The Gold

The vessel made landfall on the evening of a warm summer’s day. Etched on the side of the hull was a fancy cursive that read The Hercules. She was a massive vessel, a trawler, loaded with tons upon tons of fish kept on ice in separate quantities. It had gone aground and dropped anchor. The Captain had worn a stern look for most of the voyage, conscious of concern, weary of his surroundings. But his crew was strong, they were of good health, and God knows the weather had been in their favor. 

As the vessel made landfall, the sun began to set. The loud screech of the hydraulic lift echoed against the bay area sands. It towed a large net, filtering through the remaining patches of seabed. It had been filled with a variety of fishes, many the same as those sorted and saved from prior catches. The lift continued to coil, loud and hard, and the netting gathered and bunched around the head-rope while the drawstring tightened. The winches elevated skyward, hauling the massive netting high above the hull, the stern dipping in accordance to the weight. It was a tremendous catch, beautiful—loaded with cod, mackerel, flounder, and pollock. The deckhands guided the two-ton bulk above the aft decking area and released the drawstring. The fishes dumped to their feet by the dozens, slapping and splashing wildly, too numerous to count.

Among the deckhands was a boy, no older than fifteen. He had been with the vessel for some time, many summers, along with his father. The vessel often made trips down the New England coastline, with many lasting a week or more, before returning to Casco Bay near Maine. The boy and his father would board there, rarely making ends meet for their family but somehow getting by. The boy was tasked with sorting mackerel, rummaging through piles in search of the zebra-patterned fish. Each species was kept on ice—in ice holds—of their own kind, and mackerel was plentiful. The boy grabbed and tossed the slippery fish to its icy-cold place and continued, not to stop until the deck was vacant—this taking hours.

As he rummaged and tossed, his back achy and hands pruned, his fingers struck upon something with distinct form, something hard and foreign. But it wasn’t the deck flooring, he hadn’t sorted so quickly. It was solid and rigid, with splintered wood and golden metal bandings, oily looking from slick mucus. It had a handle, showing itself through gaping fish mouths, and the boy tugged on it. It slid down the slimy river of fish and came to a thud onto the deck flooring off to the side. The boy wiped the seawater from his brow—it was a chest, not particularly small or large—but medium in size. Tied to the handle with a thin ribbon of old leather—opposite the handle he had grabbed—was a key. It hung invitingly, so he grabbed hold and pulled.

It felt old in his fingers, ancient even—he could tell by the weight. He looked at the chest and there hung a thick golden lock—equally as inviting. The boy took the key and inched it in the slot—his eyes becoming less tired by the second; seagulls circling the hull as the evening sky shaded from pink to orange and then purple—sinking into the horizon dusk. A quarter turn and the lock clicked. His hands shook with hunger and excitement as he tossed back the wooden top. He peered inside.

“Gold…” the boy whispered.

His eyes grew with a lusty shimmer. And then every miraculous thought became vibrant and forthcoming into his mind. He could have cried out in joy—the thought of freeing himself, his father, his family, from poverty, off into the rich world of freedom and well-to-do things. Never going hungry, never having to sort another fish, never to be called scum or trash or filth. It all came upon him like a waterfall of golden glitter—sparkling, dancing, into his world like a fantasy. His smile widened, as big and as airy as the sea itself, then—WHAM!

The chest slammed shut, just inches from crushing the boy’s fingers. Once there, now gone. The boy blinked long and hard as if it were a trick, then he saw four dirty hands on the wood. 

“Fink we’ll be havin’ that there, fank you, laddy.” said a low voice from above his head.

The boy looked up weakly, for he hadn’t eaten since sunup. Two odd men he hadn’t recognized stood before him, dressed as lousy deckhands. The bald man on the left was short and stocky, covered in a black soot like war paint. His teeth were crooked and rotting and he had a missing eye. The man to the right was tall and thin, quite the opposite. He had a long, wispy beard, a thin face, and round glasses—a head full of scraggly red hair, neatly combed to the side, as if trying to blend in. 

“Really shouldn’t be takin’ from kids,” the thin man said, “I reckon it’s bad luck…”

“Oh, shut up, Birdie. Grab the chest, you twit. Come on, move it!” said the short one. 

The men whisked the chest away amid the bustle of working crewmen, who were still chucking fish in ice bins. Gulls swooped down, squawking harshly, stealing fishes, white blurs with outstretched wings. The boy eyed the men as they reversed course. Head to toe, their clothing was abnormal—ruffled cuffs and high collars, creamy white shirts with decorative trim. Their boots black with odd-shaped buckles—strange for an ordinary deckhand. They had a liking for treasure—who wouldn’t?—but they stole—and they spoke like—. The boy had a sudden realization, quick as a draw. And with the strength left in his small frame, he arched back and roared. 

“Pirates!!!”

He yelled fiercely. 

“PIRATES!!!!!”

The boy pointed, his face turning purple. 

The crew paused. They looked over with raised brows. The two men continued to shuffle with the chest, their footsteps heavy with the weight of gold—the boy’s accusatory finger at their backs. Their footsteps quickened, and as they lifted the chest to the edge of the hull a crowd of deckhands moved in. 

“Pirates!”

“Get ‘em!”

“The rotten scoundrels!”

“Hang ‘em high!”

“Flesh ‘em out!”

They had encroached well enough to form a barricade, no escape except overboard. 

“Stand down!” said the Captain, “You two, identify yourselves immediately!”

The crew retreated, but only slightly. The Captain, with his large, burly frame, limped to the front of the pack—his silvery beard glossy in the floodlight. He tipped his cap and eyed the men carefully. The pirates stood silent. 

“SPEAK!!!”

They remained quiet. 

The boy appeared between two frumpy deckhands, his eyes sunken and hair disheveled. He pointed his finger, again, this time at the chest. 

“Gold…” the boy said faintly, “They took my gold…”

“GOLD?!” scoffed the Captain, “HA! What gold?”

“There—in the chest, Captain.” said the boy, pointing. 

The Captain lowered his eyes to the chest, then back to the pirate faces.

“You there, drop the chest. Open it at once!”

The pirates looked at each other with hesitation. The short one spoke up. 

“Cap’n, I don’t fink you ought to want that…Wiff due respect and all.” 

The chest was still balancing on the edge of the hull, teetering between black-sooted pirate hands. 

“What makes you believe you can board my vessel and order me about?” voiced the Captain. 

“Believe us, sir. This is no gold you want part of,” said the skinny one timidly, “We’re doing you a fav—”

“SILENCE! Stand down, you scoundrels! As Captain of this vessel I order you to do as I say!” 

The Captain walked heavily to the pirates. He felt for his belt and revealed a shiny-pointed dagger, holding it sharply at neck level. 

“Open the chest or I will open your gullets.” he said with conviction. 

The pirates, again, exchanged glances. This time a sinister grin curled up the short one’s cheeks. The tall, slender one looked on, nervous. They heaved upward on the chest, both gripping a handle, and tossed it to the deck floor. It cackled harshly, sitting upright. 

“You there!” the Captain picked out an older deckhand with graying hair and wrinkly, sun-kissed skin, “Open the chest!”

The old man slugged forward with heavy legs and kneeled to the chest, the lock loop still ajar. The man removed the lock and cast open the top, he stood back and the Captain wandered above it, shiny golden coins with rough edges glistened below. 

“Gold…” the Captain said hypnotically. 

The crew came forward, just as baffled, peering around the Captain’s shoulders in amazement. They all let out an eerie gasp.

Gold? 

Treasure gold. 

It can’t be.

But, how?

The Captain broke from the chest and looked up for the pirates. But they had vanished—nowhere to be found. Had they made no noise? Had no one noticed? He stumbled across the deck to the edge of the hull, looking out beyond the area of his ship. There! Rowing! Two little specks in the moonlight. Pirates. In a small rowboat. Escaping! But why so quickly? Why not fight as pirates do? Why so frightened?

The Captain came round to the gold. It sat there, shimmering. He had a sudden urge to touch it, the riveted edges, the bulk of four or five pieces in his hand. He wanted to make sure it was real—had to make sure—it looked real. But was it? He kneeled to it as the old man had done. The gold glowed. He plucked out a hand, steady, into the mouth of the chest. 

Gold, he marveled. 

Gold, sweet gold..

Gold, it called to him—Take me, I’m yours.. 

His hand got closer.

Closer.

The crew unwavering behind their beloved Captain—Samuel James Flint, of The Hercules, no doubt. He felt for a coin but grabbed in bunches, the riveting feeling of perfection, and as his hand exited the chest—

SHINK!

Then the gold turned red. 

The Captain stammered back, his yelps piercing the night sky—fish still flopping and slapping the deck floor beneath him. He turned to his crew. Blood spurted like red threading from his nubby wrist where his hand once was. The blood began staining the hardwood below and spackled the faces of deckhands and fishes. 

Hehehehe Hahahaha

A high-pitched laughter came from the Captain’s quarters, along the steps leading to the main deck. 

My gold…the shrill voice whispered. 

Hehehehe Hahahaha

In a matter of seconds a sharp blade could be heard cutting through the air in twirls. Two deckhands’ heads toppled to the flooring with a thump, their bodies falling back into a pile of fish—necks spurting like the Captain’s wrist. 

SHINK!

Three more. 

SHINK!!

Eight bodies headless. 

SHINK! SHINK! SHINK!

Heads and bodies dropped like heavy sacks of grain.

Red.

Red everywhere. 

The boy coiled behind the chest, out of sight, shaking. All to be heard was the invisible blade of wretched horror. That sound. That laugh! Oh, how he wished it would stop! He covered his ears with his palms and cowered. 

Hehehehe Hahahaha

SHINK! SHINK!

Father!—he thought—DEAD. 

His clothes began soaking in the blood, it was everywhere now—all from different men—all the same unified shade of red. He laid there, quivering, in the steady river of bloodied water. 

Until silence. 

The boy kept his eyes shut and removed his cupped hands from his ears. Silence. Only the gentle breeze amongst the trees and the whitecaps breaking for shore. Silence. His heart pounded and sank, weak, alone, stranded. Or was he dead? I could be, he thought, and if I'm able to choose, I wished I was—on the footsteps of heaven, dawning angels wings bestowed upon him by God himself. That wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself—not that bad in the slightest. 

Then he heard a whisper, bringing those wishes to a sudden halt. 

My gold…

Hehehehe Hahahaha

Just loud enough for his hellish reality to extend a bit longer, a bit more sinister than what he had already endured—ingraining itself inside his mind forever. 

My gold..

MY gold…

Kekekeke

Pssst, you want my gold?

Go on, take it…

The boy cracked his eyes, enough to see a silhouette against the floodlight. That thing—what is that? A tiny man? No—it’s ears were too big and pointy. He opened a little wider and it came into focus a bit more. A little green cap it wore, with slick orange hair cropped up around it. It’s eyes were green as emeralds, and its suit was faded and patchy. It smiled with thin, sharp teeth, like a million needles between two lips. It giggled, demon-like, as if it had enjoyed what it just did. Hanging on its shoulder was no axe, but a scythe—sharper than the finest razor, dripping with the blood of the boy’s deck mates. The creature smiled big, under the moon, and baited. 

Take it, boy…

Take my gold…

Hehehehe

Go ahead…Take it…

It was standing on its bed of gold, bending over the top, looking down upon the boy—toying...preying. The boy shifted his head down and closed his eyes. Not moving, speaking, hardly breathing. He simply gave up—lying there, lifeless, not caring about his fate, whatever it may be. Then he began to whimper. The coolness of the bloody water and the stark, inundated fear finally breaking him, he could no longer hold it back. 

Hehehehe! Hahahaha!

Its laugh snapped like a whip, then the chest slammed shut. And beside the boy, dropping back onto the deck floor, were two familiar black boots with odd-shaped buckles, followed by a familiar voice. 

“You’re a pirate now, laddy.”

The boy need not look, but imagine, the short one’s crooked, rotten smile.