I told the courier asking for my signature, that he was very chirpy for a man dropping off the only item remaining to me as a memory of my dead grandfather. He looked shocked as I shut the door. I suppose he wasn’t to know. I was being irrational. That’s what the counsellor would say. Projecting my grief onto others and making it their problem. Maybe I was just a bit surprised that this one smallish box, was all that had been left to me.
We’d been close from the minute we’d met, or so he told me. I was too small to remember. He said I’d grabbed his nose, and squealed with laughter. He’d been the funniest, most direct and most interesting person in my life and he was gone. He was also the wealthiest, and where my brothers had houses and trust funds set up in the legacy, I had this. One final joke perhaps? I smiled despite myself, but all that emotion did was unlock the tears.When I’d pulled myself together I found myself in the lounge, sitting looking at the box I’d signed for.
I sighed.“Might as well get this over with”, I said out loud into the silence.I tore open the tube, expecting a roll of documents, or deeds, or a Metallica poster (as he’d played me Metallica as lullaby, much to my parents chagrin). The glint of the polished bobble on the end of the sword was like a flashbulb as the light hit it. I reached out and touched it, and knew in that instant it was actually called a pommel. Which was weird, because I’d never been into weapons, and was almost certain I didn't know that 2 seconds ago.Taking hold of the BOBBLE (I told myself fiercely) I pulled it out of the tube and held it aloft.
It was a pretty plain sword, based on what I’d seen in the movies, but I couldn’t help myself.“BEHOLD!” I exclaimed dramatically, “EXCALIBUR!”
“Excalibur was an idiot”, said the sword.
“AHH FUCK!”, I screamed, and dropped the sword. Which fortunately hit my feet flat side down and prevented more screaming.
“What was that for?” asked the sword from the ground.
I ran from the room, and stopped in the kitchen. Searching my memory for things from the counsellor that could explain this, I poured a glass of water, but didn’t drink it. Instead, the truth hit me.“I’m losing my mind.”
From the other room my insanity spoke again.“You’re not crazy. Hello? Can we start again?”
I walked back into the lounge and stood with the couch between me and the apparently magical sword. It spoke again.“Look you are Bjorn, right?”
“Yeah? And what..”
“Your grandfather left me to you, as his grandfather before him, and some other people before that.”
“Some other people?”
“OK, it would be nice if I could say that you are the last in a long line of chosen ones, or whatever, but the truth is, your great great Grandfather stole me from someone. I’m pretty chosen one agnostic.”
My mouth made talking shapes, but I was on mute.
“Well I figure”, it continued, “someone has to choose a chosen one, may as well be me”.
“Look”, I said as I picked up the sword, “whoever you are, if not Excalibur. The world is different now. I’m not about to head off on some bloodthirsty quest”.
“Quest? Did your Grandfather spend a lot of time questing did he? Excalibur was an idiot. He was like all the others. Go and do a quest, yeah charge into that lair, fight that dragon. You know why you don’t see any magic swords anymore? They are all stuck in lairs and collapsed dungeons. If you live by the sword, you get trapped for eternity with corpses and morons. You know how good trolls are conversationally?”
“No?” I ventured.
“Famously terrible. Beings of few words, and both of them are grunts. My name is Corristor. I offer you a different kind of advice. Advice that will get you wealthy and keep me above ground. And then you, and me, can have a chance to enjoy the high life!”
I pointed the sword at the ceiling again. It felt like the right thing to do.
“As long as”, it continued, “you take me out and chop up some beggars from time to time.”
I dropped the sword again with a start. This time it buried itself point first in my rug.
“I’m kidding! Man, get a sense of humour. Hello?”
