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The Trove

An Expedition Too Far

By Elaine RadosevichPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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The Trove
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash

The message came in as Raul was waist-deep in the desert, sifting through sand. Shaking the rusty sieve, he cursed under his breath as yet another shard of pottery was uncovered. This was hopeless. Flinging the jagged piece of clay to the side, Raul wiped his hands on his khakis and looked up at the brightening sky. Eight nights in the desert and he’d found nothing but some fragments of ancient pots and a splinter or two of animal bone. Another treasure hunt, another complete bust. It had been the same the past five expeditions in a row and Raul’s frustration was growing. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he stroked his calloused thumb over the soft black cover of his notebook and pulled it out. He wiped his hands again--he could barely remember a time when he wasn’t perpetually covered in dust--and found a blank page.

March 12

Still no luck. Funding is up: Back to the drawing board.

Raul bit the end of his worn pencil, deep in thought as a breeze kicked up a cloud of dust and blew it through the tiny camp. Absently he walked toward his tent, flipping back through page after page of similar entries from previous dates. The journal was packed with diagrams and scribbled coordinates, hand drawn maps and random notes. Some were scrawled across the backs of napkins or receipts and were shoved in between the pages, creating a mess of stained paper that could barely be contained by the elastic tie holding it closed. He was running a finger down the list of his dream expeditions, the ones he’d likely never be able to attempt due to expenses, when his satellite phone beeped in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts.

Give me a call when you get a chance.

Raul glowered at the text from his manager, the man he’d been avoiding for the past two days. It’s not like he was going to tell him anything new.

“You tried your best, but it’s time to come home.” He’d say, or maybe: “The network is still willing to offer you that consulting position. It’s a good opportunity, Raul!” He swore he could almost hear his voice over the rustle of the desert wind.

With another muttered curse, Raul tossed the notebook onto his cot and hit the call button. He scraped a hand over his face, feeling his overgrown stubble and the scratch of sand on his skin. At least if he was going home he could take a nice, hot shower. He was so focused on the thought of soap and scalding water that he almost didn’t catch the scattered words that came through the line.

Funding. Benefactor. $20,000.

The phone fell with a soft thud, coming to rest half-buried in the sand.

“Are you there, Raul?” His manager’s voice came through the speaker, muffled, but Raul wasn’t listening anymore. He was back in his notebook, scribbling down a new note:

We’re back in business, baby!

Two Weeks Later

Raul cinched the straps of his pack tighter, adjusting the weight of it as he went over his mental list again, counting out the days worth of food and water he was bringing.

This is finally happening.

“Good to go?” David asked cheerily, clapping his hands together. “Ready to go make us rich and famous?”

Despite his manager’s abrasive positivity, Raul felt a corner of his lips tug upwards into a smile.

“Sure, Davey. I’m all set.”

“I guess it’s time then!” David clapped Raul on the back, smiling widely. “You sure you’ve got this on your own? We have enough for you to take a crew, you know. It’s no trouble at all to gather some more guys!”

“Not my style, Davey. You know I only work solo.”

“Suit yourself. Just remember to check in with the sat phone. You got enough supplies to last you the two weeks?”

Raul frowned a little. “Yes, mom, you’ve asked me that ten times already. I’m fine. I’m a professional, remember?”

“Right, right, sure,” David acquiesced, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. “Listen, Raul, while you’re out there…”

“Don’t start,” Raul groaned, sounding for all his thirty-four years like a teenager again. David really did bring out the worst in him.

“I just want you to consider it! The offer with the network is good and while this twenty grand is a godsend, you know it’ll only keep us so long. I know you don’t like the idea of working with Jackson but I--”

“I said don’t start! I told you already, I’m not doing it. I’m not working with Jackson and I’m certainly not working for his stupid show, that smarmy little--”

“Okay, okay! I just thought I’d ask! See if you’d think on it some while you’re out there.”

“Drop it, David.”

David held his hands up, adopting a more placating tone. “Alright, Raul. Alright. It’s your decision.”

Raul didn’t reply, pretending to be engrossed in his map as he worked to unclench his jaw. The thought of Jackson and his show, Treasure Hunter, never failed to make him tense. It had been years since they’d been partners, running a YouTube channel about their self-funded expeditions. Years since the network executives snatched up Jackson to host their new series, leaving Raul behind in both the literal and proverbial dust. Jackson had said it was just showbiz, nothing personal, but Raul couldn’t seem to let it go. Each time he set foot on the tarmac of some remote airport or found himself alone in some desolate corner of the earth, Jackson was all Raul could think about. And now he had convinced the network to reach out and ask about hiring Raul on as a consultant. A consolation prize, that’s what it was. An act of pity.

That jerk.

Raul rolled his neck, already starting to resent the next few hours of hiking under the weight of his pack. Forget Jackson. He had a new benefactor and a fresh influx of cash, at least for the time being. At the minimum, his dream expedition had been funded and this was his chance, his one opportunity to seek out the treasure that he’d always wanted most: The Carmichael Trove. He was ready. He could do this. Maybe he’d even find something this time.

Six Days Later

April 1

Things are not going well.

That was all he had managed to write as he shivered by the fire, clutching his pencil with stiff, pale fingers. He stared down at his battered journal, rereading the words.

Things are not going well.

Truly an understatement.

The first three days had been fine. Fun, even. Raul had taken in the pristine forest around him, the first place he’d been in months that wasn’t blisteringly hot or full of nothing but dirt. He took pleasure in the remoteness, how he had been hiking for days and hadn’t come across a single other human. He felt like a true adventurer.

Following the legendary path of Albert Carmichael, little-known explorer of the 1800s, Raul had felt that he was doing something important for once. People rarely talked about Carmichael or his supposed treasure, a tin box stuffed with gold. Raul hadn’t even heard of him until he’d stumbled upon an old book in his university library. Full of faded maps and a rambling, cryptic poem that supposedly spelled out the location of his hidden trove, the mystery had dragged Raul under and never let him go. It had shaped the last decade of his life: It was Carmichael’s treasure that started Jackson and Raul’s internet show; it was the spark that ignited their careers.

And now Raul was going to put Carmichael--and himself--on the map. He was going to find the treasure that no one thought existed. He was going to be famous. And rich. Being rich didn’t hurt. He had gotten lucky with this grant; $20,000 was more than he once could have hoped to be given in one go. But if his meticulous study of the poem was correct, that twenty grand was going to make him insanely wealthy. He couldn’t stop imagining the look on Jackson’s face.

Then it had started to rain, a heavy deluge of water that tumbled ceaselessly from the sky. At first he had tried not to let it dampen his spirits. It would let up in awhile, surely. But after a whole day of steady downpour, Raul couldn’t fight his discouragement. Despite his dejected mood, Raul knew he could manage a little rain. It was the accursed mud that had drastically changed his plans.

Two days of constant rainfall had coated the forest floor in an endless layer of sludge. At the edge of a steep ravine he was following, his foot slipped in the muck and sent him sprawling toward the ledge. His pack had snagged on the branch of a tree, keeping him from taking what would have been a bone-crunching fall into the boulder-laden river below. Raul thanked his lucky stars as he wrestled free of his pack, which was impaled on the bough of oak that had so kindly saved his life.

He gave the backpack a tug, trying to rip it away when a crack sounded. Raul stumbled backwards as the whole limb gave way, plummeting into the frothing river and taking his pack with it. Numb disbelief smothered him as he watched his supplies bob in the roiling water. All he had left were the clothes he was wearing and his notebook, which he always kept tucked in the inner pocket of his coat.

Soaked through and shivering, Raul had managed to create a lean-to out of damp branches and had spent a long night barely sleeping as the woods creaked around him. By morning, he realized how lost he was. The rain had drowned out his sense of direction and washed away the once-unshakeable confidence he held in his outdoor skills. He was alone, and David wasn’t supposed to meet him again for another week. To make matters worse, today was supposed to be the day he reached the spot where he believed the Carmichael Trove was located.

Still holding the battered journal, Raul leaned back against the tree trunk with a sigh. Fingers splayed in the damp earth beside him, he flinched as his hand brushed something cold and sharp. Glancing down, he saw the edge of something metallic peeking out from the roots of the tree. All the noise of the woods seemed to have been vacuumed away as Raul stared at the object.

It couldn’t be…

Without considering it a second longer, Raul flung himself forward, clawing frantically at the earth. Made soft by the constant rain, it took only moments to scrape away the dirt that covered the tin box. Giving a final tug to free it from its rooted prison, Raul fell backward, his prize clutched to his chest. Ripping the lid away, Raul trembled as he gazed inside. The contents glinted in the morning light.

I found it, Raul scribbled moments later, the words nearly illegible. I really found it.

Three Weeks Later

It was only after days and days of methodical searching that his body was finally recovered. Huddled in a makeshift lean-to, Raul’s stiff corpse was curled around a small, black notebook. The two men from the rescue party radioed in their position, and settled in to wait for the rest of their team. Gently, one of the men pulled the notebook away from Raul’s frozen fingers and began to flip through it. He frowned at the last two pages: A hastily drawn map and a long poem, both heavily stained.

“I guess he went crazy out here,” the man said. His partner joined him, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the notebook. At the top of the page were two sentences:

I, Raul Villaneuva, have found the Carmichael Trove and hidden it again. These clues will lead you to its new location...

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Elaine Radosevich

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