TREASURE(Charles E.J. Moulton) TREASURE
Short Fiction by Charles E.J. Moulton


The ring glittered in her hand, the sunlight throwing little sparkles through the trees down upon it and hitting the transparent stone. The constant splashing and trickling of the river behind her added to its beauty, the dancing sounds offering an audial version of the glory of that stone.

The ring eluded Chantal.

The wind ruffled her blonde mane as she kneeled on the ground. It gave her a look of thoughtfulness. The green trees aligning the avenue behind her gave her habitat a utopian look. With the slow rocking of the summer leaves, she gave way to a sun that spread light into the greenery and flashed sparkles of eternity onto the unusual diamond.

Chantal stood up again, her dirty bare feet treading on nothing but dirt. All the while, she held on to the ring she discovered treading beaten paths. She cocked her head, like a dog would when witnessing a strange reflection. Sounds protruded from her mouth, clear enough to convey surprise, mysterious enough to convey bafflement. This nature woman knew natural beauty and very little else. Fabricated beauty such as this was new to her. She knew it in some form, but her daily life consisted of bathing in waterfalls, picking berries and mushrooms and the like.

At the crossroads, Chantal stopped. The bustle of the village life in the distance made her uneasy. Beyond the forest, down in the valley, she heard the clanging of swords, the belching of soldiers and the moaning of tired women. She wondered what it was like to be there, so normal, so accepted. The infrastructure of civilization seemed to her a glossy security blanket for all those rich people. She knew nothing else but solitude.

The villagers treated her like a dog.
That wasn’t always bad, to tell the truth.
She could never understand them, only that some of them knew she lived on berries, roots, mushrooms, apples, pears, truffles and fresh water from that river. They giggled when they saw her scuttering off in the distance.
Strange woman, they said.

Chantal felt strange. Chantal scared them.
They scared her. So, she stayed away.

She grasped the ring tightly in her hand again, avoiding the village, and walked up the slope to her cave, deciding to regard that terrifying village from a distance. Her step steady and fast, she soon reached the hill and plopped down on the bed of leaves and grass she had made for herself.

Her lower lip came out from its hiding place underneath the front teeth. It trembled. But she couldn’t keep the stone, could she? Her hand shaking, she looked at the ring.

It must’ve fallen off a wealthy man’s hand. Chantal remembered hiding behind the trees, taking a peak at the aristocrats as they rode by. The wooden wagon she remembered seeing scared her, sealed shut by black blocks of shiny skin. One man’s wealth usurping another man’s misery.
Who was inside that wagon?

Are you the ring of a famous man? she thought to herself, looking at the ring. Or do you belong to his wife? If you are the culprit that keeps those prisoners in the wagon, I have to give you back.

The belching soldiers making fun of the blacksmiths sounded like a dream now. Chantal knew that they were there, but the remote sound almost disappeared into a fog. Those men most certainly lived on other people’s misery.

Robbery. The thought hit Chantal like lightning. My God, what if they caught her, the nature woman. What if they caught her stealing, what would happen to her then? They only accepted her, because she did no one any obvious harm. She collected her berries, sang moody songs by the river and collected sticks. No rituals by moonlight here. But a stealing woman could also be a witch, just like the woman they strapped onto the pole last week, convicted by an angry mob. A stealing nature woman could be a demon.

Chantal remembered the friendly people, whose hands had fed her until she turned seven. The clanging of swords then robbed her of those friendly people. They taught her no language, they taught her love. Their lessons consisted of embraces, kisses, late night suppers under the stars, lady bugs in the sunshine, star constallations and a silence within God.

Chantal knew who God was. Nobody told her. She knew. And she knew her own name. The friendly people gave her that name, but disappered before they could use it. Had they been fugitives? She never asked. Lawless, hunted animals at the mercy of that man that dropped the ring yesterday? Maybe.

She looked down into the valley.

That ring belonged to the famous man. If she kept it, who knows what fate awaited her? The same fate as the friendly people? Death by sword? Burning at the stake? Execution?

Chantal started walking down the slope again. First slowly, then faster and faster. Reaching the crossroads, she stopped again, looking left and right and back.

No turning back now, she thought to herself. I have to go through with this. If I keep the ring, I am in trouble.

Chantal began running, faster and faster, until she smelled that unfamiliar stench of burning meat. She hated that smell. Dead animals. Living from other living beings that died. How awful. And so the forest ended, the valley opened up and all the light hit her like a cannonball of light, one very loud cannonball.

Chantal groaned, covering her eyes, slowing down her step and walking across the grassy hill toward the soldiers tending to their horses.

Bit by bit, her eyes got used to the light and she began gazing at the scene around her. Some men were stretched out on the grass, kissed by wives and cuddled by children. Others sat by tables drinking mead. Others had their suits of armour hung up by little assistants. A warrior or two practiced their skill with their swords. Some scantily clad women giggled as their men grabbed them and pulled them into tents.

Chantal’s knowledge of that game baffled her. The friendly people familiarized themselves with that, but Chantal had been alone for the past ten years.

The stench of the burning meat grew more intense.
Now Chantal saw what it was.
A bore. A wild bore. She remembered seeing one, a moon ago, with one small tusk and one big one. Yes, this bore’s tusks were still intact and now it was roasting on a stick.

Chantal screamed. She let go of so much loud air, that all the belching and all the laughing stopped.
She recalled the wild bore that she had cuddled, fed and saved from an arrow. Her stomach turned.
Heads turned, swords dropped, suits of armory fell to the ground.
Chantal dropped to the ground, clutching the ring, rocking back and forth. She cried, her tears so hot they burned her skin, dropping onto the fresh grass an inch away from her face.

Solemn steps approached her and then then suddenly stopped. She looked up, away from the grass. Brown boots, buckles. Golden buckles. My, my, expensive gilded buckles. Blue pants, another golden buckle. Red, soft fur and a collar with white and black dots on it. Bearded face.

The man said something.
Chantal shrugged.
He gestured for her to stand up.
Trembling, she did.
There she stood, terrified, a head shorter than this man, who was the obvious leader of all of them.

Chantal’s bony fingers stretched out, opening up, displaying a ring. It glittered in the sunshine.
The man raised his eyebrows and laughed.
He looked at the woman next to him, took the ring and held it up in the air. For some odd reason, now all of the other men cheered. An eardeafening scream penetrated the valley. They applauded, whistled and stamped their feet.

The man with the golden buckles put his arms around her and said something she did not understand. She tried to imitate the sounds he made.
“Reward.”
He nodded.

Chantal had no idea what he spoke of, so she just pushed the ring further into his hand, nodded and left. She crossed the lawn, passing the horrible stench. Her dead friend, the wild bore, burning just like those poor women had last year, punished for a crime he had not commited.

The man with the buckles came running after her, whistling. Chantal ran faster. She had done her job. What did he want now?
She turned around, making an angry sound.
He stopped and let her leave.

As she walked back into the forest, Chantal heard another voice. A woman’s voice. That voice spat, cursed and shouted. Chantal turned around. An elegant woman in a green dress threw her hands up in the air and screamed at the man with the buckles.

Chantal admired the beauty, but hated the anger she protruded. That strong man with his rewards said nothing.

Chantal understood one word the green woman yelled, again and again: “Reason?”
What did that mean, reason?
“Parents.”
Another unknown word, parents.
“Dungeon.”
“Enemies.”
“Kidnapped.”
“War.”
“Nature woman.”
“Return.”
“Release.”
“Tell her.”
So many words, so much mystery.

Chantal watched this scene from a distance at the edge of the forest, the place she knew as home.

The woman in the green dress grew quiet, walking away into another tent. The man with the golden buckles stood there for a while and Chantal watched him watching her. Two birds in two cages. One golden cage of glory, one green cage of solitude.

The man seemed to decide something.
He clapped his hands twice and four other men ran up to him. Chantal laughed. These men looked like squirrels hoping for a nut. Why did these rich people give things so much importance? She hid her mouth in her hands, hoping that her laughter could remain anonymous.

The large wooden wagon with the black, shiny blocks on them looked ominous. It creaked and squeaked as it rolled closer to where Chantal stood waiting.
The green woman and the buckled man followed the wagon. When it stopped, quite close to where Chantal waited, the four men removed the lock and opened the door.
The squeaking sound of the door scared Chantal. That sound could have come from the wild bore that now roasted on that stick. As the four men disappeared into the wagon, however, Chantal began wondering what lay hidden in there. The clanking sounds made her eager to see. The dirty feet of thin people then slowly appeared before the royal entourage, hands grasping hurting eyes.

Confusion and wonder circled Chantal’s mind like a strange wind cornering a valley.
Chantal saw a man and a woman enter a bright world, skin torn and clothes tattered. Memories came flooding back. Memories of embraces, kisses, late night suppers under the stars, lady bugs in the sunshine, star constallations and silence with God.
The man let out a shriek, fell down on the ground.
Chantal suddenly realized who this was.
The woman behind her grabbed the man and made him stand up. Both couldn’t remain standing for weakness of limbs and fell down, shouting and wailing.

The friendly people.
Why had they been gone for so long?
Chantal fell to her knees, kissed them, hugged them.
All of her love poured out from her soul and hit the friendly people.
No solitude anymore.
The three people embraced, laughing, cuddling and communicating only with their eyes.

The big, famous man took them to a table and ordered what they supposed they ate: nothing with a face. They ate strange food, drank strange drinks, heard strange music and were dressed in strange clothes.
As the leader of the belching soldiers prepared to leave the valley, two other people wandered up the slope to the cave. That evening, the aristocratic assembly left the valley and Chantal sat with the friendly people looking at the stars.

In her hand, she held a beautiful diamond ring.

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