Fix artifact

[moonshadows]

One of the artifacts was broken.

The Caretaker would not be pleased; this one had been one of her favorites, one of the special artifacts that had so much energy but broke so easily. The Warehouse would suffer for the breaking of this one. Not that the Caretaker would do any punishing, because that’s not how she worked, but because this artifact had been so useful in keeping the others from fighting.

It was clear what had happened, of course. Another artifact had broken it. The new one, the dark and surly one brought in by another of the Caretaker’s favorites. It had run amok among the shelves. It had been placed in the Dark Vault where it seethed and hissed. Then it seemed as if it would be encased in bronze like the other artifacts that the Dark Vault couldn’t subdue – but it had broken one of the Caretaker’s favorites.

Now the remaining favored artifact – not that the new favorites were shunned, but they were new – was broken, too, and without its bubbly energy the other favorites were milling in distress.

I wish you could. (Poor broken artifact, poor broken artifacts.) But there are some things…many things…that cannot be fixed. (You’re not one of them, you can be fixed, please fix him.) You can, however, fix yourself…if you want to. (Please help him fix himself.)

Acceptance. A plea for help. The artifact wanted to be fixed, the Caretaker wanted the artifact fixed. Desire and intent echoed from wall to shelf to shelf to shelf, rippling through all the lesser, more docile artifacts until it struck a small figurine carved with hieroglyphs. The small, wooden crate was less than a foot tall and packed with straw, a manifest stapled to the top identifying the contents as a shabti from the tomb of Nefertari, eight inches high and carved of ebony. This one was receptive; built to serve and quite tame, it would carry out the Caretaker’s wishes. A faint green-gold light flared along the carved lines as the Caretaker’s desire and intent washed over them, activating the ancient spells.

The shabti grew. Wood protested, then gave way with a crack that echoed and reproduced until only twisted, splintered slats covered in straw remained. Now six feet tall, the shabti was clearly an Egyptian woman wearing a tightly-wrapped linen sheath and sandals with a waterfall of tiny braids that fell stiffly to her shoulderblades– all still carved out of ebony, hieroglyphs still visible and picked out in shimmering gold. Her crossed arms slowly unfolded, carved eyes blinking once, twice. She had been called. Unhesitatingly, she took her first steps in over two thousand years while the hieroglyphs spelling Nefertari’s name writhed and settled into ones translating to ‘caretaker’.

The broken artifact was shelved in the special, elevated section that had no name but could be called the Core. Ebony sandals made surprisingly little sound as they climbed twisting metal steps. Carved eyes could see what before had only been blindly sensed, and the figure went unerringly to the keyboard the artifact had spent so many hours at. The keys – plastic, resin, wires and electricity – spoke in subtle vibrations, whispering of pain and the longing for something broken to be mended. The keys guided the figure’s fingers, slowly at first but then faster as the melody unfolded and begged for resolution, for release, for healing and completion.

Footsteps from above, slow and heavy on the stairs, fear and uncertainty and hope muddying what had been sick grief and despair and self-loathing. Ebony fingers did not falter, did not hesitate. The song flowed to its conclusion, last notes hanging in the air before fading away.

“Who are you?”

There could have been anger in the words; there wasn’t.

“How did you know that song?”

There could have been fear. Instead, uncertainty and flickering hope.

“Turn around,” the artifact commanded.

Finally, something that made sense! The ebony figure turned, watching the emotions of the artifact with carved eyes as it read the hieroglyphs that shimmered on its front, muttering. Eventually, it stopped and looked up, emotions settling into the familiar spiral of excitement and wonder at being faced with a puzzle from the unknown.

“You’re a shabti figure, carved out of – what is that, ebony? – probably Queen Nefertari’s, from Warehouse Two. Looks like you answer to Mrs. Frederic now, same as the rest of us. How did you get out of the Ovoid Quarantine? Can you speak? Uh…I command you to speak!”

Carved lips parted, but what is speech without words?

“Okay, so you likely can speak, you just don’t know how…or maybe you just don’t know what to say because I wasn’t specific enough. Okay. Uhhh….I need your manifest slip because I don’t know what you do. Aside from, you know, playing the song I wrote for my father on the piano.”

Fix the artifact. Artifact needed information. Fetch the information? The favored artifact was dashing around now, scattering papers and prodding the artifact that usually provided information except that this time, there was no information to provide. Provide the information? Slowly, ebony fingers sifted through papers until they found one that was blank and then reached for a writing implement. The knowledge of shapes imbued by spells was limited; hieroglyphs were sketched. Hopefully the artifact would accept this.

“W-w-wait, wait a minute, what are you doing? Are you…writing? Let me see that…”

The artifact leaned over to peer at the shapes being drawn, a book in one hand.

“Created…serve…that must have been Nefer- and now it’s- okay, but then how…obeyed command…fix…artifact? My keyboard, that song…I wrote it to…my father. But then…”

The artifact straightened, hope and sorrow simmering inside it.

“You’re here to…fix…me?”

Gently, one ebony hand reached out to pet the artifact’s curly hair. The activated shabti gathered the trembling artifact into its arms, following whispers from other artifacts that dealt with comforting sorrow.

“Shh.” This was a sound that meant reassurance in the face of emotional turmoil, the shelved artifacts said. The favorite artifacts used words to communicate with each other, with the Caretaker. What words were appropriate? “Fix artifact. Shh.”

Affront, good-natured grumpiness, reflexively repressed amusement. “I’m not that old. But then again, I guess age isn’t a good measurement of artifact-ness. Just look at Jimi Hendrix’s guitar. Still…” Grief and hope boiled together. “This has got to be the most unorthodox thing I have ever done as a Warehouse agent.”

“Good artifact,” the figure said quietly, projecting fondness and approval.

Grief, sadness, and anger won. “No, I’m not,” the artifact said harshly. “I killed Leena. How could I- I don’t deserve-”

“Shh. Good artifact.”

“How can you say that?” Angry now, the favored artifact pulled away, but one ebony finger touched its lips.

“Brought bad artifact.”

“The astrolabe,” whispered the favored artifact in quiet horror.

“Bad artifact broke favored artifact.”

“But I-”

“Bad artifact broke favored artifact. Bad artifact broke…” Lacking better words, the ebony finger trailed down and came to rest over the artifact’s heart.

“And now I need fixing.” Hands covered eyes, rubbed them tiredly. “Mrs. Frederic is concerned enough that somehow, she woke you up and tasked you with being my therapist.” Resigned laughter. “You’re probably better for that than anyone with a degree in the stuff, and as far as I know you only have a six-word vocabulary.” The hands dropped and hard suspicion spiked. “How did you know about the astrolabe?”

Carved eyes blinked. What kind of a question was that?

“You-you know what? Just…never mind. Unless you learn some more words, ‘brought bad artifact’ is going to have to do.” The artifact sighed, anger giving way to frustration and resignation. “Look. I know you can understand English-…or do I? Everything you’ve said, everything you’ve done, could be a reaction to my emotional state.”

Suddenly, black rage boiled up, so strong and sharp that the figure took a step back. Just as suddenly, it evaporated and was replaced with anguish.

“I’m so sorry! No, don’t – I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you.”

Danger gone, the ebony figure stepped forward again, caught the artifact’s flailing hands, pulled it back into a hug while it babbled apology laced with hope.

“Okay, so you’re sensitive to emotional states. And boy, am I in an emotional state.” Self-depreciating laughter. “Look, we need to find a better way to communicate because your English is horrible and my hieroglyphs are only slightly better, but I’m clearly not thinking straight right now. I need to go back to bed. Do you understand that?”

“Shelf.”

“Oh good, we’re up to seven words. Yes, I need to...go…sit on my shelf for a while. Maybe you could…” The artifact pulled away again, grabbing the book from before and pressing it into the shabti’s hands. “Here, if you can write you must be able to read. Why don’t you see what you can make of this while I get some more rest? Just…stay right here until I come back.”

This command could be obeyed. Still, the figure reached out to pet curly hair one more time. “Good artifact.”

The artifact smiled briefly. “Thank you.”