Tarnished

They call it an Antique store, although it has had many names over the years. A Curiosity Shop, The Wunderkammer. I remember a time before this shop even existed, before the antiques were even created. The people who work at this store are less than children to me, insignificant. I will still be here when they are dead beneath the soil, or ashes in a pot somewhere. Humans are ephemeral, I go on.

I am tarnished now, you can barely even see the shadow of a reflection in me. Part of me hopes that means the spell is wearing off, that one day I will simply be no more. The other, more intelligent part of me thinks it’s just because no one knows how to take proper care of a mirror these days. The Queen used to have her servants clean me daily with soft cloths that tickled and polish that stung in a good way. Like how men say aftershave feels. But the queen is less than ashes now, no more than a story, a cautionary tale. And yet I linger on.

 The bell dings merrily and the shop is flooded with fluorescent light. Marla is here for a new day of work. She is short, with dark, cropped hair and small features. She reminds me of a mole, tiny and hardy, easy to overlook. She doesn’t do well in a world that favours tall, curvy women with luscious locks. Maybe it’s nice to be so forgettable. No one will try to kill you for your beauty, as the Queen did. So many maidens, slaughtered for their pale skin, red lips and shapely bodies.

 Marla is unaware of all this, of course. Unaware of me. I am just another tarnished object in a store full of things that need a good polish. Marla goes around with her feather duster, brushing at things, dust filling the air and resettling somewhere else. I sneeze as she runs the duster across my surface. For a minute she stops, looking around as if she hears something, then she shakes her head and moves on. I stare in astonishment. After all these years, did someone hear me?

 In the old days, after the Queen, I passed from hand to hand, an object of shock and delight. After a while, I stopped speaking, sick of the freakshow. Eventually, I was left in a cupboard somewhere. Decades passed and I began to long for someone to talk to. But the world had moved on. Less and less people believed in magic, even fewer had the spark. When I was found again, I shouted at the top of my voice, but no one could hear me. Eventually, I gave up. Could this mole girl really have the spark of forgotten magic in her?

 The doorbell dings. A girl comes in, hair elegantly curled, Vintage Biba dress from the 1960s. She smiles a perfect lipsticked smile. “Oh, I just adore old things, don’t you?”

 If I could, I would cringe. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t appreciate the history of old things, just how cool owning them will make her. She toddles into the store in chunky platform sandals she clearly doesn’t know how to walk in. So far, she has managed not to knock anything over. She examines an old book of fairytales, I catch a glimpse of an etching of the Ice Queen, glamorous as a fashion model in glitter and fur. That wasn’t what she looked like at all. I could tell this girl, if I deigned to talk to her. Not that she would hear me.

 After a long time, I came to be in a pretty little house in Holland. It was a house split in two. Two upstairs, two downstairs, with a little roof courtyard up the top. In it lived a girl and a boy who loved each other. The Ice Queen took the boy away. I’m sure you have heard the stories. They say it was a shard of glass in his eye, but I knew better. Once again, against my will, I came between them. Beauty is a terrible thing. And the boy, more beautiful than the plain girl, began to long for a beauty to match his own. When I showed him, much against my will, the Ice Queen, he knew he had to have her. I watched through the window as she came to take him away. She was all edges and sharpness, made of razor edged snowflakes and icicles that cut. He bled as she took his hand in hers, but he held on, enraptured by her icy beauty. There wasn’t a happy ending. They found him next day in a snow drift. The girl moved away, I never saw her again.

 I wouldn’t mind if the Ice Queen took this girl. She’s looking at the crockery now. “You break it, you bought it!” I mutter, and see Marla flinch. Can she hear me? 

Biba girl has found an old music box now. Inside a ballerina spins eternally, while a mournful tinkling tune slowly runs down. The girl brings has a look on her face that could only be described as innocent joy. I can tell this isn’t about having something to boast about to her friends. This is a childhood memory, something lost and found again. There is a lightness in her awkward step as she makes her way to the counter. Marla gazes at the battered old box, the plastic ballerina. “That’ll be two dollars.”

 “It’s just like the one I had as a child,” Biba girl says dreamily as she hands Marla the money, and leaves, holding one of our environmentally friendly brown paper bags with her treasure inside. The bell dings again as she leaves.

 It’s a slow morning. At half past twelve, Marla leaves to get lunch. She comes back and eats it behind the counter, a book propped up in front of her.

 “What are you reading?” I ask, I can’t see it from where I am, and I’m pretty bored.

“Pride and Prejudice, it’s… wait, is there someone there?” Marla looks around her, confused.

 “It’s me. On the wall over here. The mirror. Come on, Marla!” Marla looks confused and maybe a little frightened, but she comes over and peers at me. “Did you… talk? Is this some kind of prank?”

 I sigh heavily, “It’s not a prank! You kids and your stupid pranks. I’m really here, talking to you!”

 “A talking mirror!”

 “A magic mirror. The magic mirror to be precise. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves? The Evil Queen?”

 “You have got to be kidding!”

 “Actually, I cannot lie,” I say drily.

 Marla runs her hands through her hair, “I must be mad!”

 “Not at all, although with that hair, you certainly look the part!” I retort.

 “Now I’m being insulted by a talking mirror!” Marla laughs, a little hysterically.

 “Now, calm down!” I say, “no one has understood me in centuries and I’m not about to have the one person who can hear me carted off to the loony bin.”

 “Okay, okay.” Marla takes deep breaths. “Okay, so why are you talking now? I’ve been here for three years and you never talked before!”

 “I could always talk, I just gave up on finding someone who could hear me. People forgot about magic. Forgot the magic within themselves.”

 “That makes sense, I guess. But why me?”

 “It seems you have the spark. A bit of the old magic. I know, you don’t seem special…”

“Thanks a lot”, Marla mutters.

 I surprise myself by laughing. I haven’t done that in centuries.

 “So,” Marla says, “tell me about the evil queen.”

 It doesn’t take long for me to fall back into the rhythm of talking, even after so long. That afternoon, while Marla cleans and counts the cash, I tell her the stories of my owners over the years. The Evil Queen, the boy taken by the Snow Queen, the mad prince taken by the Red Death. So many people long dead. Still, I continue on.

 The next day, Marla brings silver polish and cleans me. After a few days, I am much more bright and shiny. More than this, I realise how dim my own vision had become. Like someone who finally gets a pair of glasses, I realise how blurry my sight was before. Marla’s round little face is actually not that bad to look at. Or maybe I am just getting fond of her.

 Marla tells me about her little apartment, her dog, her houseplants. She lives a small, contained life, yet she seems happy. She doesn’t long for glory and excitement. A book and a cup of tea are enough for her.

 The weeks pass, I begin to look forward to Marla’s days at the shop. I miss her on days she doesn’t work. Finally, one day, she asks, “Mirror, how would you feel about coming home with me?”

 “With you?”

 “Yes, I know it isn’t the luxury you used to live in, but then we could see each other every day. I think we’ve become friends, don’t you?” She bites her lip, waiting for my reply.

 “I’ve never had a friend before. Yes, I think we are friends, Marla. I would love to come home with you.”

 That afternoon, after work, she wraps me carefully in layers of newspaper and puts me in a box. I feel the vibrations as she walks me home. I am terrified. I worry she’ll drop me and I will never get to see her apartment. But she carries me as carefully as a baby. 

Finally, I am being unwrapped inside the apartment. I see her round, kind face smiling into mine. In minutes, I am up on the wall. I look around me. Plants in pots fill the room, bringing nature indoors. A small furry dog with a curly tail dances merrily. There is a shabby but comfortable armchair, a towering pile of books stacked next to it. I sigh happily. I am home. Home with my friend.

 “Marla”, I say, “you really are the kindest of them all.”