As I walked through the poorly lit, tiled hallway toward Professor MacLaren’s office for the millionth time in my life, I was laser focused; none of the usual feelings of anticipation and excitement flowed through my veins. I barely registered the bleach scent lingering in the air. I found it impossible to concentrate on anything other than the cloth-wrapped box I clutched so tightly under my arm that I’d lost sensation in my fingertips. Like a running back cradling a football with tunnel-vision sights on the glory of the end zone, I made my way toward the haven posing as my workplace.
I usually counted the steps, the closed doors on either side, and the tiles on the floor before arriving at my favorite destination, but not today. I was so completely distracted by the mysterious, heavy box in my hand, I almost missed the doorway. On the wall, next to the door, hung his-and-hers nameplates—his above mine, of course. Kindred in both his Scottish bloodline and passion for the ancient past, MacLaren had taken me under his wing and tutored me to achieve what no other grad student had in such a short timeframe: Assistant to the Head of the Archaeology Department. And if I had my determined way, my discovery would catapult me to Assistant Professor. I shifted my precious cargo, cradling it protectively in my left arm, and fished my key ring out of my purse. A click of the lock, a turn of the knob, and the creak of the heavy wooden door marked the preparatory cadence for me to step into my otherworldly realm.
No amount of focus could take away from the comfort that washed over me as I entered. I turned, shut the door behind me, and closed my eyes, ritualistically inhaling scents of the past. Leather, wood, and the staleness of a place in need of a thorough dusting filled my nostrils as everything I obsess about in near-constant perpetuity welcomed me home. I flicked the light switch on the wall. My eyes opened to the cavernous room MacLaren had turned into a comfortable space, with an entry living area showcasing a burgundy-and-gold Aubusson rug surrounded by a coffee Chesterfield sofa and matching wing chairs. Wooden built-in bookcases lined one side and the back wall. MacLaren’s desk and large leather chair sat a dozen paces ahead. Flanking the space behind the desk were two locked, glass display cabinets boasting the finest treasures of his collection.
But not one of those artifacts could ever hope to surmount the shadow of the priceless one I held.
I stepped forward and gingerly placed the box on the corner of the desk, taking care not to mar the polished wood surface with its metal corners. With bated breath and trembling hands, I unwrapped the relic of my dreams.
Recently installed, museum-quality lighting cast the perfect protective glow on everything collected and displayed within the room, but nothing prepared me for the vision in flawless illumination. Yes, the actual discovering, retrieving, and transporting had turned into an adventure like no other—carry-on luggage took on a whole new meaning when I refused to take my eyes off what I believed was potentially the most important discovery in history. Yes, I’d spent countless hours carefully cleaning it in my small apartment-turned-laboratory. Yes, I’d packaged samples of both the surrounding peat and fine particles cleaned from the box into marked bags for analysis—the results of which were astounding.
I’d even taken my find to the chem lab where a materials chemistry specialist agreed to meet me under the quiet cover of night. The clandestine meeting had been arranged from my end, but Darren, who I’d only spoken to over the phone, had no idea what I’d brought. From my perspective, his requisite ignorance had enabled our meeting last night.
“Isobel, this is amazing.” Darren skimmed his hands over the box with gloved fingers.
His eyes grew wide, making me wonder if I’d been wrong about his nonexistent archaeological knowledge. I stood at the table’s edge, watching his expressions instead of the top of his bleach-tipped head, as he conducted his examination from a metal stool. Impatient, I put my hands on my hips, calming my voice, hoping to sound dumb and only mildly interested.
“How much can you tell me about it without taking samples?” I asked.
“Well, by the looks of it, the intricately laced layers along the edges are gold, silver, platinum . . .” He leaned over, grabbing a small, silver pointing device from the table. “These carved disks on the corners here beneath the latticework seem to be copper. Bronze, lead, brass, steel . . . I’m struggling to find a metal not represented here. This is a metallurgist’s wet dream.”
I’d already cleaned the box with dry brushes and a detailed gentle-solution bath designed to preserve the integrity of metal pieces. As I listened to his analysis, I received the confirmation I’d been seeking. My novice eye suspected the number of materials and their intertwining detail on the one piece stood unprecedented. The different heats and expertise required to craft each metal made the work amazing to behold, irrespective of the elaborate designs and weaving.
“What about the material fashioning the sides?” I asked as he turned the item around and around, visually noting every one of its many facets like I’d done so many times before him. The one almost-breadbox-sized item held so much beautiful detail, it took several days worth of viewings to take in; I still noticed new things daily, like a small etching or a concealed motif.
Darren tapped his chin with the pointer, clearly as intrigued as I by the unknown material of the sides. It had sheen but didn’t reflect. It had a bluish-silver hue and the slightest sparkle. He opened a side-cart drawer, withdrew a magnet, and held it against one side of the box. When he released his hold, it fell into his hand. He repeated the process on every side, verifying what I already knew: it had no magnetic properties. Without a word, he stood and left the room.
I whispered to our subject, “Guess you stumped him, too.”
He returned with a Geiger counter. Radioactive? He floated the device over the box. The handheld meter crackled. He rubbed his goatee-covered chin, furrowing his brow.
“What?” I wondered aloud.
“I thought it might’ve come from space because the color and density resembles unique meteorite samples I’ve tested.” He tapped a side. “The low reading discounts that theory.”
“Doesn’t radioactivity of an element decrease over time?” I conjectured.
“Sure,” he replied, “but not to this level. This would have to be thousands of years old. Plus, the quantity of ore needed to constitute the density of the sides and the craftsmanship required to fashion all of this together into one piece . . .” He trailed off, lost in his confusion.
While he grappled with his new mystery, my excitement skyrocketed. He’d told me all I needed to know. No other artifact like it existed on Earth, because it held properties not of this Earth. Its age exceeded our historical record of metalworking craft, and the peat and dust samples I’d analyzed pointed to one undeniable conclusion: never-before-imagined skill and materials created the object I’d found.
“Great, thanks Darren. I appreciate your having a look so late.” I carefully pulled the cloth around the box and lifted it out of his reach. He stared at the new void on his metal work table. I almost laughed. I knew the sleepless night he’d have obsessing for answers to questions now plaguing him. I’d had those same restless nights all week.
The special lights bathing the artifact before me, however, captured minute nuances, bringing the inanimate to brilliant life.