Heirlooms

The Timepiece

Jim Coyfield clutched his battered pocket watch as his worn out body wracked itself, his diaphragm heaving, his trachea spasming, his lips forced open in a ragged “O.”  

Three hundred years the watch had passed from Coyfield to Coyfield. And now, there was no one left, no one he could give it to, no one he could tell the secrets.

Old man Coyfield coughed again and bloody phlegm splattered the moldy carpet of his desolated trailer.

He was the last and the worst of the proud Coyfields. Last because his progeny had been too feckless to survive him. Worst because had never solved the riddle, and now the clues would die with him. Three hundred years of Coyfield struggles would be in vain and the buried wealth would be left for the filthy McHatties to find.

Jim’s gnarled hand fell hard against the threadbare armrest. His arthritic fingers convulsed around tarnished brass bezels, then the pocket watch fell free, its ticking silenced as it hit the floor.

The Family Bible

“Three hundred years of McHattie history, all their names written right here inside the cover.”

The auctioneer thunked the heavy bible on the block. Its leather binding had stains of unknown origin, and the word “holy” had been completely worn away.

“Is that the one with all the pages hollowed out?” someone shouted from the crowd.

The auctioneer lifted the cover to reveal the dark compartment inside. 

No one knew for sure how it had happened. One story blamed Old Spinster McHattie herself. The way it went, she had done it when she was a girl looking for a place to hide her lover’s letters—she needed somewhere she knew her daddy would never look.

 Another said it had been done long before she was born. Capt. Shane McHattie had carved it out so he could hide a pistol. He carried the bible with him to the gallows, pretending to be pious all the way. But even as the gate fell out from under him, he pulled the gun so he could shoot the dirty Coyfield who had turned him in.

Whatever the reason, when the auctioneer started the bidding at a hundred dollars, there were no takers. So the bible kept its secrets and went to charity with all the other unwanted rubble from Madame McHattie’s heirless estate.

The Thrift Shop

I hated thrift shops. It wasn’t just the musty smells or racks of worn out clothes or rows of obsolete electronics. It was the fact that every summer I got dropped off at this one to have some ‘quality time’ with my Grandpa. My parents spent the same week at an adults only resort in the Bahamas. I felt as left behind as the bin of moth eaten teddy bears in the toy section.

“Try not to break anything, Casper,” Grandpa growled as I tugged my suitcase towards the back of the store. I looked around to see if there was anything that wasn’t a little broken already. Nope.

“You take your stuff upstairs. I’ll come for dinner in a few hours.”

“I have to stay upstairs for a few hours?”

“Unless you want to help me organize these VHS tapes.”

“Grandpa, no one is going to buy those.”

“I’m doing a buy 2 get 3 free special.”

“You should just throw them out.”

He shook his head, “no, they could be collectors items someday.”

I did a head shake of my own and climbed the narrow stairs. 

Grandpa’s apartment was less junky than the store down below. It wasn’t that he had anything nice—he still used a VHS player—it was just that he kept things up here uncluttered. In the living area he had his TV, an old La-Z-Boy and a side table set with three items. The first was a picture of my grandma. It was black and white and she looked a lot different in it then what I remembered. The second was a picture of his mom and dad—my great grandparents—staring out of a sepia frame, no smiles. It didn’t seem like they thought much of me either. The third object was an old tin cup. It was dented and discolored and I had no idea why Grandpa kept it around. Probably thought it would be a collectors item someday too.

I got hungry before Grandpa came upstairs. He didn’t keep much in his cupboards, all I could find was a can of Spaghetti Os, and despite the fact that there were fifteen hundred different kinds of bowls for sale downstairs, I couldn’t find a single one up here. Ah well. Maybe that's why he kept the tin cup.

“What are you doing?” Grandpa snarled.

I hadn’t heard the door open, but he was standing there, his eyes bugged out like the apartment was on fire. 

“I got hungry.” I held a pair of tongs clamping the handle of the tin cup suspended over a gas stovetop. Spaghetti Os were just starting to bubble. 

“Put it down!” Grandpa shouted.

“Geez, fine.” 

I meant to set it down softly, but the tongs slipped and the cup clattered on the floor. Hot Spaghetti O ejecta coated the cupboards and Grandpa gasped as if he had just seen a murder.

“Don’t touch it!” He pushed me out of the way as I bent to pick up the cup. The thin loop handle had taken a new bend, and it looked like the metal inside hadn’t reacted well to the acidic tomato sauce.

“It just an old—”

“You have no idea what this is!” Grandpa roared.

“Look, I didn’t mean—”

“Just go!” Grandpa heaved, pointing down the stairs.

***

It was dark down in the store. Grandpa only left one faulty fluorescent bulb on after closing time. I found a bean bag chair to sleep in. It smelled like old socks and cat pee, which pretty much matched the way I felt. I didn’t like the flickering light. It made things move. I had to force myself not to look at the wall of derelict dolls. 

Of course then I started hearing voices.

It's just water running in the pipes. Or the furnace lighting up. Nope. Those were definitely words. And not just whispers either, more like tiny shouts.

I got up and followed the sounds. Inside the jewelry display, a battered pocket watch hung from its chain. I slid the glass door open and the sound grew more distinct.

“We’ll bring those filthy McHatties everything they’ve earned these three hundred years!”

The voice came from inside the watch and it was answered by a cheer that made the hinged covers vibrate. As I watched, the back clicked open. A tiny ladder lowered from among the movement gears, and miniscule forms began descending; men no taller than my thumbnail.

Some were dressed in old fashioned breeches, others had more modern looking jeans and boots. All of them carried some kind of weapon. Though their faces were no bigger than a pinhead, I could see they all had the same large, downward curving nose.

A man in a Union blue uniform waving a tiny saber was the last to descend.

“For Coyfield honor! For Coyfield treasure! For the ending of all McHatties!” he swung his saber above his head and the crowd around him roared.

I cleared my throat, “Umm…Hi?”

The little faces all looked up at me. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a little respect since I was so much much bigger—but I guess that didn’t matter to the Coyfields. 

“You, boy!” The one with the saber shouted, “is that McHattie blood across your face?”

“No,” I wiped my cheek, “its spaghetti’s Os.”

“More’s the shame,” he looked me up and down, “You look like a lad with some size. If you join us in our fight, there’ll be McHattie blood to go around! And a share of treasure to your name!”

“I think I’ll just watch, if that’s alright.”

“A coward? Then stand aside.”

Behind the jewelry counter stood the shelves of antiques. Two levels up from the bottom, a big black book lay on its side. The Coyfield leader pointed his saber in its direction and sounded the charge. The tiny mob shimmied down ropes and ladders from the jewelry display and slung grapples to ascend the shelves. 

I moved closer to the action and noticed something strange about the book. Its top cover was propped open just a crack, and I could see reddish points of light glowing all along the margins.

The Coyfields hollered war cries as they made their approach, but before they reached the book, gunshots sounded. Puffs of smoke blossomed from the crack, and Coyfields toppled over as they ran. 

With a shout, the book cover flung itself open and a tiny army bristled at the edges of the cavity inside.

“Another volley!” Screamed a McHattie wearing drab green trousers and a WWII helmet.

 The McHatties fired again.

When the battle was over, both sides claimed to have won. The McHatties succeeded in driving the Coyfields back over the edge of the shelf, but the Coyfields captured a McHatties flag and once they were back in the jewelry display, they desecrated it and declared that gave them the victory. 

“We’ll have their fortress next time,” the leader vowed as he sheathed his saber.

I bent my face down level with the jewelry case, “Did I hear your name is Commander Ransom?”

“That’s right. Commander Ransom Coyfield.” He clicked his heels together.

“So, what’s this all about?”

“It’s about honor. It’s about treasure. It’s about revenge!”

“I know, I heard you shouting all that stuff. But what happened? I mean, all you little people would be better off not fighting each other, right?”

 “Better off? No! That’s what we exist for. We remain to finish what we left undone.”

“Ok…and that is?”

Commander Ransom took a storyteller’s tone.

“Three hundred years ago, a great wrong was done to our ancestor Connor Coyfield. He partnered with one Shane McHattie and together they amassed a hoard of gold and jewels from ventures on the sea. As they journeyed home, they hid their treasure when news of pirates reached them. They split the secret of their hiding place so one could never find it without the other, then swore they would return together when the time was right. But McHattie was faithless. When Connor came to find him, McHattie shot his partner in cold blood and searched the dying body for the clue. But Connor Coyfield had been wise. Suspecting treachery, he left the clue inside his pocket watch and gave it to his son.” 

While Ransom spoke, the other Coyfields gathered around. He raised his arms and gestured towards the crowd. “Each of us bore the heirloom and spent our lives in search of the trove and of vengeance against the foul McHatties.”

“But now you’re here in my Grandpa’s thrift store?”

The entire crowd of tiny heads lowered in shame.

“Alas,” Ransom said, “there are no more Coyfields left to bear the heirloom or remember our story. A child of our blood would be precious above all other things, but it seems the McHatties succeeded in the complete annihilation our heritage excepting the pocket watch itself.”

Precious above all other things huh? That sounded a lot better than sleeping on a bean bag stuffed with kitty litter.

“Do you adopt?” I asked.

***

My first task as an heir to a share of the Coyfield fortune was to steal the McHattie bible. Its stained leather cover looked sinister in the flickering fluorescence, but I was pretty sure my pot lid shield would be good enough to stop any micro bullets.

“Halt, thief!” a small but mighty voice demanded. 

I peaked around my shield and saw a tack-sized sentry dressed in drab green, his miniature rifle shouldered. “Our spies informed us the Coyfields have lied to you. Will you parley?”

I reached for the bible, ignoring the pinprick in my thumb that came when the sentry’s gun went off. I tossed the cover open. Inside the hollowed pages, McHatties swarmed. Tiny pinging bullets reverberated off my shield. I lifted the book and tipped the whole McHattie clan out onto the shelf. A few cursing men clung to the cavity edge. A little shake and they went sprawling. So far, being a Coyfield felt great.

“Drop the Bible, or you’ll lose this baby blue!”

It was the sentry in green. Somehow, he now dangled in front of my vision, one hand holding a fist full of eyebrows, one leg braced against my nose and his rifle's bayonet tickling my eyeball.

“Whoa, how’d you get up there?” I asked, crossing my eyes and setting down the book.

“Nothing compared to Pointe Du Hoc, son. Now, are you ready to listen?”

Up so close, his bayonet looked big enough to do some damage, so I decided it would hurt less to hear what he had to say.

“The Coyfield vendetta is a sham,” he declared, his combat boots digging into my nose. “Connor Coyfield was a personal valet to my great ancestor Shane McHattie. Shane promised him a great reward for loyalty, but Coyfield set his greedy heart on all the McHattie treasure. He stole the key to its location, then denounced his master as a pirate. As the story goes, Coyfield laughed as he watched Shane’s innocent body dangle from a rope, but he wasn’t so giddy when he figured out he’d stolen only half the secret and Shane’s three sons knew what he had done. For three hundred years we McHatties have spent our blood to reclaim what's rightfully ours. If you’re choosing sides son, choose the side of justice. The Coyfields will only stab your back in the end.”

“How much treasure’s in it for me? The Coyfields promised an entire share as a fully adopted member.”

“Of course that’s all they promised, greedy even in death. If you join us McHatties, you’ll be the only living heir to all the treasure.”

***

The McHattie bible’s secret compartment had a second secret feature. Inside the cavity a tiny lock secured a false bottom. To open it, I needed the winding key from the Coyfields pocket watch.

It wasn’t hard to get, though the angry clan charged after me promising all kinds of tiny horrors. 

The McHatties met them on the floor, promising to hold them back till I discovered the secret. 

The key slid smoothly in the lock, the bottom sprung softly open. I scooped the folded parchment and broke the red wax seal.

Dear Descendents,

The reading of this letter means our heirlooms have at last brought you together! This was our dearest hope. Gold and silver can be stolen against your will, but the treasured bonds of friendship and family can be only lost by choice.

Let it never be forgotten that Connor Coyfield saved the life of Shane McHattie in battle on the seas.

Let it never be forgotten that Shane McHattie stood in for Connor Coyfield at the gallows.

May the pocket watch remind you that time is always borrowed and may the hallowed word teach you to treasure the golden rule.

Though our trove was lost, our friendship never will be.

In Brotherhood,

Shane McHattie and Connor Coyfield

I snorted. Three hundred years huh? Somewhere along the way I guess someone mixed up the word ‘hallowed’ with “hollowed.” I threw the watch inside the bible and closed the cover.

The shouts and bangs from the tiny skirmish made me shake my head.

There were a few other things that got mixed up as well.

 I tossed the sheet of parchment over the feuding clans.

Upstairs, Grandpa was sleeping in the La-Z-Boy. He held the tin cup in both hands nestled against his stomach.

“Grandpa,” I said, poking him in the arm.

He startled awake.

“Can you tell me about the cup? Where did it come from?”

His eyes went straight from bleary to intent, and he sat up in the chair.

“Well, Casper, it's been in the family for a long, long time…”