The Captain's Chest 1-4

James Henson finds the remains of a pirate ship, and a map contained within. He sets himself to finding the treasure.

The Captain’s Chest

By Dustin Stone

 

Chapter 1

                The light thinned the deeper I went. At the surface, the sun was almost unbearable, but below the waves it was just a tiny bleep above me. Fish flitted about in the edges of my vision, but none dared to get closer. Not that I was a threat to the fish, I was just an outsider. I was always an outsider here. I checked gauge. I still had some air in my tank. Plenty to see what I could find.

                On my last dive here, I caught a glimpse of a sunken ship in the shadows. Ghosts of the past danced through my dreams as I wondered what was lost inside. The legends of the pirate Captain James Henson. James Henson, that was my name too. I would like to think my mother named me for the captain, but no, it was my father’s name. Still, I wondered if there was some tie in our family tree.

                I pressed deeper into the water and the ship came into focus. Barnacles and starfish clung to the outside of the rotten wooden haul. Breaches in the haul told of the final battle it with stood. I swung around to the bow and came face to face with a mermaid. Her arms were thrown behind her as she guided the ship in her wake. Her skin was cracked by centuries of neglect in the ocean waters. She would have been beautiful in her prime, but she was resigned to her salty fate.

                A gentle cloud of dust rose as I set foot onto the deck. Looking up, I could imagine the riggings swaying with the ship as she sailed ages before I was born. I knew the names of every mast and rope. I knew them all. I wanted to sail, I needed to. It was in my blood. My father had been in the navy, as had my grandfather. It was want I had wanted. It was what I was going to do.

                No sign of the crew was on the deck. Not that I was expecting them to still be here. This ship must have sunk in the eighteenth century at the latest. Oh, I wish I could have seen her above the waves. Watch as men snapped to the calls and made her dance across the ocean. My foot kicked an old pistol as I stepped through the murky water. Kneeling, I picked it up. It was rusted through and it was missing part of the handle, but it was an old flintlock pistol. I spun it in hand and aimed it at a ghost and pressed the trigger.

                “Bang,” I thought. Smiling to myself, I stored it in my pocket securely. It would be a nice treasure, indeed. My hand rested on the broken wheel. It was stuck in place, but the stand rattled A chill ran up my spine as I was forced to remember how unsafe this ship could be. That hesitation turned my gaze to the lower deck. Oh, I wanted to go inside. Alas, I knew better. Diving was dangerous enough in groups, but alone. No, I had to be careful.

                Pushing off, I swung around the rear of the ship. A mouth of broken glass greeted me. Inside the inky maw all I could see was shadows. My hand fell to the flashlight on my hip. It’s beam broke through the entrenched shadows with ease. Inside the cabin was an assortment of aged furniture. It was all thrown about. I hung there looking into the room for several minutes. Checking my gauge, I drifted up. I had only gone a few feet, when my flashlight touched the letters on the stern of the ship. Only two words were written there, but my heart leapt at them: Ruby Raven. The Ruby Raven. That was the name of Captain James Henson’s ship. It was the head of his fleet.

                I stopped thinking. I read the words over and over. They were etched into the wood long ago, but still legible. This was it. This was the real ship. This was it. My fingers stroked the letters, brushing off the dust the currents had deposited on them. I had dreamed about this one vessel ever since I first heard of Captain James Henson.

My heart raced. Adrenaline flooded my veins. Forgoing all reason and safety, I plunged inside. I was giddy. My hands bounced so much, that I could barely steady my light. Some sick part of my mind imagined finding Captain James Henson’s skeleton or the Phoenix’s Heart down here. I knew both were unlikely, but still. Every time I touched something I imagined the pirate captain holding it, using it. There was some much here. Compasses, and sextants, everything one could ever want to navigate the world. A large green compass caught my eye. It was once made of brass, but the water had worn the shine away. Turning it this way and that, I was amazed that the compass still worked, even if the markings had faded. I wanted to take it all. Reluctantly, I pulled the pistol from pocket and looked it over. Use had marred it, but it was unremarkable.

Setting it onto the ground, I passed over everything else in the room. I stored a few smaller pieces of mapping equipment in my pocket, but my eyes were watching everything else. Desperately, they sought a true piece of history. I wanted to return the Phoenix’s Heart to the world. I wanted to be the one who found the legendary ruby that Captain James Henson stole in route from India to England. The thrill of such a find was intoxicating and I crept to the door frame. The phantoms of the crew watched me as I entered their section. I could see the fastenings for long lost hammocks.

I lost myself in the past and stood transfixed as the haunting images of the Ruby Raven’s final hours played before me. The men scrambled about in a hurry to defend themselves from the Royal Navy. I hefted a old cannonball from the floor. Even buoyed up by the water it was heavy. I rolled it back and forth between my hands while I inspected the first cannon I came to. The sea creatures had swarmed over it until the once fearsome weapon had become a home. In my entrancement, the cannonball slipped between my gloved fingers. It let out a low thud which sent fish scurrying from their hiding places.

That noise pulled me back to the moment and I checked my oxygen gauge. It was getting low. Begrudgingly, I turned to make my way to the surface. I wobbled at the edge of the captain’s room, surveying the place one final time when a shadow passed over my head. My spine stiffened, and I scrambled to find the source. Not twenty feet away swam a bull shark. Its bulky body glided smoothly through the water. My eyes darted about in search of more. No just the one. The beast was circling the ship like a hawk would in the sky. I held my breath, fearing it would hear me.

In my anxiety, my foot brushed against a heavy chest. It was about two feet wide, and half as tall. The edges were sealed with a heavy wax. The shark passed over one last time before heading back into the endless abyss that surrounded me. Without thinking, I grabbed the chest by the handles and began to rise. Ten feet up and rest. Then ten feet more. Slow. Always slow. Don’t rush a rise. I had to be careful to slowly decompress myself. My arms ached as I shifted the chest around. I could not drop it and let it sink back to the depths. No, I held my grip on it until my fingers ached. And I rose again. The light over head grew to a discernable sun.

I gave one last look into the shadows below. The Ruby Raven had been swallowed back into the depths of the gulf. But there was something moving beneath me. The bull shark had returned. I kicked harder and harder, desperately I wanted above the surface. The shadow of my boat loomed a short way off, spurring me upwards.

My hand gripped the rocking gunwales and I hefted the box over the edge. It left a resounding thump as it slid to the bottom of the dingy. The side dipped to the edge of the water as I rolled myself in. At least a gallon of water came along with me, but I was safe in the boat. Tossing my mask to the bottom, I shifted about to get my bearings while stripping out of my wetsuit. A few miles south of me was Crooks Island. It was that island which helped me find the Ruby Raven. A hundred stories told of how Captain James Henson used the island as a base. Some of the more farfetched ones told of apparitions who sought revenge against the pirate who ended their lives.

Spinning myself around, I revved up the tiny motor. I sped north back to shore with the sun’s rays baking my back. My mind fixated on the chest by my feet as the soft rumble of the engine propelled me forward. I barely quelled my curiosity on the trip home. The small wooden dock on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico where we kept the skiff. It was a small shack with an opening out to the sea. Like countless times before, I toss the mooring line around the peg and pulled the skiff into place. A few more loops with the rope and it was secured in place.

Springing onto the wooden slates, I put the box on the ground. My heart raced faster with every second. Only a few marks of wear were visible beneath the single shaky lightbulb overhead. A thin crust of lichen and slim covered the surface. It came away easily at my touch. It seemed to be only a simple chest. No engravings covered the surface. But that did not stop me from pulling my pocketknife out to scrap away the wax sealing the chest shut. Sweat ran across my brow as I worked. Bit by bit, I worked through the aged wax to expose the untarnished wood beneath. My tongue ran across my lips and around my teeth with anticipation. The lid was swollen from years in the water, and resistant opening. But the lid lifted away to expose the contents.

I was expected treasure, but not another box. My fingers stretched out to pick up the box, but before I could touch it a sound made me jump. My mother was limping into the docks with packages in her arms. My hands slammed the lid shut a little too loud.

“Hey, James. Could you help unload the car?” She requested.

“Sure,” I accepted reluctantly. In my mind, I cursed her intervention.

“You find something out there?” She smiled at me while emptying her bags.

“Yeah. A box. I don’t know what’s in it,” I answered as I slipped through the door and headed my way up the short hill to our house. My mother’s car sat backed into the drive way with her cloth bags inside. I slung a few over my shoulder and headed took them through the mud room to the kitchen.

“Hey, Jim,” my mother’s husband called out. He stood by the table sorting through the contents.

“Hi, Paul,” I sighed as I put the bags down in front of him. Before he could speak again, I slipped back out for another armload.

“I’ve got some new lumber in the shop,” Paul continued as I returned. “You interested in helping me put together a new desk for your mom?”

I shrugged as I put the gallons of milk in the frig. Paul had been like that ever since he moved in last year. It was not that I disliked my stepfather, it was just that we had nothing in common. He had little interest in the sea, and I had none in carpentry. He was the high school’s shop teacher. My mother and him met about two years ago at a grief counselling meeting, and were married one. My mother was happier than she had been since the accident.

“Helen’s taking a bit,” Paul remarked.

“Yeah, I wasn’t done cleaning up the skiff from an outing when she sent me to help. She’s probably trying to finish it. She likes her boat clean.”

“I can’t believe she lets you go diving on your own.”

“She’s had me in the water since diapers. So, not too surprising.”

“What can I say?” My mother joked as she entered the kitchen with my chest in her arms. “He’s better in the water than on land.”

“Thanks for bringing that inside,” I recognized her as she placed the box on the table. Dust and water splattered nearby our groceries.

“It’s filthy.”

“Calm down, Paul. It’s no worse than what I bring in,” my mother defended. She was a marine biologist working at the university.

“That’s old wood. You found it underwater?” Paul asked me.

I gave him a short answer, “Yep.”

“English oak. Seventeen hundred maybe. Those nails aren’t used any more. Different type of metal.”

“Hmm,” I nodded my head. “Excuse me.” I grabbed the box and scuttled from the room while the two of them continued to talk. The box felt heavy in my hands as I made my way to my room. It was a small room, made smaller by all the junk I filled it with. My walls were covered in old maps and shelves of books. A large bottle sat securely off to the side with a ship inside. Dust fell from the box as I placed it gently on the carpet. My heart hammered against my ribs. With all the care I could muster, I lifted the lid and placed it aside once more. By the light of the window, I examined the contents. I was expecting jewels and old coins, but not another box. I picked it up carefully. It was completely dry to the touch, kept safe inside its container.

“What are you?” I pondered as I looked at the absurd top. Rather than a single uniform piece of wood, deep cuts had been placed into it with a small circle at each corner. The lines crossed each other and formed a single image. My finger traced the grooves and found them smooth. It was an intentional design, not hatchet marks, but work of a craftsman. A small brass knob stuck out from one side. Grabbing it, I attempted to slip the draw open, but it held.

“Your locked?” I thought. I scanned the sides, but found no place for a key. Nowhere could I find a way to open it. Stepping back, I stared at the top. Try as I might, I could not figure out what was with the marks in the top. Sticking my finger inside one of the corner holes, I felt around. The hole opened into a small channel that ran under the slots. Snatching a flashlight from under my bed, I shone it into the grooves. Tiny wooden bars blocked several of the marks. Others ended.

Sitting back on my heels, I found myself stumped. What was this box? Looking for a clue, a hint, some revelation; I went back to the chest. Inside was bottle I had missed before. The glass was cracked in places. A cork had been jammed into the top, but inside was no rum, no liquid. Inside was a sleeve of paper. Pinching the cork, I pried and pulled this way and that way, and still it held. I growled to myself as my frustration mounted. I was half tempted to smash the bottle to get to the prize inside, but I let a cooler head take charge. I sat there stewing for a time, before settling myself.

I headed back to the kitchen to find it empty. One, by one, I pulled open the drawers eagerly looking for a corkscrew. A corkscrew, surely that would open the bottle. I mean, that’s what it was designed for. Bah, I said after I went through every drawer in the kitchen. Surely, there was one here. I tapped my foot as I thought. A pocketknife. Paul always had one. Where was he? The woodshop of course.

It was not truly a woodshop, but that’s what it had become. It was actually our garage, but all of his power tools filled the area there was not much room for a car. Paul was sorting through his new lumber.

“Hey, Jim,” he called out as I stepped into the garage. “You’re just in time. Mind holding this for me while I cut it?” He lifted a large piece of plywood. Playing along, I grabbed the end and helped him carry it to the table saw. Once we had it squared up with his jig, the bladed spun to life. Particles of saw dust sprayed my face as I awaited the board at the far side of the saw. “Thanks, this is perfect. I’ll be part of the backing of the drawers. If you want, I’m going to put some wood on the lathe and spin them into legs. You up for helping me?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow your pocketknife?”

“Sure,” he said as he fished the tool from his belt. “Find anything in that box?”

“Not sure yet. Thank you,” I added as I gripped the metal sheath. I spun around and raced back to my room. Dropping to my knees, I skidded into place before the bottle. It only took me a minute to pull the corkscrew from its place on the knife. The sharpened metal pierced the aged cork with ease. Despite this, the cork still refused to give up its post. I tried palming the bottle while pulling. It was not until I had pinned the glass between my legs that I came free. Stale air escaped into my room. It was nauseating. Coughing, I stumbled to window to bring in some fresh air. It was several minutes before I could see straight.

With tears in my eyes, I returned to the bottle. I shook the bottle, but the paper would not budge. I jammed my finger into the opening and could not reach it. Smirking, I grabbed the pocketknife and flipped through the different blades and files until I pulled out a miniature pair of pliers. With a little finesse and trembling fingers, I was able to pinch a corner of the paper and pull it free.

I fight with the paper to unroll it. Much more difficult when it kept trying to roll back to the position it had held for the past century. I pinned the four corners with various objects, so I could look at it. My mouth dropped. It was a map of the area. This area. I was sure of it.  I snatched a map of the area that I had been marking my dives, and it was the same. I could pick out the various islands of the gulf. I leaned in closer to get a better view of the details. Smudge numerals were written across the map. One. Two. Three. Four. And an X.

An X? My mind spun. Could it be where the Captain horded his treasure? Fantasies of a cave of lost gold spiraled through my mind. Could it be true? Of course. Captain James Henson’s treasure was never accounted for. Amongst his loot was the Phoenix’s Heart.

But what of these other numerals. They were all among the mainland. One was only a few miles from here. My head snapped from the numerals back to the box and back again. And I began to understand. The numerals were the keys to the chest I had found. A further scrutiny of the map reveal a neat scrawl along the edges of the. One line stood out. I read, “To snatch from the talon’s of the Raven, follow the trail to my nest.” A smile played over my face.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

“You aren’t listening, Skip,” I complained to my friend at lunch. “I’m telling you it’s a map.”

“James,” my friend laughed. “That thing is what? One, two hundred years old? Ten to one, it leads to nothing, bub.”

“Come with me. I want to find out. See,” I exclaimed as I pointed to the printing of the map I found. “Right here, one? That’s Verne’s Shore. It’s just outside town. We hope on our bikes and we can be there in a few. Check it out with me, man. It’ll take an hour, maybe two tops.”

“Can’t I’ve got practice. Why did you not join the team?”

“I’ve told you. Basketball bores me. Most the time you sit about and do nothing, unless you are part of the five players, then it gets fun. Then you’ve got everyone moaning everything you do. There’s no fun in it. I’d rather just play with a few on my own. No one cares about the score or nothing, just having fun. Come with me,” I begged him.

“Fine, but after practice. Deal?”

“Deal,” we shook hands. The day dragged on as I awaited my excursion. The worst was when the final bell rang for the day. Usually, I would snap my bag up and be on my way home, but today I had to wait. With nothing else to do, I meandered through the halls. A few others still moved through the halls. Most were people like me waiting on friends.

“Hey, Jim,” my stepdad spoke out as I wondered into his hall.

“Hey.”

“Aren’t you heading home?”

“Nah, I’m meeting up with a friend in a bit.”

“You’ve got a minute then?”

“Yes,” I groaned to myself.

“Mind helping me clean up the shop? Last class ran on for a bit. And I didn’t give them the word to close up.”

“Sure,” I relented with nothing better to do. Begrudgingly, I took a broom and worked to pile the saw dust into a messy pile. Small chunks of wood were mixed into the pile. Over head the roar of the vacuum told of debris being sucked up. While my hands were busy, my mind was free. And there was only one thing I wanted to think about. I had examined the map more since first finding it. On the side was several lines of hand writing. With a lot of looking, and some guesswork, I had deciphered them. The one at Verne’s Shorespoke of walking in the shadow of the light. For all that is holy, I could not figure out what that meant, but I was going to find out.

Movement caught my eye. I turned to see my stepdad running a length of twine along the room. He was affixing it a odd contraption which he had clamped down on to the table. Seeing my eye, he waved me over. “Hold this,” he told me as he passed a small wooden paddle with three holes drilled into the edges of the circle. The twine had been strung between the holes which than ran back to the device on the table. Paul spun a crank on his artifact and the twine spun. It spun and spun until it was a tight. “Now, you’ll pull the knot at the end and give it a light twist.” I did as he instructed, and the twine turned to into a thicker cord. “Slide the paddle forward and repeat.” Slowly, my work turned the line of twine into a rope. I repeated the process until I reached the device. My stepdad slipped the loops of thread the hooks on the machine. He split the loops with his pocketknife and wove the loose ends back upon themselves to form a secure end. “There,” he finished as wrapped the cord up. “Here, take it home when you go.”

“Alright,” I accepted as I throw it into my backpack. “I should be going. My friend will be ready shortly.”

“Alright. I’ll see you at home.” I left him alone in his woodshop. My shoes skid slightly on the linoleum floors from the clinging bits of saw dust on my shoes.

“Hey, Skip,” I cried out to my friend.

“Hey.”

“How was practice?”

“So-so. So, where are we heading?”

“Verne’s Shore,” I told him as we grabbed out bikes outside. We sped through the city streets as we set our course. A strong wind hit us as we reached the shoreline. A rocky shore spread out before us. The waves broke on the rocks sending salt into the air. A lonesome tower stood on the cliff warning of the dangerous waters. Spirals of faded red and white run along the sides.

“Okay, where is it?”

“In the shadow of the light.”

“A what?”

“That’s the clue. Walk in the shadow of the light.” My friend gave me the most quizzical look he could muster. Slapping his face with his hand, he began to laugh. “Hey, I didn’t say this was going to be easy. Come on. Let’s see what we can find on the shore.” I sped away and my friend raced to keep up. The wind grew worse and the smell of salt in the air grew stronger as the sky darkened.

“Storms coming,” Skip warned. “Let’s go back.”

“Not coming. It’s here,” I corrected as rain pelted my head. We turned our course back. Sheets of rain assailed us. My clothes were soaked through, chilling my skin and bones. The dirt turned to mud beneath our wheels. We could not stay out here. A flash of light in the distance drew my attention. It spun around on a tower of red and white. “The lighthouse,” I urged my friend. My wheels slipped beneath me as I pedaled faster. I barely kept myself upright. Mud splashed my pants as I crashed through puddles. With each heavy breath I sucked in a cupful of water into my mouth.

“Remind me to hit you,” Skip cursed me.

“Add that to your list.”

“I am,” he assured me. I put his comment aside. My bike bounced on rocks as we turned up the long drive to the lighthouse. Lights shown from the windows below the peak. I dropped my bike by the door and sprinted forward. An old metal knocker hung on the center of the door. Ignoring that, I grabbed the handle and it gave way. Warm air hit me as I stepped in. Water dripped from my clothes onto the rug at the door.

My heart thumped in my chest as I looked around. The lighting fixtures matched old gas lamps. Trinkets of sailors lined shelves. A large desk lay by the door with a book on it. Water dripped from my short curly hair onto the pages as I examined it. The water made the ink run in places, but I quickly recognized it as a guest book. None of the names in the book were from this week.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Skip moaned. “If I knew we were going swimming, I would have dressed differently.”

“Hello?” I repeated as I dropped my backpack on the ground. “Is anyone here?”

“Hello?” A voice called back. An older gentleman hobbled into the room. He leaned heavily on his cane. His pant legs were soaked with brown water. “Hello, boys?” he asked with his voice filled with confusion. “What brings you out here on a night like this?”

“We were out riding our bikes when the storm hit.”

“Well, this is a museum. You’re free to look around. I’m a bit busy, but I can give you two a ride home when I am done.”

“Thank you,” Skip accepted. “But I think the rain will let up before too long.”

“What are you busy with?” I pressed him as the owner slipped back down the hall.

“I’ve got a leak in the basement. They built this thing in the early seventeen hundreds and even with the renovations, it still has issues.”

“That’s old.”

“Not as old as some of those you find in Europe, but old for the Americas. You can read all of the history on the second floor,” he said as he pointed to the curving stairs.

“Do you need a hand?” I offered with nothing better to do. Skip sighed in exasperation with me.

“Of course. It would never hurt.” He lead us down the stairs to a store room. Old display cases and crates covered the room. About a foot of water seeped into the room. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Walls, ceiling, everywhere.” I moved around to grab one of the crates. More water poured into my shoes and pant legs. “You boys mind getting some of the other displays upstairs. Second floor please.” Skip and I grabbed the legs of a smaller case, and prepared to lift it. “Don’t worry about the cases. Just grab what’s inside.”

Standing back up, I lifted the lid on the case. Inside was an assortment of things salvaged from around the gulf. I packed them into my arms and hefted them up to the second floor. The second floor was a single flat area with maps hung on the wall beside old paintings. The rain pounded hard on the windows. I set my armload down on a table under a portrait of a black man with a gray beard and hair. His hair was curly like mine. His beard struck out under his wide flat nose. I knew who it was.

“That’s Captain James Henson,” the old man. “He was a feared pirate in these parts.”

“Yeah, I know who he is.”

“Well, if you’re interested in him. We’ve got a few relics from his fleet. One of his ships wrecked of the shore a mile from here.”

“The Rosy Dawn?”

“Yes. It went down in a storm. One like this, I’d wager. Story goes the lighthouse was dark that night and the ship’s captain could not see the rocks.” In that moment, a passage from the map crept into my mind: In the shadow of the light. It was the wreckage of the ship! That’s where the key was kept.

“Where’s the ship?” I asked.

“Ow, it broke down before I was born. Though, they did pull some things off it.”

“What sort of things?” I pressed.

“Most are down stairs. There’s a box with most of it. We are getting ready to switch the displays soon. We can pull those things out while you’re here.”

“Okay,” Skip rolled his eyes as he went back down for another arm load. We brought load after load up from the basement. Soon every surface was covered in boxes and various objects. My eyes kept shifting over to one pile. It was the pile from the Rosy Dawn. I had been sure to bring those up myself. With each step, I scrutinized each item: a flintlock pistol, a compass, sextant, a candlestick, and parts of uniforms. I shifted each piece around in a desperate attempt to find the key. Nothing looked like a key. Nothing looked reminded me of the box.

“Thanks for the help, boys,” the old man said as he wiped his brow. “Looks like the rain is letting up,” he added as he looked out the window. “Let me get the keys, and I’ll give you a ride back.”

“No thanks,” Skip decided. “It’s light enough, we can ride home. Thanks for the offer.”

“Are you sure? It’s no problem.”

“No, we will be alright,” I chorused.

“Well, then. Thank you for helping with the basement. If you need anything just let me know. I’ll be down in the basement, seeing what else I can do.” The old man departed, leaving us alone amongst the forgotten history.

“I think they brought us out here in elementary school,” I remembered.

“Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, my dad was one of the parents that came. That’s when he first told me about Captain James Henson.”

“The pirate in the painting?”

“Yeah. He was here. He said that the captain’s bottom lip stuck out enough to serve as a book shelf,” I laughed.

“Whatever,” Skip sighed. “Hey, I need to make a pitstop before we head out.”

“Alright,” I accepted. My friend snuck back down to the lobby. I took that moment to examine the captain’s features once more. He looked smugly back at me. He almost seemed to be laughing at me and my head fell. I looked back at the pile of things found on the sunken ship. As if a moment of fate, a ray of sunlight slipped through the window and played over the candlestick. In that single fleeting second, I saw something. It was the tiniest split in the metal near the thick back. My hand snatched it up and spun it between my fingers.

“It’s hollow.” I grabbed it roughly and twisted it as hard as I could. I strained and grunted before the aged metal gave way and spun. Dust of a lost age fell onto my hand as the candlestick came in two. In the exposed opening was a wooden cylinder which slide free easily. A smile broke over my face as I looked at it. It was about four inches in length. Half of it was a small handle, but the other was a narrow save for a thick section near the middle. This was the key. I bolted downstairs and stowed it in my backpack only moments before my friend arrived. 

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now, don’t drag me out on another wild goose chase.” For a moment, I thought of showing him the key. Only for a moment. The thought never crossed my mind again as we wiped the water from our seats and took off back into town. Constantly, I thought about trying the key. I wanted to see if I was right. I had to know. That thought guided me as I left Skip at his house and headed home. It was there as I pulled my bike into the open garage.

“Your late, Jim,” Paul chuckled as I got off my bike and parked it along a wall. “You get caught in the rain?” He was moving about the garage. He was busy assembling a what would eventual become the new drawers in mom’s new desk. A thick layer of sawdust covered the concrete slabs.

“Yeah, out by the old lighthouse in Verne’s Shore.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“Oh, we got roped into helping the caretaker move some exhibits out of the basement. It was flooding.”

“That was nice of you.”

“Yeah, it was,” I told him before slipping into the house.

I was in there only a moment before my mom caught me. “Where have you been? No call? No nothing?” She ambushed me in the kitchen. She stood there with soap clinging to her hands. In the background of her words, I could here the sink continuing to fill. “You could have been hurt, and I would have never known?”

“Sorry,” I told her before repeating my story only to receive another scolding. She would not let me escape until I sat down at the table and at a plate of food she had left out for me. I gulped it down in a hurry. In my excitement, I had not realized how famished I had become with all that work. With one final reprimand from my mother, I snuck to my room.

I threw open the closet and pulled the chest out. The lid flew across the room in my rush to get to my prize. I licked my lips as I retrieved my treasure form the backpack. I spun the wooden dowel eagerly. Looking back at the strange box, I picked one of the four holes. No, not the first one. That hole was far too big. It slid into the second, and my heart skipped a beat. I tried to slide it along one of the grooves cut into surface, but it would not budge. Only the soft clicking of wood on wood told me of the blocked path. I tried the third hole only to find the hole much too small. Desperation filled my heart and with trepidation I went for the fourth hole. It slid into the hole. It was the right size. I bit into my tongue as I moved the small protruding handle. It glided gently through the groove, but only for two inches before I heard the sound of wood on wood.

The pathway was blocked. I sprang to my nightstand for my flashlight. Craning my neck, I looked at what was blocking the path through the narrow slip in the top. A small wooden leave was blocking it. The groove was too small for my fingers, maybe a knife would slip in and let me cut through? No. That could damage the box. No. I needed another key…

 

 

Chapter 3

Verne’s Shore, Hemingway’s Cliff, Stevenson’s Landing, and Swift’s Shore. Those were the four locations on the map. I was sure of it. I had spent all week reviewing maps and geography. I was sure of it. That’s where the keys were. None were more than twenty miles from me. And I already had one. I rubbed my fingers over the aged wood. Yes, I had one. Now, how was I going to find the others. That was my question. It was the clues that escaped me: Reach into the whale’s mouth. Watch for the black spot. Listen for the mad earth. None of it made any sense to me. I guess that’s what happens when you are following a map that is over two hundred years old.

I shouldered my backpack headed for the door. I had one more day of school before the weekend. And I had plans for it too. My mom was heading off to check on her study out on Steven’s Landing. And I was going to go with her. I had often gone with her on her studies. She would be diving in a coral reef to gather samples. And I would be diving with her as usual. I was a free tech after all.

Clouds were blocking out the sun as I rode to school. A massive storm was brewing off shore. Most the locals were not too worried. We had weathered many such storms over the years. Personally, I loved the smell that came with the storms. But that smell had not come yet and in in its place was another concern. I had kept my findings a secret from Skip through the week and I had to tell him. I needed to tell someone. The thought of what I had found had started as a small cinder, but had grown to an immense conflagration. If I did not tell someone, this passion would burn me up.

I was practically bouncing in my seat as the seconds slowly ticked through the day. Minute after minutes rolled by. All I could do to contain my anticipation was tap my foot. It was a pitiful act. As the bell rang out, I sprinted down the hall.

“Finally,” I mouthed as I set foot into my next class. It was a painting class. Something fun and ultimately pointless. More so, when I did not want to be in my stepdad’s shop classes. It was better still that Skip was taking it with me.

“Hey,” he nodded as he dropped onto the stool beside me. Ideally, he spun around.

“Hey, I need to show you something,” I began.

“What is it now? It’s not another dot on a map or something?”

“No, It’s…” I was cut off as Mrs. Robinson knocked her fingers on the board.

“Morning. We’ll be starting our final project today. We’ll be working on portraits…” I drowned out the rest of her lecture. I wanted to talk to Skip and I rocked back and forth as I awaited the work to begin. My fingers hung over the canvas with a pencil as I thought. Not of whose face to do, but of how to begin with Skip.

“So, what is it?” he asked. He was etching his own features onto the canvas as a template. I checked over my shoulder to see that Mrs. Robinson was distracted with questions of other students. I dove into my bag and retrieved a small wooden handle. “What’s this?” Skip asked me before I could speak.

“That’s the key. I found it in the lighthouse among the salvage from the Rosy Dawn. I already checked. It fits the box.” Skip fingered the aged wood.

“What’s inside?” he asked.

“Don’t know yet. It looks like I need the other three keys to get inside.”

“More geese,” he teased me.

“No. It’s not,” I swore as I took the handle back. I set the key on my table as Mrs. Robinson began talking to the class. That was a mistake. The round key rolled on the smooth services right over the edge. It clattered to the concrete floor. The noise echoed in the classroom. I glanced down to find the key. It had rolled a few feet from me, just out of the reach of my outstretched arm. Leaning out, I barely touched the wooden handle with my fingertips. Before I could roll it in, a shoe landed on top. Mrs. Robinson snatched up the key. She gave me a look that told everything, “You can have it back at the end of class.” She put it inside her desk before continuing her lecture.

I barely could focus on her words as her desk kept drawing my eye. I wanted the key back. I was so fixated on that piece of aged wood that I made little progress in outlying my portrait. My eyes would dart between the desk, the canvas, the desk, the clock, and back to the desk in a ceaseless pattern. As soon as the bell rang I was on my feet. By the time I was at her desk, Mrs. Robinson was out the door. I stood there waiting, impatiently, for her to return.

Lunch was beginning. Only Skip and I remained. “Let’s go,” he urged. “We can get it after we eat.”

“You go on ahead,” I told him. Skip shook his head and left me. I paced back and forth for five minutes and then five minutes more and still Mrs. Robinson had not returned. I ground my teeth while I waited. Finally, I tried to open the drawer, only to find it locked. My patience wore through. Finding a paper clip on her desk, I find myself in a dilemma. Wait or try and pick the lock. Wait or pick. Wait or Pick. Glancing over my shoulder, I decided. I straightened the paper clip and slide it into the slot. Up and down, I wrangled it. Every time I thought I had it, nothing. The drawer would not budge. Finally, I tossed the paperclip aside. “Bah,” I roared to myself.

“Sorry, James,” Mrs. Robinson apologized as she stepped through the door. “I’ve been awaiting a call all morning, and my phone was vibrating all morning.”

“It’s alright. Can I have my thing back?” I immediately requested.

“Sure, what is it?” She asked as she pulled out her keys.

“It’s a project that I am working on.”

“Something with Paul… Mr. Hawkin,” she connected. I did not answer as I sped from the room. I kept the key within arms reach for the rest of the day. Twice, I found my hand diving into to find the reassuring presence of the ancient wood. I did not part ways with my treasure until I was home. I had it nestled into the chest along side the captain’s box before my mother called for me.

“Ready, James?”

“Yes.” I followed my mother down to the docks. Her two graduate students were settling into the boat. I had met them both before. There was a girl only slightly taller than me named Rita and a heavily bearded guy named Ben. They were the just the current pair in a long line that have come and gone. I had already done a dozen dives with the two of them. I gave them each a nodded as I settled into place. We were not taking the little skiff. Oh, no. My mother had a much larger boat for these trips. Paul kept saying it would be an excellent fishing but, but my mother would never let him take it out. This was her pride. She had modified much of it to house her specimen and equipment. I settled into a seat at the back as my mother revved up the engine. The whole boat thrummed with the power.

She backed the boat from the boat house and we were off. We bounced across the waves as the wind whipped over my head. My eyes watched the coast line on my right. We sped past the wharf of town. A collection of elaborate private yachts filled the docks. A few large freight ships were being guided in by the small tugboats. We gave such vessels a wide berth. In the shadow of a tall hotel building, the beachgoers frolicked and lounged in the sand and surf. Soon, the cityscape was replaced by ceaseless wild shores. Driftwood dotted the sandy coast the further we got from town.

Soon the water turned as clear as glass beneath us. Sand and rocks were replaced with bright fish and coral. I could count a dozen species easily. My mother of course could see scores more. Once the boat had settled into place, we set out to dressing for the dive. The scuba gear was cumbersome on land, but once in the water… Oh, it was so much better.

Kicking my feet, I dove deep. I was free. Up and down, I moved as graceful of a fish. If only I had gills, then I could discard this tank and swim as I wanted. A foolish wish. One I quickly put out my mind as I set to work. Rita plunged into the water nearby, her flipper came within an inch of my mask. A device of twisted tubes and cannisters was handed down to us from above. It was only about two feet across, but it was heavy. Rita and I each took hold of the handles. With the contraption steady, my mother and Ben soon joined us. It was difficult to move my mother device in the water. Two of us had to pull it through the water. We sank one foot for each two we moved forward. It was a struggle to match Rita’s pace. I was a strong swimmer and was forced to pace myself to prevent the box from being pulled from Rita’s hands.

The colorful coral below slowly turned white. The fish in the area dwindled with as we moved onward. This was it. This was where my mother’s project lay. She was working on revitalizing bleached coral by changing the nutrient contents in the water column. The device we were carrying was a slow delivery system. The mechanics of the whole thing was far beyond me. But, I know my job. Rita and I lowered the device into place beside the other. Rita and Ben began to fill several cannisters with water from the surrounding area to check the dispersal rate while I worked to seal the original device. Mostly, it was just screwing the caps back into place.

While I worked, I kept my eyes out for a black spot. Watch for the black spot. That was the clue on the map. How a single spot was to remain unchanged over centuries eluded me. Surely, if it was painted it would have been washed away. No, it had to be a something that would last. Captain James Henson had to use something lasting has his map mark. What could be a black spot.

I strained my mind to think of something. I knew the black spot was a mark of betrayal among pirates, but what else? What was the punishment for treason? Walking a plank? Keelhauling? Marooning? I could think of a dozen things that could be afflicted upon such a misfortunate soul.

The others continued to gather samples while I swam back to the boat. Taking in a few salty breathes, I set to unhooking the next of my mother’s devices. Water was splashed into the boat as Ben brought in the water samples. I stored the plastic tubes in a drawer in the side of the wall. Next, came the old device. I could easily lift it in the air. With that secure, I passed the other contraption. Rita and Ben took hold of the box and plunged back under the waves. A moment later, I joined them.

Back in the water, my head spun about. Again, I sought this black spot. I followed my mother back through the bleached coral. We swam deeper into the dying terrain. We stopped by a large round piece of coral with another device stationed near it. It was easily twice my height. While the other set to collecting samples and sealing the old containers; I swam about with a camera in hand. I went about photographing the coral. My mother was going to compare the photos throughout her study. I started on the large coral beside me. My mother had marked the areas to photograph before and I quickly found them. While I worked, something caught my attention. Amidst the bleached coral was a few patches of black.

Stepping back, I thought about what this coral colony would have looked like centuries ago. Surely, this black coral would look like a black spot in the water when seen from a boat. Yes. This was the black spot. This was the black spot. Eagerly, I spun around. Thrill over took me. I had to find the key. It had to be here. But where? I spun in the water, seeking something. My thrashing drew my mother’s attention. She tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the surface. All I could do was wave my hand.

I slowed myself. Think. Think. Think. I chanted those words. As I thought, I sank into the water. My flippers landed in the thick silt below. My heel rested on something hard. A rock, perhaps. My foot rolled as I pressed down. I continued to fish around with my foot. Finally, I dug my hand into the sand. My fingers pulled out a rusty iron ball. The others were quickly attracted to my finding. We all knew it was a cannonball. Even with all the rust on the surface, I could make out the blast marks burned into the metal. My mother motioned for me to put it in the bag with the samples. I secured the rusty cannonball into my bag before we returned to the boat.

“You don’t see those too often,” my mother laughed as we secured out packs.

“Must be from an old ship in the area,” I told her.

“Probably. Likely had an affect on the coral in the area. Most likely, it contains lead and other toxins that leached into the area.”

“Think the coral will recover?” Rita asked bring the topic back to our purpose.

“Hopefully. We’ll need compare the photos to look for changes in the polyps.”

“That large one coral where I found the cannonball had a little black on it,” I told them.

“It’s actually purple, but it does look black when not in direct sunlight,” my mother inclined her head to the setting sun. We secured our belongings before we took off across the water. My heart sank as we sped away from Steven’s Landing. I had not found the key and I had no clue where to look.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

                I fell into a funk for the next few days. I had missed my chance at finding the key. Each day, I found myself examining the old map and the one key I did have. I recounted everything I saw. Nothing came to me. My mind spiraled back to two more points on the map: Hemingway’s Cliff and Swift’s Cove. Either might help me. Either might hold another key and a clue.

                Hemingway’s Cliff was a steep rocky shore. The tides pounded against the shear drop off. It was nothing new for a large chunk of earth to break off after a heavy rain. I had stood on those cliff’s only a few times. Fear bit at my nerves as I stood there then. My mind had played with the idea of me loosing my footing and plummeting into the ocean below only to be smashed against the rocks that breached the surface. It was only the strong hand of my father which lent me the strength to stand on that lip without quaking. It was a moment that haunted my dreams for weeks to follow. It had only surged into my dreams in my weakest times. Now, that threat stood brighter than ever before.

                Swift’s Cove was where the final key supposedly lay. It was a small inlet which funneled the wind. There were a dozen legends of the land harboring ghost. It was part of local history where a whole village of Native Americans were butchered by the colonists. In their dying breath, they cursed any who walked on that sand. Though, those words did nothing to frighten those who came to frolic in the calm waters. It was a hard hike into the cove, but I remember going there as a child. It was where my parents first taught me to swim.

But there was something that lingered in my memories from that trip. The rain had come in and we were forced to take shelter in a cave in the area. I remember our campfire sending its light dancing across the walls. My father told then there of Captain James Henson. He meant it as a ghost story on our camping trip, but it had instead planted the seeds of my obsession. Throughout the night, I kept glancing into the depths of the cavern.

That had to be were the key was. It had to be in that cave. Now, I had been in caves before, but I was not going to take any chances. Oh, no. I know how to dive into the ocean, but the earth was another story.

Settling myself, I mounted my bike after class and set off through the roads. I wove along the familiar streets. Not to home, but to the university. I needed maps of the cave in Swift’s Cove. I had scoured the internet for them and found nothing. If any one was to have maps of the cave, it had to be the university. I had been on campus hundreds of times with my mother and knew where the records would be kept.

I sped between the familiar buildings. Students meandered around. A few tossed inquisitive glances at the youngster amongst them, but that was it. I locked my bike up outside the library and headed in. The librarian spotted me, but she embroiled with a student. I knew the old shrew. She was a spiteful woman. She was the type to scorn anyone who dared to touch one of her books. And that was my purpose.

The university library was a four-story tall building. Sunlight drifted down from the skylights high above. A winding staircase ran up to visit each floor. My legs strained as I ran to the top of the building. I had forgotten how tall the building was. The smell of the dusty books assailed me as I moved through the shelves. Each aisle was labeled with the contents. Within a few minutes, I found the one marked for maps. Rather than books mounted in shelves, there were slender folders. Inside each folder were the laminated copies of a multiple map. I had to pull out each sleeve to read the title. I stayed there an hour, scouring each slip of paper. I pulled out maps of Steven’s Landing and Hemingway’s Cliff. I snapped photos of both of them on my phone.

“Can I help you, young man?” the librarian asked me. Her sudden appearance startled me. Again, she repeated her question, “Can I help you, young man?” Her judgmental gaze fixed on me.

Swallowing hard, I answered, “Do you have any maps of Swift’s Cove?”

The woman folded arms over her chest. Contempt filled he eyes as she looked down at me. I was far too young to be a student. “Why would someone so young be looking into that place?”

“Research. I have permission to be here,” I lied. “My mother’s a professor on campus, Mrs. Henson. You can look her up on the registrar.”

“Mind, if I check that quickly?”

“Let me give her a call,” I flipped through my phone. The screen changed as it began to ring. The crone snatched the phone up and pressed it to her face.

“Hello. Is this Professor Henson. I’m the Librarian on campus, Mrs. Bird. I have a young boy here saying he’s your son.” Her words held a heavy sting while I awaited my mother’s response. “So, he is with you. Very well. Sorry to disturb you.” The librarian handed me back my phone.

“Thank you,” I said as I accepted it back. I whipped a layer of makeup from my screen before stowing it in my pocket.

“What were you looking for?” she asked again.

“Maps of Swift’s Cove. The caves in particular.” Rather than look at the shelves she swooped away to a computer mounted on the far wall. I watched as her fingers tapped away at the keys. A database popped across the screen as she worked. The lines vanished from the screen as she worked, until she turned and spoke to me.

“They are currently checked out by Professor Sanchez in the geography department.”

“Thank you,” I nodded before sprinting down the stairs. I knew Professor Sanchez. He had been to our house before. He was a gruff old man with an oversized beard. I had always avoided him when he was over. My mother described him as insightful, brilliant, and eccentric; but she forgot to mention that he was patronizing and arrogant. I walked across campus to the office building.

Unlike the library, this one was dreary. Brick walls separated the offices on each floor as I climbed through the stairs. It was a towering building which housed multiple disciplines. Most of the offices were small and barely housed the desk and a chair in them. But for the tenured staff, their offices were much larger. My mother was hoping her current project would be enough to establish her tenure and secure one of these offices.

I read the name on the bronze plagues as I passed each room. I knew roughly where Sanchez’s office was, but not exactly. There was a form of organization. Professors of similar fields were grouped together, but aside from that I could never understand the reasoning behind the location of the groups. It was flummoxing as my dad would say.

Yes, I cheered myself as I found Sanchez’s office. His door was open, and the lights shown in side, but no one was in there. Timidly, I stepped up to the desk inside. Papers were piled high. Tests with sloppy handwriting, pieces of mail, and notes. Lots and lots of notes. I riffled through the loose papers. I was eager to find the maps. My heart hammered as I searched. I kept finding myself tossing a glance over my shoulder. Where was the professor? A class? The bathroom? Regardless, he would be back shortly, and I needed the map. A small yelp escaped my lips as I caught sight of something pressed into a slip of plastic. My fingers pulled it to me in a flash, sending other papers cascading to the floor. A smile spread over my face. It was the map. I had the map. Yes, this was it. It was a map of Swift’s cove. Behind the first map where sketches of the cave systems.

I had my phone out in an instant. In an instant, I had several quick photos added to my gallery. I dropped the maps and bolted for the door. I had gone fifty feet down before someone came down the hall.

“What are you doing here?” my mother jumped at me. “What was that phone call all about?”

“Homework,” I blathered.

“Homework? What kind of homework?”

“We were having internet problems at school, and the university is closer than home.”

“But why come here? You can just as easily do any searching on the computer at home.”

“Didn’t feel like going home yet?” I defended.

“What’s wrong, baby?” my mother turned. “It’s not Paul. He isn’t trying to pull you into making more rope. We already have about three hundred feet of it already.”

“No, nothing with him,” I began. “I just… Cabin fever, I guess. Been feeling a little stir crazy.”

“Well, it will pass,” she promised.

“Actually, I was thinking of taking the skiff out for a bit this weekend.”

My mother’s eye brow raised at my comment. “Maybe, I’ll join you. It’s been some time since just the two of us went out.”

“Actually, I was hoping to take Skip.”

“Skip?” her look intensified. The memory of that rainy night at the lighthouse sprang to her mind. She folded her arms across her chest as she weighed on her decision. My heart sank into my feet as I exchanged looks with her. “Where are you heading?” She pressed.

“Swift’s Cove,” I murmured.

“What’s out there?”

“Skip was going to teach me to surf,” I lied.

“Didn’t he try that before.”

“Yeah, I fell in a lot, but can’t hurt to try again, right?”

“I guess not,” she relented. “While you’re here, do you want to help me sort through the findings?”

“You finally got through the samples.”

“Yes. My students were doing much of the work, but I still need to go over everything.” I followed my mother through the hall to her lab. It also doubled as a classroom. Several long tables filled the floor with stools crammed around them. Rows of plastic tubes covered one of the tables. Another was coated in pictures.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Take the photos and match them with the previous ones in the folders. There’s a chart in there which says what each is.” I sat down at the table and shuffled through the pages. It was dull version of a child’s matching game. On several of the pictures, I called my mother over to compare the images. She surveyed the images for a moment before placing them in their correct places. My eyes lingered on the images of the black coral we found.

“That’s the spot where you found that cannonball, isn’t it?” my mother prodded into my thoughts.

“Yeah.”

“That coral was probably already there when that cannonball was fired. I think it struck it.”

“What?”

“Here,” she said as she pulled out the larger photo of the coral colony. “There’s a deep groove here.” She pointed to small depression in the surface. It was less than an inch in depth. “If it was struck, then that’s what the coral would look like now. Coral heals slowly.”

The corner of my lips turned up with the thought. I could imagine standing on the deck of a ship. The smell of salt and smoke in the air. The roar of cannons scattering the birds from the sky. A column of water spring up as a cannonball splashed into the ocean and braking off pieces of the coral.

“I didn’t see any fragments in the dirt.”

“No, you wouldn’t. They would have died and been washed away long ago.” Those thoughts lingered in my mind for the next hour before we headed home, my bike stored in the back of my mother’s car.

In the gloom of the passing streetlights, I found my mind sprinting back to Steven’s Landing and the key. I imagined myself as Captain James Henson standing upon the deck of the Ruby Raven. The smell of the salty sea washed over me. In my fingers, I felt the smooth wood of the key. I spun it idly as I watched the shoreline. The wide brim of my hat shaded my eyes from the blazing sun above. It was that sweat-tanned cloth that gave me the chance to see the beauty ahead of me.

My head tipped down to stare at the crystal-clear water. Fish swam between the vibrantly colored coral. From my vantage point, it was as if I stood atop a rainbow. Amongst the vivid splendor, a single black spot dotted the waters. It drew my gaze like a whirlpool drew in the water. My eyes remained there as we sailed past it. As the black spot faded into the depths, I returned my view to the shore. That’s where I was going to put it. That’s where I was going to hide my key. I knew the perfect spot. I knew where to place the key to shield it from elements and prying eyes. Yes, it would be safe there until I returned for it.

My mind stayed in the past for the whole trip home. I snuck back to my room upon returning home. Opening my phone, I went through my stolen pictures. The first was a map of all the caves at Swift’s Cove. Six of them covered the five-mile cove, but I only had maps for four of them. I could trace the winding earthen tunnels with my finger on my screen. Those were not the caves I was interested in. Oh, no. If the key was hidden in one of those, it would have been found years ago. If the key was still there, it would in an unexplored cave. There were only two which had not been traced in paper. One was higher on a cliff side and the other was by the shore. Which would it be? Which cave would Captain James Henson hid the key in? The cliff or the shore.

Author's Note

Opinion of plot, characters, delivery, etc