Custom Chibi Antlephore
Finally, he reached the employee entrance only to find that his badge would not work. Seriously. He rang the buzzer a few times, sighing. Of course, no one answered. They were all too busy dealing with the crowd.
Here goes nothing. He mustered his confidence and shoved to the front of the closest line, trying to ignore the glares of those waiting behind.
“Oi mate, back of the queue!” a man snapped.
“Sorry!” he replied, avoiding looking in his direction.
He hurried up to the window to ask the cashier to let him in.
. . . . . . .
By late afternoon he had sorted through most of the new items that had been donated to the museum. Much of it was useless, having been from an estate sale, but he still meticulously took notes and organized his findings.
He had one box left to sort and catalog before his shift ended. He wasn’t holding out hope for finding anything exciting.
It seemed to be old call logs and transaction histories of whatever long-gone businesses the estate owner had ran. However, near the bottom of the box, something caught his eye.
A well-worn leather-bound journal lay before him, tied closed with a thin beaded cord. Even closed he could see that its pages were thick with ink.
Gently he picked it up, brushing off a fine layer of dust from its cover. Embossed in the leather was an ornate compass rose.
Something about it seemed…off.
His brow furrowed as he studied it more closely, his fingers slowly tracing along the pattern. More dust rubbed loose and fell away.
He paused.
East and west were reversed.
That doesn’t make sense. It must be a mistake.
He stared at it a little longer before moving on.
How odd…
He placed it on the table and began to untie its thin cord. The beads seemed to be carved from bone or maybe ivory. He placed the cord neatly to the side and gingerly opened the cover.
Inside were pages filled edge to edge with notes. Some pages were neatly written, others clearly done in haste. In all the margins were sketches, in varying detail, of strange plants and animals.
It was incredible.
He forgot himself, roughly picking up the journal and flipping through its pages. Out fell a folded paper.
He stopped.
Regaining his composure, he carefully set the journal aside and reached for the paper, concerned he might have torn it loose from the binding.
On closer examination, it wasn’t paper at all, but vellum. It had been neatly folded and tucked within the pages, protected. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Then cautiously reached to unfold it…
“What are you still doing here?”
The manager’s voice rang through the silence, making him jump “It’s well past closing”
“Oh, sorry!” He stammered, sweeping the journal and the folded vellum into his bag. “I’ll get going now. I lost track of time.”
“Right. Well don’t expect any overtime,” the manager said already moving to turn off the lights.
Reeves hurried out after them.
It wasn’t until he was outside that he realized what he’d done. His grip tightened on the strap of his bag.
. . . . . . .
Once home, he hurriedly shut the door and locked it behind him. With a long sigh, he slid down against it.
What have I done?
Taking anything from the museum without permission was forbidden. He could lose his job, or worse, be arrested for theft.
Calm down. Think.
It was an old box of junk. No one knew what was in it.
I’ll just bring it back. No one has to know.
He slowly took off his bag and opened it. Everything looked fine despite how he’d carelessly tossed it inside. The journal was in one piece, the vellum unmarked.
Wait…where’s the cord?
Panicked, he fished around his bag until he found it. Phew…
He carefully put everything back together, wrapped it in a cloth for protection, and placed it back into his bag before settling in for the night.
. . . . . . .
He lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. The sketches and notes he’d seen earlier flashed through his thoughts, mixed with worry over returning the journal.
Hours passed.
Finally, he gave in to his curiosity.
He went to his bag and pulled out the carefully wrapped bundle. He untied the cord, took out the sheet of vellum, and…ever so slowly…unfolded it.
He stared.
It was a map.
A map of no landmass he’d ever seen. It did not match any current map or historical charts he could recall. In the top left corner was the same incorrect compass rose. A set of coordinates were written beneath it. In the right corner was the map makers signature.
A lead.
. . . . . . .
That night became days, and days became weeks. He kept telling himself he would return the journal and map once he was done researching them. Eventually, his contract at the museum ended, and he realized he no longer had any easy way to return them.
However, the knowledge it contained was a scientific breakthrough. It needed to be shared…he had to do it the right way.
His search led him to the map maker’s son.
