Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang: Volume 1, Chapter 15

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The appraiser required no special eyewear or even extra light to see the value of the spiral ring.

“Laia has left you a truly sterling work. Her eye is an obvious one, but she does it well. The sort to fill the sky with diamonds. Or give a planet a pearl-moon necklace. Garish, even, at times. But there’s a delicacy—even a secrecy—here in the way she wound this small ring.” He held it before Desiree’s eyes. “A subtlety Laia isn’t exactly known for, but she took a different care with you. To find it, you must look past her usual hallmarks. The two-thousand-four-hundred-fifteen gems, her love of gold, the ring’s crackling nature—notice it’s spiral, neither helix nor serpent, but a twist of zigs, bolts, jags. It appears random. An abstraction. But that’s only if you don’t look closely. The ring’s most important detail is beyond the human eye. It lies deep in the cracks of the gold; a powerful microscope would be needed to see the fine care taken. Unraveled, the ring is a map, and unseen in the gold is the detailed route through Laia’s cosmos, a chartered course of utmost precision—yes, past the tiara nebula, and, oh my, going through the silver hole—to the very heart of her beauty, in worlds very, very far away. A secret magnum opus. A rumored pink star encased in an arctic diamond. The ring’s true value is beyond what this world can offer. Each of the many gems represents one of Laia’s major works. In your human dollars, you could expect perhaps two million. It’s quite the interesting piece, both as a ring and as a map; I would sell it quickly if I were you, before the dealers get here.”

“Two million dollars?”

Desiree stopped recording and put away her phone.

“Easily.”

He handed her the ring and took up the harmonica. It had as many rows of keys as a grand pipe organ, but the majority of them were bricked shut. A musical instrument, the appraiser explained—one of many in Kassiani’s cosmic orchestra—used in the construction of Kassiani’s most memorable symphony. Stirring up a cosmos from nothing but dust. Creation begins to take shape through the grand sweeps of these astro-acoustics. A pictorial structure emerges from the sound. Ending in a great clash where all returns to dust.

“I don’t believe it will have an effect on anything here if you were to play it. Not large, at least. The divine keys have been blocked.” He pointed at the multiple rows of stuffed teeth in the harmonica. “Thoughtful of her. No telling where these notes may end up if played. They could inadvertently draw something or someone undesirable here. As it is, though, it may just make the stars in the sky shine a little brighter. Are you much of a starwatcher?”

“I can’t tell you the last time I really stared at the stars.”

“This may give you some incentive.”

He handed the harmonica to Desiree and took up the pen.

“And this, there’s nothing unique or interesting about the case, the ink, or the tip—its value comes from its place in history. This little pen caused quite a stir eons ago. It was used by the artisan Earnie to write his treatise against spectacle, which started a new movement. He took umbrage at the idea that beauty is increased by adding more details. As if the rings of Saturn grow more interesting with each extra icicle. Or your proverb of the straw and the camel’s broken back—how many details is the one detail too many that breaks the composition? That superficial chaos we call spectacle. He wrote of the need to strip away details, like a bird double-dressed in a feathered coat in much need of a plucking. From that declaration, made by that pen, came the embodiment of a new movement, expressed in a new cosmos, a statement piece; a galactic creation chiseled down to its leanest shadow details. A land of crescents, and slits, and vaguely unsettling figures like the gray man in the moon, or the apparitions lurking in dim space. But Earnie took a star for a lantern to shine it across the shadows and reveal there were, in fact, no details there at all. Nothing to see but plain white spheres. To astonish and awe is the work of a trickster. Spectacle is a loud distraction on the never-ending staircase to greater beauty. Earnie would later forsake such views in favor of spectacle, but that is not this pen.”

He gave the pen to Desiree.

“Like many artisan movements, the declaration itself was more forceful and memorable than most of the ensuing work.”

Next, he lauded the vase.

“This is Gweyndrence’s work. Notice the layers in its design. The red bird, the foamy clouds, the candied canopies, all on top. Then between the clouds, between the leaves, we see the second layer hidden beneath. Come closer, look. In the blue shadows, a pond, a fish, a small cave. The outside of the vase revolves around the interior; there’s a new world to see under the clouds and treetops. Perhaps most impressively, there are layers beneath the pond and the cave. I believe a little liquid might help illuminate.”

At his insistence, Desiree poured a glass of water. The appraiser poured it into the vase, and the clear waterfall turned liquid lavender as it splashed to the bottom, glowing like a ray stolen off the broodier side of a rainbow, casting purple night across the revolving vase. In this rising purple glow, certain details became highly saturated, highlighted in electrics; glow-bugs appeared in the trees, and in the pond were incandescent fish with grill-line gills.

“Different densities of liquids will produce different results. There are many colors in it to find. The material it’s made from is not of this world. On another view-only planet, they discovered its application as an infinite energy source. It’s up to you whether you’d like to keep it as a decoration, or hand it over to your scientists. You may see the need for unlimited energy. Personally, it’s my appraisal that you and this place and everyone else could use much better art and beauty, but I don’t live here nor do I pay for light.”

“Is it safe to drink out of?”

The appraiser looked at her lamely, with a flat face.

“You’d have to ask one of their scientists.”

Moving from the vase to the large gold coin—tipped by the cloaked man Desiree saw in the wall—the appraiser laughed.

“What a surprise. One already slipped through. There’s a forger here. A good one. The face is flawless. The coin is pure gold. The gems are flawless. It’s one of a set of ten thousand, distributed long ago by another artisan, scattered everywhere as far as anyone can tell, even in other artisans' works. Most don’t know it, and are chagrined when they discover they’re part of a treasure hunt. Many collectors have interest in completing the set. They’ll trade valuables of cosmic scale for one. This, however, is a fake. The ridges along the edge—” he indicated these tiny bumps with his fingers, “are incorrect. It has to fit, you understand, into a larger puzzle made from the coins. Presumably it comes together to form a picture, but no one knows. It’s why individually the lines and textures on the coins don’t make sense. Some speculate it’s a lost will. Or that they grant entry into a sealed, legendary art collection. Whatever it is, these hooks on the edge—sorry, your eyes can’t see them; they’re very small—well, they aren’t right.”

“But it’s pure gold. And those are real diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.”

“Right about that. A fifty-thousand-dollar coin, I estimate. Keep it in your pocket.”

Below the end table, the appraiser noticed the soft lemonade shoebox, the gift of the pumpkin-haired man.

“I missed this.”

He lifted the box, opened the lid, and as if the shoebox contained a rotted animal corpse, puckered his mouth, nose, and eyes in watery disgust.

He spit.

“Rebellis! He’s here!”

Next week on Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang, Desiree gets her feet appraised. Has she been underselling them? Or better yet, is there anyone in the world who can actually afford them? Find out November 16.