Tag Archives: treasure

The Precious Maiden

It has been too long since I participated in BlogBattle, initiated by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey. When I used to write entries regularly, I loved the idea of writing something like an old radio serial, with intrepid 1930s adventurers and their feats of derring-do as they explored old ruins and sought answers to strange mysteries. It has been a minute — many minutes, really — since the last entry, so I wanted to get back to it.
It always gets me going down historical rabbit trails I find exciting. (Did they have denim shirts in the 30s? What storms happened in the Caribbean that year? Who ruled Spain at the time? What was that island called back then? And so on).


With that in mind, “Precious” as the inspiration, and apologies for going slightly over the word count, here is the latest episode of Grant and Teagan:


From the Adventures of Grant McSwain – Sailor of the Seven Seas, Finder of Forgotten Fortunes, and Savior of Salacious Sweethearts … accompanied as always by his hapless companion, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Last week, we left our intrepid heroes stranded on the high seas as they turned their vessel toward the full strength of a tropical storm off the coast of Saint Kitts. Will they find the lost treasure of Vallarte’s final voyage? Or will they join his ship in the murky ocean depths? Find out, in “Grant McSwain and the Perilous Prize of La Doncella Preciosa!”


Rain smacked the creaking wooden ship with the stinging fury of a hailstorm and swept a yellowed sheet of canvas across the slick deck. “Don’t lose that,” Grant cried, arm outstretched toward the tattered map flapping across the wave-washed planks. “It’s priceless!”

Holding the sloop’s wheel firm, Grant’s muscles strained underneath his wet linen shirt – once white, but stained to beige by the dirt and grime of multiple adventures around the globe. The gusts whipped his clothes, loose but rain-soaked, and he clenched his square jaw as he fought the strength of the storm.

Teagan dove through the rain as the vessel lurched again, tossed in the gale. She hit with a huff and slid across the polished wood, a sopping mess of red hair and limbs, fingers grasping for the centuries-old canvas. Her drenched khaki shorts and denim over-shirt seemed like weights on her body, and her waterlogged hiking boots felt filled with cement.

The winds shifted, buffeting the sails, and the mast groaned in protest. One of the lines securing the foresail snapped with the strain and flew like a snake on the wind, cracking like a whip. Most of the sails held, pushing the ship toward the shoreline at the horizon. As if ye could see the bloody island through all this gale.

Teagan’s fingertips felt rough fabric and pressed down against the deck, pinning the map in place. Priceless, no, but precious—in more ways than one. Vallarte’s ship, La Doncella Preciosa, the Precious Maiden, was presumed lost to the ocean’s depths. What would the last known location of the vessel’s treasure trove be worth on the antiquities market?

Someone could certainly estimate the map’s value. Many had, judging by the resistance and pursuit they faced thus far.

Before Vallarte set out on his final voyage in 1577, the famed conquistador and so-called explorer had infiltrated the royal treasury and stolen Las Esmeraldas de las Princesas –the massive twin emeralds he’d brought a few years earlier as tribute for King Phillip II to honor Princess Isabella and Princess Catherine. That was the real treasure Grant hoped to find.

No wonder so many had hounded them across the Americas and into the path of this hurricane. No Krauts this time, thankfully… but something worse, the finest treasure hunters hired by the fiercest and wealthiest collectors. The race was on—fame and fortune, as always, the reward for those willing to blaze the trail.

Grant scrabbled across the deck as the small ship shuddered, his black hair soaked and disheveled in the storm. He reached out, and Teagan lifted her free hand for assistance … but instead, he snatched up the map. “That was close,” he said, heading back to the stern.

Teagan grunted and rose to her feet, gripping the rail and glaring at Grant through a mop of red. She ran her fingers through her hair to throw it back over her shoulders, but the wind immediately whipped it in all directions at once.

“The storm is getting us there!” Grant shouted, grinning as he squinted into the distance. “This will work, as long as we stay ahead of them.”

Teagan grabbed thick rope to lash the foresail to the rigging. “This won’t work,” she shot back, “if we end up sharing the fate of the Doncella.” Whether at the bottom of the ocean, or smashed along the coast of Saint Croix, the vessel of the wealthy Vallarte did not survive its final voyage.

“We won’t,” Grant called out over the storm’s fury, his grimace belying his confidence. Then he brightened, and he grabbed the line to assist her. “Think of it this way: we’re doing both our countries a favor! Supporting the Monroe Doctrine by keeping European powers from meddling in the Americas and claiming the prize, and supporting Britain by …”

Grant shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Teagan scoffed at the assumption of her allegiance to the crown, then caught Grant’s reference and stared dumbfounded at him. Was he making a lucky connection trying to sound intelligent, or was he actually aware of American foreign policy?

Grant must have noticed her gaze. “I do read sometimes,” he protested.

“Spicy pulps and penny dreadfuls don’t count,” she said with a smirk as she checked the other lashings. The vessel had to reach Saint Croix intact for them to have a chance at finding the treasure, and it would be nice to have a means of escape before their competitors arrived.

Most of their pursuers were stranded on Saint Kitts waiting for the storm to pass, or for new ships to arrive. While treasure hunters might maintain a certain level of decorum in a civilized community, some of their rivals would be all too pleased to find Grant and Teagan out on the high seas or stranded on Saint Croix.

Grant clamped his hands on the wheel, steering the sloop through the storm and waves. “The way I see it,” he declared in a self-assured tone, “it’s only been twenty years or so since America paid good gold for these islands. They’ll want to ensure the European powers stay out of their affairs. Maybe we’ll finally get J. Edgar and his goons on our side for a change.”

“Better to avoid them completely,” Teagan answered, but Grant said nothing in reply, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon.

Another hour of constant struggle to stay afloat brought them through the worst of the storm’s wrath, and after two more hours of dreary downpour, they spotted a dark shadow of land in the distance, barely noticeable in the limited moonlight. Teagan checked the compass once again — right on course for the northeast coast of Saint Croix. Thankfully, Grant proved reliable in many ways other than the intellectual pursuits.

Once near the shallows, they raised the sails and Teagan grabbed a sounding pole to guide Grant in as close to the shore as they dared. With the sloop at anchor, a short swim brought them to land under a cloudy night sky.

The skies turned soft tones of purple, followed by vibrant patches of gold, while the pair searched up and down the coast of Saint Croix. Shivering and aching, Teagan slogged on through the sand, taking only small comfort in the misery on Grant’s face as they trekked into the morning.

Then, with the first direct sunlight on the coast, they spotted a telltale ridge behind the foliage. A single black goat stood on the slope, chewing on the plants and staring at these new visitors. “That could be the southern embankment,” Teagan offered, picturing the map’s details in her mind rather than fishing it out of her pack yet again. She studied the landscape and pointed her finger. “There’s the northern ridge that forms the enclosure, running parallel to the water.”

Grant surveyed the area with a tired sag in his shoulders. “Everything’s overgrown.”

“True,” Teagan admitted as she stepped forward, toward the treeline. “Then again, assuming some of Vallarte’s crew survived the shipwreck, how much of a three-hundred year-old makeshift shelter could we really expect to find?”

Grant took another look at the sloop, a small white speck to the south. He took a deep breath, stretched, and shrugged. “If anyone does catch up to us, maybe it’ll throw them off, make them think we’re searching down that way—ait for me!”

He crashed through the thick brush Teagan had slipped through, startling a few birds into flight and interrupting their morning songs.

Teagan followed what seemed like an overgrown path, ducking under tree limbs or holding leafy branches aside, working her way into the enclosed area the map had promised. She reached out her hands to sweep some foliage out of her way and froze. “Worked stone?”

Peeking out from vines and centuries of growth, some smoothed rocks caught the morning light. Relatively sharp lines formed unnatural ridges and walls ahead, hidden within a hollow by the thick branches of the surrounding trees. Teagan studied the stones, running her fingers along them, moving from one ridge to another.

“There are proper buildings here, Grant, with mortar and masonry.” She spun about, trying to grasp the size of the site. “Several of them—far more than any castaways could manage in secret.”

The feeling of being watched tightened on her heart like an icy grip, but she knew it was just the shock of finding an ancient community where there should only be the ruins of one or two makeshift structures. She still found herself tensing at every sound, peering into every shadow.

Grant looked over the area, his face grim. “You think someone else found this place years ago, took the treasure, built themselves something substantial?”

Teagan examined another overgrown building, its rock walls covered in moss and lengths of vine. “Possibly… or perhaps this site was never what we were led to believe.”

A chill struck Teagan’s bones even as she wandered in the warm sunlight, but she shrugged it off as the lingering effects of the night in soaked clothes coupled with the unexpected mystery before her.

Grant stepped into the nearest building, ducking his head to enter the small door. He moved with surprising grace for his size, and waved a long thin reed in front of him to look for traps.

Teagan took a ginger step into a half-collapsed structure, looking for clues while searching her mind for an explanation. Could my source have betrayed us? Or could he have been deceived? He wouldn’t have sold us a map to a site already explored by a previous client, for fear of damage to his reputation.

Nothing stood out in the first three buildings Teagan checked, and if Grant found anything noteworthy, he didn’t call for her.

The fourth structure Teagan approached looked squat and sturdy compared to the others, with rusted metal bars in the two narrow windows. The door had rotted away, but the thick walls and slight elevation on which the building stood seemed to protect the interior from centuries of storms.

More than the others, at least, but not entirely. Teagan noted the rust stains and pitted metal bars that fashioned holding cells. A few skeletons lay slumped against the walls, their wrists still held by leather cuffs affixed to what was left of their chains. Two of the remains included tattered and faded fabric in the style and shape of fifteenth century women’s clothing. The others seemed like young boys of varied heights.

“Grant?” Teagan called, then turned and yelled out for him.

Stones rattled and scraped inside the structure… or were those bones?

Father … have you finally come with the ransom?

A shadowy haze coalesced inside one of the cells, like a storm cloud taking shape, with green forks of lightning crackling through the smoky form. Teagan shook at the feminine voice echoing in her mind as well as the strange sight, and backed toward the open doorway. Her left hand shot to the medallion of Saint Nicholas around her neck.

The growing apparition seemed to regard Teagan with eyes alight like emeralds held in the depths of its darkness. Or … it hissed, does another interloper seek the prize?

Teagan bumped into Grant and gasped. He stood in the doorway, hunched down to peer into the ancient prison ruins. The goat from the slope stood beside him now, still chewing. “I was going to tell you I found something interesting,” he muttered, “but of course you’d have the more exciting discovery.”

“I’d be happy to trade places,” Teagan whispered.

The ghostly image turned its glowing verdant eyes upon the pair, and waves of judgment and wrath coursed through Teagan’s mind. A haunting voice rang out, sonorous like a bell, and the figure raised a finger to point at Grant. “I am la doncella preciosa that Vallarte sought… his daughter. Take what remains of his treasure, scoundrels … and join his mutinous crew in eternal unrest.”


Tune in next time for the epic continuation: “Grant McSwain versus the Cantankerous Crew of Corpse-light Corsairs!”

Also, you can read the other BlogBattler entries here.

"A Heart of Pure Gold" Week 50 #blogbattle

Genre: Action

Word prompt: Pure

997 words

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain, Hero of Harrowing Deeds, Delver of Dangerous Depths, and Charmer of Cold-Hearted Dames…

Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway

 

Teagan swept thick layers of spider-silk aside with a machete and slipped between the narrow walls of the tunnel onto a small shelf overlooking deep darkness. Pebbles jostled and fell, clattering on stone and splashing in water far below. “There’s a ledge here, Grant. Watch your step.”

Her partner stood frozen, his sharp and fetching jawline offset by a grimace, his wide eyes inspecting every inch of web. “Set it on fire, Teag,” he whispered.

“The webs are ages old,” Teagan replied. “There aren’t any—“

“Burn it!”

Teagan gave him a playful smirk and waved the torch around the opening. The webs recoiled from the flame as if alive. “Better now, muffin?”

Grant exhaled loudly and took a deep breath, then crept forward.

“If Master Roquefort could see you now,” Teagan said with a laugh.

“Not one word, Teag,” Grant growled.

“He’d think less of your next round of tall tales, I don’t doubt!” She shot him a sour look, wasted in the dim light. “You have that poor sot fooled—a feat I admit might be a trifle too easy.”

“He’s a good chap with a heart of pure gold,” Grant said. “Keeps us paid, doesn’t he? And agreeing to lure out the Pops Kimble twins for the Feds took some guts.”

Grant held his torch aloft. The outlines of an underground structure appeared in the shadows below. “The Fortress of Castanzo Vallarte,” Grant declared. “Hamwich will thrill to hear of this discovery.”

Teagan tied a firm knot around a rocky outcropping and tugged on the rope. “Only if we find the treasures of the Corazon de Oro. Vallarte’s ship bore wealth from the Ixthacan Empire when it ran aground.”

“True, Hamwich may care more about that,” Grant said. “If he ever hears about it.” He took the rope and descended into the shadows before Teagan could press him for an explanation.

She wrapped the rope around her leg and caught the length between her feet for a measure of control. Even so, her heavy leather gloves grew warm from friction on the descent.

At the edges of the circular plaza surrounded by an underground lake, proud likenesses of the conquistador sneered at Teagan as she stalked across the dusty stone. “What do you mean ‘if he hears,’ Grant?”

Grant had already moved to the front of the rough-hewn fortress. He stood at a pair of iron doors, looking for a means of entry. He didn’t even turn at her voice. “I promised the treasures to Bonhomme in Paris,” Grant said. “He offered twice as much as Hamwich.”

A mechanism clicked out of Teagan’s view, and Grant gave a triumphant laugh as the doors swung open. “Don’t worry. I have a reliable fence with a reputation for discretion. Hamwich need only hear tell that someone beat us to it.”

He crept down the wide hall toward the central chamber, pointing out an obvious trap with a long pole.

Teagan followed, fingering the Saint Nicholas medallion in her pocket. “And if, God forbid, he discovers the truth? He funded the expedition, after all.”

“Not to fret,” Grant said. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” He flashed her his devilish smile, the one that shook her steel will and resolve. Then he noticed her hand in her pocket. “I assure you, Saint Nick won’t jot your name on his naughty list, Teag. It’s just business.”

“It’s not Santa Claus, you dolt,” Teagan hissed. “After so many voyages and successful expeditions, even a lout like you has cause to thank Saint Nicholas of Myra, patron saint of sailors.” She swallowed a wave of guilt for ill-gotten bounty. And repentant thieves.

Grant brushed Teagan off. “Me an’ God? That bridge burnt long ago.” He stepped into the main chamber and began a methodical search for Vallarte’s wealth. “God’s of the mindset money’s the root of all evil, and I—like Vallarte—am rather fond of it.”

“Love of money,” Teagan corrected while checking their supplies.

Grant laughed. “Yeah, but who has money and doesn’t love it? We have about four hours before we need to head back. Let’s get to work.”

But after three hours of grueling search, Grant and Teagan sat on the steps outside the Fortress, defeated. “What are we missing, Teag?”

Teagan reviewed research notes she’d meticulously copied. “Castanzo Vallarte dedicated the spoils to the Throne, of course. But historians claim he was infatuated with Princess Anna of Austria, before she married King Phillip.”

She glanced at Grant. “How would you try to win the heart of a queen?”

Grant nodded. “Gold more pure and plentiful than she’d ever seen before…”

Teagan surveyed the plaza’s silent sentinels. “Could Vallarte have hidden his treasure in plain sight?”

Grant grabbed a pickaxe and dashed to the nearest statue. Then he plunged the point into the stone man’s chest. Pieces of rock fell away, and Teagan held up her torch.

Gold glittered in the flickering light.

Grant laughed and broke more of the stone. A flow of coins, cups, and dinnerware poured from the cavity. But Grant’s eyes stared into the statue’s remains. “Teag,” he whispered, breathless, “shine the light here.”

She did so, and beheld a massive golden heart on a stone support. “A literal corazon de oro,” she said with a gasp, “meant for his love.”

Grant pried it free and turned toward Teagan, that charming grin splitting his face—then shrieked at the furry spider crawling across the heart.

Before Teagan could react, she caught the massive heart in the chest with a sickening squish of spider guts. The impact knocked her back, and she splashed into the chilly water.

Weighed down by the massive gold heart, she plummeted into the gloomy depths…

To be continued in “A Trace of Terror”

A Clash with Death

Genre: Adventure? Action? I’ll see what options fit best but I think it’s obvious what I’m going for.

Flash fiction with the prompt: Chasm

God, I had more fun with this than I meant to. I wanted to go a little further with the “chasm” concept, but my original idea wouldn’t fit in the word count.

And really I just wanted to get myself back in the blog battle even if the piece isn’t my most competitive effort. I think you’ll see more of Grant and Teagan in the future.

—–

The Exploits of Grant McSwain, Fearless Adventurer, Man of Mystery, Acquirer of Fabled Fortunes, and Doer of Daring Feats 

(accompanied as always by his hapless asssistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway)

This week’s episode: A Clash with Death, and the Chasm of Despair…

The sun beat down on the thick jungle foliage Grant McSwain brushed aside with the flat of his machete. “Told you,” he said with a grin as he offered his assistant a view of the ziggurat ahead. “The Temple of Ixthapocl, right where I said it would be.”

Teagan clambered the rest of the way up the slope, then took a knee and brushed red bangs away from her dripping face. “The fifth time’s the charm, I guess. As usual.”

Grant ignored the jab. “Now the true challenge begins!”

“Finding the way in?”

“No, that’s easy. I’m talking about sneaking artifacts past customs when we get back to America.” He trudged down the hill toward the vine-covered ruin.

“Always ten steps ahead,” Teagan said. “Sometimes you forget to plan for the obstacles that still block our way.”

Grant shrugged and strolled across the open ground toward the base of the temple. “Who needs a plan when you have style?” His machete made short work of the intertwining vines blocking the entrance. “Already we know that no one else has been in here in years.”

“Through this entrance,” Teagan muttered. The Ixthacas always built secret passages for their own use. Many a conquistador had been ambushed, thinking they found unattended wealth.

A heavy metal door blocked their way, a ring engraved with animals and men in different poses at its center. Grant unfolded a parchment and double-checked the sequence, then turned the ring to the appropriate symbols. “Dance like the serpent,” Grant read aloud, “fight like the bear.”

The lock clicked and dust shook loose as the door swung open.

Grant stepped inside, and Teagan saw the stone sink beneath his foot. She dove into him, bowling him over as three darts cut through the air where he’d been standing.

“And duck,” she said, “like someone who wants to survive.”

Grant dusted himself off and rose, face red as her hair. “Thanks,” he said finally. “Get the flashlight, wouldya?”

The light revealed walls of carved stone, with rows of faces at eye level. Every other mouth hung open, potentially hiding more traps. They took a slower pace, testing any stone in the floor that seemed odd.

The halls inside the ziggurat led to several empty chambers—living quarters, based on the provisions and furnishings. Stairs wound up to the higher levels.

Grant checked each room for anything of interest, a process that took a full hour on the first floor. “I’ve only got one set of spare batteries,” Teagan said. “The rest are back at camp. Ceremonies would be held beneath the moon and stars in the top chamber. Maybe that’s where the good stuff was kept?” 

“Or that’s what they’d want you to think,” Grant replied.

Teagan rolled her eyes and dutifully followed.  

By the time they reached the highest level, the flashlight dimmed and the full moon shining through the open ceiling did as good a job. Stone pillars rose into the night sky at each corner and on each side of the ziggurat’s rooftop. Every pillar bore a plate of silver and obsidian displaying a phase of the moon.  

On a low platform before the altar in the center of the top floor, silver spheres the size of golf balls glimmered in the moonlight, arranged like the brighter stars in the sky. Grant pulled out a knife and immediately pried one from its setting. “Yep, they’re loose, we can grab these.” He drew out a thick leather pouch and began filling it. 

Then he spotted the shining gold plate set above the altar. Engraved lines radiated from the golden sun. “Hey Teag, grab that, will ya?” 

Teagan smiled at the thick gold and approached. But something felt off. She checked the floor, and it looked solid. She inspected the plate from every angle, but saw nothing indicating a trap or trigger mechanism. She tapped the ground in front of the plate with her toes, then put full weight on it. The stones supported her. 

Grant had begun plucking the lunar phases off the pillars, sliding them into his backpack with newspaper padding between each plate. “You gonna get that thing?” he asked. “I don’t want to be out here all night.” 

Teagan couldn’t spot anything amiss. So she jammed a flat steel file between the golden plate and its setting in the stone, then pried the treasure out.  

The Ixthaca worshiped the moon. Why would they put up a valuable image of the sun? 

The plate slapped into her hands, and the stone at the top of its indented setting dropped with a sharp clack against the bottom. 

Teagan groaned. To identify enemies and intruders, of course. 

The floor fell away and she plummeted into darkness with a stifled yelp.  

With her weight suddenly removed, the spring-loaded doors snapped back into place. 

Grant collected the last plate, hefted the sack onto his back, then turned about in confusion. “Did she seriously just take the treasure and run?” 

[To be continued next week, in “The Lolly-pops of Peril”]

Playing Favorites

Happy Labor Day in America. It’s time for a

Monday Morning Snack

There was reclining on  Jesus’ bosom one of His disciples,  whom Jesus loved. – John 13:23 NASB

OM NOM NOM
Goes best with a cup of steaming coffee.
Coffee not included in price of purchase.

If you ever want to learn how to make things fair in life, have more than one child.

It seems no matter how hard we try, one of our four children is always wondering why he or she has it worse than everybody else, and why some sibling gets it so easy.

“My chores are the worst!”

“She got to play the XBox for a long time!”

“He got to go to his friend’s house, why can’t I?”

“IT’S NOT FAIR!”

I don’t feel too bad. If Jesus’ own disciples bickered and accused Him of playing favorites, then I figure this is a normal fact of life.

In the Gospel of John, the writer (John… shocking, I know) uses the phrase “the disciple whom Jesus loved” five times to refer to himself.

Maybe it was humility; he didn’t want to write his name in the account, like “me me me, look at me.” But it kind of comes across to my ears as a proud statement. “I’m the favorite. I’m the one He loves. Neenur neenur neenur, you’re just plain ol’ Peter.

But maybe this phrase is neither humble nor proud.

Maybe it’s a statement of a wonderful and incredible fact.

John understood. He really got it. John’s the one who later writes all about love in the church (read 1st John). He’s the one who emphasizes over and over again that Christ’s followers are “beloved of God” – and he even uses “beloved” as the collective title for his readers.

Beloved means dear to the heart, favored, favorite one. To call myself beloved of God speaks of confidence about His love, security and certainty that “He likes me… He really, really likes me.”

That’s not arrogant, either.

It is arrogant when we add “more than you” either consciously or unconsciously. It is arrogant if we presume to add “but not you” when we think of some group we don’t like. It’s foolish for us to think God should limit His love to suit our desires.

But we can confidently say that we are beloved of God, dear to His heart, favored and special to Him.

Why?

Because He said so.

You’re His “prized possession” and “special treasure.” You are recipients of “great love lavished on us” by God, an unconquerable and inseparable love.

It pains my heart when my wife apologizes or worries needlessly whenever I seem frustrated or upset by anything. It hurts when my children say they are afraid to admit a bad decision for fear that “Daddy might get upset.” That tells me that I have not fully communicated to them the unchanging and unconditional love in my heart. They don’t understand that each of them is my absolute favorite. Each of them holds captive the full measure of my love. So, in my imperfection, I must work to communicate that more clearly.

God, on the other hand, has communicated His love. He has told you that you are His beloved, you are His treasure, you are the one He loves. When He plays favorites, we all win.

Say to yourself, “I am the one He loves.”

Chew on that for a bit.