Buried Treasure
Dark, thick
blades of grass tumbled and bent in torrents of waves along the hills. Shades
of green, yellow and brown laced and intertwined as the wind swept through the
plains. The flowing hills stretched as far as the eye could see. While a few
scattered oak trees littered the view. The sun perched directly overhead while
thick tufts of clouds loftily paraded across the skyline, dipping the world in
and out of the shadows. The chestnut oaks hoisted themselves towards the light;
their long crenate edges gulping down the fresh spring air. Each stood as a
lone tower amongst the bending hills.
Upon the
tallest hill stood the shortest, oak its trunk thick and harrowed with age.
Long, rough, protruding brown scales formed the bark. The cracks between each
one served as a massive highway for whatever insects chose to travel to such
exotic heights. Yet the view was not the same. White linens decked the inner
layers of branches, and tattered strips could be seen poking out from the edge
of the leaves. And at the ridge of the trunk where each branch separated, stood
a boy.
The boy
cast his eyes along the horizon, watching the hills melt into roaring waves.
The wind whisked across the deck, drawing up roiling waves lathered in browned
sea foam that cascaded against the hull. The wind was gusty and headed in the
wrong direction; the boy knew it would be a long journey. He crouched and began
uncurling a roll of parchment, tracing his finger along the dotted line until
it reached the large black X. His finger paused there and began tapping it
repeatedly; his mind drifting off to the splendor buried beneath the earth.
The wind roared
as it attempted to tear the map from his grasp, but the boy clutched it firmly,
creasing thick jagged folds along the parchment. The sound of the crackling
paper made him shudder and smile. He rolled up the map and tucked it safely
into his coat. A noise drew his attention; it was the flapping of sails. He
scrambled up the mast to reattach the loosened topsail; once it was secure he
glanced down to the helm of the ship expecting to see his first mate. A
glancing blow struck him as the memory of their last voyage came to mind: He
had been abandoned by his first mate; all for the sake of some rumored treasure.
Well there would be no sharing of this bounty, were he to return.
The boy
gripped the wheel, steering his way against the wind, and through the waves it
brought with it. They were waves as large as hills, and even those were crested
with smaller waves, that ran along them in rippling currents. But the wheel was
held true upon its course, his hands steady against the force the sea was
unleashing upon him. He synched the wheel with rope, and clambered up into the
crow’s nest. Through the thicket of green, and across the billowing sea he saw
the island; it was close, very close. He slid down the mast to the helm of the
ship. He yelled for the crew to drop anchor, and began to gather supplies for
his journey to the island. Shovel, check, map, check, it was all there. The
rowboat had already been lowered, so he jumped down and began to paddle towards
the island.
A shovel
was a poor excuse for a paddle, he thought as he ran up to the island. He
stopped at the beach to pull out the map and catch his breath. There was a
pattern to the rocks here, at least from what he could discern. The boy knew
the rock he was looking for would have the same mark that was displayed upon
the map. This island was covered in rocks of all different sizes and colors;
the one he was looking for would be small and black. As he moved about the
island he noticed there wasn’t a person in sight, this was good; that would
mean there would be less of a chance that he would have to fight off other
pirates for the treasure.
The rocks
began to blur together, his eyes only searching for the symbol displayed on the
map. After what felt like an hour of searching, he finally stood before it. The
boy grinned, the fools had not even bothered to disguise the hiding place; it
was evident that the earth had been dug up recently. The shovel sunk into the
earth with ease, and he wrenched it from the ground overflowing with the soil
that separated him from his infinite wealth.
The process
took hours; the sun was no longer overhead, it waned down casting long heavy
shadows upon everything it touched. While he sat regaining his breath, he
clutched at his throat, sore from thirst. It did not matter, the treasure was
his priority. Now on his feet and the shovel back in his hands he dug deeper,
his vigor renewed. Sweat was pouring down his body, and several flies buzzed
about pestering his neck and face. Again, he dug his spade into the ground, but
this time he was met with the hollow crack of wood. The treasure at last; he
would become rich, and with his wealth, happiness. He dug around the edges
completely unearthing the chest so he could take a look within.
He ran his
fingers around the sides of the chest; no lock or latch. He sat for a moment
puzzled and began dusting off the top. Nails, they had secured their treasure
by the use of nails. Laughter filled the hole, as he scoffed at these pathetic
pirates. With ease he drove the edge of his spade between the lid and the
chest, and began prying them apart. His heart ran wildly as he eagerly loosened
each nail from the chest.
One nail
popped out, then another, and another. The pace of his breath now matched his
heart, and that was all he could hear. The buzz of flies withered into a
deadening silence, and his deafness to the outside world took him into the depths
and sounds of his body. And then, the last nail was free, and the hammering of
his heart continued, but his breathing did not.
The boy
knelt, his fingers curling under the lid of the chest, relishing the smooth
touch of unblemished wood. After a moment of hesitation he drew back the lid,
and every sound came back. The wind was whipping above, and the flies no longer
buzzed along his face, but dove into the stench that rose from the chest. And
in the shadows of the hole, the memories flooded back. The bed and the cold
metal railings, the tears, and the awful people dressed in white. He remembered
the adults that did nothing—the adults that stood there, as he did, and
watched. The tears came back with the memories. Pouring, tearing, and drowning
him with what had happened. He knew now what the symbols of the stone now read:
Here Lies “First mate”
Loving brother, and son.
Loved and missed.
The boy remembers now; the sea took him, the sea did, that
must be how.
No comments:
Post a Comment