The auction was awarded silently. Its not that nobody showed up just the winning bid was, and still remains, largely unknown. What is well known however, is the winner: a man of great esteem and character. When the price was paid, all questions were resolved, not answered, just forgotten like a nagging superstition that comes in the autumn breeze and numbs you, fading with the warmth of a well tended fire. The haggling went on for some time, as no one in this wild community had ever seen the likes of an item carrying such magnificence, small as it may be. John Donaldson was a stately man with a lot to gain, known by most as a wise businessman and a shrewd dealer, seeming to conjure up just the goods for any occasion, and although his reputation was circumstantial, his presence was not. It has been said that old Mrs Jacobs that lives up the road found her pig wallowing in the country fair, winning ribbons on account of Mr Donaldson, and she still believes that the almighty prize winning pork chops of ’92 belonged to poor, ol’ Jessie,the thought of her stubby thighs meeting a butchers blade almost too much to bear, but at $0.89 a pound, it ended up a mighty sum to go for pennies at the auction block, regardless of his preconceived demeanor, mr Donaldson never wavered from positioning his well endowed nose high above him, stately and proud as any so fortunate to be graced with an inexhaustible inheritance as he. They say he ventured into the hall that evening to place a bid on some farm machinery, but the largest piece of equipment there was a loom from gramma wilkenson, who was moving next month and needed something for her journey other than dead weight and luggage; her husband recently passed away, there was no reason to remain in a flailing mortgage full of dreams and memories that withered in the merciless time like a crop sown with care, watered until the leaves burst with fruit, then left untended and miserable like an unwanted weed. Half the estate was up for auction that long night, sentimental at best, weathered antiques for sale in a broken town, worthless in their splendor and magnificent just the same, but still unwanted and unaffordable, people passing with a hum and haw over priceless treasures, casting a hasty comment towards a chip in the paint of an otherwise perfect china platter, or a scuff in the silver of an otherwise remarkable set of silvery, as if to cast them into purgatory with a glance. “Sold to the man on the left, and next we have item 065, a classic buggy from the 1890’s , requiring a small touch of work but in overall remarkable condition. I dare say we fired the engine this morning and she was purring like a songbird. Bids beginning at 100 dollars, anyone?”
The lazy hours passed with their tired steadiness in which mr donaldson managed to pick through the collected treasures and gather an odd assortment of rare items. It was obvious he was an antiques dealer, in the manner of how his eyes passed across each item, carefully displaying a notion of indifference between them, thus hiding any interest from other anxious bidders who knew only to watch the man with the money. In the closing of the auction, several small unnoticed wares lay on the stage, hardly worth displaying against the piles of jewelry and classic furniture, blending into the backdrop like a box of old books could disappear beneath a table overcrowded by the newest bestsellers. “And coming on stage at this time is a small box of some rather unusual personal adornments if we may call them that. Although not much to look at, this box would definitely hold an interest for some. Starting at fifty dollars, anyone? Ah yes, mr Donaldson. Anyone else?” The words rang out in the nearly emptied building with a hollow suggestion that perhaps they should just pack up the rest and go home. And so mr Donaldson easily purchased the several remaining items, packing it into a large box van, and leaving the 1890’s era buggy until the next morning. It was not until he sat behind the wheel of the old Ford truck that he bothered to lift the lid of the little wooden box. He gazed at the ancient parquet on the lid, layered into a multidimensional Mandela, seeming to rise from the surface, the edges worn smooth with touch, the bold carvings chipped and dented from countless years of wear. The lid opened easily to reveal a half dozen different coins in various sizes, each one obviously quite old. All unique and special in their own ways, except for this.. the largest of them all, delicately engraved with the most exact, flawless Mandela symmetrically on each surface, lines of ancient script flowing through the shapes with a continuous pattern, describing a time long past. A message forgotten in mechanization and ghettos. He continued rubbing the smooth surface, as if trying to decipher a Braille message from its carefully etched grooves, small beads of perspiration forming on an aging brow, and he thrust the coin back into it’s box, twisted a key in the ignition, and rolled away down the dusty road.