What We Share
The dog had dug it up and on first glance, she thought it was a bone. It was thick and curved, caked in black dirt. As she scraped some of the muck off, she realized it was made of bright gold. She took it into the kitchen and ran it under the faucet, hunks of earth breaking into the sink. She dried it with a dish towel. It was surprisingly light, shaped like a horse shoe. She’d never seen metal with such light coming off it. She held it to her neck in front of the hall mirror.
It must be some sort of Roman choker, she thought. There were little carvings of horses along the length of it. The horses were cartoonish—big, snaky heads with eyes like eggs. She noticed the horses had tiny, triumphant erections. The dog looked up at her and whined. No, she said, not for baby dogs.
This particular part of the country was known for its abundance of Roman artifacts. Only last month, her neighbor had found an iron blade in his back garden. He had been trying to repurpose the area into a pool. The iron blade was now somewhere in a museum, she couldn’t remember which one. Maybe later she would ask the neighbor for the museum contact. What are
you meant to do when you find treasure like this? She ran her fingers along the metal. It was cool and soft. She pulled the two large knobs at the end of the circle, creating space to push it onto her neck. The pressure against her collarbones made her feel regal. She held her hair up with one hand and admired the choker in the mirror. It looked more alive than anything in her house. She
kept it on as she made a second cup of coffee. The sensation of swallowing was different with the choker on—her muscles felt restricted but tougher. Like she could withstand a blow.
Later, she re-heated some barley soup she had made the day before. She watched an episode of a dating show where the contestants had to marry without seeing each other. She stroked the choker, enjoying the hard hollowness against her neck. She decided if she were ever to marry, she’d want to be given a necklace like this. The dog whined at the back door which led
to the garden. Hey, she said, come here and lie down. But the dog kept humming at the glass.
It was dark out there. The white rind of moon cast a thin, mystic light. The hole where the choker had been found gaped up at the sky. She’d have to fill it in tomorrow.
She cleaned her soup bowl and switched off the T.V. The dog followed her upstairs into her bedroom. She stripped and was about to put her pajamas on when she caught a glimpse of her body in her vanity mirror. The gold was so bright. It sang against her skin. It looked like a large yellow snake. She felt tribal. As if she had just laid her own blade down and was ready to rest a few hours while a communal fire blazed. Beneath the sheets, her bare body felt heightened. There was electricity inside her blood. She put her fingers on the choker and breathed deeply. She heard the dog moving around at the end of the bed. It was growling softly. She nudged its bottom with her toe. Stop, she said, bedtime.
She fell into a light dream where she felt wholly and completely herself. She could feel the weight of the gold around her neck and marveled at how she had taken something solid across dimensions. In the dream, she walked across a field littered with spears. The mud beneath her bare feet had been churned and churned, the imprints of hooves like large arrowheads. At the end of the field toward the beginning of a treeline stood a man, his back to her. As she walked closer to him, the choker began to feel hot. She pulled at it but her fingers had turned into water. She felt her legs collapse. She sank and spread into the grass, her long silver form now pouring over and along all the broken blades. The choker clattered and rolled away from her. She looked up with one remaining eye as the man turned around and picked up the choker, his hands fiercely glowing.
She tried to scream but it was just the sound of river water. She thrashed herself
awake. Her body was hot and wet with sweat. She touched her neck to discover the choker was gone. She fumbled in the dark for the lamp and turned it on. A man was standing at the end of her bed, the golden choker in his hands like that burning circle of moon outside. He was tall and had very long dark hair. A dirty cloak was around his shoulders. Aside from that, she noticed he
was completely naked. The dog was barking around his legs. The man held his hand out and the dog sniffed it. Cù math, he said, patting its muzzle.
Sin leamsa, he said and looked at her. He held the choker up as if to demonstrate.
She rubbed her eyes and slapped her face. She just needed to wake up fully.
The man watched. He was still here when she opened her eyes again.
She held the duvet up around her naked body, realizing how absurd this all was.
I think I’m having an episode, she said.
Beurla, he said, English.
You speak English? She asked. Who the hell are you?
Death has taught me many things, yes, including English, he said. He pronounced it strangely, as if the word was sticky.
This is mine, he said, shaking the choker for emphasis.
I found it in the garden, she said. Well, the dog did.
It was made for me, he said. It was buried with me.
Sorry, who are you? She asked again.
Vercingetorix, he said. He sounded tired. He pulled the cloak around himself and sat down at the end of the bed. He looked at the choker, thoughtfully turning it over and over again in his large hands.
Did you say ‘buried’? She asked.
He grunted. She noticed there were dark stains at the bottom of his cloak. She wanted to move him off the bed. His profile was like broken pottery—the lines were strong and sharp and beautiful. There were bits of leaf in his hair.
You feel it too, he said. He turned to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot. When you wore it—you could feel the song.
She nodded. Yes, she said, I felt power. Can I wear it a little longer?
She wanted to put the choker back on. Her body felt quieter without it. She felt as if her spine had turned to water.
Vercingetorix held it toward her like a wishbone. Put your hand on mine, he said.
She hesitated. His hand was brown with dirt and very bruised. She gently put her hand on top of his which held the choker. She felt the duvet slip as she leaned closer to him but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were closed. Suddenly, a warmth spread through her fingers up to her
wrist.
What is it, she whispered.
Our shared legacy, he said.
Are you dead? She asked. Are you a ghost? Zombie?
I am a king, he said.
She nodded. He was so handsome. The dog had settled back on the bed and its bulk was pressing against Vercingetorix’s thigh.
She held onto his hand and looked up at the sky through the small bedroom window. She could hear him breathing deeply beside her. The sun was beginning to rise. No longer empty, the hole in the garden filled up with new light.
Aimée Keeble has her Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow, the alma mater of her great uncle Alexander Trocchi. She lives in North Carolina with a dog called Cowboy.