Guarding the Treasure (2 page)

 

Anya stretched out on a blanket among the multicolored flowers and red rose bushes of the garden, watching flecks of light dance from dewdrop to dewdrop as the sun's rays caressed the earth with pure warmth. Her lips gave way to a contented smile—how she loved the gardens and the lush life they possessed. She rose and rested on her elbows, the smile fading as she scrutinized the beauty with her now saddened green eyes.
The garden is so simple,
she thought, considering the stone pathway, and then the exquisite whitewashed statues of beautiful men and women, their detail intricate and anything but simple. Yet even they in all their beauty could not upstage the multiple colors the ground itself produced. Anya closed her eyes. She craved answers to questions that had been suppressed at the morning meal, but she tried to distract all of her senses by convincing herself she could hear the plants grow and smell their sweet aroma as the tender stalks pushed through the soil. Opening her eyes, she surveyed the immediate grounds once again. Nothing had changed. Not yet. Would this all be gone, too?

That morning, Father's entrance from the kitchen had been explained. He had let all the servants go. Those who did not benefit from the living quarters provided on the estate, and even those who had a residence on the grounds, would not receive their usual tender each week. Then there were the caretakers and the countless others who served their family. What would happen to them? How would her home of eighteen years change in appearance? Anya's family had depended solely on others to maintain the look of wealth and affluence her father had built for himself and his family. Would it now be compromised? Could it take on the look of a slacker or one who given over to too much drink and slumber? Her mind grew increasingly troubled with each acrid thought. Anya envisioned the stone walls broken, large gaping holes and beastly, brown thorn branches protruding through and over the defenseless walls. Her chest tightened as she pictured dark green and black leafed weeds twisting around to slowly subdue all the beautiful color. There was so much she did not understand—unlike her brother, who seemed to know much but gave the impression of one unaffected by the plight of family affairs. Just the thought of him made her dark thoughts even darker. It was as if he knew something, something kept hidden from Anya. But how could he? How could he have known that three of Father's merchant ships would go down in raging ocean waters near the Canadian provinces, everyone on board perishing, the cargo never reaching the merchants they did business with? How could he have known that two of the warehouses sheltering military merchandise would be set ablaze and left to burn to the ground the very night the news came about the ships? Anya pulled out a green satin hankie, tracing the intricate handwork of red roses and splashes of mint leaves that had been needled into its fabric. She wanted calm, but her mind would not let loose of her brother and his intentions. Surely he knew nothing of these life changing events, she reasoned, not wanting to think so ill of him. A sigh escaped her lips. Sean, in recent months, had become more and more difficult to trust. She shivered at the thought of the cold way he looked right through her and then laughed. And his frequent arguments with Father…what was happening to her brother? Had a life with large amounts of money at his disposal hardened him, dulling his compassion toward his family and countrymen? The time she would need to come to an understanding would be too long, she reasoned. Anya stood to consult the sun as to the time. Impatiently, she pushed the petals she'd plucked from defenseless flowers from her skirt. Watching them fall to the ground brought thoughts of the merchant ships. She felt dark for thinking it but was secretly glad the ships went down on the way back from the Canadian Provinces. They were loaded with goods to supply her father's portside warehouses, but at least the loss of life would have been decreased. Anya surmised that the tragedy was a factor in the poor financial situation her family found themselves in at the present. She also knew very well that the cargo ships—or coffin ships, as they were so coldly referred to—were loaded with her countrymen, immigrants hoping to escape the plagues ravaging her beloved Ireland for so many years. Father expressed little regard for the families boarding his ships to other countries. He considered most of them cowards and deserters, but as long as the fee could be paid for a place to squat, he allowed the boggers transportation, even though he would laugh at times as he recounted of the reports of less than one-fourth of the immigrants ever seeing foreign shores. They would die on the journey, their carcasses tossed into the ocean to feed the biggest of fish. The thought of the unjust deaths and the death of hope brought sudden sadness to Anya's mind. She wasn't one of them, one from the countryside, so she wondered why it saddened her so.

A smile parted Sophie's lips as she penned the last letter grade on a lengthy but interesting research paper.
The school year felt unusually long
, she thought, but it was finally the end of the last semester, and it had been an enjoyable year at the university.
What made this year different than any other?
she wondered, tapping her pen against her palm as her mind worked. Could it have been that she had taught some of the brightest students in her five years of employment? Emotion swept over her. Here she was—she had arrived. She had gained a position at the college, which gave her a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, but more than that, she was filled with the sentiment that she had made a difference in the lives of some of her students. Her smile returned as she thought about being named the top history professor at Pullman. It was like icing on the proverbial cake, helping to end the year on a high note. But major success always has a price. And that price was called, sacrifice. As much as she loved her profession, Sophie was looking forward to some time off. She had resolved early in the school year not to teach a summer class as she had the past four years, needing the time off to fill her mental tank, she reasoned. Her professional career was right on track, but there was still something she couldn't escape, a gnawing in the back of her mind, a suspicion that her personal direction was off course. Where was her life heading, and what roads did she need to take to get there? Then there was the intrigue of the diary she had found which had entered the mix. Maybe that's why this weekend was like an invitation, an invitation to at least explore the possibilities for answering some of those pressing questions.

Sophie pushed her chair back from her desk. Her eyes automatically dropped to the floor as she rolled. “That wheel still squeaks.” She shook her head with a smile on her lips. Her plans to get it fixed months ago, well they… She shrugged her shoulders. It just hadn't happened yet. She reached for the picture of her mom and dad, her hoodie, and a few books from her personal library to take with her for the summer break, picked up her briefcase, and headed out the door. An entire weekend with no essays to read, no reports to finalize, and no students to think about—Sophie felt relief run through every pore.

She walked the few halls down to the lobby. “Goodbye, John,” she said, checking out with the security guard. “See you on Monday to get the rest of my things.” She continued to the parking garage, feeling like she was walking on air with such a heavy load lifted from her shoulders.
“I need to make a couple of stops before going home tonight,”
she thought to herself, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. Then Jeffrey came to her mind. She sighed deeply and ran a hand through her hair. It was Friday, and at six o'clock, the guy with no apparent life would show up at her door. Just like clockwork. Sophie rolled her eyes as she pulled the car door shut. Jeffrey was a great neighbor, but ever since she had asked him to look after her fish for a week last summer, he'd felt the need to check on her, “just to make sure everything was all right.” It was a line he used to spend time with her, although he'd never admit to it. It was painfully obvious by the way he hung around until she asked him in.
Maybe I should give him a chance
, she thought. He was probably everything a girl should want in a guy. He had a great body, worked in sports medicine, and had a nice smile. But trying to stomach his lack of self-confidence and sick sense of humor made their time together almost unbearable. Sophie thought he had probably watched too many sitcoms as a teenager, and it had warped his mind to the point of no return. He would probably always be one of those bumbling, silly guys on TV—the ones whose wives had to direct them where to stand and where to sit until the day they died. Sophie wasn't in the market for that.

She made her last stop, and fifteen minutes later, the car was parked in the garage. She pulled in a deep breath, letting it out sharply as a random thought passed through her mind.
Why don't I have a social life? Am I like Jeffrey?
Her face bunched at the thought. No, not even close. Realistically, having someone around would make Friday nights a whole lot easier, she reasoned, slamming the car door a little harder than was necessary. It didn't take long for the real answer to the question to come to her. It came in the form of a bad movie that played every time she thought of Trey. He was flawless and had a perfectly wonderful career as a pilot and soon-to-be flight instructor for one of the major airlines in the country. “Everything was fine until he found God,” she said aloud, leaning against the car. Sophie recalled the handsome, brash young man who had begged her to abandon teaching and enjoy his newfound faith with him. She shook her head. “Who did he think he was?” she asked. She closed her eyes, still sensing his passion as he would hold her in his arms night after night, describing how they would fly medical supplies to underdeveloped areas of the world and, best of all, share their intense love for God with those in need. But he was the only one with the intense love, or at least he thought so—she always believed he was only on a temporary high. She remembered how she tried to talk him out of his life-altering plans, but it hadn't worked. Trey wasn't changing his mind, and she wasn't leaving her profession. Sophie made it clear she wanted nothing to do with God, and that had settled it for them and for their relationship, a relationship that had been over five years old at the time and was soon to be tied with a knot. She remembered giving the ring back, the look in his eyes. The memories continued to flow. Trey's goodbye kiss was long, and his words were soft and gentle as he said he would no longer push her to do things his way. She remembered his last “I love you, Sophie” and the way he touched her lips. She found herself putting a finger to her lips as her eyes welled with tears. That awful night was two long years in her past. “Enough of that pathetic story,” she announced loudly. Sophie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I've got better and more important things to think about than men who chase invisible gods.”

 

Sophie slept later than usual that Saturday morning and woke more relaxed than she had been in what seemed to be a decade of Saturdays. She pulled pillows behind her to cushion her back against the headboard and threw the deep brown and beige comforter over to the vacant side of the bed, allowing the throw pillows to slide to the floor. Even seeing things a little messy in her never-messy house didn't change her mood. She smiled and turned to the nightstand. The tattered diary she had found was lying there, beckoning to her. She reached for it, recalling the dismal afternoon she and her mother had spent high in the attic of her great grandmother's now rundown two-story house.

They had rummaged for hours, opening box after box of dishes, hats, jewelry chests, and old letters tucked into books and magazines. Sophie remembered the house being thick with a chalky, colored dust that covered the windows and drapes. She cringed at the thought of so much dirt in one house. The place looked like one from those old spooky movies, complete with dust-laden cobwebs spreading like tentacles from ceiling fixtures to furniture and doorknobs. The house had been shut up for years—some dispute over money or something, she recalled. She'd returned home with a thick grayish layer of dirt under her fingernails, in her hair, and on her clothes and a splitting headache that had lasted almost a week. But now it all seemed worth it. She held in her hands a treasure from that old house—at least it was a treasure to her. The diary, although it looked more like an old book, had been buried beneath sheets of paper bearing odd drawings and words in a different language and a few delicate handkerchiefs that, in their time, must have been expensive and of great value to the owner. The items seemed to be related to the diary in some way, and all had been the sole possessions of a private person who lived a private life. She ran her fingers over the cover of the diary, holding someone else's memories in her hands, and smiled. Memories spelled history, a chance to experience a time in someone else's life, and in this case, a time that had been significant enough to write down in a book. The diary held so much passion from the past. Each time she read from it, held it in her hands, it felt like two arms reached around her and held her firmly. Each time she touched the book, it seemed to draw her in, wanting to tell her something—something of importance.

Sophie reluctantly returned the book to the nightstand, thinking as her eyes traced its ragged edges. Was it strange that the diary was the reason she was planning a trip to Ireland? She thought back and could not recall ever having a great desire to visit the country until the first time she had opened the book and had run her fingers over the pages. Sophie had felt an instant call, something tugging at her mind. From that moment, she had begun her study of the diary, but her enterprise proved to be brief. She concluded that the author of the diary had lived in the western part of Ireland at the time of its writing, but that's where she got stuck because the entries inside were in Gaelic. She sighed, still staring at the book. “I need to understand your language, Diary. I need to find out who wrote in you and all the whys that are attached to the life of your author.”