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♫ Treasure Chest Dwellers ♫
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I enter the corridor where the antiquarian stores his unsaleable artifacts. He acts as if it’s a great honor to be led back here. With flowery language, he describes what he supposedly will never find a buyer for, but also cannot bring himself to simply throw away:
An elixir of immortality that doesn’t prevent aging. (Might be something for one’s worst enemy—or perhaps a wife, if one wants to be sure of being well cared for in old age, the antiquarian says with a knowing smile. I wave him off.)
A cloak of invisibility that only makes the wearer invisible from the knees up. (Could be useful in tall grass, the antiquarian muses. I wave him off.)
A flying carpet that literally only moves at a snail’s pace. (Then again, it only rises a few inches off the ground, at most, the antiquarian remarks, pursing his lips. I wave him off.)
A magic key that, while unable to open doors, can lock them forever. (He should perhaps inquire with the nuclear industry, the antiquarian says, feigning thoughtfulness as if the idea had just occurred to him. I wave him off.)
A vial of truth serum that has the side effect of revealing the truth in painstaking, minute detail, causing the victim to get hopelessly lost in the specifics without ever reaching the point. (Sometimes he has the impression the brew is being used on certain TV talk shows, the antiquarian says with a strained laugh. I wave him off.)
The Ark of the Covenant, which is actually a quantum-mechanical radio for calling God. (The biblical Jehovah, that is, the antiquarian explains jovially, adding that He hasn’t picked up the phone in quite some time. He smiles slyly: “no answering machine.” I wave him off.)
A love potion that causes whoever drinks it to fall into an immortal love with themselves. (Which, for many disillusioned by love, the antiquarian says, glancing sideways at me, actually sounds like the perfect, sustainable solution. I wave him off.)
A book that, when opened, writes itself in that very moment. (But it only ever contains short, muddled stories about someone entering hallways or corridors or something—no, it always says “colonnades”—in any case, nobody can make heads or tails of the scribbles, the antiquarian grumbles sullenly. I ask how much he wants for it.)
Magical Artifacts: 