“Stop! Wait! No!” the old blind woman cried out. Only a moment ago her horse-drawn carriage had come to a stop in front of her large Victorian manor. Her footman had opened the door and discovered me: the unexpected (and certainly uninvited) surplus passenger. His eyes perceived nothing more than a no-good scamp clearly after the jewels of his aged and defenseless Lady. He wrested me from the carriage and gave a loud whistle. And there I stood for a bewildered moment: Mollie Ann Cole, twelve years old, misplaced, and frightened.
Though it was still late afternoon, the land lay under thick, wet clouds, making it appear as if night had already fallen. The light rain that had begun during the carriage ride now quickened its pace, as if purposely worsening my plight. Distant thunder, perhaps aroused by the old woman’s shouts, approached with increasing curiosity.
I didn’t know what to do after my abrupt extraction from the carriage, but my puzzlement only lasted until I heard the alarming answer to the footman’s whistle: a pack of dogs barking in the distance. Instinctively, and with no clear plan, I turned and darted from the scene as the old woman’s futile objections faded into the gathering dark. I didn’t know where I was going; I only knew that I did not want to meet those dogs.
Now at a full run, my younger self rounded the manor and tore across the back yard. A flash of lightning revealed a stretch of trees ahead, running along the back of the property. I caught a glimpse of them through the rain, their leaves upturned and writhing in the wind. A second flash revealed something that made my heart leap: a chance of escape. A small, windowless out-building happily stood just on my side of the trees. I quickened my pace.
Coming to a full stop in front of the structure, I swung open the old wooden door (thankfully unlocked), and cast myself inside. The dogs caught up to the door only seconds after I slammed it shut. I stood still for half a triumphant moment, breathing heavily, before inspecting the door more closely. It didn’t look sturdy: just a few grey boards hung on rusty hinges and held together with wooden braces.
The barking ceased and the only sounds apart from my own breathing were that of the rain on the roof and the thunder in the distance. But all too soon, the sounds of snuffling and scratching and growling joined the storm once again.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I shivered alone in the small, dark room. I looked at my surroundings and wondered how I got into this situation. Me, Mollie Ann Cole, twelve years old, misplaced, and frightened. It wasn’t the dogs that brought me here. Nor the long carriage ride with the old blind woman. No. It was something else entirely that landed me in this most unlikely of places. . . .
I had a home once. Twice, actually. But unfortunate circumstance wrenched both from me. My first home was gone beyond all reach: a story that may come later (or not). But as I climbed into that carriage earlier today, I still believed my second home was within my power to regain, if I could but find the money. It was precisely due to that irrational belief that I made a desperate and foolish vow: that I would somehow, someway win my home back. And it was precisely because of that desperate and foolish vow that I now stood in this dark shed with the rickety door.
I looked around again. It was too dark to see anything more than a small window set high in the back wall. The snuffling turned to barking. Startled, I took a few steps back, trying to put additional distance between me and my assailants, only to catch my heel on something and toppling over. I righted myself quickly and looked down to see what tripped me. Lightning flashed again and lit the room enough for me to see what looked like a manhole cover.
In that same flash, I caught sight of a supply shelf. Among the various stock and sundries, I spied an oil lamp and a box of matches. I lit the lamp, crouched down, and held it over the manhole cover. Set in deep, deliberate letters was a single word: Elsewhither. The old blind woman had said that word to me, earlier, before my day had taken this disconcerting turn. I didn’t know then what she meant and I was no nearer to understanding its meaning now.
I stood and waved the lamp around, examining the rest of my surroundings. A crowbar leaned against the wall. I set the lamp down, picked up the heavy tool, and with more than a little effort, removed the cover. Staring down into the depths, almost forgetting my quandary, I stood transfixed at the dark and foreboding pit below. A few seconds passed, or perhaps an hour. What could be down there?
A loud bang at the door snapped me back to reality. I may have briefly forgotten the dogs but they had not forgotten me. Intent on their prey, and not content until this unwanted visitor had been run from their property, they had started in on the door itself. I had no faith that that door would withstand a determined attack.
A dog’s nose suddenly appeared at the doorjamb. It sniffed and snarled, sending a renewed wave of fear through my body. The door banged again and one hinge loosened. Panicking and desperate, I thrust the lamp into the round opening to assess whether it was a viable escape route.
Bang.
No. It didn’t matter if it was a viable escape route. It was the only escape route. I stuck my head into the hole and with great relief saw a ladder attached to the shaft wall. I looked back towards the door just to see it bend inward and I realized this was a now-or-never moment. I dropped to the edge, swung my legs around, and lowered myself to the first rung.
I began to descend, as carefully and quickly as I dared, heading straight down to who-knew-where. The lamp stayed behind as there was no way to escape with both my light and my life. A few rungs down I heard the door finally give way and I looked up to see a dog’s head barking in the opening above me. I slipped a rung or two in shock before regaining my hold and quickening my descent.
At the time it seemed like a mile’s journey, though in reality it was perhaps a dozen yards before my feet touched firm ground again. All noises above died away as an eerie, almost unnatural quiet gathered around me. I felt as cut off from the world as if I’d jumped into a pool of water.
The dim light from above did nothing to illuminate my surroundings and I felt as uncomfortable as ever standing there alone and in the dark. After a short while, however, my eyes began to adjust to the gloom. I saw (or sensed) a large, four-walled chamber around me. Straight ahead yawned a large and forbidding opening. That did not look at all inviting, so I turned my gaze elsewhere. Forms now slowly took shape and my fear receded as I soon perceived a well-organized room.
Were those more shelves? I moved closer. They were shelves. I would have considered myself lucky to find a replacement lamp. Instead I found rows of them. As quickly as I could, I grabbed one and felt around for matches. They were also there in plenty and soon the strange underground room flickered with a soft orange light.
The shelves weren’t the only structures in the room. There were chests, cabinets, and barrels. Another wall held racks of shovels and picks and cords upon cords of ropes. What was this place?
All remaining fear left me now that the strange room revealed its wonders to me. I examined the tables and pulled open drawers. One large cabinet in particular held six wide and short drawers, just like one I’d once seen in a printer’s shop for storing type blocks.
Some drawers turned out to be empty, but others were filled with the oddest assortment of objects. One contained various stones, some rough and others polished. Another held what looked like wooden sticks of unknown purpose. Still another contained corked vials of a strange, black liquid. I picked one up and twirled it in my fingers. The liquid shimmered blue slightly and stuck thickly to the sides.
The last drawer, however, changed my life. I shudder now to think that I had very nearly dismissed it, for it contained only a collection of dusty, yellow papers. But upon a closer inspection, I realized they were maps. Not the kind I’d ever seen before, but maps they were. Turning them in the light, I made various guesses about the meaning of the shapes. Not countries. Not streets or rivers. . . .
Wait a minute.
I turned and stared at the yawning opening again. I looked back at the maps. Tunnels. These were maps of tunnels. I flipped through them again with growing fascination until I found the map that I did not know I was looking for. Words were scattered here and there amid the network of passage-ways. Most were illegible. Many didn’t even seem to be English. My eyes passed over goldhord more than once before it struck me.
“Gold hoard?” I pondered aloud.
I turned and stared. The tunnel stared back. My eyes slowly returned to the map as a desperate thought began to grow. This room. This well-stocked store room. This is where the mapmakers started.
Although I had no idea who they were, I had a clear picture of what they were doing here. This was the base camp of some expedition. And they were clearly after one thing.
Treasure.
What brought me to this place? A desperate and foolish vow. And if the last few months of my life on the streets of London taught me anything, there was only one thing in the world that could help me fulfill it.
Treasure.