by J. B. Hawker
“Hmmm, well now…what would I like to find in such a treasure chest? Oh, I know! There will be the key to a mysterious locker, arcane clues to finding that locker and promises of great rewards when all the puzzles are solved. That could keep a person intrigued and occupied for days.”
“Well, I think the chest contains letters, bound with velvet ribbons. Love letters from a shipwrecked sailor’s wife or sweetheart; letters read and re-read and treasured on many a lonely night at sea,” Rosamund offered. “What’s your guess, Bunny?”
“Gosh, I haven’t even thought, yet! I’ve just been enjoying your ideas so much. Let’s see…how about if it is filled with precious jewels stolen from an idol in an ancient pharaoh’s tomb and carrying a curse for whoever finds them? When I open it, vapor will swirl out and we will all become zombies, trapped between life and death, doomed by our greed for all eternity!”
“That’s a writer for you. Your guess is ready to be made into a movie,” Scott said with a smile.
“We’ve all guessed, Bunny, so open it up, already!” Rosamund snapped.
Bunny opened the lid as slowly as possible and peeked in, then instantly clapped it shut, squealing playfully, “It’s the curse of the pharaoh’s tomb!”
Laughing at the satisfying reactions her antics provoked, she opened the lid wide and displayed the contents for all to see: a few boxes of waterproof matches, a tattered handkerchief, a rather dangerous looking knife and a roll of twine.
“How disappointing,” Rosamund sighed.
“It looks like my practical Jack was closest with his guess of a fisherman’s kit,” his wife proudly announced.
“Congratulations, Jack! How does it feel to win this prestigious contest? Would you care to say a few words?” Scott teased his friend.
While the others bantered, Bunny closed up the box and set it aside, pleased with her contribution to the evening’s entertainment.
She would examine the chest’s little drawers and compartments later, but she had already seen that the interior seemed to be in pretty good condition. That raised her hopes of selling it for a good price.
Enjoying herself in this welcoming home made her even more eager to find a new little nest of her own where she could work and entertain friends.
The conversation turned to a trip Shirley and Jack were planning and Bunny was able to share some of her own travel experiences.
The others were open-mouthed when she told of being kidnapped by the mafia in Naples. Seeing their dismay and deciding to change the tone of the conversation, she glossed over the more unpleasant aspects of her time in Italy and began to share her impressions of the fabulous art and friendly people, instead. When she mentioned that it was her sister’s Nativity set collection that led them to visit Italy, the talk took a new direction, as Rosamund was able to hold forth about her own assorted collections until Bunny and the Davidson’s thanked their hosts and departed.
Huddled in a locked, windowless room in the dank basement of a dockside building in the Port of Songkhla, Khu Khu Paw was trying to come to terms with this latest insult to her humanity.
In all her seventeen years, Khu Khu had learned to expect little but hardship and deprivation. Each time she dared to hope for improvement she had been met with a new horror. Now, sitting naked in the darkness with her painfully thin arms wrapped around her boney knees for warmth, she felt that she could sink no lower. This must be hell, at last.
Khu Khu’s tongue was swollen from thirst and she longed for a drink as she drifted in and out of awareness. Scraps of memory wafted into her thoughts and she tried to grasp and hold on to them.
She saw a vision of her mother and brother in the Tham Hin refugee camp in Thailand. Khu Khu had been so small when the Burmese soldiers killed her father and drove the family from their home, along with their Karen neighbors.
It had been crowded and damp in the refugee camp. They lived in a lean-to made from bamboo and leaf thatch matting. It was uncomfortable, with no clean water and much sickness, but the family had clung to each other and their faith.
Her family and tribe had been Christians since the 1600’s when the Baptist missionary, Adoniram Judson, came to Burma from America. Being Karen and Christian was a double offense to the ethnic Burmese, but it was a great comfort to Khu Khu’s family.
Although Khu Khu had many occasions to wonder if God had forgotten her or was angry with her, she had never doubted his existence. She remained faithful to the teachings of her beloved father.
She knew her father would never have allowed the bad man to steal her away from the refugee camp. Perhaps God would allow her father’s spirit to come and protect her, even now.
When she was left alone after first her mother, and then her brother, succumbed to the diseases ravaging the camp, she had hidden inside their hut as long as possible, but, eventually, hunger drew her out.
She had been standing in line for hours for a ration of rice gruel, but was constantly being pushed aside by larger children and adults, when the dark man offered to take her to the front of the line. She eagerly took his hand and he led her quickly away from the camp, instead.
Her next clear memory was of the horrible place in Bangkok where she had finally been fed. She couldn’t think about that time, and allowed oblivion to blot out the frightful memories.
Chapter Seven
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?-Romans 8:35
A small square of weak light appeared, alleviating the total darkness of her cell and Khu Khu was instantly alert. The last time she had seen the light an over-sized shirt had been tossed in and she had discovered a bowl of watery, undercooked brown rice had been left for her as she slept.
With food in her stomach and no longer naked, she was able to think more clearly. Khu Khu was too wise to pin any hopes of release on these slight improvements. Too often in her experience a promise of ease had only led to greater hardships and deprivation.
As her eyes adjusted to the new level of illumination she became aware of another presence in the tiny room; someone small huddled near the door where the slot was now closing once again, blotting out the light.
It had been wet and gloomy in Bannoch for days. Although occasional sun breaks were promised in the daily weather forecasts, they stubbornly failed to appear. Everyone was anxious for the skies to clear before the fireworks and all the celebrations on the Fourth.
Bunny spent most of her time in her room, either looking at rental ads, writing or preparing pitches for writing assignments. She ventured out, now and then, to look at potential homes, but the apartments were either too expensive or completely unsuitable.
Although her housing search wasn’t going well, Bunny was pleased to find that Naidenne Grinager was becoming a good friend. The property manager was bright, funny and interesting. Although she was younger than Bunny, the two single women enjoyed many of the same interests and enjoyed meeting for coffee or lunch every few days.
Bunny was grateful for any opportunity to spend time away from the parsonage and Rosamund. The pastor’s sister was kind to let a stranger stay so long in her home, but she made it fairly obvious in a dozen little ways that it was an imposition. Naidenne and the Griffiths made Bunny feel so much more welcome in her new community.
Sitting in a booth by the front window at the Boatworks Coffee Shop, the two new friends were sipping their drinks and watching the mid-morning rain pour down.
“Oregonians are accustomed to getting our feet wet, but this weather still puts a damper on my business. No one enjoys house-hunting during a storm, and the properties don’t look their best, either,” Naidenne moaned, running her fingers through her tangled hair and re-securing her topknot.
“Sorry to be so self-centered, but I have to admit that I will be glad if the rain keeps away competition for available rentals, Naidenne, at least until I can snap one up for m
yself,” Bunny responded.
“That’s okay. I get the same property management fees, whether the place is rented or not. It’s sales that I’m worried about. I depend on a couple of nice commissions a month to balance my budget.”
“I thought I read somewhere that the housing slump is over and things are beginning to improve…or was that just wishful thinking?”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as it was. I wonder if it will ever be as good as before the bubble burst, though. Say, as long as we are discussing finances, how’s your writing coming along?”
“Better than I hoped, actually. I’ve only needed to dip into my little inheritance nest egg a couple of times. My first few pitches of articles to magazines went really well, but, to be honest, I’ve begun to run out of ideas.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I need to write about something of topical interest, first of all, but I can’t just rehash what everyone is already reading or hearing, so there needs to be a new slant on it. On the other hand, a writer is supposed to write what she knows. I haven’t had a very exciting life, so I need to do research on almost any topic I want to cover. It’s harder than I expected.”
“Are you researching anything, now?”
“The women’s group in one of my late husband’s churches raised funds for the New Life Center in Thailand. It’s a mission program to save young girls who have been forced into the sex business. At our meetings I learned that human trafficking is one of the fastest growing crimes in the world.”
“Really?” Naidenne was surprised.
“Yes. It seems drug dealers have latched onto the idea that while they can only sell a shipment of drugs once, they can sell the same human beings over and over. Vulnerable young people are even cheaper to get a hold of than drugs. I was horrified by what I learned and was trying to think of a way to cover the story from a fresh perspective. You know, it doesn’t just happen ‘over there’ somewhere. We have the same problem right here in the U.S. Like a nightmare perversion of the Underground Railroad that carried slaves to freedom in the 1800’s, there are black market networks preying on women and children, taking them from their homes and making them slaves. The dregs of humanity, many from Eastern Europe and Asia, work loosely together as procurers, either by enticing their vulnerable victims with offers of honest work or by force, kidnapping them outright. Many end up here in our own country.”
“That’s awful, but it sounds like it could be a really good article, Bunny. What’s the problem?”
“It’s that whole research thing. If I merely rearrange what other people have already written I won’t have anything new to offer. When I tried to do some original research I was so repelled by what I learned that I couldn’t make myself keep digging. I guess I’m just not the investigative reporter type.”
“Maybe you should look for a story closer to home. What about a travel article about the very charming Bannoch-by-the-Sea? We could use an influx of tourists, you know.”
“I actually wrote that story when I first arrived here. I got it printed in the Auto Club magazine. It was one of those “places to see on the Oregon Coast” pieces. I wrote it from a tourist’s perspective, since I was so new to the area. Now that I’ve been here awhile I suppose I might try something about the people who live here. That could be interesting. It would be about the kind of folks who choose to live year-round in vacation spots and how they manage in the off season. Thanks for the idea.”
“If you decide to include me in your story, you need to warn me before taking notes of our conversations. I have a reputation to consider, you know,” Naidenne teased. “Seriously, who would you write about?”
“I would want to include you, of course. Single business women would be interested in what life is like for them here. I think I would try to interview some local officials and business people, but I’d want a cross-section: teenagers, stay-at-home moms, if there are any, retirees…and Scott and Rosamund, of course, since I’m living with them.”
“Are you getting plenty of chances to get to know all about them? In Rosamund’s case, maybe a little TMI, too much information?”
Bunny snickered, “I do know more about my pastor’s undergarments than I’d like.”
“Tell!”
“Rosamund uses them for cleaning rags, that’s all. But I was a bit taken aback the first time she handed me a pair. I don’t know much about the Davidson’s, really.”
“What do you want to know about them?”
“Why they are both single, for one thing.”
“Well, that’s easy! I can tell you that. Rosamund married her high school sweetheart right after graduation and her husband was killed in the last days of Vietnam. She never got over it, apparently.”
“Oh, that’s so sad. What about Scott?”
“That is the real tragedy. I’m surprised no one in your church has told you about it. About fifteen years ago his wife and daughter were killed in a head-on collision with a big rig. A long-haul trucker fell asleep and drifted into their lane on the Coast Highway in Northern California. The family lived near Redding at the time. Scott and Rosamund moved here about a year after the accident.”
Learning their sad histories gave Bunny a new perspective on her host and hostess. She was reminded that everyone has struggles and pain we seldom see. It was an admonition to her to be less judgmental, especially of Rosamund.
Khu Khu heard sobbing in the darkness and whispered, “Who is there?”
The crying intensified and Khu Khu could tell this was a child. She crawled slowly toward the sounds, murmuring soothingly as she went.
Her hand brushed against cloth and she was relieved that the child had not been stripped naked by their captors as she had been.
“I am Khu Khu Paw,” she whispered. “What is your name, child?”
A feeble, high-pitched voice responded, “Htoo Lwee. I want my mother, please.”
“Are you hurt, Htoo?”
“The nasty man hit me. I said to stop, but he hit me more. Please, can you take me to my mother?”
“I’m sorry, child. I don’t know your mother. Tell me about her. How do you come to be here?”
The little girl’s sobs increased and Khu Khu tried to distract her.
“Where do you live, little one? Where is your home? Please tell me.”
“My home is in a village above Pa Tan. Mother fell ill and my uncle took me to Chiang Mai for work. He told my mother he will take me to New Life Center. They teach girls to work. But he gave me to the bad man, instead. I want to go back to my mother.”
Htoo Lwee began to cry, again, but more softly, now. The poor child was exhausted. Khu Khu wrapped her arms around the girl and stroked her brow. Htoo was soon asleep with her head in the older girl’s lap.
The next Monday morning brought welcome sunshine and, for Bunny, a surge of renewed energy.
She woke early and went out for a walk on the beach before breakfast.
The parsonage was only a few blocks from the shore, so a pleasurable stroll through the downtown area brought Bunny to the sea. This was one of the benefits of living right in town that Bunny hoped to enjoy in her new home. The quiet solitude of the countryside no longer seemed as attractive as it had when she rented that remote cabin.
Coming down from the boardwalk, she crunched along in the sand toward the water, smiling as she let her thoughts drift to her new friendships.
She wasn’t taking the town by storm, but she was gradually making connections.
The highpoint in her social life in Bannoch, so far, was that first evening spent with the Griffiths. Bunny chuckled, remembering some of their silly conversations. The little dinner party had been fun.
At one point that night Bunny had begun to instinctively slip back into the role of the pastor’s wife and pulled herself up short. She could see that staying at the parsonage and sharing a pastor’s social life would not be helpful to the project of redefining hersel
f.
A fishing boat disappearing into a bank of fog about a half mile from shore brought the sea chest to Bunny’s mind. She still needed to get the inside compartments cleaned out and take photos of the chest, so she could post it on eBay. She had been procrastinating and felt strangely reluctant to sell the little box. However, she knew she needed to shake off the ennui that had overtaken her after the trauma of the break-in and get on with her life.
With a look of determination, Bunny turned away from the seascape and began walking back toward town. As she climbed the steps up to the street she caught a glimpse of the two inquisitive men she had seen on the beach that day she found the sea chest. They seemed to be watching her again, although when she peered directly at them they quickly turned away.
Bunny was surprised the men were still hanging around the area. They didn’t look much like tourists to her.
Seeing that the vendors at the mini-mall in the converted cannery on the wharf were opening up, she put those men out of her mind and decided to drop into the Boatworks for breakfast before returning to her temporary lodgings.
Bunny grabbed a newspaper from the stack of complementary Oregonians and settled into a booth. After giving the waitress her order of tea and a bowl of hot groats with blueberries, she checked out the news.
It had been a while since she’d kept up with all the happenings in the world, so she read the paper from cover to cover as she ate. She was sipping the last of her milky tea when she turned to the Classifieds.
A notice in the Miscellaneous Wanted section caught her eye: “Wanted-Antique Boxes and Chests-Best Prices Paid” followed by a phone number to call. She started to pull out her phone to call the number, but then decided to check the prices on eBay and Craigslist first, for comparison.
Rosamund thought the chest might be valuable, so it would be prudent for Bunny to get as much information as possible before selling it. If she could make a deal for anywhere near a thousand dollars she would have the deposit she needed for a new place to live.