BLACKBEARD'S CHEST

You are walking down a shabby-looking street in a small fishing village in an old New England seaside. The map in your hands is faded and crinkled but you stare at it long and hard.  You have been studying that map for months and finally convinced yourself to follow it. A notation in the margin claims it’s a chart of treasure buried by the pirate Blackbeard.

You spent weeks digging through old library books, then a long stint at a naval museum. Only hints came from the studying; but they were enough to persuade you to proceed with this crazy hunt. None of your friends or family know that you are away for anything but a normal vacation. Surreptitiously you visited maritime shops, hardware stores and even a gun shop where you apply for a license. For some strange reason, you felt a sense of security with the purchase of a weapon, even though you hadn’t much idea how to use it. You forced yourself to take lessons and became semi-efficient in its use.

It took a Google session for you to find the small spot on a map. The only notation you found was one line saying that the village had been almost deserted for years. That note obviously did not deter you from your quest. Here you are on the main street and no one in sight. You see a general store and it looks like it might be open. A gaunt, old man sits next to an antique cash register. You notice that he only glances at you and turns away.

You walk up and stand in front of the man. He is forced to raise his face to yours. You strain your ears as he grunts. “What d’ye’ want? We ain’t got it...”

On the shelves, you see old cereal boxes of Wheaties, very old Coke posters. Everything is covered with spider webs and the girl in the poster has a hairdo that your grandmother might have worn. The old man doesn’t utter another word. Chills have a relay race on your spine, so you leave.

Back to the map. You study the town. You study the map. There must be some landmark that you are missing.  The map reads that 500 paces from the church is a large rock resembling a man with a beard. Only one church is standing so the pacing begins. Oops! A tiny school is in the path of the pacing. Color drains from your face and your heart lets you know it is in your chest. The solution to the paces comes as you sit and let your heart return to normal. You count the steps at the side of the school and add them to your total, then step off again.

At 500 paces, nothing like a rock shaped like a man with a beard. Your heart slows as if it wants to stop altogether; but too many months have gone into this adventure to quit now. Pace ahead! Fifty more steps and joy, oh joy there is the rock. That Blackbeard must have been short or else couldn’t count. The rest of the map instruction are easy to follow until you come to the end, Facing you is a blank wall. No cave, no hole, just a blank wall.

At the top of the hill, you notice where rain has made a rut leading to where you are standing. Out comes the trench shovel with a pick on one end. Off come your jacket and shirt as you start to dig where the rut ends.

Sweat pours down your face and neck. Tired, you think this is no work for a middle-aged man. Well, maybe more than middle. You rest a bit. You start again, although a lot slower. Finally your shovel breaks through into a large hole and tunnel. After a slow look around, you yell, "Whoopee!" The pack is returned to the back except for a flashlight and the gun.  Ten stone steps invite you down and when you reach the bottom, you come face to face with a skeleton.

Uh! You're not afraid of one `long dead` watchman. You pass the lone overseer and he topples. Your head just misses hitting the top of the tunnel; but you creep forward a bit more tentatively. Around a bend, two more eerie watchmen appear. A pair of skeletons is facing each other frozen in fighting positions. In the chest of each is a large hole that seems to have been made by bullets.

Blackbeard didn't even trust his close bodyguards. He sure knew how to keep his treasure secret. Just behind the skeletons you spot an old steamer type chest. Elation fills your breast. You found the treasure. You're rich. All you need do now is get some of those ill-gotten riches out of there and home.

You kneel beside the chest and see that it has no lock but is rusted shut. With a rock, you smash the lid enough to get a hand-hold. You raise the lid.  Inside - nothing but a slip of paper.

Breathless you scan the slip of paper. In large letters is printed,  "You're too late. I lifted the chest's gold and jewels this 12th day of July 1925. Too bad”

© Mel Lees

Blue 31

The golf balls sit in the corner

and the sun glides past them,

laughing.  Ankles melt into

the tall grass leaving paths

only dogs could follow.  The roaring

grows louder, stronger.

The ink is almost dry.  It is round

and solid against my head.  The

window shatters.  I get rushed to

the ER.  I am 8 years old.  The boy

is 10, and in my class 'cause his

Daddy is a Doctor and kept

him from flunking out.  I had

forgotten all about it

'till I saw those

golf balls laying there

in the corner:  almost black

from all the dust, the decay.

© L.B. Sedlacek

Bent Pin Quarterly  Vol. 2 No1

January 2008