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It was a few days past Christmas, which had been a quiet but still nice affair for the two cousins. They spent the day praying side-by-side in the pew of the church, for protection of all who fought and a resolution to bring about peace soon, and there had been a meager Christmas dinner. Food shortages were becoming more real with the naval blockades in the ports. Agnes had been particularly nostalgic, regaling him with stories of Christmas past. Just like Scrooge, she revisited these memories fondly but they were coated in the bitter reminder of what was now missing this year. Her reminiscing stirred up so many memories he had suppressed. The faces in the trench had spoken as she did and, though he knew she was oblivious to the pain she was inflicting on him, he felt suffocated. At the first chance he had, he burst free from his cousin's home and slipped into the welcoming sanctuary of his house. It was the first time he thought of it as his house, because it was not his place of dwelling but it was, in its own drafty way, comforting. Cold air whistled down the chimney.
What was that? Edward thought he had heard a small chirp, but he must have imagined it. His ears lacked the clarity to distinguish so small a sound. He turned back to laying a fire in the stone hearth. He struck the match to set the spark and bent in to catch the wood with the flame, when he paused, hearing the noise again. Extinguishing the match by shaking it out, he heard it once more. Thinking perhaps that the chimney was carrying the sound, he half-climbed into it to investigate. Cold air from the howling wind slapped his face, stinging his cheeks. There. He heard it again and it did seem louder from inside the chimney.
Hastily, he scrambled to his feet and rushed up the stairs. On the second floor he examined the fireplace, which was directly above where he had just been. The noise grew louder, but it was coming from higher up still. Edward raced from room to room, searching the ceiling to find the entrance to the attic. He found it at last, in what certainly must have been the servants' quarters with windows and room area both much smaller than in other parts of the house. Pushing a chair into the center of the room to pull down the hatch to the attic, he wobbled slightly on his feet. He soon recovered his balance and, with a clap, the door was released, sending forth an enormous cloud of dust as it swung open. Edward coughed on the particles choking him, but wasted no time in pulling down the ladder. He tested its sturdiness and then climbed up quickly.
Tight and cramped, the space in the attic wrapped around him, enfolding him in darkness. Lack of light complicated his difficulty in seeing in the small area and he felt momentarily overwhelmed. Ordinarily, compromised sight was easily compensated for by careful listening, but Edward did not yet enjoy this privilege.
As a young boy, he had become lost amidst the black expanse of night and found his way home through the winking glow of the North Star. How many thousands of times had he looked to it when on the front? Now, he must find the aural beacon pulsating with its chirp to gain his bearings. He stood very still and concentrated all of his effort into his ears, encouraging the sound to travel forth again. He waited, willing his ear to cooperate. Nothing. Perhaps, he was too far away. Tentatively, he stepped forward. Not yet. Once more, he took a step. Stumbling onto a box, a loud crash resulted. That he had heard.
He jumped back, more so from the pain of hitting his shin than from the noise that he was sure was magnified many times in actuality from what he heard. The ruckus also alerted whatever was near the chimney and a chorus of chirps rang out. Light from below, on the ladder, floated skyward as the clouds cleared from in front of the sun and he saw a flutter of activity. He crossed the rest of the way to the chimney and found a tiny robin redbreast tucked into a corner of it. He wanted to tell it hello, but feared frightening it if his voice came out louder than intended. The bird had calmed after the disturbance and tucked herself in beneath her wings.
His eyes were adjusting to the dim light of the room and the freshly unveiled sun greatly aided his ability to discern objects in the attic. Boxes were strewn haphazardly beneath the creaking rafters. Mounds of silver, carpets, and furnishings cluttered the small space. When he bought the house from Henry, he had been told that whatever he found was his. Henry had never lived in the house, but had been bequeathed it by a friend who had no heir. The friend had already allowed the house to deteriorate as he aged. It was simply too large and too much work to keep up. The house had passed from generation to generation for a good many years before Henry's friend was ever born. By that time, the grandeur and riches that had built the house had long since dried up, leaving him with a lavish house but no means for upkeep. When Henry inherited the house he was already far along in years himself and his body no longer enjoyed the agility it once had, which would have been mandatory to make anything of the sickened house. And so these past five years it had sat, proud but alone, until Edward entered its life. Henry had been flabbergasted when Edward inquired about buying it. Like his friend, Henry lived alone and there was no one to entrust the care of the home into until Edward came along.
Edward dusted off an old leather armchair and sat down in it, as he rifled through a nearby box brimming to the top with fine silks and velvets. Buried at the bottom was a set of tarnished silver cutlery. He picked up a spoon, seeing his blurred reflection in its surface. His features stared back at him, offering the familiar view that he had faced for so many years. Something in his eyes had changed; there was age beyond his years. Staring into the spoon, he became acutely aware that the span of his life when it had run its course was minuscule compared to the age of the objects stored in this room. People perished, but now he was confronted with the heavy realization of the permanence of objects. They exist for centuries, witnessing the rise and fall of houses, families, or countries. They exist as the most tangible link to the past.
The sleuth in him wanted to uncover the many treasures buried in piles here. Buried in piles, the phrase repeated in his head. Images of young men, who didn't belong in graves laid there prematurely, paraded in an endless stream in his mind now. His hands cradled his temples, attempting to push out the horror.
In a moment of perfect clarity, he opened his eyes and knew what he would do. Having witnessed youth massacred in the form of countless men, Edward felt the insatiable urge to preserve what was aged. In a celebration of all that had survived from the past, he would set up an antique shop. The house with its many rooms and ample space would be the perfect location. His mind raced forward in excitement to a time when customers would flock to see the young American selling the priceless heirlooms. At home he had studied history and art and from a very young age, finery surrounded him and so he felt well-equipped to discern an item's story and offer an accurate appraisal.
He pulled out the box nearest him and began unpacking china figurines, a silver tea service, and a stack of old letters. In another box he found maps, a coin collection, and books, so well-read that the pages lacked all crispness of a new volume. The binding too had loosened and the adhesive had long since lost its stick. Edward had made considerable progress in his discoveries, when he slumped back in the chair to rest for a minute. His findings had distracted him from the harshness and he realized now that, for the first time in a very long while, the afternoon had passed in happiness.
The already dim light of the attic was waning quickly. Agnes would be worried, if he did not return soon for dinner. A chilly gust greeted him now, sending him into a cough as he shivered. The unexpected shiver caused him to drop the book he was holding. With a thud, it fell to the ground emitting a cloud of disturbed dust in its wake. He stooped to pick up the book and his eye caught the corner of something protruding from a rich material wrapped around it.
Intrigued, he reached for the object, forgetting for the time being the dropped book he had bent to retrieve. He lifted the object and sat down again in the leather chair before he began to unwrap it. The fabric covering in itself would have been a wonderful find with its ornate detail and luxurious texture. Edward could have been unwrapping the object from a paper coat though and it would have had the same effect on him. The fabric was merely a covering to move aside, much as the husk is discarded to reveal the golden glow of the kernels of corn. When it was completely unwrapped he looked it over, marveling at the age of what he held. The reverse of what he thought would be a painting faced him now. Making a game of it, he paused and imagined for a moment what might be depicted when he turned it over. Perhaps, it would be a still life painted in the Netherlands a couple hundred of years before. Maybe, it was a painting of the house in its younger years when it must have been glorious to behold. With a tingle of excitement, which had rested dormant in him since before the war until finding this house, he turned the painting over.
“Why, hello,” he said to the woman who greeted him. Her dark eyes met his and in that one look all the centuries were bridged. She looked so vital that he couldn't help but speak to her, as if failing to acknowledge her would be tantamount to being rude and not greeting a stranger who had just entered the room. Her lips, painted in rosy pink, looked as if they would part and speak to him at any moment. Her eyes, which had instantly locked with his, held the duality of shy admiration and reserved flirtation. Youthful, glistening skin peeked from the lavish silks robing her body. Brown barrel curls cascaded down her back like the rippling waves rolling peacefully off the ocean. Some artists adhere pigment to page out of necessity of paycheck or familial obligation, but whoever painted this portrait did so out of compulsion of heart. Edward, fashioned out of the hard, embittered, rough edges of a war veteran, became mesmerized by the soft and almost heavenly benevolence captured in the delicate lines and perfect portrayal of love embodied.
Moved by the painting, the art critic in him began its examination now. Her complexion looked Mediterranean, but much fairer than Spanish. Perhaps she was Italian, probably from the north. Her fashions spoke of the aristocratic Renaissance. The colors lacked the vibrancy of some of the great masters but if that were because of the effects of age or if they had originally lacked the luster of brilliance, perhaps from a poorer artist who could not pay for such costly pigment in too great of quantity, he could not be sure. Whoever she was, she made an agreeable subject for someone's sitting room and she would be able to undoubtedly garner an attractive price when he was able to set up shop.