X Marks the Spot
by
Scott Roche
Published by Scott Roche at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Scott Roche
Cover by JC Hutchins
Discover other titles by Scott Roche here http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ScottRoche
This story first podcast at Great Hites. http://greathites.blogspot.com/
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I always wondered what digging a grave wold be like. I'd read a classic comic in the library, something by Shakespeare, and the grave digger there struck a chord with me. Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe I'd grow up to be one, one day. Surely there would always be a need for grave diggers. Job security and the thought of a job that had to be free of contact with people for the most part, living ones anyway, made the job seem ideal. I thought of this as an aptitude test. If I could make a big enough hole at twelve, then when I was grown it shouldn't be an issue.
The afternoon was cool, and the woods offered a generous amount of shade. It had rained a few days before so the ground was soft and yielded even to the poor excuse for a shovel I had. I was in decent shape for a non-jock, muscles built by hours of climbing and running. Still, after a half hour of really focused digging the hole was pitifully small and blisters had already formed and popped.
"Just a little bit longer." Not quite ready to give up, I decided that I just needed a break. A few more shovel fulls and I'd take advantage of a stream that ran nearby. A long drink and clean, cool hands were incentive enough to continue for a bit longer.
A dull thunk came from the dirt as the point of the shovel penetrated only an inch further. Not exactly a metallic sound, it didn't come from wood either. Excited and forgetting my thirst and the pain in my hands I first scratched at it with the side of the rusted metal shovel and then fell to my knees and scrabbled in the hole with bare hands. Fingernails were only slightly better at coaxing out the shape of whatever it was I had found. It wasn't a root as the thought in the back of my head suggested. It was too regular in size and cut off from everything around it. It wasn't a rock either as the whole thing seemed unnaturally smooth.
Finally with grooves worn along each side, I used the shovel's nose as a pry bar. The fatigued metal threatened to break, but the object cried "Uncle" first. Finding some sort of hard plastic container buried out here surprised me.
"At least it's smaller than a bread box." It was stained by long contact with the dirt. Originally, it might have been beige or white, maybe even gray, there was no way of telling. I took the treasure chest, as I immediately began thinking of it, out of the hole and moved to the stream.
Handfuls of brutally cold water sluiced over the top of it and gradually washed most of the dirt away. As it came clean I thought about what I might have found. It looked like I was more pirate than grave digger. With thoughts of pirates and their gold, I hoped for money or something, anything, of value. Mom and I were poor, and something like this could change our lives.
Eventually no more dirt could be removed. It was as clean as it was going to get without soap and water. Each side of the chest was utterly smooth and even without so much as a hairline crack. It looked for all the world like a solid lump of plastic. As I turned it in my hands, I realized how light it was. There was no gold here, probably not anything of value, just a plastic trinket.
Disappointment flared up in the middle of my chest. In anger, I grabbed a rock the size of a doubled fist and smashed at the box. A ringing thud suggested it was far from solid. I shook it hard and heard no rattle. I smacked it with the rock again and again, hoping it would give. Though it wasn't solid through and through, it was strong.
"Stupid thing." I smacked it once again, this time with a sense of futility. A dull light pulsed at its heart. A sound, barely at the edge of the range of my hearing, beat in time to the light. My frustration turned to fascination.
I ran my hands over it again, this time in reverence. Because of the light, I expected it to be warm, but it was no warmer than the rapidly cooling air around it. Realizing that the day light around me was dimming, it occurred to me that I had been in the woods a lot longer than I had intended. The sun was headed down. I tucked the box under one arm and jogged toward home, leaving the shovel and hole behind. Branches slapped at my face, as though they were trying to hold me back. The path, familiar as the one from recliner to bed, suddenly filled with potholes and rocks ready to trip me up.
I slowed my pace. It was hard. I wanted to get home and see what this box that wasn't a box really was. It wouldn't help if I ended up breaking my leg and and the further I went, the darker it got. After what felt like far too long, I broke through the tree line and saw the trailer park across the ditch lined road. I picked my way across, unwilling to put my discovery down even for a moment. The brown and white trailer we called home sat at the back of the lot, a single wide with a few rust spots.
I unlocked the door, with the key that hung around my neck from its black shoelace. The silence was filled with a tension that my pre-adolescent brain couldn't make heads or tails of. My stomach rumbled, breaking it and making me chuckle. The sound was more nervous than funny. I sat the box in mom's battered recliner and walked to the fridge. A PB&J and a glass of milk would be my best, really my only, option. Mom wouldn't be home from the diner until after my bed time so I had time to scarf down the poor excuse for a dinner and look at my new toy some more without fear of being interrupted.