The Silver Chalice

Second Life.

Silver is an amazing metal. Crystalline, ductile, soft and lustrous, it is also the most electrically conductive metal on earth. It is counted as a precious metal, and is currently undervalued in all metals markets, partly because so few of its true properties are actually known.

Long long ago, I believe it was 1532 AD, an aging silversmith bent over his rough wooden work bench in his dimly-lit ground floor work shop, on a little side-street in the medieval village of Valence. Valence was a growing community in the south of France. The smithy’s name was Bayard.

But for poverty, Bayard might have been a jeweler, for he loved sparkly things. But his lack of means instead landed him an apprenticeship under a master silversmith, who taught Bayard everything he knew. But now, after thirty years of craftsmanship in silver, Bayard’s time was running short, and he knew it. That was why now was the time; commissioned by no one, he labored tirelessly over his final and finest piece, a silver chalice cast from thirty years of collected silver scraps.

Though it was the middle of the day, Bayard worked without stopping. Lunch was not something he ever did. He ate when there was food, it had been two days and there was nothing much to eat, anyway. Bayard’s priority was feeding his cat. The project was nearing completion, with final polishing being the largest of the tasks before him.

He would not make it to that point.

Abruptly and with no warning, Bayard seized, lost consciousness for the final time, and slumped over his project. It would be days before the body would be discovered.

During that time, a transformation occurred, one which on the surface may seem, to some, rather unlikely. Bayard’s being was transferred to the body of the silver chalice. Not his consciousness, per se, not his body or vision or hearing, but his core. This would not have been possible had its metal not been crystalline silver; had it not been cast at greater than ninety-six percent purity; or, had Bayard not slumped over his final work. However all of those conditions had indeed been met, and one may wish to consider this...nothing ever really dies.

When the mortician arrived to remove the body, the shape of the chalice was formed into its maker’s face. As Bayard had no family, there was no one to receive any of his meager possessions, so the mortician relieved Bayard’s paltry estate of two things; his chalice, and his cat.

For another decade, Bayard’s purest-silver chalice stood unpolished on the mortician’s mantel. At that point, the mortician passed as well, and the chalice was kept by a scheming auctioneer, to refurbish, to polish and to sell. It was at that point that the chalice finally received its high polish at the hands of another silversmith, who bought it from the auctioneer without any questions asked. Never had this smith seen an object like the chalice, and he marveled at its complexity, and its obvious beauty. Eventually, however, he sold it to a French nobleman, who used it as a wine cup at his dinner table.

The nobleman had kitchen staff, one of which was young, beautiful, oversexed and denied; her name was Celeste. Celeste had collected the tableware following a meal, and had carried everything off to the kitchen, for washing. But Celeste had a talent, one unrecognized even by herself, one of discernment. She knew there was something special about the chalice, and finding herself alone, she lifted her dress and began to pleasure herself with it. At that moment, in walked the master, who promptly used the heavy base of the chalice to cave in her skull.

Within a period of ten minutes, Bayard had gone from drinking cup, to love toy, to murder weapon. A murder weapon, especially a misused object like the chalice, is not a welcome thing. Bayard found himself sailing through the air, and then a splash, sinking to some depth in the dark tarn before the nobleman’s home. There he would remain for some period of time after the death of the nobleman, when one of his heirs decided to drain the tarn to cleanse it of aquatic overgrowth. A worker spotted a corner of the base projecting from the mud, and removed it, to his own home.

As everyone knows, no one of meager means can afford to keep things of great value, so after cleaning, the silver chalice found its way to a pawn shop. There it stood for a few weeks until spotted by a collector, who returned several times to negotiate for its purchase. This was the beginning of a new life for Bayard, who could not “hear” and yet he heard; could not “feel,” and yet, he felt.

The collector had money, and a large collection of silver paraphernalia, but was also of advanced age. Thus it was less than twelve years that Bayard remained in his possession. At that point the entire collection was sold for very little to a future colonial, who was about to emigrate to the American colonies.

Not everyone who emigrated to the Americas did well. Some returned, and Bayard’s owner decided to, after losing his fortune. During that time he advanced from young to decidedly old, and yet, he still owned the family silverware, and, Bayard. Those items were packed up and loaded aboard a French ship, bound for France.

It was a short journey indeed for Bayard, who was collected by the pirate Blackbeard forthwith, looted with all things of value from the ship before it was sent to the deep. There he at last found a home wherein he was appreciated, on Blackbeard’s own mantel.

Blackbeard was an anomaly, a solid man, a courageous man who fell into piracy as an occupation. He did not live at sea, but frequented it from his home. His real name remains unknown; Bayard says it was “John.” Also it was not Blackbeard himself who was killed, but another. John simply took the opportunity to vanish.

When John died on his farm of old age, Bayard was again sold, this time to a Catholic priest. The intent was to use the chalice at mass, but an elderly priest took a hard look at Bayard, and nixed it. True enough, one does not put wine representing the blood of the Christ into a cup that had been where the chalice had been. Bayard had no problem with it.

Following a period of storage at the home of the priest who had bought it, the chalice fell into my hands. This followed a series of exchanges in and around the city of Baltimore, which is where I found it, its lustre gone, its beauty obscured by tarnish. These things have been corrected.

I too have the gift of discernment.

Bayard is not my possession. He is my friend.

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