by Anne B. Cole
“Tiny brown spots on a child’s face.” Lorenzo pointed to his nose and cheeks.
“Green water with brown spots?” Peter mused.
“Perhaps there are rocks in the sea along the coast?”
“Stupid American.” Peter waved his arms toward shore. Psathi was a small village with pale buildings nestled in a hillside surrounded by white cliffs. “Chalk,” Peter spat. “Kimolia means chalk, not clay.” He began scanning the marked page in Iron John.
“Here.” He pointed once again to goldene kugel.
Lorenzo snatched the book away, grinning devilishly. Without giving Peter time to rebuke, he read out loud. “‘A zounari length west of the serpent’s lair; stones crawl, water boils, beware. Enter where your eyes deceive. Follow the sea, you must believe.’” Lorenzo studied the word he didn’t know. “What’s a zounari?”
“A Cretan’s sash tied around the waist.” Peter appeared deep in thought.
Lorenzo surveyed the island, which was smaller and less populated than Milos. The Warren had never docked there. “Does Kimolos have hot springs?”
“Aye. Water is hot in many places. Some say those waters are cleansing to the body and soul,” Peter mused.
Lorenzo flipped to the page marked in Iron Stove. “‘Pay homage to Allah east then west; Re will guide you to the rest. Greed and haste are man’s downfall. Choose wise, be safe, with pride stand tall.’” The men sat silently for several minutes.
“That’s all?” Peter demanded.
“That’s all.”
Peter stood with a sigh. “You didn’t expect a big black X to mark the spot, now did you?”
Lorenzo handed the book back to Peter. “No, I didn’t expect the pirate to be so cunning.”
“Must be one hell of a treasure, mate.” Peter’s eyes lit up as he skipped across the deck.
Lorenzo reached for his coat to follow when Peter spun around. “Get your gun, boy. Kimolos is full of pirates.” Peter’s words drifted from excitement to sadness. He continued in a lower voice, “My Leesa and our son are buried on Kimolos.” Bowing his head, he moved to the wheel.
An ache ripped through Lorenzo. He somehow knew that pain, and it felt worse than the physical agony of his broken ribs. Lorenzo clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. The proud man responded with a nod, staring out to sea. The moment passed. Lorenzo quickly removed his hand, wondering how he was able to empathize for he had never experienced the death of someone close.
Lorenzo shook off the odd feeling and left Peter to retrieve the piece he shot Lubber with. It was a single shot flintlock. Tucking it into his belt, he grabbed a small bag of slugs and powder. Back on deck, Peter stood with Old Benny’s sword strapped to his waist. He appeared as fierce as the sword’s original owner. Lorenzo grinned. With Peter as a partner, they would stand a chance against anyone.
Chapter 6
Treasure
“There.” Peter pointed to the rocky cliffs of the western shore of Kimolos. Lorenzo scanned the area. Not a building, ship, or person was in sight. “Pirates use this part of the island for shelter. There are many coves to hide in. That ridge will give us a good view.”
They anchored the ship in the second cove, then took the row boat to shore. Peter secured the boat before heading up a steep slope with Lorenzo trailing behind. Loose sand and chalky gravel caused Lorenzo to slip several times before reaching Peter.
“As the sun shimmers on the sea, the highest point thy need be,” Peter muttered as he peered through a telescope, scanning the shoreline.
Lorenzo wrapped an arm around his battered ribs, taking in enough air to catch his breath. The sea was a beautiful shade of blue-green. He had sailed these waters for over two years, yet this view rendered him speechless.
“Where are the brown spots?” Peter demanded.
Snapping back to reality, Lorenzo gazed south. Several seagulls circled the cove near their anchored ship. To the north, an outcropping of stones stretched into the sea. The western shore, comprised of rocky cliffs, tucked numerous coves safely into its folds. His heart pounded fiercely as movement caught his eye.
“We have company.”
Peter immediately turned his glass in the direction Lorenzo had indicated. “Seals,” he chuckled and tossed Lorenzo his telescope, then moved his attention back to the northern edge of the island. Lorenzo watched about a dozen seals playing near the shoreline . . . dotting the shoreline.
“Peter, the seals, they are the freckles,” Lorenzo announced.
“Where?” Peter grabbed the telescope, focusing on them. “Look like seals to me, not—”
Lorenzo lowered the telescope. “Now look.”
Peter’s face lit up. Without the aid of the lens, the seals made a freckled appearance against the water, which appeared more green than blue. Peter fumbled in his coat, pulling out the book.
“‘To the green freckled water make haste; darkness is near, no time to waste.’” Lorenzo recited the words, scrambling down the hillside. He watched Peter peering around continually as he clambered down ahead of him.
Several minutes later they found dozens of seals barking in the cove. Peter followed the beach north around boulders, which concealed another cove. Two pear trees grew through a rocky overhang above the shore.
“There.” Lorenzo pointed ahead, wiping his brow. Long, dark shapes glistened in the water. “Serpents.”
The two scrambled through the sand. As they approached, the snakes disappeared.
“A reflection of the tree roots.” Lorenzo sighed, tossing a stone into the water, breaking up its stillness. Peter ran back to where they saw the reflection.
“Looks like snakes to me.” Peter scrutinized the trees. “This is it. ‘The serpent’s lair’. They live there until the sun sets.” He pointed to the sun, which touched the water on the horizon.
Lorenzo’s eyes skeptically met Peter’s. Despite wanting to argue, he nodded and recited the next verse. “A zournari’s length west of the serpent’s lair, stones crawl, water boils. Beware!”
Splashing into the shallow water, his shoes sank into soft white sand. Groaning, Lorenzo searched the shore for another serpent’s lair. Almost ten meters away, Peter waded in the water up to his knees. He bent down in the shallows, picking up what appeared to be two rocks.
“Stones crawl,” Peter called, holding up two sizeable oysters. Lorenzo scrambled toward him, spotting dozens more beneath the surface. Peter took his dagger and pried one open. He swallowed the contents, then opened the other.
“What made you come all the way over here?” Lorenzo accused as he picked one up.
“Stupid American,” Peter muttered in between slurps. He grabbed the oyster from Lorenzo. “A zournari is a long sash, not short. You searched in the wrong place.” He snorted, then downed the slimy insides.
“You’re holding information back from me,” Lorenzo exclaimed in jest, although he was more than a bit annoyed.
Peter laughed. This time the oyster he cracked open flew in Lorenzo’s direction. He caught it and sucked out the insides, trying not to let on that this was his first time eating an oyster. Goo slithered down his throat. It didn’t taste as bad as it looked. Peter tossed another which Lorenzo readily downed.
Around the bend, barking sounded. Peter tensed, dagger clutched as they scanned the shore. Nothing but seals.
Heading cautiously through the shallows, Lorenzo stopped short. The water, lapping against his shins, lost its icy edge. He turned north. “This way.” Begrudgingly Peter followed, slowly at first, then he bounded forward.
“Water boils,” they cried in unison, following the warm current to a small cove against a backdrop of steep white cliffs.
Lorenzo scanned the cliffs, unable to find the source of the hot water. Shaking his head, he gazed to the west. The sun sank ha
lfway below the sea.
In front of the next cove, the shallows dropped to a large pool of water. Peter poked his sword into the depths. Frustrated, he tossed in a stone. Neither heard it hit bottom.
“Quite deep,” Peter muttered, making his way to shore. Steam rose above the warm, inviting water.
Peeling off his shirt and shoes, Lorenzo tossed them on a nearby boulder along with his gun. He eased his aching body into the water, relaxing on his back. The soothing water enveloped his body with the warmth of a hearth fire. Steam filled his nose and lungs, lulling him into memories of home cooked meals and Saturday evening baths. Looking to the heavens, he studied the setting sun, which illuminated scattered clouds in hues of pink, purple, and crimson.
After sinking completely under the hot water, he surfaced, feeling the crisp cool air bite against his heated cheeks. Forgetting the treasure hunt, Lorenzo closed his eyes and wondered if he could fall asleep without drowning.
The back of his head grazed against the cliff, so he lowered his feet to tread. To his surprise, his foot scraped sand. Standing, the water lapped just below his waist. He studied the rocky shore. Peter was trudging over on foot. He gazed to his right and noticed several gaps between the boulders that were obscured from their earlier view.
Lorenzo continued walking around the rock formations into the shallows. The water, now hot, felt uncomfortable. He turned the corner, finding another small cove sheltered by large rocks on one side and cliffs on the other. Water from the hot spring flowed away from the cliffs, leaving a small sandy stretch of dry beach to the right. It provided the perfect shelter for the night.
A hand reached up, clamping over Lorenzo’s face. He struggled at first, then relaxed as Peter growled into his ear.
“Quiet.” They stood still, hearing only the gurgling of the warm water and soft waves breaking on the shore. In the distance, the seals began barking. Peter removed his hand. “Ghosts, I tell you. I can feel them.”
“Let’s rest here for the night.” Lorenzo pointed to the tiny beach. Despite the warmth radiating from the hot springs, a chill crept within his body. He turned and faced the water. To the left they had a small view of the sea beyond the cove. To the right, boulders blocked most of the diminishing sun’s rays, which eerily illuminated their sanctuary.
Peter removed the book from his coat and handed it to Lorenzo. “Read,” he muttered, scanning the sea nervously. Lorenzo flipped to Iron Stove and read the scrawl at the top of the third dog-eared page.
“‘Pay homage to Allah, east then west. Re will guide you to the rest. Greed and haste are man’s downfall. Choose wise, be safe, with pride stand tall.’” He read the words out loud, then twice silently.
“You pray to Allah, boy?” Peter demanded.
Lorenzo shook his head. “Christ.”
Peter paced in the sand, tugging on his short beard. He suddenly dropped to his knees. “Keep watch. I’m paying some homage.” Peter had his back to the sun as he looked around sheepishly. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hands down in front of him and pressed his forehead to the sand. Incoherent mumbling began.
Lorenzo turned away, looking beyond the shelter of rocks to the sea. The tranquil water glistened with the sun’s last setting rays.
Peter chanted and then began to sing. Lorenzo winced as tones were hit and missed miserably. Finally, he could not take any more of the grating serenade.
“Peter.” Instantly the man jumped to his feet with his sword drawn. Lorenzo stumbled backwards into the water. “Relax, my friend. Perhaps you need to pay homage toward the west now.”
“Old Benny prayed for a long time as the sun rose and again as the sun set.”
“Old Benny?”
“Aye,” Peter replied, looking toward the rocks, which obscured almost the entire western sea from view.
“Better pay some homage to the west, the sun is nearly down,” Lorenzo advised. Peter grunted, then knelt back down, burying his face in his hands. A few rays of the sun shone through the boulders, casting light into their sanctuary. Lorenzo contemplated another warm swim as Peter began singing in Greek, not Arabic.
“Give up on Old Benny’s prayers?” Lorenzo chided.
“I pay homage in my own language. The gods will figure it out.” He slowly bowed, then stopped and stared at the wall of rock in front of him.
Lorenzo watched his friend as steam curled into the much cooler air. Peter slowly straightened, then bowed down again. His eyes fixed upon the rocks in front of him. Peter bowed a third time. Puzzled, Lorenzo watched as Peter’s body blocked the sun’s rays then allowed them to come in as he bowed. The small shelter glowed with light as he bowed down, then darkened as he rose. Peter began to laugh as he hurried over to the rocky cliff.
“X, my American friend. X marks the spot.” He traced his finger in the shape of a large X on the rock.
“There’s no X,” Lorenzo scoffed. The stone appeared clear of markings. Peter pushed Lorenzo to the right, which allowed the sunlight to filter in through the rocks. Its beam reflected off the cliffs back to the spot he touched. A worn, carved X sparkled in the fading light.
“Re will guide you to the rest,” Peter quoted triumphantly. “Re is the sun god. See it?”
Lorenzo traced the etched mark with his fingers as Peter made his way around the huge boulder. He removed his sword, tossing it in the sand as he squeezed through the narrow opening.
Lorenzo followed into a darkened area about the size of a ship’s hold. Peter retreated quickly, banging into him. Losing his balance, he wrapped his arms around a fierce-looking ancient stone gargoyle. Lorenzo ducked as Peter drew his dagger, striking the stone. Sparks flew as they stood silent, studying their surroundings.
Ancient sculptures and pottery lined the tomb-like cave. The center held a knee-high mound of discarded and broken pieces. Several statues appeared to be strategically placed so that they could guard the perimeter. Two centaurs—one missing a head, the other missing an arm—stood across from them. Lorenzo tried to move, but his feet remained stuck to the ground.
“Get off my foot,” his voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Sorry, mate,” Peter whispered.
They tiptoed through the area as if on sacred ground. Peter stopped at an old suit of armor standing erect by a boulder. Lorenzo stared at the ancient centaurs. The headless one clutched a bow while the other held a sword high above his head. He shivered, then turned to Peter, who was still examining the armor.
“Some treasure. This is a pile of junk,” Lorenzo muttered.
Movement caught his eye above the headless centaur. He watched as two bats flew overhead. A third joined them. They zoomed around, disappearing above the raised sword. He edged his way closer. Behind the headless centaur, there was a slim crack through which a cool draft emitted.
Lorenzo spotted Peter, who was examining a jeweled handled dagger. Peter gripped the weapon with a fierce disposition. An evil grin appeared on his face.
Lorenzo’s heart raced as he slipped through the slight opening. A clattering of broken artifacts echoed behind him. Peter’s arm appeared through the crack, but his girth prevented his entrance.
“Too many oysters, my friend,” Lorenzo teased.
Peter roared in Greek, sounding fiercer than Old Benny. He waved the dagger through the crack. Lorenzo quickly stepped to the side, not sure if Peter was showing off his new weapon or attacking him.
“Nice blade.” Grateful the rocks were between him and his extremely unstable friend, Lorenzo faced a stone wall. It was filled with shelves containing clay pots of various sizes and styles. Some appeared old, others newer. With the sun down past the horizon, there was little light. The last riddle penned in Iron Stove burned inside Lorenzo’s head.
‘Greed and haste are man’s downfall. Choose wise, be safe, with pride stan
d tall.’
There were six shelves in front of him. The lowest, nearly on the ground, and the highest, just over his head, were all within reach. Lorenzo decided to select two pots, one for each to carry back to the ship. No need to be greedy. They could return for more. He ran his fingers gently over one old pot at eye level on the fifth shelf. Without warning, the earth began to shake. Lorenzo jerked back as two jars came crashing down. When the tremor ceased, he examined their contents. One contained several small pieces of ivory, the other gunpowder.
Ignoring those, Lorenzo reached up to the highest shelf. The first jar he selected appeared ancient. Its paint was chipped and faded. The contents rattled a bit when he turned it over. The top, sealed with wax, had Greek markings painted in black. Lorenzo placed it in the sand by his feet before reaching up for another. The second jar was larger than the first and very heavy. He needed both hands to lower it to the ground. There were no markings on the smooth gray exterior. It seemed newer than the first. Lorenzo lifted the lid and gasped.
“Gold,” he mumbled to himself, grabbing a handful of Spanish doubloons. Lorenzo placed the coins back in the jar, securing the lid. His foot struck something hard as he took a step back to the opening. The old jar lay at his feet. The gold was plenty yet the beauty of the ancient jar held his attention. Since it was small and light, Lorenzo decided to take both.
He placed the old jar through the crack first. Immediately he worked on getting the heavier jar through. This was difficult given its size and weight. After several futile attempts, it thumped to the sand beside the old one. Rock scraped his back as he squeezed through the narrow crack. A familiar stench of sweat and rum broke Lorenzo’s euphoria, replacing it with fear and dread.
“A wicked curse of bad luck is bestowed upon those who touch the treasure.” Lubber eyed the jars, then drew his sword. He turned to Peter, who held the jeweled dagger with a look of evil that made Lorenzo’s skin crawl.
