'X' Marks the Spot

Liam traipsed through the jungle hacking at languorous vines. They hung still, non-perturbing, catching the fragile light peeking through the canopy and yet they were savagely cut down, discarded; to be trampled like insects.

The dense foliage continued to bar his path, making each lumbering step a challenge. Gnats and mosquitoes assaulted Liam with every cleave of the machete. He tried to ignore them as he continued stomping through the thicket.

It was then that a Brazilian Wandering Spider flexed its mandibles and injected a scream. The venom broke through the cacophony of birds calling and monkeys howling. But no silence followed the piercing yowl, for blood began to pump through Liam’s ears like the beat of a jungle drum.

His ankle swelled with heat and the lantern in his offhand grew heavy as did his breath. He regretted listening to the old man at the bar, drunk on tales of gold and glory. If not for him, Liam could have been back at sea on serene, moon-drenched waves, but instead he bought a map to the treacherous waters of uncertain wealth.

Shrugging off the pain, he pushed onward. Despite his misfortune, he knew he was close, close to the riches he needed for his family. His vision blurred, but he didn’t need it to follow the call of the treasure. He could already smell the soil, feel it all around him as he dug, feel the smooth iron surface of the chest and with a kiss, taste it.

The sensational musings were not that of the future, but of the present. He felt the dirt and tasted blood. Beside him were the shattered remains of his lantern. He and it were both caught by the earth roughly, breaking the glass cage and his hopes.

The flame escaped its kerosene prison with a fury. The fire consumed the tropical flora, fueling the inferno to become a prison itself.

Liam ignored the blaze’s greed and frantically tore open his pant leg like he had his path. Two punctures seeped with poison and blood; two, like his children whom he loved and hated. His blood—and a poison to his freedom.

He knew he should turn back. Be the father he was supposed to be. Perhaps he could still be but with riches in hand. The treasure called to him, but now, death lent its voice.

He coughed blood and smoke and his hands began to shake, too vigorous for him to muster the coordination to wrap the wound. He chose, like the rest of the obstacles, to carry on, for they did not bar the path—they were the path.

He couldn’t tell whether it was from the toxin or the fire that he sweat. Then he was there, and fell onto the spot indicated on the map. He dug eagerly with his hands, if only he could get to it, the arduous adventure would be over and he could find solace in his achievement. Everything would be fine if he could just reach the riches.

Afterward, he’d bolster his strength and make it back to civilization. Back to medical aid. Back to the family he’d left behind. He missed them now with the last fleeting vestiges of his strength. His fingernails scraped nothing and his hope dwindled. Unearthing no chest, he lifted no lid, and there it wasn’t. The gold he’d sought. He’d made it. He’d succeeded. But he’d also failed. Where was the treasure? Where were his riches?

The pain and the heat grew to an unbearable degree and the fatigue took him. He wrestled with his own shaking to take out the map once more before his body fell limp.

Now, ‘x’ marked the spot, not just where the treasure may or may not lay, but where his body lie with death barring his path.