Mightier Than The Sword

One man's trash is another man's...weapon?

The antique store was in an old grain mill, and there were three tall silos looming to one side of it. To Alan, they looked like the elongated necks of a trio of mangy vultures.

“Stop!” Vanessa shrieked when the sign labeled ‘Junk and Collectibles’ hanging by one bent nail came into her view. “I want to check that out!”

Her grating voice accentuated the image of vultures, Alan thought with a secret grin.

It had to be secret. She wouldn’t appreciate the analogy.

Alan wheeled the heavy Lincoln into the parking space just in front of the shabby building and clicked off the switch. As he listened to the ping of cooling metal in the silenced engine, he gazed at the porch that roamed across the front of the building, crowded with debris. He could make out several old metal desks piled on top of each other, an ancient faded Coke cooler, a pot-bellied stove missing its door, and some sort of indecipherable mass of rusty cast iron that looked like a watermelon on a spit.

“Doesn’t look too promising,” he offered.

Vanessa ignored him as she scrambled out of the car, slamming the door hard enough to send a piercing pain through Alan’s already aching head. She leaned down to mouth through the closed window, her hands cupped around her vermilion mouth, “This could be a goldmine, way out here in the sticks like this. They might not realize the value of what they have.”

Vanessa always said this when they stopped at an antique shop in the country. She lived for the day when she would discover some lost Whistler masterpiece, some dirty priceless chair in just such an unlikely spot—and then snatch it up for pennies.

Alan thought in private that the odds approached a googol to one, but that was another of his ideas she would not appreciate; and it paid him to keep her happy—for a while longer, anyway.

Vanessa stood to inherit a nice chunk of change when her mother finally died, and it looked as if the old lady was going to do them both a favor—finally—and pop off any time now. That was why they were driving around this god-forsaken little county in South Carolina, visiting old barns full of trash while Vanessa waited to hear the good news from the local hospital.

Alan had spent two interminable years waiting for the old bat to croak so he could get his hands on her money, and he wasn’t going to waste all that effort now by pissing off Vanessa.

Not too much, anyway.

He clambered out of the car, the humid heat slapping him in the face like a wet towel. He had kept the air conditioner on max all morning and he shook his head in misery as he looked up the broken steps to a screen door as it slammed shut behind Vanessa.

How do these Southerners stand it? he wondered as he trudged up the steps. Sweat began a slow trickling dance down his face.

Vanessa had already disappeared into the murky depths of the shop. He peered into the interior through the torn rusty screen, the door leaning against one hand, wondering if it was worth the trouble to go in or if he should just get back in the car and crank up the air.

Nah, she’d want to show him something first thing and he’d be dragged out anyway. Might as well bite the bullet; make a quick run-through and then maybe they could find some place to have a late lunch, a beer or three, before they had to head back to their vigil at the hospital.

Alan let the door close behind him with a gentle snick of its latch. The shop was packed to the high exposed rafters with layers of stuff, some organized on shelves or tables but most just piled any which way. The floor underfoot, what little was visible, was of wide pine boards gouged and stained by the years. To his right was a long glass-fronted case as high as his shoulders, packed with shelves of cheap costume jewelry, broken watches, paper fans, spurious arrowheads made in Taiwan and similar junk. Bobbing over the top of the case, the head of an old woman with suspiciously red hair in a high teased beehive offered him a toothless grin.

“Howdy,” she cackled, nodding in time to an old Elvis song that whined out of an eight-track player on top of the case. “If I kin hep you, just let me know, y’hear?”

Vanessa was invisible in the dingy depths of the huge room, though he could hear rustlings like rats in the wall from all around. Either there were rats, a distinct possibility, or Vanessa had found something interesting in the belly of the store.

“Thanks,” Alan offered the proprietress, who nodded absently as Elvis moaned about the fact that his baby had left him, leaving him so lonely he could die.

Some guys have all the luck, Alan mused with a silent snicker. He eyed the case with a yawn and a total lack of interest.

Then he saw it. It almost seemed to jump out at him.

A long black box containing a cylindrical indigo-and-gold shape like a slender cigar, with dull dingy strips encircling it at both ends and another strip shooting down it halfway. He leaned against the wavy glass of the case, peering through a thick yellow layer of nicotine and accumulated dust.

Yes, it was. An old Farrington fountain pen—he could just make out the distinctive logo of a tiny crown on the faded purple satin lining of the open box.

Damn, he hated these modern felt-tip or gel-ink monstrosities! Greasy plastic cases, harsh tips throwing down a slick obscene line of weak ink across a delicate virgin sheet of paper, digging into it like some lascivious claw. And don’t even mention ballpoints! Ragged misshapen points that skipped and dragged across a surface.

But a fountain pen! Now there was an instrument made for proper writing. A smooth broad nib, the ink flowing just right, dancing across a snowy sheet of paper. Why, you could even watch the ink dry; see the different thicknesses as it formed each letter.

And a Farrington, at that. Why, they had been out of business for six—no, seven years, Alan knew for a fact. He still remembered the last time he had tried to order replacement nibs for his small collection, to find out with a sinking feeling in his chest that they no longer answered his letters, that the company had gone belly-up in this day of cheap, mass-produced writing utensils.

“Ma’am, could I see that pen in that box, please?” Alan asked sweetly, the sweat forgotten, the humidity no longer existing.

The old woman slid with arthritic care down from her high stool and hobbled over opposite Alan. The glass panel slid back with a squeal of agony and Alan watched with increasing joy as a red-nailed claw seized the oblong box, snapped it shut and pulled it out of an entangling strand of fake pearls. The box disappeared into dimness, only to blink back into existence at the top of the case, sliding towards him as if of its own volition across the scratched mahogany of the top.

Alan grabbed it, caressed for a moment the fine teak of the case. Then, with a muttered ‘Thanks’, he opened the lid and gazed with mounting pleasure on the contents.

The pen looked as if it were made of sapphire or calcedony. Alan felt his excitement grow; Farrington had had a semi-precious line, he knew, but he had never thought to see one. He had always had to content himself with the cheaper—but still pretty damned expensive—regular line.

Around one end a tracery with a dull metallic sheen, thick and elaborate, twisted and ran down the body of the pen to the nib cover, which was crowded with similar tracery. With stilled breath, Alan popped the pen’s cover off. A slender but voluptuous nib, a brighter gold from being protected, exposed itself, the Farrington trademark at its base clear and distinct.

There was even a bit of dried ink at the very tip of the nib, a rusty dark brown like dried blood.

Alan could feel his heart racing. He snapped the box closed, looked away for an instant as one finger absently traced a metal plate set into the lid of the case. He looked down at it. In elegant script he could just decipher through the tarnish a flowery ‘Alistair Crowley’.

He flipped the box back open, pulled the pen out and looked at the nib cover. Yes, there in the thick gold—it had to be gold, probably ten carat—he could see the same initials. A.C.

Alan decided almost without conscious thought that he would research the former owner of the fine old writing tool, find out who this Crowley guy had been.

But first he had to own it.

No. He had to own it.

“This old pen isn’t in very good shape, ma’am,” he began craftily to the crone hidden in the darkness behind the case.

No answer.

Playing cagey, Alan thought in a sudden burst of wild irritation. Jacking the price up. She can tell I want it.

“Of course, it’s not any good for writing any more either,” he continued, anxious to remove any impression of eagerness on his part. “Dried ink in its guts, last owner probably ruined the nib. Yep, looks a little splayed.” He gave an elaborate sigh. “I don’t guess I really want it after all.”

But he did, of course. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Alan snapped the cap back on the pen and placed it in its teak coffin, his fingers running over the smooth blackness worn by years of use. He found himself oddly hesitant to hand it back to the old woman, afraid somehow that he’d never see it again. He reached up to place it on top of the case.

His fingers wouldn’t turn loose of the box. They hung there, latched onto the box where it lay on dusty mahogany.

“It ain’t much good for nothin’, is it?” a soft voice competed with the wailing of the King. “Tell you what, if your lady wife buys anything, why I’ll just throw it in fer free, how about?”

The box leaped from the top of the case, jerking Alan’s hand with it, and landed in his shirt pocket.

At least, that was almost what it felt like to Alan.

Damn, he thought, I really want this thing!

He laughed a weak little laugh and nodded at the invisible voice across from him, then said, “That sounds good. I’ll just see what the little lady has found, okay?”

Elvis was pointing out someone’s hound dog status as Alan wandered away in search of Vanessa, the teak box bouncing against his hollow chest just over his heart. The room seemed to go on forever, winding trails of piled and shifting debris almost impossible to navigate.

Clinks of disturbed glass, muffled cries of pleasure at some new find, rattles as things were shifted, led Alan inexorably in the direction of his wife.

As he moved through the assembled junk of ages, the box at his chest kept drawing his vision. He would glance down at it, afraid it might fall—Or leap? Ha, ha, sure! But the image stuck uneasily—out of his pocket; and then, he knew with the utmost clarity, his eyes would lock onto it and be dragged from their sockets at it tumbled to the dusty pine floor.

Next thing he knew, Alan almost tripped over something that he could have sworn wasn’t there a minute ago. A pile of books had slid stealthily from a wooden crate and into his path. Beside the crate, a loose table leg jutted out like a broken limb. A smooth wooden dough board, long and narrow, rocked on its rounded bottom.

“Vanessa?” Alan murmured, his eyes fixed on his pocketed burden, just as a chair appeared in his path. He sidestepped it absently and called a bit louder, “Vanessa?”

She appeared before him like a fat genie out of a lamp, looking dusty and cross and hot.

“Let’s get out of here, Alan,” she snarled. “There’s nothing worth having in this pile of crap.”

Alan tore his eyes away from the pen case, glanced up at her irritated face, shook his head, then looked back down at his treasure with a soft, dreamy half smile.

“Let’s go, Alan,” Vanessa repeated, hands on broad hips, the crease deepening between her watery eyes. “I’m ready for lunch and then we have to check on Mother.”

Alan drew the teak box out of his pocket. His fingers caressed the smooth age-darkened wood like a lover.

“What’s that?” spat Vanessa. “Not another of those nasty old ink pens, I hope? Honestly, why I let you throw away my money on such trash, I’ll never know.”

Alan said nothing as he popped open the box and drew the Farrington into the dingy light that filtered down from the high windows. An errant sunbeam shot through a crack in the tin roof and lighted on the tarnished gold trim, bouncing into Vanessa’s eyes and making her squint as she reached out blindly to take the pen from Alan.

As if he had rehearsed it a million times in his mind, Alan snapped the cap off the pen with one finger. It fell away—Alan caught the cap neatly in his other hand—and revealed the stained nib

The nib that came to such a lovely sharp point.

The point, stained in a rusty ink the color of dried blood, winked cheerfully up at Alan.

Of its own volition Alan’s hand drew back and up over his head. He smiled a happy smile at his wife just as he plunged the nib of the Farrington deep into Vanessa’s right eye.

Clear fluid gushed out in a thick stream, spurting over his hand and the pen. It cleaned away the rusty stains and left the writing instrument bright and shining.

And even more desirable than ever.

Alan jerked the pen out; then, without pausing for thought, he thrust it into Vanessa’s left eye, deeper this time.

Again a spurt of clear fluid, followed by a spout of bright red. The red fluid bubbled out, coated Alan’s hand, dripped off the pen in crimson streams to pool on the pine floor.

Vanessa hooted like a train engine, twisted around and fell back against a tottery pile of old record albums, her meaty arms flailing. The clatter of ancient plastic hitting the wooden floor drowned out for a moment Elvis’ complaint about his sojourn in a jail cell. Vanessa screeched, a long expiring sound, like that train’s whistle dying off in the distance.

The old woman appeared at Alan’s side, shaking her ratty teased head in dismay.

“Guess she didn’t find anything she liked, huh?” the woman wheezed as she gazed dolefully down at the mess of blood-splattered broken records, a broom ready in one red-clawed hand.

Alan turned away, snatched a clean handkerchief from a pocket in his pants and with careful and loving precision wiped his pen clean of the blood and clear ichor.

He had to take good care of this pen. They certainly didn’t make them like this anymore.

No sir, they certainly did not.

End