The Iris

X marks the spot.

He threw the knife at the red inked cross on the map where it sank in with a dull thud. Bullseye.

Thirty years he’d searched. Thirty years of ridicule and obsessive need, and he had found it. The Iris was within reach. That elusive treasure hidden by the best of the best during the golden age of pirates.

Bracken retrieved the locket from the pocket at his breast and opened it. The words inside were words to live by.

‘Calm as a gentle breeze.’

They reminded him of a past long gone but not forgotten, and of the family he had given up in favour of his fruitless quest. Sharp pain lanced through him. He put the locket away.

A knock came at the door, rousing him from his seat at his desk. The lad, a tiny creature whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him on deck.

The smell of salt and the sourness of the vast ocean hit him first. Then came the icy spray of the turbulent sea across his face. The stench of human density wafted across the deck. A sickly concoction of sweat, shit and piss so pungent he could taste it at the back of his tongue.

He walked deliberately to his quartermaster and watched the waters while the man spoke.

Food stores were dwindling, and his men were dwindling faster. If something wasn’t done soon, they’d all die painful deaths.

This was it, then. His final sail.

If the treasure wasn’t there, then he’d die the delusional fool everyone said he was. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

His legacy would not end here.

Though his heart drummed a frantic beat in his chest, he felt calm. Calm as a gentle breeze. The mist cool against his face and the gentle calming sway of his ship beneath his feet.

The mists passed soon after. There was no sound in the dawn as he stood at the helm, but for the muffled creaks of wood against wood as the ship made about a particularly hard turn.

He supposed it mattered little. If the island had the treasure, then he would leave the richest man across the seven seas. If it didn’t he’d be deader than dead.

“Ahoy,” came the cry from the mast.

Land in sight. Captain Bracken braced his stomach and licked the grease off his bearded lip. It was time.

Calm as a gentle breeze.

The ship anchored some distance from shore. Boats were loosed into the blood-warm waters. His men, excited, boarded the shabby vessels in droves.

Captain Bracken took his time. There was no need to rush. Best to savor the moment.

Even through his boots, the sand scorched his feet. He knew now why people called this island the Devil’s Land. Surely only the Devil would know welcome here.

The sun, as though furious at his arrival, beat down harsh light and severe heat that turned the air into a shimmering haze. Sweat beaded on his brow and his throat soon turned raspy and pained with each breath.

But there it was.

The crypt, larger than he’d imagined, stood as the sole owner of the hellish land. Black walls and faded blue marbled traceries crawling across in patterns that, perhaps, looked beautiful once. He felt the stone, warm to touch and relished in it.

The first of his men stormed through the doors like the careless idiot he was. He was the first to die. No great loss.

Many and more booby traps came and went. Only two more died. One a deckhand and the other a cook. No great loss.

They soon came upon a room, empty, save for the short pillar at its head upon which something gold glinted in the light of their torches.

He knew in his heart, this was it. From a distance, the Iris was hard to make out, small as it was. Bracken knew better than to approach it without care. He sent his men first and promised larger shares of the spoils to the first who laid his on the treasure.

These were greedy men. They scrambled and pushed each other, abandoning all pretense of caution.

As expected the traps were triggered and sprung. His men did well but died all the same.

Once he was sure no traps were left, he walked in, taking care to follow only the paths his men had already taken.

In the shape of an eye, the thing on the pillar shone with the golden light of his torch in his hand. Its body, translucent, beamed and glittered like stars. Something swirled within it in sharp spirals, and he knew it was the world.

Above it, etched as stone into the wall, was another eye. Bracken raised his arm towards it, slowly—very carefully, blood pounding in his ears to drown out everything else.

The eye above groaned as though angered by his motions. It wheeled in place, the scrape of stone on stone echoing into the empty silence.

Then everything went to hell.

Blood coloured roots sprouted out of the grounds in the blackness behind him and in momentary bursts and spasms splintered the room to pieces.

The floor beneath him shuddered and split itself from the pillar where the Iris sat.

Even still, excitement pulsed in his bones and his fingers seemed to tingle.

He reached out, grasping. The pillar looked to be fleeing from him. Running as though it knew nothing of his suffering! He couldn’t reach. It was too far.

He stepped closer towards the platform, teetering on the very edge of the island on which he stood.

He needed only a touch. To leave this life knowing he had achieved the world.

The stone eye on the wall turned and turned, and the floor beneath his feet quivered and wrenched itself apart. Bracken felt the vibrations shake through him.

Dust fell into his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he scrambled, flailing. He wasn’t far. The Iris was close at hand. If only he could just—reach!

He leaned too hard against the crumbling floor. It turned to dust and rubble and the gaping chasm between hi and his purpose yawned wider, beckoning.

Desperate, he leapt. He missed. He fell.