The Hunt for Excalibur

9 A White Lie for the Greater Good

At Gracewill the next day, Nina listened to some very interesting stories from the children. Admittedly, she had begun to enjoy their company, contrary to what she initially expected. Children have always been an annoyance to her and she avoided them most of the time, but having gotten to know Miss April’s class changed her mind an inch. The old artifacts they brought in were all evidence of solid family histories, and Nina especially enjoyed those from the Second World War.

However, deep in her mind, one item still itched at her brain, one she would have liked to hear more about. She desperately wanted to have another look at it, even though she did not know much about antiques. Her forte was history, the tales of old, not so much the objects from it. Young Brian had said very little about the actual role played by the scabbard in his family, which led Nina to believe that two options came to play. Either the boy did not know where the item belonged in his family history, leaving him oblivious to its origins, or the object did not come from his heritage at all.

Perhaps, she reckoned, he had come upon it in the garage of his home when his family moved in or he picked it up on a junk heap and made up the ‘grandpa will kill me’ excuse to give it credence. According to Nina, his imagination and love for all things knightly created a perfect bubble to escape to. In every way, the scabbard looked the part, by all means, to perpetuate a fabricated myth of belonging, of heritage and heroism. Otherwise, the child’s home life was probably extremely unfulfilling and bland, she supposed.

“May I see that scabbard again, Brian?” Nina asked the young boy just before class adjourned for recess the following day.

“My granddad will kill me if it gets lost, Miss,” he reiterated, sounding a bit concerned about her request.

“I promise I will not take it anywhere. All I want to do is have another look at it. It looks just like those worn by princes and kings in history books,” she cajoled the impressionable boy by appealing to his fantasies. His face lit up at her comparisons and Nina knew she had him.

Miss April sat at her desk, watching the whole affair, but she did not interfere. Delighted to boast, the normally reserved boy took out the sheath and placed it on his desk. The rest of the class had since vacated the room for recess to enjoy the rare sunshine, but Brian was fine with spending his entire break in here with Nina and Miss April. After all, the alternative was being bullied and stumbling around the playground all by himself, watching firm friendships of other kids mock his self-worth.

Nina looked at the beaming child as he delivered the item. It fascinated her how his bright blue eyes collected several contrary traits. Full of promise and deep in thought while similarly, sad and lost, his eyes wandered across her entire face every time he looked at Nina, or addressed her. The historian could not help but feel a taboo attraction to the boy, not sexual by nature, but definitely amorous in a way. Had he been an adult, their connection would have been a romantic one beyond doubt.

Brian looked at Nina like Sam did. He regarded her in silent wonder and loyalty, and whenever she chose to reluctantly allow the consequent feeling, it mutated into a kind of romantic kindred energy. His stare was far beyond his age, but his innocence kept it lost at sea.

“Has your grandfather ever had this piece appraised?” she asked, once again mesmerized by the intricate engraving in the worn and tarnished leather. Immediately Nina realized that she was speaking to a child from the mean streets of Glasgow, and that he would not know about appraisals and things like that. “Um, I mean, has he ever taken it to someone to see what it was worth?”

“No, Miss Nina,” Brian replied quickly, for fear that she would suggest such a thing and inadvertently out his secret taking of the scabbard.

“He really should,” she muttered, examining the stitching. “This was done by hand, but the thread looks so authentic, it has to be a fake.”

Miss April perked up. She came to have a look. “Why a fake?”

“Look, I am no expert, but if something hand-stitched can survive as long as what I reckon the age of this leather is, it has to be a fake, right? Surely it cannot have stayed intact over centuries like the sheath itself has?”

“You never know,” Miss April guessed. “Some materials were probably treated with different substances to adhere to the kind of uses it would be made for?”

Nina nodded in agreement. “This here,” she pointed to a silvery sheen woven in to the stitching twine, “is something real peculiar. Do you see the shiny stuff?”

“Aye,” replied both Miss April and young Brian. It cheered Nina to see the child respond to the curiosity of the item. Such small responses denoted the desired interest she was trying to cultivate in these children.

“What could it be?” she wondered out loud.

“Decoration?” Miss April guessed.

“For a sheath used in war?” Nina conjectured with her hands in her sides and her brow fashioning a deep frown. “Why would it have esthetic value? I mean, even the attempt at ornate patterns came out askew and all over the place. Hardly a visually appealing sheath worn by some king or warlord, wouldn’t you say?”

“I know, but who knows. Maybe it used to be prettier. I mean, we all age and eventually we all look tarnished,” Miss April jested.

Nina chuckled, and took out her cell phone. “Listen, Brian, can I take some pictures of the sheath? I just want to show a friend of mine. He loves antiques.”

“My grandpa will never sell it, Miss,” Brian quickly protested. He was young, but he knew what happened when pictures surfaced on the internet. Soon he would have to explain to his grandfather how the scabbard came into his possession and how he thought he was permitted to take something that did not belong to him. “I cannot let you take pictures of it, Miss. Please.”

“What is wrong, Brian?” Miss April asked, seeing the boy’s distress as more than just rebellion. “Would your grandfather do something bad to you if you borrowed it?”

Nina’s lips were ajar as she waited for an answer. The thought had not crossed her mind, but since Miss April mentioned it, it became quite obvious.

“Callany!” Miss April persisted.

The boy looked distraught. “Yes, Miss. I thought I would get it back before he noticed it was gone, otherwise I will get caned for sure.” He looked up at the two women in pleading. “But I did not mean to steal it or anything! I did not have anything else to show, is all!”

Nina rubbed his upper back to comfort him. “Not to worry, Brian. I will not take any pictures, alright? Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks, Miss Nina,” he sniffed, genuinely spooked. “Can I go now?”

“Aye, off you go,” Nina said reassuringly.

Miss April folded her arms and with a gentle, but firm tone, she said, “Put it back in your desk and take it home after school today. We do not want your grandfather to cane you if he finds out. And Brian, do not bring things to school again without permission, do you understand?”

“Aye, Miss April,” he nodded gratefully.

When Brian left the classroom, Nina snuck over to his desk and took a few snapshots.

“Wow! Remind me never to trust your word, Dr. Gould,” Miss April said. Her judgement carried the tone of admiration, not skepticism. A tiny crack of a smile painted her face as Nina quietly closed the desk lid and stole back to her own seat to put away her phone.

“What, you have never told a white lie for the greater good?” she lifted an eyebrow and grinned.

Miss April’s deep-set eyes shimmered gleefully as she confessed. “Oh, my dear, more times than I care to count.”