Treasure

A tribute to my muse, Robert Louis Stevenson. Can a long-dead man be a muse to another straight male, slightly more alive? Anyway... he inspired my imagination and I probably write because of him...

The treasure hunter stood on the edge of the pit and surveyed the scene, casting his keen eyes over the hole in the ground and the surrounding light foliage of the sandy woods. He grinned to himself as he noticed the hole was exactly as it had been described in the book – even down to the debris scattered around the excavation.

He had crossed the island on foot, following the detailed directions on the map. The treasure hunter had landed on the southern side of the island and made his way up the beach, into the swamplands behind it. Out of curiosity more than necessity, he made his way past the stockade, which was nestled in a slightly elevated section above the surrounding swamp. As expected, it was rundown and dilapidated, empty and still. Nothing much to see, really. He didn’t bother to go inside. Perhaps he’d come back later.

Following the map, the hunter had headed in the direction of West-North-West from the stockade, passing to the South-East of Spy-Glass Hill, probably about halfway between the base of the hill and the beach. Spy-Glass Hill was the middle of three large hills that could be seen along the western coastline of the island. They had reminded the mapmaker of the three sails of a tall ship, and so they had named the northern hill Foremast Hill and the southern one Mizzenmast Hill, with the main mast being the tallest hill in the middle. On the map, though, the main mast hill had been renamed, “The Spy-Glass”, because the pirates used to post a lookout up there when they were on the island – or so said the book.

From there, the treasure hunter began to search for the right conditions; after all, the map covered a significant area under the mark of the “X”. That being said, it didn’t take too long to find the right environment for the site, as described to him in the book.

As he searched, he had pushed through some trees and stumbled upon the excavation in the sand. The hole appeared not to have been dug recently, as expected. The sand from the sides of it had fallen in, and grass had sprouted on the sandy bottom. Strewn around the base of the hole, half-buried by sand and covered in grass, were the remains of a broken pick and the pieces of shattered packing crates, several of which bore the burned brand “Walrus” on them.

With a prayer to the fallen gods of literature, the hunter dropped into the hole and started digging with his camp spade. He cast aside the debris of the broken crates and kept digging underneath. Around the spot where the pirates had found the only coin remaining in the pit, as detailed in the book, his shovel struck metal.

The treasure hunter stopped and looked at the hole, his breath caught in his throat.

It was here, after all, right where the map said it would be.

It was his.

Turning the spade, he dug around the edges and levered the long, thin box from its burial place.

Sitting it on top of the sand, he studied the ornate chest. It was about a foot long and two inches high, made from a strong, deep-red wood. The edges of the box were lined with an almost golden brass, and on the top, in the centre of the lid of the chest, was a brass insert with the initials “RLS” engraved into it.

The hunter’s eyes widened with love, greed, and expectation.

There was a small latch holding the lid down with no lock. He tested it, but it was fused shut with age and sand. Accepting the challenge with a grin, the hunter went over to his backpack and scrounged around inside, looking for his roll of tools.

When he found it, the hunter drew the package out of the bag and spread the roll of canvas on the sand, revealing the row of small pockets and clipped restraints holding a variety of tools meant for fine work and small vials of different shapes. Running his finger along the pockets, he looked for the glass vial he needed. When he found the right one, the hunter tapped the pocket roughly with his finger and drew the vial out.

Carefully, he drew the stopper from the vial and poured half the vial’s liquid contents onto the latch. After giving the liquid a moment to react with the mechanism, he jiggled the latch and was satisfied when it began to move ever so slightly. Using the other half of the liquid to continue lubricating the latch, he moved it forward and back until it sprang open with a satisfying pop. Grabbing another vial of the same liquid, he poured the liquid into the two hinges on the back of the lid and repeated the process of working them open, back and forth, until finally he was able to manipulate the lid to open halfway.

Inside the box was an oiled rag covering an object. He peeled the rag back to find another layer and another after that, and finally one more layer. Each of the layers had less oil on it than the one before, and the inner layer was made of a different material, water-proofed against absorbing the oil or any other liquid, so that the item inside was protected from being damaged.

Again, the treasure hunter stopped, taking in a deep breath and holding it, as he looked down on the small item in his hands, still covered by a waterproof cloth.

At last.

Drawing in another big breath, the treasure hunter peeled back the final layer and studied the worn and aged book within.

The cover of the book had faded with time and no doubt from its pre-burial usage, but he could still see the words set into its surface.

Treasure Island

By Robert Louis Stevenson

First edition.

He held it in his hands and moved the treasured book to his heart.

Thank you for reading!!

The pic was created using Bing AI Image Generator (DALLE-3): https://www.bing.com/images/create/

My other RLS post: