Totem

Pip. Pip. Pip. He swung the detector in slow arcs over the freshly turned earth. The gentle stirrings of a country morning washed over the field; thrushes singing in the hedgerows, the distant thrum of a tractor. He couldn’t hear it with his headphones on, only the incessant buzz of static electricity and the infernal pip of the detector.

The Sun was almost over the hillside by now, shadows creeping back towards the tree-line, retreating from the heat that shimmered in the air like ancestral ghosts. It was the kind of day that artists sought to capture, brushstrokes of golden wheat and brilliant blues above. And it was completely wasted on Brendan.

He saw nothing but the damp sod in front of him, the rhythmic movement of the detector simply muscle memory by now. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he swiped it away angrily, the salt stinging his eyes. Time for lunch.

He flung himself down beneath a yew tree, its burled trunk pressing against his back as he settled himself in among its roots. The bitter aroma of coffee rose with the steam from his thermos, and he poured it out into the lid, cursing as it sloshed over his fingertips. Too damned hot – the dumb bitch couldn’t even get coffee right – how many times had he told her to let the kettle cool before pouring it out? It wasn’t coffee weather, anyhow. Any fool could see that. He tossed it into the long grass, disturbing some small creature hiding there. It scurried away, a white tail flashing before it disappeared down a hole. He smirked – a hot cross bunny.

The Tupperware lid was stiff, cool air squeaking out as the seal broke. A pink post-it note in the shape of a heart fell out – “I’m sorry. I love you. Sandra xxx” He scrunched it up and threw it aside. Stupid woman, with her stupid notes and her big placid cow eyes. What had she packed him? 2 hard-boiled eggs, a ham sandwich, a bag of salt ’n’ vinegar crisps, and an apple, sliced into wedges, wrapped in a paper towel. Like he was a kid or something. He shoved the sandwich in his mouth and chewed angrily, trying not to think about her.

The field sloped smoothly down towards the village, but he could just make out a slight bulge in the ground over to the left. A barrow, maybe. Not well defined – clearly worn down from years of ploughing, but the shape was right. Knowing his luck, it was probably nothing. Five years of metal detecting had left him skeptical that there was anything left to find in the area. Still, a flicker of hope kept him going back every Sunday. His pocket jangled with bottle caps and bent nails, the sum total of his finds so far. ‘Please be something,’ he muttered under his breath, wiping his hands on his jeans and grabbing the equipment.

***

Up on the ridge, a barn owl watched intensely from its bough. The lone figure swished his stick back and forwards, moving slowly across the field. Every so often he stopped, rocking back on his haunches to prod at the ground with a small shovel. Sometimes he cursed loudly, scaring nearby birds from the hedgerows. His neck turned a deep mauve above his collar, the sun angling lower in the sky now, baking man and earth alike. The owl didn’t move, its eyes half-closed as though heavy with sleep. Yet its gaze remained fixed on the human, waiting.

***

Pip. Pip. Pip-pip-pip Beeeeeep! The screen lit up green, indicating a promising location to dig. Brendan looked at the numbers – a strong signal, but not like the signature he was used to, this didn’t seem to be a ring pull or a crumpled beer can. And it was right inside the outer rim of the domed earth… could this really be it? The big one? He got down on his knees and dug the trowel into the ground, piling the dirt to one side and checking it with a smaller handheld device. Nothing yet. It was deep then, whatever it was that lay beneath. More than a foot or two – his pulse quickened. Deep enough to be something special. A Roman coin, perhaps, or a brooch. It was only a mile away that Dave from the club had found that carnelian intaglio ring, 3rd century, beautiful piece. He gloated about it for weeks down the Fox and Hounds, passing it around while Brendan sulked into his beer. Sandra turning it over in her hands, asking how come he never came home with any treasure like that? Well, he’d show her, all right. Surely it was his turn to find something. He wanted it so badly he could taste it – the tang of copper on his dry tongue.

The hole grew. Deeper still – too deep for Roman, surely. For a moment he thought he had lost the signal, but then the machine beeped again, stronger now, filling his mind with its urgency. He dug with his hands now, the darker, clay-like soil clinging to him. Roots grasped at his wrists. His vision blurred, the sky spinning above him, swirling like water around a plughole. Though the sun was fierce, he shivered violently. And then he felt it.

‘Just a pebble’, he murmured, pulling his shaking hand out of the hole. Not metal, it couldn’t be the source of the beeping. He rubbed at the dirt with his teeshirt, squinting as he tried to make out its details. So heavy for such a small stone – black as flint, though none was to be found in the area. Not a pebble at all, no, he could see more clearly now, the dizziness fading. A figurine, crudely carved, with a pointed nose… no, not a nose, a beak! An eagle perhaps, or a hawk - some kind of bird of prey. It felt comfortable in his hand, the heft of it. His grasp tightened around it and he winced as the sharp beak pierced his palm. It fell to the ground, rolling a few feet away. Brendan stared down at the blood that bloomed up through the caked dirt on his palm. The wound tingled, sending vibrations up his arm like an electric shock. He blacked out.

Dusk gathered around the edges of the field when he awoke, shadows stretching towards him like the fingers of the dead. He shook his head, trying to remember what had happened. A fight – yes, an argument. He heard his own voice yelling, saw Sandra cowering on the kitchen floor, blood dripping from her cut lip. Her own fault, daft cow, always screwing things up one way or another. How could she forget to get his lottery ticket – it wasn’t like it was a one-off, she knew damn well he always played the same numbers, every week since he turned 18. And now 4 of them had come up, good for at least fifty quid, and where was his ticket? The damn woman forgot to buy it! He balled his hand up, ignoring the throbbing in his palm. She’d learn her lesson this time, by God.

No – that wasn’t right. That was yesterday. He must have hit his head when he fainted – Sandra’s fault again, packing coffee instead of water on a day as hot as this. He must be dehydrated. He licked his cracking lips, got to his feet. He’d been digging, yes, digging… his eyes widened as he remembered. Fumbling for the detector, he waved it over the hole. No beeps, just the steady pip pipping of barren dirt. Reaching around in the growing darkness he felt for the statue… grasped it gingerly this time. Yes! The device went crazy, needle swinging wildly as he held it over the carving. The stone was metallic after all then, some kind of manmade alloy perhaps? No, that felt wrong. He knew in his heart what it was, this space rock, this ancient meteorite. Too powerful to be anything else. Nothing like it anywhere in the world – and it was his!

Shakily, Brendan filled in the hole. If there was more treasure to be found here, he wasn’t about to let someone else discover it. No, he’d take tomorrow off work, call in sick, continue digging. This was it, the big one, his moment of glory! Just wait till Dave and the others heard about this down at the Fox and Hounds. He strapped his metal detector on his back and twisted the throttle on his bike.

***

The owl circled low over the field, its sharp eyes detecting the disturbed ground where the hole had been. It kept low, following the hedge that traced the edges of the road. Everything was dark, everything except the red light on the back of the motorbike that sped down the narrow lane. The bike moved swiftly, but the road twisted and turned between fields and woodland. The owl veered to the left, heading for the stone bridge at the edge of the village. As the blinding headlight approached the river, the owl swooped down to greet it.

Metal crunched and sparks flew as the motorbike skid across the tarmac, coming to rest against the stone parapet, its remaining wheel still spinning. The owl settled on a nearby branch, head on one side, watching the twitching hand of the fallen cyclist. It preened its feathers, waiting until the body fell motionless. Finally, it fluttered down to the ground, skirting around the pool of blood, examining the outstretched hand of the broken rider. Something gleamed dully in the moonlight, something black and small, like a pebble. The owl grasped the object and took off once more, returning to the field and its ancient secrets buried below. As sirens approached over the distant ridge, the silent guardian dropped the totem back where it belonged, to be buried once more by the farmer’s plough.

***

In the dark field, it sank slowly in the damp soil. Now it would continue to wait, as it had done for millennia. Wait for the one who was worthy of its power.