I walked around the Carter estate, trying to picture what kind of landmark I’d use to hide money that needed to stay hidden for twenty years. Trees wouldn't work. There was too much risk if one of them fell down in a storm and even got chopped down.
Stone walls? Maybe. I could picture Old Man Carter shoving a big bad of money into a crevice of a wall. But what part of the wall? What would be the clue to tell me this section marked the spot?
I followed the myriad stone walls of the Carter estate to the property bounds, searching for irregular, oddly colored stones. But it was hard to tell, every stone was speckled with lichen and mottled with moss.
The aimless wandering began. I’d pick a starting point in the property bounds and just let myself take a direction in the woods, crossing stream, passing small meadows. I never quite understood what twenty acres encompassed but now I got it. It was a lot of land, so many hiding spaces, no landmark of any interest.
Until one afternoon I did pass a landmark of sorts: a big boulder sitting by itself in the woods. A relic of the Ice Age. It was about ten feet tall and cracked in the middle, so you could slip a few feet into the crack. I tried digging to no avail in the crack, hitting hard stone after a few inches. Finally, I scrambled ontop and looked around for indentation, anyplace something could get hidden.
Then I spied something off in the distance, a clearing surrounded by birch trees. There was one rock sticking up in the clearing, sharp and thin, a perfectly beautiful landmark.
I made my way to the clearing and reached the dark, thin stone, peering at its strange precariousness. How did it get to be in this upright position? If it wasn’t so pointy, it almost looked like a gravestone, as though a corner had been snapped off. I rubbed at the lichen covering its flat face and saw the faintest hint of writing etched into its surface, an ‘a’ a ‘t’ and ‘h’. I carefully peeled away the lichen, revealing the words ‘beloved father’ and numbers ‘179-’ and ‘18-1’.
Coldness crept up from my legs, my heart spasmed. It was a gravestone, all by itself. In the middle of nowhere, forgotten. I looked down at my feet, suddenly aware there might be a dead body right under me, half expecting a skeletal hand to poke out and grab me. I moved over to the side of the stone, swallowed hard, and rubbed more lichen off, looking for a name. I could make out ‘A—t–n’ but the rest of the letters were too faint to make out.
I looked around. This felt like a huge clue, but also a warning. Had Austin Carter buried money at this grave, knowing how unlikely it was that anyone would dig here? Or maybe he’d even moved this stone from some other forgotten graveyard as his own personal landmark. I gripped my shovel. Did I dare dig here? Right in front of a grave?
I set my shovel into the moss and used all my weight to push into the soil.
— siobhan
Stone walls? Maybe. I could picture Old Man Carter shoving a big bad of money into a crevice of a wall. But what part of the wall? What would be the clue to tell me this section marked the spot?
I followed the myriad stone walls of the Carter estate to the property bounds, searching for irregular, oddly colored stones. But it was hard to tell, every stone was speckled with lichen and mottled with moss.
The aimless wandering began. I’d pick a starting point in the property bounds and just let myself take a direction in the woods, crossing stream, passing small meadows. I never quite understood what twenty acres encompassed but now I got it. It was a lot of land, so many hiding spaces, no landmark of any interest.
Until one afternoon I did pass a landmark of sorts: a big boulder sitting by itself in the woods. A relic of the Ice Age. It was about ten feet tall and cracked in the middle, so you could slip a few feet into the crack. I tried digging to no avail in the crack, hitting hard stone after a few inches. Finally, I scrambled ontop and looked around for indentation, anyplace something could get hidden.
Then I spied something off in the distance, a clearing surrounded by birch trees. There was one rock sticking up in the clearing, sharp and thin, a perfectly beautiful landmark.
I made my way to the clearing and reached the dark, thin stone, peering at its strange precariousness. How did it get to be in this upright position? If it wasn’t so pointy, it almost looked like a gravestone, as though a corner had been snapped off. I rubbed at the lichen covering its flat face and saw the faintest hint of writing etched into its surface, an ‘a’ a ‘t’ and ‘h’. I carefully peeled away the lichen, revealing the words ‘beloved father’ and numbers ‘179-’ and ‘18-1’.
Coldness crept up from my legs, my heart spasmed. It was a gravestone, all by itself. In the middle of nowhere, forgotten. I looked down at my feet, suddenly aware there might be a dead body right under me, half expecting a skeletal hand to poke out and grab me. I moved over to the side of the stone, swallowed hard, and rubbed more lichen off, looking for a name. I could make out ‘A—t–n’ but the rest of the letters were too faint to make out.
I looked around. This felt like a huge clue, but also a warning. Had Austin Carter buried money at this grave, knowing how unlikely it was that anyone would dig here? Or maybe he’d even moved this stone from some other forgotten graveyard as his own personal landmark. I gripped my shovel. Did I dare dig here? Right in front of a grave?
I set my shovel into the moss and used all my weight to push into the soil.
— siobhan
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