Page 1 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

Ilike to dig holes. When walking en plein air, I always wonder what texture the soil might have if I were to run my fingers through it. Moist and sticky? Or dry and powdery? But it’s not the earth that fascinates me, though I admit I enjoy geology just as much as any gentleman might; it is what might be hiding between the layers. Much to the dismay of my parents, I spent most of my time as a child wandering the gardens in search of the perfect place to dig. Oftentimes, the grounds were littered with small scattered holes, causing the gardener to trip to the delight of my sister. Of course, I was only interested in digging them up rather than filling them in again.

I wish I could say I was one of those lucky souls to have discovered Roman ruins under their ancestral lands, but alas, no such thing ever occurred. I did, however, amass quite an interesting collection of rocks and, on occasion, little shards of glass and pottery. Naturally, I was convinced these finds belonged to an ancient yet still unknown civilisation, but my governess was of the opinion that they were only broken household dishes left by a lazy cook.

This time, though… This time I know is different.

The comforting weight of my latest discovery bears my valise down on my thighs. Even dirt-crusted and unrecognisable, I’m certain I found something more than just common household waste.

The train ride home stretches a thousandfold. The summer air is thick and stifling, but even without my coat, perspiration coats my skin. Feeling entirely uncomfortable, I’m grateful to have the compartment to myself so as not to be imposed upon by another overheated individual’s odour.

Usually, I travel while reading or daydreaming about lost cultures, but now I only clutch today’s find, wrapped carefully in old rags and placed in a wooden box for safety. With legs twitching in unison, I stare out of the window, thinking of nothing but the possibility held between my hands.

I make my way home from the station faster than I thought possible, leaping over the portico steps as if chased by ravenous wolves. As I clumsily fumble for my keys, the door opens before I manage to pull them from my pocket. Godfrey moves as dryly as he always does. At first, he glares at me, but his expression softens upon recognising my face. Like the gentlemen of yore, he steps to the side, lowering his head.

“Sir Balfour, you returned so soon?’’ he says, dropping his gaze to the valise still clutched in my hands. “Do I presume correctly that you found something of note this time?”

“Perhaps, Godfrey, although it’s much too soon to tell.”

“Shall I send the afternoon tea to the study, then?”

I nod my agreement, striding up the stairs as quickly as my legs allow. Not bothering to remove my travelling attire, I head straight to my study. I carelessly drop my coat and tie over the nearest chair, then remove the wooden box from the bag, meticulously placing it on the table near the window. There, the bright summer sun provides enough illumination for me to work.

I draw a hand through my hair, trying not to let the nervousness affect my pulse.

I know it could be nothing. Just another old trinket among all the others I’ve found. Even so, there is no point in hesitation, so I roll my sleeves up, lift the lid, and place the bundle of cloth on my desk. I carefully unwrap the item. Little specks of dirt fall onto the wooden surface. I grab my tool case, unfold the leather ribbon, and lay it out before me. With my coarsest brush in hand, I start to clean my find with slow, careful strokes. It’s tedious work, but the nervousness falls from me the longer I brush. The comforting smell of long-forgotten things soothes my senses, and my body falls into my favourite dance.

Brush, blow, scrape, then brush again.

The thing in my hands becomes thinner and thinner as the pile of dirt next to it grows larger. It’s more soil than I would expect clinging to any artifact.

Eventually, a distinct shape appears. Switching to a softer brush, I continue to clean as delicately as I can manage. Though my hands are larger than the average man’s, I’m grateful for my practised, steady fingers.

When I finally hold the object to the window, I let out a sigh of disappointment.

It’s nothing but a stick.

Dark brown, semi-regular in shape, and slightly larger than my hand. If I had to guess, I would say it was made out of a kind of wood. A heavy sort, since there’s quite a weight to it, but still recognisably wood, likely petrified from being buried under the sediment for so long.

But it’s a stick nonetheless.

Dropping my head onto my hands, I close my eyes. My throat hurts, and my shirt feels too tight around my chest. It’s too hot, and the mouldering scent of the dirt no longer comforts me.

Why was I so hopeful in the first place? I should know better. Not a single artifact of note in forty-six years of life. Why did I expect this to change now? I suppose hope really does die last.

When I sit back up, I notice dusk has fallen upon the city, with darkening shadows crawling along my bedroom floors. My stomach churns, and I realise I skipped both lunch and tea. I place the stick in the vitrine with the rest of my insignificant finds and head to the kitchen to look for sustenance.

Mrs. Tully greets me with a smile.

“Back so soon?” she asks.

I drop into the nearest chair. “I suppose I am.”

“Oh, Mr. Balfour, you look proper disappointed. Was it really all that bad?”

I shrug and let my hands fall to the table. “I thought this time might be different.”

“That’s a real shame, and with you being the most handsomest archaeologist to grace this beautiful earth and all.” She winks cheekily.

I can’t help but chuckle at her words. “I’m certainly no archaeologist. The society wouldn’t even come near me with gloved hands and pincers.”