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part 2 of the sstory
The Treasure of the Inebriati

James Scargill

    This comment weighed on her that evening after they had parted and at night she dreamt of lambs being taken from the herd.
    When she was woken by her phone ringing, she was at first grateful to leave behind those grey, confusing images, but upon realizing the time—3 a.m.—she feared the worst as she answered.
    “Maria! It’s fantastic!” The voice was excited, and it took her a few disoriented seconds to recognize Don.
    At first Emma could only mumble “Wha?”
    “I’m sorry for calling so late, but it came to me in a dream, and I just had to tell you!” She was about to repeat her vocalization when he realized he should explain. “I know where it is—the map—southern Arizona. Not far! Why don’t we go? We can find this treasure!”
    “Right. Wow. Yeah, that’s something.”
    “So will you come?”
    Emma thought for a moment, as best as the time allowed, and resolved to take this late-night call as a sign. “Sure,” she told Don, and agreed to meet him the following morning. She lay back now fully awake as what was to come dawned on her.

    After a few hours of fitful sleep, sunlight came to wash over the city. Though Emma suspected Geoff wouldn’t be up yet, she decided to give him a ring.
    “I hope I didn’t wake you.” She started.
    “Not at all, she just left.” Geoff’s attempt and humor or suavity was upset by his grogginess, but Emma had to chuckle.
    “There has been a development, regarding Don, and the denouement will come today.”
    “Really? Because I was beginning to think asking you two times a day wasn’t proving effective. But seriously, talk to me.”
    “Well, he wants to go on a trip, to find the treasure, so it kind of reaches a conclusion here.”
    “Wait, so you’re not going to join him?”
    “Uh, the treasure’s not real, Geoff?”
    “But don’t you see? This will make an excellent video! See how far along you can string this fool—I mean, he actually wants to go on a goddam quest. You film that, vlog it and the crazy rube-ish things he’s bound to do. We can say it’s some kind of experiment—like how far will someone go for a dream? Or even make it about something like the contact between delusions and reality.”
    “Hmmm, I’m not sure what I think about that.”
    “But you said you wanted to branch out from our usual format. Fate has dropped this into our laps. And we can still do the big reveal at the end, the climax, when it will garner the most impactful response.”
    “I don’t know. I mean one night in a bar is one thing, but this seems like a whole different level. He’s bound to feel taken advantage of.”
    “Nah. This guy wants to go on this adventure, right? So, you’re just helping him with that.”
    “I guess. Plus, it would be something different, I suppose” Emma said, to start on the road of convincing herself.
    “Think of the views!”
    Geoff’s exhortation pushed Emma further along, and by the time they hung up she had agreed to the plan. As she headed to the parking lot where she was to meet Don, she even felt excited. The true reason for her being there intruded, however, when Don, who had pulled up, commented on the fact she was filming him.
    “Oh right, I just want to record the quest for posterity, you know?” Emma explained.
    “Oh, good idea! Do you make videos often?”
    Emma became flustered but played it off as modesty while she searched his face for this question’s motive. “Occasionally I film things, but only for fun. The results aren’t particularly edifying.”
    “Well, I’d love to see one sometime!”
    Emma demurred, threw her bag into the car’s trunk, and texted Geoff the license plate.
    As they negotiated their way out of the city, Don jumped into a retelling of his dream. “It was the bell, the one you mentioned, so really I have you to thank. At first, I only heard the tolling—everything was dark—but I knew I was moving towards it, and when I looked up, I saw the belfry silhouetted against a bright sky. It was dawn—my dawn—and as the sun rapidly rose, the changing illumination revealed the distinctive shape of the mission church and the surrounding hills. People were thronging but ignoring me, and as the day progressed, they fell, one by one, their flesh disintegrated and bones were bleached by the sun. At this I jumped up and flapped my wings, for now I was a bird who circled and soared, higher and higher. The silky embrace of night revealed the lights of distant towns and cities.
    “When I woke, I straightaway opened google maps and studied the distribution of settlements in the southwest, narrowing it down, looking at photographs of ancient buildings, until I came to the Mission of San Epipodio which had to be what I saw in my dream.
    “What do you think? Does that make sense?”
    “Oh, err, yeah. I mean it’s as good an indication as any.” Emma responded, wishing she ever had dreams as extensive—she almost called it revealing before catching herself.

    They had been on I-5 headed south for about an hour, and with Sacramento left behind, Emma gazed out of the window and watched the monotonous scrub punctuated by the occasional city. It wasn’t exactly La Mancha, but perhaps if one squinted. Too late to turn around, in any case, better to charge.
    “Maria, tell me something, would you?” Don asked, gently, but Emma remained idly watching their journey’s progress. “Um, Maria?” he said again, reaching out to tap her arm. Emma jumped.
    “Sorry, I was miles away. What is it?”
    “I was wondering: what was going through your mind? When you were in the archive. Did you think you’d actually find this treasure?”
    “Well, let’s not count our bridges before they’re hatched,” Emma said, with a nervous laugh, unsure whether she should be egging on Don for the sake of the video or preparing him for disappointment.
    “But let’s also not give up hope right away! When you were collecting those clues, did you anticipate them becoming a map and going on an adventure like this? Was it planned?”
    “Oh yes, and you were selected specifically. You are the chosen one, Don.” Emma said, immediately, in a deadpan tone. Sometimes a direct approach was the best way to obfuscate. Fortunately, he laughed, and so she continued, “No. I’ll be honest, I didn’t foresee this. Probably my assembled notes would’ve ended up lost and forgotten in some dusty archive of their own.”
    “Your own archive?”
    “Or the county library, more likely!” she laughed. “Can I ask you something, Don?”
    “Of course!”
    “Who won the last election?”
    “The President?”
    “Right. What is a globe?”
    “Umm, a representation of the Earth? What do you mean?”
    “Do aliens exist?”
    “Yes. I mean, probably. But they’ve not visited the Earth, if that’s what you’re asking.” Emma was silent, so Don continued, “Look, I get it. Going to actually search for this treasure is crazy, but I’m not some nut, I assure you. And I don’t think you really could think that, otherwise why would you be here?”
    Emma had wanted to probe his faculties, having been struck by a fear; but even if he wasn’t delusional, could it not still be said she was taking advantage? “Of course. Look Don, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
    “No worries! I appreciate my faith in this venture might seem strange, but what’s life without a little optimism?”
    The day progressed with snatches of conversation interrupting the monotony of the drive. Emma found herself making up the story of the most interesting document she had come across in the archive—she was about to describe a letter from Juan Ponce de Leon about his search for the Fountain of Youth but figured salacious rumors of one of the viceroy’s proclivities would confuse matters less—and she ended up describing her visit to Seville more generally. As luck would have it, she had been to Andalusia a few years ago, though not to Seville specifically, and so was able to furnish an account convincing to Don. She was worried that after all the information she had extracted from him she might be at a loss for questions with which to reciprocate, but he took pleasure in recounting the plots of various science fiction novels he had recently read—at one point she thought he might even start generating sound effects and she found his enthusiasm infectious.
    As the sun began to set, they pulled off the highway and stopped at a motel. Emma immediately asked the receptionist for two rooms and took care to note Don did not evince the slightest disappointment.
    The air conditioner in her room made a situating rattle as it was turned on and as she scanned from the dirty net curtains to the desk with the scruffy, dog-eared pad, to the ominous void of the dark doorway to the bathroom, she supposed with a chuckle that she should be soothed by such a quotidian motel experience. She sighed and got the bottle of gin from her bag.
    In the morning the slit of light separating the curtains pierced her to consciousness over the course of a few hours. The gin bottle was still two-thirds full and after a few glasses of water and a shower Emma made her way to the reception. The placid warmth of the day made her feel all the worse for not ambling and enjoying it.
    A chaotic crowd surrounded the breakfast materials, so she settled for coffee and sat in a corner to glare at the television. The chat surrounding her was worse than the buzz of a mosquito, rising and crashing unpredictably, one person calling another person’s name—why didn’t she answer, or he realize she wasn’t there and stop shouting? She looked down at the murky brew and focused on the largest bubble, adhered to the side, certain and stolid, cushioned by foam, yet pop—there it went, as a shadow crossed the table.
    “Maria! Maria! Sorry, I guess you couldn’t hear me above the din.”
    Emma looked up to see Don in the now quiet, bright room. “I’m sorry,” she said, “in a world of my own.” They were both silent for a few moments, then she added, “Listen. why don’t you call me M? It’s what my friends do.”
    Back in her room Emma sent a quick update to Geoff and by mid-morning she and Don were back on the road, now headed east, the mountains rearing up to one side. After a few hours hurtling through the desert, they were bearing down on the state line and as they crossed over into Arizona Emma abruptly commanded Don to take the next exit. Though taken aback, he obeyed, and she scanned the streets of the small settlement they entered. “There!” she said, pointing at a nondescript bar, in front of which he parked.
    “What’s going on?” Don asked.
    “Well, this is your first time outside California, right? It demands a celebration!” She herded him inside and bought them each a drink, finding sudden and surprising solace in reprising their previous mode of interaction. “How does it feel?” she asked.
    “Like the adventure is really beginning!”
    Emma encouraged Don to talk more about his sense of wonder and excitement, even having left the camera in the car. His words were like a refreshing stream, his hope a spring. She had not yet asked him the usual question about what he would do with the treasure, but it had practically passed from her mind in its supposed futility; he desired the treasure, of course, but only as a goal, a reason to embark on this journey, she felt.
    Over his protestation they stayed and had another drink and she wondered why she was so keen they remain here. Was she trying to put off bringing their search for the treasure into violent contact with the hard reality of a desert empty of prizes so definite? When they stepped out into the harsh sunlight of the early afternoon Emma suggested a stroll before hitting the road again, so they wandered to the edge of town. Their backs to the freeway, the sandy immensity came up to meet them with unexpected abruptness. Here was the town and here was the temptation of escape, were it not for the fences stretching off and enclosing.
    After minutes of silent contemplation, Emma said, “It’s funny, the treasure could be anywhere, in any field, in any wilderness. Lost to mankind if not to our thoughts.”
    “M, what are you saying? We’ll find it. Not here, because it’s not here, but we must press on. We’ll find it.”
    Back in the car they drove in contemplation adulterated only eventually by the outskirts of Phoenix. Here they stopped amongst the semi-urban dross at a motel which had only its position on their route to favor it. The room could have been a carbon copy of the previous night’s, yet Emma felt it hang heavily as if it were a lead apron. She dreamt of buried panes of glass.
    The following day they were to head south, away from the city, skirting it like stone skimmed on a pond. By mutual, unspoken agreement, they eschewed the interstate, choosing, or needing, a slow departure to allow them to witness the city be dismantled by the landscape bit by bit until the desert reclaimed them. They travelled on progressively smaller roads branching into the Sonoran Desert until they were travelling on the equivalent of a capillary, barely paved and just as fragile.
    Arriving at a ruined mission church, Don stopped the car and Emma, getting out, admired the way the sun blasted the cracked, whitewashed walls and the sharp contrast with the shadows they cast. Precise lines ran along the sand, thinner than a single grain, demarcating heat and cool, illumination and darkness. There was a tall saguaro cactus close to where they parked, venerable and weathered yet perfectly proportioned, its arms held up in jubilation that occurred on a timescale beyond her reckoning. It was a scene from an ancient postcard, a movie, or indeed innumerable items of Western kitsch, Emma thought, as she recalled the plate she had at home painted with a desert sunset. The impressive heat, encouraged by a gentle breeze, caressed her, and she was bathed in silence, not even the rattle of a snake to disturb her. This appreciation trembled, however, when she recalled why she was here. If this was the spot where the treasure was supposed to be, then this was the moment when the guillotine must fall.
    “Look! I knew my dream could be trusted!” Don exclaimed.
    “This is the church you dreamt of?”
    “I’m sure of it!”
    Such certainty disturbed Emma, until she spotted a way out. “But it doesn’t have a belfry,” she noticed. “Wasn’t the bell the important part?”
    Don gave her a look that could almost be called condescending, though which, having got to know him a little, Emma assumed was meant to be reassuring. “It must have fallen in a storm. Come, let’s look for it.” Emma followed him as they poked among the brush—his mood was infectious, and she found herself almost hoping they would come across some further ruin. Around the other side they did find scattered bricks and cracked plaster which Don spent time examining, picking them up and trying to put them together. As he made dubious noises, Emma reasoned this was the perfect time to do it, but quickly realized she had once again left the camera in the car.
    “Yes, this does look right!” Don eventually said, before looking Emma in the eye and joking, “Ye of little faith!”
    She was taken aback but attempted a casual laugh and said, “Well, you would know!” At his bemusement she explained, “About this being the right place!”
    Don smiled, got out the map from his pocket, and beckoned her over to study it. He pointed out the various aspects which agreed with their current location, though it all centered around one word—‘bell’—she had read out but a week ago, even if that first evening in the bar felt like it could have happened as far back as the construction of the ruin in whose shade they now stood. He asked her opinion on his interpretation, and though this was the perfect invitation to dissuade him, if not completely let him down, she was overcome with admiration for the solidity of his account and found the best she could do was make her agreement not overly wholehearted. He beamed and wandered back to the car.
    Right, Emma thought, feeling as if she had just returned from a vision, when he gets out the spade and starts digging, that’s when I’ll tell him—Geoff would probably even congratulate me on such an apposite climax, sweat dripping from his brow.
    Instead of a spade, Don returned with an old photographic camera and framed a shot of the church, careful to include the now partially reconstructed, if transplanted, belfry. Emma debated stopping him, not wanting to imagine how painful this image may later prove to be. But she didn’t, and he took his snap, manually winding the camera afterwards. He then surprised her by saying, “Well, shall we get on our way?”
    “What about the treasure?” Emma said immediately, though regretted it a second afterwards.
    “It’s not here, M,” he said, confused at her question. Emma became worried, for an instant seeing the tables turned, until he slapped his forehead and gave a bright laugh. “Of course! Sorry, I’ve spent so much time thinking about this map that I forget you don’t know what I know.
    “It’s more than just this one location—the map stretches across this land! This place corresponds to one aspect and is the start, but we now have to move from word to word, each one informing the next, spelling out a story written in these sands. The next one is chasuble, but there are no vestments in there.
    “Sorry again, I should have explained this, or, at least, this is how I understand it. But it’s your map too, do you think I’m right?”
    “Let me see the map again,” she said, and spent a few minutes thinking about the situation as she pretended to study it. Was this a positive development? On the one hand it extended the quest further, and deepened their involvement, potentially making its conclusion all the messier, but on the other hand, this gave it a more definite development and, crucially, a more definite end, for there were only so many words and phrases she had given him. That eased the burden somewhat, as she would not have to decide when to end this, when to tell the truth. Furthermore, with that taken out of her hands and off her mind, perhaps she could even enjoy this adventure, as she found herself beginning to do—why else was it called playing along if it wasn’t meant to be fun? “Ah, I see what you mean,” she said, after a while, “I think you might be onto something. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t convinced the treasure was here either.”
    Therefore, they got in the car and trundled back down the road, discussing the next target.

    Over the next few days, they crissed and crossed the Arizona portion of the Sonoran Desert, ticking off items from the map, each one leading them to the next. From horses to wells, ranches to cacti—of the last none were as old as the clues they followed supposedly were, yet somehow they still managed to find their way. They stayed away from larger cities, and Emma found the heat and expanse of the desert to have an effect. Its austere beauty challenged her but also promised a reward for effort spent and there were moments when they were miles from another soul that she wished even Don was not there and she could just lie back and let the landscape consume her.
    After a fulfilling day of what felt like progress the two of them were sitting in a quiet bar not unlike the one in which they had first met, albeit smaller. They chatted of commonplaces, and apparently exhibited such a gregarious air that they were approached by a charming looking woman who asked if she could join them, for she didn’t like drinking alone. They assented and the three got acquainted.
    Julie was travelling west, to Hollywood, though not to become an actress, instead to paint the ocean, as she put it, and as she recounted her journey thus far, it seemed she had found plenty of artistic subjects on the way. If not quite a raconteur, she nonetheless put them at their ease, so when she asked what their journey was, Emma thought nothing of it, until Don began to respond. Her pulse quickened and vision narrowed as he explained that they were treasure hunters, were following a map, and wouldn’t she like to see?
    This is it, Emma thought, the moment the bubble is burst, and not even by me. Should she jump in to defend Don from ridicule, or would that just compromise her further? She wondered about staging a diversion, maybe pushing her glass off the table whilst Don was talking, better that to be shattered than the alternative.
    Don finished his explanation, Julie opened her mouth, but rather than laughter she launched into effusive praise for undertaking something so exciting. As she mentioned Borges and his story about fiction bleeding into reality, Emma realized her understanding of the whole treasure map situation might be different from Don’s. There was something to be said for an artistic frame of mind, and the complementary view it offered, and so long as Julie wasn’t going to tell Don he was being taken advantage of, or call him a fool, then Emma was happy.
    As the evening progressed, they all three became jolly. Don and Julie, in particular, were a pair of aligned mirrors, bouncing cheer off one another, and it became clear her distaste for solo drinking extended to other nocturnal activities. It had of course come out that Emma and Don were not romantically involved, but Emma still had to applaud this woman’s boldness at being quite so forward with her sitting there. In any case, Don was reciprocating the attention being lavished. To his credit, whilst Julie had gone to get more drinks, he did delicately try to broach the subject of whether Emma minded, to which she reflexively responded, “not in the slightest!” and tried to figure out what her feelings actually were.
    Eventually, Julie invited Don to come and see some of the paintings she had created on this trip—“The photos on my phone simply don’t do them justice”—and the two of them bid Emma goodnight. Julie was staying in the same motel as them—the only one in town—and so to avoid awkwardly tailing them Emma remained for another drink, trying to ignore the bartender’s look of pity. She stared into her glass until enough time passed, then slipped out into the cool desert night.
    The air was refreshing, and it was only now, immersed in it, that she realized how stuffy the bar had been, as she let the gentle breeze blow away the smell of cigarette smoke and spilt beer, even if the fuzz in her mind was harder to remove. Why was she upset about Don and Julie going off together, she wondered? For she was upset, at a low, buzzing level that made up for the lack of irritating insects in this environment.
    Simple jealousy, that ooze wept by love and as ubiquitous as simple syrup, exchanging sweet for bitter, was the nearest explanation, she mused, yet wondered whether she had ever actually felt jealousy before. Envy was a common friend to her, be it of the juiciest melon in the supermarket snapped up by the shopper in front, or one of her rare friends’ even rarer promotions, there were many things she did not possess yet wished to, however, so scant she judged her own life, there was not anything she thought she feared losing. Even the career she had manifested making videos for the internet, which felt dwindling and distant over these last few days, she told herself could diminish and disappear with a pop without fundamentally changing her mood. Maybe that lack of interest was precisely because she had become enthralled by Don, but she knew what it was not to want someone. If she was enthralled by anything, rather than her companion it was the journey itself, the adventure, that sustained her. An adventure that might be imperiled by Don sleeping with this woman he had just met? Was Don to run off with this woman to Hollywood, potter around tinsel town, or perhaps persuade her to paint Sacramento instead? Emma thought it unlikely. Don was full of wonder which seemed larger than just falling head over heels for someone, and despite Julie’s interest in what they were doing, Emma knew she would continue on her own journey tomorrow morning. The alternative only happens in the pages of a book.

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