Chapter 7
I Can Hear Ancient Relics Speak And The Grandmasters Lost It Chapter 07
“Well said, girl! That fossil had it coming!”
The ebony vessel was cheering in my ear.
I smiled, looking down at my feet.
The rest of the demonstration was noticeably duller. Whitmore handed off most of the work to his students, hovering like a cranky old man, offering a pointer here and there to save face.
Time passed. Orange light filtered through the glass windows as the exhibition came to a close.
Visitors filed out. I grabbed my tote bag and headed for the exit.
A hand stopped me.
It was Fairchild.
“Director Fairchild, hello.” I nodded politely.
He glanced around, lowered his voice, and handed me a business card.
“Here’s my card,” he said, holding it out to me.
Seeing my puzzled look, he chose his next words carefully.
“Whitmore’s influence in this field is immense. You’re going to have a rough road ahead.”
“I can’t match his connections, but if you ever want a position, the National Heritage Museum’s doors are always open to you.”
It was a white card with blue lettering.
Douglas Fairchild. Director, National Heritage Museum. Arlington City Representative. Visiting Professor at Georgetown. Doctoral Advisor at the Corcoran.
Not as flashy as Whitmore’s credentials, but still a position most would envy.
I stared at the card for a long moment. Then I took it.
I wasn’t aiming for the top overnight. But I couldn’t turn down sincere kindness.
“Thank you, Director Fairchild. If I ever get the chance to study at Corcoran, I hope you won’t regret this.”
“I’d be honored.”
He laughed and patted my shoulder. We exchanged a few more pleasantries.
As he turned to leave, I hesitated.
He noticed. “Something on your mind?”
I glanced at the artifacts still on display.
“Would it be okay if I stayed a little longer to look at them properly? I was so caught up in… everything earlier.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
He left, gently pulling the gallery doors shut behind him.
Once I was sure I was alone, I walked back to the bronze kettle and crouched beside it.
“Thank you… for earlier.”
No reply.
I kept going. “If you hadn’t suggested that, I’d be branded a disrespectful fraud by now.”
“You’re welcome. I just didn’t like him bullying you.”
A small, soft voice. The kettle.
Muffled, thick with tears.
I reached out and traced the intricate patterns on its surface, imagining the world it had lived in a thousand years ago.
“Can you tell me how you knew you were different from ceremonial kettles?”
Silence again.
I smiled gently. “You don’t have to say anything. But I know you’re a good kettle. You hated seeing me get pushed around, so you helped me. I truly appreciate it.”
Still silence.
The ebony vessel couldn’t hold back anymore. “Why are you so stubborn, girl? Just say what’s on your mind! We’ve got your back.”
Then, a whimper.
The kettle was crying.
“Because they laughed at me… They mocked my brine stains and my twine grooves. They said a kettle that pickles vegetables is the lowest kind of kettle.”
“Who did?” I asked.
“Other kettles. But I love pickles! They’re the best food in the world, way better than burnt meat. But they said loving pickles makes me bottom-tier.”
“That’s garbage!”
The vessel erupted. “Who do they think they are? Some kind of bully gang? Girl, you tell me their names. If I ever run into them, I’ll tear their patina off!”
I held back a laugh. “Ma’am, let’s keep it civil, there are youngsters around.”
She coughed, embarrassed but still fuming.
“Anyway, don’t listen to them. You’re the best kettle there is. Here’s a life lesson: rarity is what matters. Ceremonial pots are a dime a dozen. A pickle crock? That’s unique.”
The kettle seemed doubtful. “Miss… is she telling the truth?”
“Girl, answer carefully.”
I nodded under pressure. “She’s right.”
Then I added, “And don’t call me ‘miss.’ My name’s not ‘miss.’ Just call me Elena.”
“Oh,” the kettle murmured.
“Little Kettle, if I told you you’re the most beautiful vessel in the world, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I prompted.
“Because I’m a kettle, not a vessel,” it said blankly.
“Exactly!” I said softly. “If someone calls you a vessel, does that make you one? If they call you porcelain, are you porcelain? So if they say you’re the lowest kind of kettle, does that make it true?”
The kettle seemed to understand.
“What others say says more about them than it does about you. Those kettles thought they were above you. But we think you’re the cutest kettle in the world.”
“You’re kind, brave, and you helped me when I needed it. That’s something special.” I smiled.
“Well said! Give the girl a round of applause!” the vessel crowed, playing hype woman to perfection.
I stood up, brushed off my jeans, and said goodbye.
“I’m heading out. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
I walked toward the exit.
Two steps out, I paused and looked back.
“Hey, you ancient thing, maybe ease up on the modern lingo? You’re going to confuse the young ones.”
I waved and strode out of the gallery.
