Old Money

Old Money

Tim K. White
2002

         The mid-morning sunlight snaked its way through smudges on the windows of Queen East Antiques. It wound among the dust that clouded the eyes of figures in paintings. It slipped silently past rusted armored suits and scarred mahogany tables. It came to rest serenely on Samuel Croyden’s desk, failing to keep his coffee from dying a quick death. It settled among the chaos of paper and magazine clippings, then drained over the edges and seeped into the gaps in the hardwood floor.
         Croyden still held the coffee, not noticing its tepid state. He stared through the clippings, forgetting which he had seen already. A new layer of dust had already begun to settle on the desktop, attempting to smother it as it had the artifacts crowding the shelves in every nook. He had stopped tapping his pen to break the silence more than an hour before. 
         Looking up from the jumble, he tried to see the view as it had been just two years ago. His memory fell weak, the new look was prevalent. Just a hundred yards away, beyond his window’s view, Queen Street terminated. Now it was a dead end, separated from a monstrous new subdivision by an equally ugly sculpture of recycled materials of questionable origin - something a drunken welder named as art and sold to the city for a small fortune. It seemed so long ago that the hordes passed by his window amidst the cacophony of vehicles. Amazing what change a little rerouting could bring. No longer did the lunch crowds spend their dollars here.  No more did the streetcars squeal a greeting twenty times an hour.
         Now Croyden disdainfully viewed the stale scene of neglected brick beginning to crumble, darkened by the shadow of the towers that marked his sculptured cul-de-sac. Even the debris normally deposited by wind was absent from his street. The homeless had moved on to find less lonely places in which to decay.
         Perhaps it was for this that the shop door closing behind someone startled him so much. Or maybe it was the missing cowbell, which he had removed before the street change, because of its then constant noise.
         Old instincts kicked in, and he arose to greet this rare customer. He took only a quick glance at himself to verify that he was presentable. But it seemed long enough for the lady in his shop to appear next to him, startling him once again. He gave himself away audibly, and she muttered something apologetic. He didn’t catch it. Not clear.  Or another language maybe, a common thing in any part of Toronto.
         “Good morning…” He met her eyes briefly, and fought to control the next words. “May I help you find something?”
         She was tall, nearly meeting his height.  Long raven hair flowed around her shoulders and over her rather swollen breasts, loosely hidden by a high-necked sundress of a forgettable pattern. Her eyes were abysses of sable, paralyzing him where he stood.  She was motionless, a statue of sheer beauty. 
The delay in her response made him somewhat nervous. “I seek something very specific,” she said, “a small spiral crystal the color of jade.” Again in that unusual accent, this time with a most alluring whisper quality. She paused. Croyden knew she was waiting to see if he would respond with knowledge, or if he was going to draw a blank. He shocked even himself when he told her he had something like that tucked away somewhere.
         She softened a bit in her face. “Do you?” she said, taking a half step closer.  Croyden could feel his pulse increase ever so slightly.
         “Why yes.” He collected himself. “It will take a few minutes to find, but I know I have one. About two inches long, with a silver, ringed cap. Presumably for attaching to a necklace.” He began to make a move toward one of the many rooms in the old house-turned-shop. She moved with him, softly speaking to herself it seemed.
         “Platinum.”
         Croyden wondered if she noticed his eyes glance toward her. She was right, it was platinum. But how did she know?  He had only glanced at the item once when he acquired it a few years back. She was one to reel in, probably tracking down a family heirloom. He had better be careful with the price. Who knew what she might be willing to pay? She was carrying a shoulder bag at least.  Hopefully there was a credit card in there and that his card reader hadn’t expired from neglect.
         She trailed him silently as they wound their way through piles of collectible whatevers. They went down a hall to a lovely armoire from a Europe of a hundred and fifty years ago. For sale if one wanted, but for now it held a multitude of small artifacts.
    Croyden bumped the lady’s midsection with his elbow as he opened its door; she was so close. He made a quiet apology. She ignored it. Rather more interested in the contents of the armoire, he thought. Good. More interest, higher price. He could smell her soft floral perfume now. It would be a shame to gouge such an exquisite lady. But, sorry, the shadowed street had drained his accounts.
         He reached in and began to remove one stack of small boxes from atop another.  Cigar boxes, shoe boxes, a hatbox. He took them in turn, while the lady watched calmly.  She never removed her eyes from Croyden’s hands. He couldn’t wait to go into his spiel.
         Eventually, he got to the tiny wooden case he sought. It was second from the bottom of course. Years of studying antiques had given him patience. He hoped his slow retrieval of the box would make her more anxious. He turned about and looked for a flat place to put the box. The lady made one, brushing a pile of dusty books from a nearby table onto the floor with a sweep of one arm.  The other arm dropped her shoulder bag to her feet, where it hit with a heavy, leathery thud.
         She seized the box from Croyden’s hands and placed it squarely in front of her on the table. She brought her hands back to her chest, crossing them like a corpse at rest.  But she was very alive, breathing deeply, almost trembling. She was holding back her excitement. Too late, he thought, this was going to be expensive. Some of those books might have been damaged as well.
         Croyden watched the woman place a hand on the box, resting it there and staring.  A dark lady, she was, more than tanned, but not from Africa. Middle Eastern? Not exactly.  He couldn’t quite place her. Her fingers, waiting patiently on the box, were so slender.  Elaborate gold rings, more antiques, embellished three of them. Expensive.
It was time to sell.
         “The piece in the box is rather old, madam,” he said. “Not an ordinary bit of crystal jewelry. It dates back to the Third Intermediate Period of Egypt. Twenty-five hundred to three thousand years ago.” She was opening the box as he continued. “The craftsmanship is very fine, an extraordinary piece for its time.” She was fixed on the crystal now, resting in burgundy velour inside the case. Croyden’s upsell instinct kicked in. “The case itself is more modern of course, but its origin is unknown.”
         The dark lady seemed to speak to herself again, as she picked the crystal from its tiny berth. “From the New Kingdom.” 
She wasn’t really speaking to Croyden, but he corrected her from the habit of knowledge and experience. “That would make it over three thousand years old, madam. I’m afraid it isn’t possible for this box to be that old. Seventy or eighty years, perhaps.”
         He wasn’t expecting her reply, which she gave while still intently examining the jewel. “Not the case, the crystal. It comes from the New Kingdom. The year 1459 BC on your calendar.”
         He normally had no concern what kind of fantasies ran through a customer’s head, if it meant they might pay more for an item.  Call it older, double the price. But something nagged at Croyden this time, and he just couldn’t let her be misled, should that be why she erred. He still had some integrity, even though the street had died and made him desperate. 
         “Madam”, he said cautiously, “Even if it were of that period, modern science still has no way of determining the exact year of its origin.” She closed her eyes, clasped the crystal to her chest, and bowed her head.
    “It is characteristic of the Third Intermediate, and has been tested for authenticity.”
         A brief moment passed before she opened her eyes again. She looked more relaxed.  Relieved? Not disappointed, he hoped. The piece would still be valuable to her. It had to be. She had been searching for it.
         She spoke directly to him now, swiveling her head very slowly to capture his gaze.  “It was made for the Queen Hatshepsut by her lover Senmut, in 1459 BC. It was one of two pieces, the other a medallion to be embedded in her chest.”
         She held the crystal between thumb and forefinger, at eye level between them. It seemed to have a slight glow, a greater brightness than usual. It accented the bronze tint of her flesh.
         “Once placed in her medallion, the crystal was to be removed, taking time from her heart with it. She would have lived forever, and Senmut was to have done the same for himself, so they would spend eternity together.”
         Her voice had a calming effect, and Croyden basked in it. He felt guilty to interject. “But Hatshepsut died, we know that.” Croyden took the offensive now, standing up for the history he knew so well.  And of course, he had never cared much for fantasy. Antiques were remnants of history, tangible relics of truth. Not toys from fables of the ages. “Seems your legend was not to be.”
His opponent was not pleased with his words.
         “Legend!” Her eyes turned cool. “And what do you know of legend, Mister Croyden?”
    Had he mentioned his name? Maybe she had picked up a card when he wasn’t looking.
    “History has little fact and much legend in its pages.” She paused again, apparently contemplating her next words. Croyden was feeling uncomfortable. He was going to lose the sale; he knew it. Should have stayed quiet.
“The Queen is dead, as you say. But not of age. Not of the soldier’s swords in the forest. And not drowned in the Nile.”
Croyden had heard all of those stories. 
“She was dragged by horses through the deserts; horses blinded and starved, with daggers stuck in their rumps to make them flee the city. The cruelty inflicted on her was another forgotten legend, Mister Croyden.  Buried by time, like the scattered flesh and bone of her rent body.”
         Croyden didn’t know exactly where to go from there. He had upset the woman. She came to pay his grocery bill, and he was arguing speculated history. “I’m sorry, madam, I have only known the stories from the books I have read. It was not my place to argue your tale.” Tale. Why had he picked that word? He waited for her reaction. It came after a pause, gentler this time. She kept her eyes on his, and reached for her shoulder bag on the floor. Just great. She was leaving and taking her money with her.
         But she didn’t. She rested her bag on the table, again with its muffled thud. She kept the crystal clasped in her hands, rolling it around while tenderly removing the rings from her fingers, along with the one bracelet she wore. She calmed in her eyes again, and spoke more.
         “Yes, Hatshepsut died, but the crystal didn’t as you can see. Somehow after all this time, it has ended its travels here in this northern city. It still has its power, Mister Croyden. It has been awaiting the rejoining with the medallion.” She had all the jewelry off now, and placed it in the case where the crystal had been stored.
         Croyden was puzzled by the jewelry, but would gladly accept it as payment for the crystal, for it looked as ancient as the jewel itself. But he still had his questions.  “So the medallion lies in the desert with Hatshepsut. Or have you already found it, Miss…” He waited for an answer that she didn’t offer.
She sighed with a heavy release. A tear began to form at the base of her eye. “No, it is not with her in the sands. It was given to me after she was murdered.” 
Croyden was taken by this woman. So even though he was urged to laugh, he was easily able to suppress it. He said nothing, not having the heart to attack further. She sobbed gently now.
         “You can’t imagine what it was like, searching all this time, Mister Croyden” She reached to her neck to pluck the first button of her dress. “My mother dead of torture, and father dead of despair.” She reached the second button. “And I, forced to endure while their souls lay at peace.”  Third button, and the dress fell away from her tawny, naked body. A disc of platinum with a jade green glow nested between her ample breasts. A small hole sat in the center of the medallion’s spokes, the voided hub of a tiny wheel. 
         Croyden was silent, and only glanced briefly at her exquisite figure. The dark lady seemed to know his every thought, and spoke for him now.
         “These baubles and the contents of the bag should suffice for your trouble, Mister Croyden. I am grateful for your custody of my crystal…” 
         She at once took the crystal and turned its spiral shape into place in the medallion.  “… Thank you.” She turned to walk toward the exit. “I have some catching up to do…with time.”
         Croyden watched for a moment, her body swaying as she drifted down the hall again.  He couldn’t seem to follow, much as he wanted to. She was almost gone. He turned to the bag. Reaching in, he felt another piece of velour, a cylinder shape. He pulled it from the bag with too much strength, and it uncoiled, releasing the stack of gold discs it had bound. The coins sprayed over the floor, ringing through the silent room. Croyden dropped the cloth, and ran to the door to catch the dark lady.  He rushed into the front entry, where the door lay open, silent without its bell.
         The doorway was empty. On the threshold, a small pile of dust swirled in the breeze from the lakeshore. In it lay the medallion and crystal, dark and cracked where there had once been a soft jade glow.