Chapter 11
Gold fever
We were six figures standing
around a depression in the sand. It looked like
a big seaside sandcastle does after some destructive
kids have jumped on it a few times. The mechanical
digger had been parked about 20 feet away. A pile
of rubble had been created just a few feet to
our right as we faced the sea. Apart from the
six of us the area was deserted. We were gathered
together on a private beach belonging to one of
two holiday homes that had been built on an otherwise
undisturbed stretch of coastline consisting mainly
of sand dunes, low lying scrub and the odd palm
tree.
It was another glorious morning
on Grand Cayman. Brilliant blue skies and not
a cloud anywhere, or at least there had not been
a cloud a few seconds ago. There was a stillness
in the air broken by an almost imperceptible buzzing
sound, growing steadily in strength.
Looking to the north I could
see some kind of weather system advancing towards
us. Purple black clouds building at a terrifying
rate were moving up on us from the horizon. I
heard a squawking sound above and, looking up,
I saw the shadowy outline of a large bird flying
over the beach. Beyond the beach, in the lapping
waves I saw the unmistakable white fin, just for
a second.
“Scar,” I said. But
as the others turned to loook, it had gone.
“What are we doing?”
said Timor. “There are things in this world
that none of us can explain. We think we have
solved the problems of the universe and yet we
know nothing. Why are we doing this? What are
we hoping to gain from it? Can’t you feel
the power of this gold? There is real malevolence
in this box.”
Prospero now was towering over
me.
“Open it now,” he
said in a commanding tone I had never heard him
use before. I felt compelled to do as he said.
“Wait,” said Timor.
The hinges were stiff but I was already pushing
up the lid.
“Miss Molly no,”
he shouted, “We don’t know what we’re
doing.”
There was a loud creaking as
I lifted the lid but the sound was nothing compared
to an all-enveloping flash and crash of lightening
that came as if from nowhere. The thunderbolt
hit with tremendous force knocking each of us
on to our backs. A palm tree not thirty yards
away was flaming like a giant firework. Within
seconds it had been reduced to the shape of a
fully spent match.
A second thunderbolt rent the
air and the sky was everywhere blackness and cloud.
I looked above me and the clouds were moulding
themselves into terrible forms, like gargoyles
on a church roof. Loud, rumbling, hideous laughter
rolled across the water. A violent wind blasted
sand and foam into our faces. A large wave in
the shape, it seemed, of a leaping cat, jaws open,
was springing straight for us. It crashed down
on the beach and sent a surge of water up to our
feet. I fell to my face in dread.
Raising my head, staring through
sand encrusted eyelashes, I could see the clouds
dispersing. The rumbling stilled and the sea calmed.
Only the smouldering remains of the palm tree
gave any hint of the sudden eruption of nature’s
forces. Like all of us I was slowly propping myself
up off the sand as I tried to overcome my shock.
I felt stunned. Vince burst into tears and so
did Badger who was next to me. He grabbed Pat’s
arm and tried to hide his face in his brother’s
side. Pat just sat there, mouth open, eyes staring
unblinkingly into the distance. Timor was the
first to stand and he was looking at Prospero.
“You have done this thing.
Your greed has brought us here,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it but
Prospero was grinning.
“My greed, maybe,”
he said, “and your curiosity. You wanted
this as much as me. This is your treasure as much
as mine. Not to mention Miss Bonny here. Now look
at it brother. Just look.” Then, as an afterthought,
he said: “We’re alive ain’t
we? I’m not sure why. Whatever it was, it
didn’t spare our old dad.”
His words had shaken us from
our shocked stupor. We all looked towards the
upturned lid and the exposed interior of the box.
Perhaps it was just the reflection of the sun
but there was a glow as if the contents were radiating
a light of their own.
“All that glistens really
is gold,” said Prospero.
In front of us was a jumble of
coins, jewellery, goblets, trinkets of all kinds
and strangely shaped miniatures of people, animals
and fruits. Prospero reached in with both hands,
formed a scoop and threw handfuls of treasure
into the air.
“Look,” said Vince,
“it’s raining gold.”
Prospero was rubbing the treasure
into his skin as if it was some kind of favourite
bath oil.
“We’re rich,”
he said and began to dance. Now four of us, Prospero,
Pat, Vince and me were dancing a jig together,
shouting, singing and laughing, the same phrase
over and over again.
“We’re rich, we’re
rich, we’re rich”.
Out of the corner of my eye I
saw Badger move over to Timor who was crouching
hunched on the ground, his face in his hands.
He put an arm round Timor’s shoulders and
whispered something into his ear. Badger looked
mortified but Timor said something to him, as
if he was consoling him.
I don’t know how long the celebrations lasted
but within a few minutes some practical issues
had taken over. How were we going to shift this
stuff and where were we going to put it?
“I’ve thought of
all that,” said Prospero, “Now get
all the bits picked up out of the sand and lets
put everything back.” Timor now was looking
in the box. He fished out a golden mask, set with
lapis lazuli and jade stones that made the eyes,
nose and mouth.
“Look,” he said,
“Inca artefacts. It’s true. This is
amazing.”
I reached down to pick up something
glinting in the sand. It looked like a kind of
amulet in the shape of a bird. As soon as I held
it I felt a surge of energy. One little trinket
wasn’t going to be missed. I looked from
side to side then put it stealthily into my pocket.
We dropped the lid back down on the chest and
Pat and myself tried to ease the hoard from its
resting place. We could hardly shift it. Prospero,
meanwhile, had started the digger.
“Stand back,” he
shouted.
With some skill he guided the
mechanical shovel into the sand just in front
of the chest, slid it under, then raised the chest
in the trough formed by the shovel. “Simple,”
said Prospero as he climbed down from the chugging
cab, breaking out a rolled up blanket. “Now
we just covers this with this like this and nobody’s
gonna see what we’ve got.”
“Where are we going to
put it?” I asked.
“Why, on the old Endeavour,
of course.”
It was noon when we returned.
The scooters were faster than the digger but Timor
said he would tag along with Prospero. The rest
of us went on ahead. Pat wheeld the scooters back
to the hire shop while Badger, Vince and me walked
along the jetty to where the Endeavour was moored.
The hatchway was locked. Neither mum, dad nor
Bob were around. Perfect. Prospero seemed to have
thought of everything.
In the centre of the cockpit
we had a large covered box-like locker, used to
store buckets, mops and bits of deck gear. The
locker, he decided, was the ideal place to put
the chest. We could store the buckets and the
other bits in the forepeak. No sooner had we cleared
out the space than the yellow digger appeared
on the jetty and Prospero drove it towards our
mooring. The planking was creaking under the digger’s
weight.
“The jetty doesn’t
look strong enough,” I said.
“It should be OK,”
said Timor who had followed on behind.
Smartly Prospero jumped out of
the cab then went to one side of the blanket-shrouded
chest. Timor had lifted up the blanket and was
writing notes on a jotting pad. He was copying
some lettering on the side of the chest.
“No time for that,” said Prospero,
“We have to get it shifted.”
With what looked a great effort
they took the weight of the chest and edged it
off the mechanical shovel. Manoeuvring the chest
onto the boat wasn’t easy. Timor took the
whole weight of it while Prospero stepped on to
the boat, then Prospero bore most of the burden
as Timor passed it across and stepped over the
rail himself. We had placed two ropes over the
locker and we used these to lower down the chest
like bearers lowering a coffin into a grave. We
kept the blanket in place over the chest then
replaced the locker lid and its fixings.
An hour later when mum and dad
came back, loaded with carrier bags full of shopping,
the boat looked a picture of tranquillity. Faustus
was back on his perch, Caliban was swinging in
the rigging and Pat was snoozing in a hammock
he had rigged up for himself. Prospero was leaning
back on a sail bag after taking the digger back
to the hire firm and Vince was trolling idly for
fish over the side of the boat. Timor was fixing
lunch, Badger was splicing a rope and I was writing
up my diary. If only mum and dad had seen the
notes.
“So what have you been
doing while we’ve been at the supermarket?”
asked dad.
“Oh this and that,”
I said.
“And did you find any treasure?”
“You bet Rory, look at
this,” said Vince, dropping his fishing
line. The tranquillity dissolved as every head
on the boat snapped in Vince’s direction.
He pulled a coin from his pocket.
It’s a real pirate doubloon,”
he said.
“My goodness,” said
dad, glancing at the coin. “Joy, look what
Vince’s found. Some pirate treasure.”
“Well done Vince,”
she said. She was standing on the jetty looking
hot and bothered with her hands on her hips. “Rory
can you help me with these bags.”
Dad turned to me and said in
a whisper “We saw some of those at the supermarket.
Mum got you one apiece. Did you hide it in the
sand for him?”
“Well I think we’d
have all been disappointed to come here and not
find any treasure dad,” I said.
“So did we, that’s
why we got you the coins. They were a dollar each.
Is that what you paid? I must say that one of
Vince’s doesn’t look very realistic.”
Badger was alongside Vince now.
“Don’t say another word,” he
said out of the side of his mouth like a ventriloquist
working a dummy.
“I don’t know about
you lot,” said dad, “but mum and me
have had good look around this place and we don’t
like it much - too commercialised on this side
of the island; Too many power boats and jet skis.
We went to that place on the map called Hell.
It was just an area with some interesting rock
formations. But because of its name they have
a post-box so you can send postcards from Hell.
We sent one to nan and grandpa, saying: ‘We’re
having a hell of a time. Wish you were here.’
They also had a man in a red suit dressed up as
the devil.”
“How pathetic,” said
Prospero.
Bob was strolling back along
the key with some leaflets in his hand. “Rory
I’ve been making some enquiries about Little
Cayman and they have some nice places to stay
over there. Shall we try it for a couple of days?
“Oh I forgot to tell you
kids,” said dad. “We thought we might
have a jaunt out to one of the outer islands before
setting off to see the rest of the Caribbean.
What about it? There might be a chance to do some
diving.
“Sounds like a great idea
to me,” said Prospero.
Everyone else agreed. Only Timor
looked hesitant. We spent the next hour clearing
gear away and making the boat ship-shape again
while Badger and Vince cooked the rest of the
bacon with a few eggs for lunch. No sooner were
the plates cleared away than Uncle Bob had started
the engine and we cast off fore and aft, watching
the jetty steadily shrink as we moved away.
We were motoring strongly, about
half way towards the outer gap in the reef when
two young men astride jet skis came alongside
and criss-crossed in front of our bow.
“Yahoo,” shouted
one of the riders, a tanned glossy-haired youth
wearing green fluorescent surfing shorts. His
companion steered his ski boat in a wide arc and
buzzed our boat again sending a curtain of water
over the cockpit, drenching dad, Badger and Timor
on the helm.
“Take the wheel Rory,”
said Timor, wiping the salt water from his face
and handing over the helm.
He scrambled over the deck and
unstrapped his upturned canoe, swiftly tying a
deck rope to something I couldn’t quite
make out. The youth in the green shorts was shaping
up to repeat the same stunt. As he approached,
not twenty yards away, Timor rose up close to
the prow, harpoon in hand. His long muscular arm
was crooked, then drawn back like a taught spring.
A look of wide-eyed terror crossed
the teenage rider’s face as he closed on
our boat and watched, mouth agape, as the harpoon
was unleashed with all the force that Timor could
muster. The high pitched wine of the jet ski stuttered
as the point crashed into its side and the rope
ran taught, pitching its rider high into the air.
“Lunatic,” cried
the rider of the second ski boat as he came alongside
his companion.
Timor flicked the rope and quickly
dislodged the point allowing him to retrieve the
harpoon. As he drew it back on board, Timor bent
to kiss the harpoon and muttered what seemed like
an incantation as he replaced it reverently in
the canoe. Minutes later we had sailed through
the gap in the reef in to deeper water beyond.
“Wow,” said Pat.
Timor turned to an astonished
crew. “Whales no,” he said. “Hooligans
on Jet skis, on the other hand, are another matter.”
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