By Sharmila, Grade 10
The standard door chimes sing above my head, indicating an arrival, and prompting the staff to either bombard customers into buying this or that or silencing them into maintaining the mysterious air associated with antique shops.
My arrival, however, does neither. I’m greeted with the usual friendly smiles and polite nods. I’m here almost every day…it’s expected. But this routine visit is not so normal, because today, I have enough money to buy something from the “Mysteries of the Millennia” section, finally. Finally, I’m buying more than old knick-knacks. I already know what I want. The hourglass. It’s not about keeping track of time…I’m not trying to replace my worn-out watches or the clocks that ornament walls everywhere. I’m more interested in stories. The fables concerning heroes, whispered around campfires, the tales entrusted to generations.
That’s what’s brought me here, time and time again. Antique shops are my personal paradise, for each object is engraved with myths, centuries old. The stories I’ve heard about this hourglass… they’ve left me lying in bed, wide-awake, staring at my dust-streaked ceilings long after I’ve finished my daily reading, night after night. This particular antique shop is the first to ever have been established, meaning the objects in it are the oldest in the world. And this particular object, the hourglass, happens to be the antiquest of them all. It’s all too much to resist. Not anymore…I think in anticipation as I carefully make my way across the expansive length of the shop, step in step.
Then I rest my eyes on it. On a wooden shelf clinging to the wall, rays of soft yellow sunlight caressing the glass. But not passing through, almost as if it didn’t want its secrets to come to light. The hourglass sat on its throne, basking in all its glory. It draws away my breath every time I look at it.
“Are you finally buying it today, or what?”
The staff member assigned to observe me until I actually bought this treasured antique seems wary, but more than that, exasperated. It seems he drew the short straw this time, his turn finally came around to escort me. I want to scream with all the air left in me, “yes”, but I choose to give a steady, confirming nod instead. Calming myself down for the unveiling, the moment where it’s finally in my hands.
I hand over my hard-earned money at the cashier, and the annoyed staff member places the bubble-wrapped, carefully taped, hourglass into a secure bag, then a box, and at last, into my open palms.
~
The cautious walk home, and the act of delicately peeling away all the protective layers drove me to the edge of my seat. But the seemingly endless wait is almost over. My eyes seize the splendor of glass and sand in front of me, my fingers inching towards it, anxious to pick it up. My palms make contact, finding glass as smooth as a flower petal meeting them. My fingers close around it, loosely interlocking with the other set. It’s heavier than I expected, likely thanks to the storm of emotions overwhelming me. As I pulled it towards me, in anticipation of a closer look….something shifted.
~
I manage to drag my glance away from the hourglass, setting down the now surprisingly lightweight. It’s much like a parent dragging their child away from a candy store, not because they’re opposed to candy, but because they understand the dangers of too much. I sneak a peek out of the corner of my left eye. Stained coffee table, dim lampshade, a few books. I close my eyes, letting out a cloud of breath I didn’t know I was holding. I turn my gaze, carefully, slowly, to the right. A bookshelf filled with trinkets and antiques. My shoulders drop, settling back down. I finally gain the confidence to look back at the hourglass, and my eyes lock in on it. Something has shifted. The sand….it’s disappeared, like into thin air. Not a speck left. How could that be? I lean back into the sofa, closing my eyes, unsure of what to do or how to react. I find comfort in the familiarity of the skin-soft fabric, and let it console me. I breathe in, out, in, out. That at least, I can manage. I open my eyes, preparing to sit back up and figure it all out when I see it.
Or should I say…them.
Above me, clinging to my ceiling so closely I almost mistook them for dust, there they were. Whatever you’d like to call them….energies, auras, spirits…you could perhaps even use the dreaded word: ghosts. Not as many as the grains of sand on beaches, but close to the number of grains of sand in an hourglass. The hourglass.
At that moment, I realize two things, I knew I should have taken that stress-relieving meditation class, and that I’ve managed to find myself in the heart of a story, but I have no idea how to save the day, and get out.
~
My heart was about to call a time-out, it was done. The excitement of the day sent it sprinting, spreading blood too quickly to my face, leaving it flushed. It was going to burst out of my chest or stop dead in its tracks if I didn’t do something soon. I poured myself a glass of water, sipping it while sprawled across my couch, holding it firmly to prevent it from slipping from my sweating palms. Feeling the adrenaline settling down, I wipe the droplets from my palms, then my forehead.
At last, I cast my glance upwards, not entirely sure what I was hoping for, perhaps to simply discover a new horizon of my imagination with my reading, or that I really need to clean my ceilings. Not surprisingly, I found neither, and I looked, I stared. The ghosts on my ceiling seemed to be making themselves comfortable, leaving me in the strange position of wondering if I was sufficiently hospitable to them. To ghosts. This had to be the most interesting day of my life, or the excitement surrounding the hourglass had rendered me crazy. My fingers shiver, this time from a different kind of anxiety, my whole body shakes as I make to stand up, and turn around. To finally get out of this crisis that I somehow found myself in. Then it started.
~
My ears picked up the sound, seeming to notice that they were needed, my head instinctively turning so my eyes could make sense of it. It was then that I really saw them. Some of the pigment seemed to have returned to their clothes, their faces. Now that I’d gathered myself, I’m finally able to see them for what they really are. Ghosts, yes, but not just any ghosts. These faces were ones from my stories. Queens and kings, conquerors and warriors, scholars and heroes. Myths and legends come to life, or not, I suppose. They were singing as one, unified voice, their pitch spine-chilling enough to wake up the dead, their tone so gruesome it belonged in a graveyard, not my living room. They sang, and the world stopped.
Elements Magazine 