Cache

A beadless rosary, a rusted railway tie, four pennies (1912, 1972, and 1968: twice), a padlock key wrapped in twine, and a treble hook red/white crankbait. Cache’s metal detector had returned the small haul swiftly before sunset. The end of the peninsula was cleared for the day and he tightened the drawstring pouch at his waist. The walk back to the harbormaster’s shack was a short walk across the rainbow bridge.

The happiest folk spent the better part of fifty years clamping a myriad of styles of padlocks to the bridge. The saddest among them arrive to hang their pet’s old collars or leashes. And the angriest; those soaked in heartbreak and swallowed by grief, arrived to rip those locked hopes and dreams from the twisted stays. The cables never relented but those locks holding love were snapped with bolt cutters on countless revisits.

Cache strolled down the planked walkway, his shoes thunking echoes around the bubbling waters. He never cared to study the locks or leashes, choosing instead to seek out the treasures lost to the sea. There were no bright shiny locks for him, no future collars to leave behind, for Cache lived as he always had; alone.

The harbormaster arrived at his shack at half past the hour and immediately set to work cleaning his newest finds under the magnification of his favorite glass. The light overhead illuminated the date of his first penny. 1912.

The toothbrush wiped away a smattering of growth and algae alterations. The man spent half an hour detailing the rosary's chain. He counted 33 missing beads. The roses of which would have to be replaced. The man knew someone for that. He knew someone for everything. There were no strangers anymore in his small town, not to Cache. The only draw of the town was the bridge, the lighthouse and the peninsula. Sure the ships sailed by at a snail’s pace and the tourists gawked and snapped photos with their Nikons and Polaroids, but Cache kept his head down toward the sands.

The railroad tie was a mystery to him. The nearest rail was over thirty miles away and was closed half a century ago. A walking trail lay there now. A trail he never walked. He cleaned the spike nonetheless and was determined to give it to ole Mr. Glanton. A collector of sorts.

The crankbait was a simple clean, a quick swipe of the white and red cleared the algae and mussels. The hook took a few moments of scraping and only poked his finger twice. He bled once.

Cache reached for the next penny beside its triplets and the key. A bang on the tin roof. Startled, Cache knocked the key to the floor and looked up. He stared at the ceiling waiting for only a moment. Click click click click, the footsteps of a seagull. After a sigh the man looked down at the key, bathed in candlelight. He did not want to clean this key. It stared at him and he knew what would happen if he worked on it.

Having picked it up he set the key on the desk and cleaned the last three pennies instead. Cache fell into a restless sleep that night, dreams of the key and its owner. He awoke with the image of the rainbow bridge in his room, clear as he could see the tiny stove or the draped window. The sun bore through the break in the curtains and reflected off the key into his eye.

He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. The key demanded recognition and as he had done with all items before, he vowed to find its place. That day he gave the railroad spike to Mr. Glanton, who thanked Cache with lunch, cod sandwiches. He left the coast and walked inland, dodging tourists, and locals walking their dogs or holding hands with their favorite human. The jeweler would have the rosary done in a week, Cache knew Mrs. Thompson would find a buyer, though Cache would not accept the money.

Grey Ted’s Bait and Tackle hung the restored crankbait on the wall with the dozens of previous donations from Cache. His conversation with Ted himself lingered around fishing lines and worms. The latter of which would have definitely enjoyed a bite of Mr. Glanton’s cod sandwich.

The pennies he kept. Cache kept very little except tips from his boaters and coins from the sea. The man knew their worth and spent the ones that meant little to him. 1912 would never be spent. The 1968 twins would have to go together. Perhaps he’d buy a box of matches or a pocket mirror.

After a full day’s excursion, Cache would return to the harbormaster’s shack, return to the key. He would not metal detect until each piece was home. The key, he knew, was next. He had no choice. It stared at him through the wrap of twine. The man paced at the table, smoked his pipe until it was clear, and sat down.

The twine, he unwound. The algae soaked threads were intricately peeled clean of their fishy burden.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said from the corner.

Cache paused. The thread shook between his forefinger and thumb.

“You do not have to,” came her voice again.

After a gruff exhale he answered, “I know.” He spread the twine out to its full length. The last vestiges of algae were removed in a flourish of his handkerchief.

“Yet you continue, sir?” Her voice was more a mask than a question. “Sir, you continue.”

“A fine, true statement,” said Cache. “It belongs in the light.”

“It was lost and you may leave it so.”

The knotty twine would budge no more, between his wide flat fingernails he pinched and pulled. Finally the thread released its knot from the key entirely.

“You may leave it lost, sir.”

“So you’ve said. And yet, I’ll trudge on.”

The key was brass and coated in a gray film. A quick dip in his favorite solution. The clear liquid flooded with black tendrils of slimy wet something. The brass appeared from the solution, held between silver tongs.

“Sir?”

“Madam.” Cache set the key upon the towel.

“You do not need to put in the care, it is lost.”

“All is lost,” he answered.

She did not answer.

Cache swirled the key with a glass of fresh water and shined the key to a fine reflection. The sun was setting and the clicking of tiny feet danced across the tin roof. He looked up and then out the window. The orange light bathed the rainbow bridge. He stood with the key and left the shack.

Once outside the man walked that bridge decorated in lovely collars, leashes and padlocked lovers. Cache waited one step shy of the first bridge board. The cable stays held strong as always but the woman half appeared in the setting sun. She bent slowly, knelt at a lock and turned the key. The padlock opened and fell into the water. The woman was wrapped in orange light, bathed in the dress falling from her shoulders. The tears in her eyes were lighter than the brass key in her hand.

“And it shall remain lost. As is my love for you.” The woman tossed the key with the fury of the ocean and it vanished in the whispered memory of a splash.

Cache nodded when she looked at him. She waited. He walked over to where the lock once hung. He knew it was gone forever, but the key would find the way. He knelt and held the key to the space between worlds. After a click he turned the key. The padlock appeared with the last flash of sunlight. Rainbow bridge was amongst the dead when the man appeared from the west. His hand was held palm out awaiting his lover’s embrace. She obliged and he led her west into the dying light of day.

"It was lost and you should have left it as such."

Cache could not stand. The locks watched him, the finder of all things, the guide to the washed away. He could not leave now, nor would he try. The man would wait until a finder of all things discovered him to be missing, washed up on the beach of

the peninsula by rainbow bridge.