered in a tattered length of white cloth. His ancient hands reached into one end of the box, grasping something under the cloth. A deep grunt escaped his lips as he struggled to lift a great weight from within. The punk was mesmerized for what seemed like an eternity as the object slowly revealed itself. As the slender object rose, the cloth slid like the samite it was gracefully from a metal xiphoid object. It was covered in a rust red and brown crust, but even that could not hide the workmanship that wrought its timeless beauty. It was doubled-edged with an inscription on Latin along the ferrule. A handguard of woven strands of gold was backed by faded leather wrapping on the handle, and again the gold on the hilt. The punk gazed, his mouth gaping as the broadsword lifting slowly to an upright position, held surprisingly well by a tiny, impossibly old man.

"Wow, now thets gortta take some hunnerds ah quid, eh, govnah?"

The old man gingerly set the blade across the counter, then locked his eyes with the young man. His rheumy eyes took on a sparkle as he spoke singsong at his young charge.

"Yer happy wit tha one hunnerd eye given yew."

The young man wavered a moment, then grinned wanly.

"Ah'm heppy ta take a hunnerd quid, eye am, sir."

The old man reached under the counter, producing two crisp new fifty pound notes and handed them over. The punk seemed in a trance as he accepted his money and shuffled away. The old man watched as his unaware accomplice floated out the door, slowly and quietly following in his steps. He locked the front door, turned the 'open' sign to 'closed' and returned to his prize on the back counter. His bent, shriveled fingers began to caress the shaft of the weapon, his eyes glistening as he felt strength build in his elderly body. As he came around the end of the counter, he seemed about to sob, his eyes welled with tears held back years, decades, even centuries. As he reached once more for the handle with both hands, his trembling voice spoke low and reverently.

"There yew are, my pretty. I've waited dozens of lifetimes to see yew agin."

His grip was firmer than before, and as he lifted again the sword, his bent back became straighter, his face brighter and his strength gained as the sword found its zenith nearly over his head. A surprisingly swift downward stroke brought the shaft of the sword slamming flat onto the countertop, and the crusty layers disappeared in a brownish dust cloud. The sword was shiny and new underneath, the Latin inscription plain to see. The old man joyfully wept.

*

A small, dark figure could be seen negotiating the winding path leading up the steep hill, a long object strapped to his back. A horse and wagon waited patiently for him at the foot of the hill. He was spry for a man centuries old, hiding his endless vitality beneath a nondescript brown blazer and slacks, his long white hair held under an old fedora. It was the old man from the shop, hauling the broadsword on his back, coming to a stone structure at the top of the hill. He had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, muttering that he was too old for this. Momentarily, he unstrapped the sword from his body, and strode over to a pair of stone slabs laid out side by side on the ground. The old man began to mumble words in some dead language, and held the sword in his now straighter, stronger hands.

Storm clouds began to gather over the hilltop, the sky darkened almost to night as the old man's voice rose higher. He looked down at the sarcophagi, also engraved with Latin. He spoke aloud, holding up the sword before him.

"Here lies King Arthur, King of the Britons, with his wife Guinevere, interred in this hallowed ground on the Isle of Avalon. I brought her back to you my liege, as was my solemn pledge!"

He turned his grip, lifted the hilt as high as he could, then slammed the tip into the ground at the foot of the slabs. Lightning coursed its way from the sky, met the hilt of the sword, cracked with an earsplitting thunder and exploded into the ground. The man fell back, his hat flying off and his long white hair blooming out with static as his bum hit the ground. The stone slabs both crumbled to dust as the electricity spread across the hilltop. Thunder boomed, the black sky split back and forth with more lightning as the desiccated bodies of a man and a woman appeared out of the dust cloud. They slowly rose from their internment, their bodies fleshing back out, muscles twining over their bones and stretching dry skin as they reconstituted. The old man sat up and watched, a smile growing on his face and more tears rolling from his eyes as he saw the two return to life before him.

Soon, the two were fully realized and vital once again. Arthur turned to see his beloved as beautiful as when she lived a millenium before. She looked back at him, her joy evident in her smile as she reached a hand out to his. Together, hands locked, they rose from their shallow graves. They stepped out and approached the old man. He rose himself, dusting himself and bowed before his liege. Arthur smiled and laid a bony hand on his friend's shoulder. His voice was rough at first, but gained its strength as he spoke.

"Thank you, Merlin my friend. You have been faithful to the last."

Arthur then turned to the sword and easily extracted it from the ground with a single hand. He held it up, and slowly brought it back down to tap Merlin's shoulder, light but firm. Merlin's body firmed up and his stature straightened even further. His face regained some manner of youthfulness, though he still appeared older than his King.

"My liege, Britain has fallen into the hands of Evil, and she needs you now. As the legends portended, and my many years to find Excalibur, I have retrieved her for you as the day of your return is now fulfilled."

Arthur held Excaliber before him, lifting it straight up, and another lightning strike flowed effortlessly through it. The glow could be seen for miles, and those who saw it wondered at the sight. Arthur took Guinevere's hand and began to stride back down the hill, with Merlin close behind. And across the countryside, graves long since forgotten fell apart one by one, the bodies within them began to return to life, and the knights sworn to Arthur and every soldier who perished fighting for the realm of Logres began to gather for war.