Treasure Lost

by R. G. Cordiner

  Treasure Lost

  R. G. Cordiner

  Createspace (2009)

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Action Adventure, General

  Juvenile Fictionttt Action Adventurettt Generalttt

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  Product Description

  What do you treasure and how far would you go to find it? Peter and Farren are two brothers who think adventure is sneaking into a pub or going rabbit hunting. Little do they know! Soon the youths are on a whirlwind trip of betrayal, daggers, self-discovery and a giant reticulated python! Somehow they have to find a way to stop fighting with each other, avoid a sadistic Navy Admiral and a mysterious pirate captain whilst remembering to tap the biscuits on the side of the ship - maggots are never good for breakfast! "If you came for treasure it lies within, if you did not, what you treasure lies beyond your grasp."

  About the Author

  R.G. Cordiner is a teacher and author residing in Australia. Treasure Lost was his first book. He has subsequently released Candy Wars: The Tooth Fairies vs The Candy King, Bug Island and Candy Wars II: Sweet Revenge. He is currently writing Alien Hunters: Discovery. He is married with two step-children and three psychotic cats. For more information go to cordiner.wordpress.com

  What do you treasure and how far would you go to find it?

  Peter and Farren are two brothers who think adventure is sneaking into a pub or going rabbit hunting. Little do they know! Soon the youths are on a whirlwind trip of betrayal, daggers, self-discovery and a giant reticulated python!

  Somehow they have to find a way to stop fighting with each other, avoid a sadistic Navy Admiral and a mysterious cloaked pirate captain, whilst remembering to tap the biscuits on the side of the ship – maggots are never good for breakfast!

  “If you came for treasure it lies within,

  if you did not, what you treasure lies beyond your grasp.”

  ...

  PUBLISHED BY:

  R.G. Cordiner

  Treasure Lost

  Copyright © 2009 by R.G. Cordiner

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Whilst every attempt has been made to create historically accurate situations, all speech has been modernised.

  ...

  To my wife Kim - You are the treasure I never want to lose

  To the boys - treasure every moment

  To my family - thanks for your constant support

  To the kids I've taught - treasure your learning

  Books by R.G. Cordiner:

  OUT NOW:

  Treasure Lost

  Candy Wars: The Tooth Fairies vs The Candy King

  Bug Island

  Candy Wars II: Sweet Revenge

  Candy Wars I and II: The Sugar Hit

  COMING SOON:

  Alien Hunters: Discovery

  TREASURE LOST

  R.G. Cordiner

  Chapter 1

  The Meeting

  The sea crashed relentlessly against the rocks, in a hopeless attempt to destroy them. Further up the cliff face a lone gull huddled deeper into its feathers in a desperate attempt to stay warm as the storm drove bitter stakes of cold into it. At the peak of the sheer rock wall sat a lone building like the last fortress against evil. The wind whistled through the holes in the fragile timber boards as it crept inside and attacked the people within. The building was so much a part of its surroundings that it seemed almost grown from the top of the cliff. The voices within the pub strained to be heard over the howling storm and the creaking boards. The owners of the voices were a varied bunch of ruffians and thugs whose stories were etched on their faces and carved into their bodies … with two notable exceptions.

  The youths were too young to drink, yet old enough to try. The publican had been in this situation many a time before. He figured that they were not just buying their first pint, but a lifetime of enslavement to the amber drop, and where better to become addicted, than in his ‘fine’ establishment. The two teenagers gratefully handed over their coins and quickly retreated to their alcove, lest the owner have time to reconsider. As they slowly sipped at their drinks they felt as if it was a form of magic elixir that immediately transformed them. No longer did they feel trapped in the chasm between child and adult. In one sip, they believed they had made the leap from one to the other without all of that impatient waiting. Their bony chests swelled out and they broke out in enormous grins. Little did they know that it was mostly flavoured water that they were drinking.

  “This is great ale,” exclaimed Peter.

  “You wouldn’t know a good ale if it landed in your lap.” said Farren, beginning to warm to the topic.

  “Would too,” attested Peter

  “Would not.”

  “Would …” and the eloquent reply that Peter was going to make was, at that point, cut short by the door of the pub flying open. Silence enveloped the room as all eyes turned to watch the entrance.

  However, the only arrival was the wind, which gratefully took the opportunity and swept victoriously into the building so that everyone drew their cloaks tighter. The door continued to bang on its hinges, straining to close, yet at the last minute being flung backwards. Again it tried to close, and once more the wind was having none of it and threw the door back, only to reveal a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  Before the door could attempt to shut again, the man had edged into the room and his tired face surveyed his destination. He hadn’t planned on being here, but there was little choice now. With the exception of Peter and Farren who continued to stare, all of the occupants recognised one of their own and returned to their drinks. The man scratched at his raggedy beard and grimaced. He noticed that there were two young men sitting in a booth. Too young by the look of them. Both were tall and gangly. “Brothers,” he thought. His eyes locked onto the youths who realised that they had been staring at the man’s bedraggled and bloody clothes and, not wanting to add their own blood, quickly stared at the floor. The new arrival stood a while longer and then, as if making a decision, began to make his way across the wooden floorboards.

  Farren whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Is he still looking at us?” Peter tentatively raised his eyes and to his horror saw that he was hobbling over in their direction.

  “He’s coming towards us!” Farren’s eyes widened as he looked at his brother and then he turned, as if in slow motion, to see the old man was almost at their table. He quickly looked down again.

  Still determinedly staring at the beer-stained floor, desperately hoping that an escape route would miraculously make itself known, the boys heard the tap-tap of the man’s staff sounding the death of their hopes of an enjoyable evening. Into their vision came two mud-encrusted boots and then a gnarled walking stick that could have almost passed for a club. They slowly raised their eyes, taking in the dark stains on the man’s pants, the large skull on his belt, the criss-cross of scars visible through the holes in his shirt and the giant, tattoo covered arms that were reaching towards their table.
Their eyes slowly completed their horrifying journey by arriving at the gaping holes in the man’s mouth, where once teeth must have lived and his milky eyes that were boring into them.

  “Mind if I join ya, lads?” the man’s query was accompanied by the fetid stench of old beer and vomit.

  “Umm,” said Peter

  “Cheers,” grunted the newcomer and promptly grabbed a seat and slumped into it.

  “Uuhh … I’m Farren and …” said Farren

  “I don’t have time for stuff like that,” said the man grimacing, and he furtively looked over his shoulder.

  “Listen lads,” he said, leaning closer so that the two boys could see what appeared to be blood slowly drip onto the table off his matted beard, “I know most of the blokes here and the only thing they care about is spending money on more drink. Most of them would quite happily cut my throat for less than it costs for those pints,” he said, nodding towards the drinks. “I was sent to find something. But now … I’ve had second thoughts about where it should go and I don’t have a lot of time. I need someone I can trust and you two look pretty trustworthy, am I right?”

  Both boys vigorously nodded their heads, too scared of the consequences of disagreement. A hacking cough from their guest brought the boys out of their thoughts of imminent death. With another glance around the room, he shuffled a little closer to the two scared youths and proceeded to reach into the depths of his ragged cloak. He brought out an equally tattered piece of what looked like parchment, reached across, grabbed Farren’s shaking hand and roughly shoved the remains into it. He then forcibly closed Farren’s fist around it.

  He looked both boys in the eye and, with another chest rattling cough, said, “Now that there is the most important thing you’ll ever own. But make sure it nev …,” he paused, as if struggling to find the words. “It’s actu …,” he paused again. The boys glanced at each other in confusion.

  The man’s face slammed into the table. Farren and Peter jumped out of their seats in shock. When they gazed down, his problem came sharply into focus in the shape of a large curved knife sticking out of his back. They noticed the growing pool of blood on the floor and a roomful of eyes focussed on them. Standing, they looked at each other. What was going on? A moment earlier they felt on the brink of adulthood, now they had fallen back into the roles of two scared boys. The room full of eyes that the boys had interpreted as accusatory, had seen it all before many times, and with a shrug and a drink, returned to their attempts to forget. Realising that attention had shifted away from them, Farren and Peter looked at each other.

  “What’s happening? What do we do?” cried Peter.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” replied Farren hastily.

  “Well, what about him? We can’t just leave him!” asked Peter, his conscience getting the better of him.

  “Peter, let’s go,” said Farren impatiently. “We can’t do anything for him now.”

  “But …” Peter began, but was interrupted by his brother who grabbed his shirt and began dragging him out of the pub.

  They stumbled outside into the night. As they made their way down the hill, it was not the brisk wind that was making them start to shiver.

  ...

  PMP, PMP, PMP

  PMP, PMP, PMP

  The boys ran, their footsteps echoing on the cobbled stones. They leaned into the wind’s embrace, trying to put as much distance between them and the pub as possible. Their legs felt leaden and it seemed to take forever to make their way along the path. Soon they came to the outskirts of the village.

  It had once been a lively and popular place to live, however the sea had brought with it, not only a whiff of money, but others who were attracted to the smell like vultures. So if the boys were not so focussed on getting home they might have paused at the docks (although not for long) and seen its collection of nefarious characters and the daunting shadows of the ships. They may well have slowed as they came closer to the centre of town and noted that many of the houses were beginning to fray at the edges as the wealth that had swept into the town was so quickly being sucked back out. Curtains were drawn as they passed and candles hastily blown out. If they had looked down side streets, they may have heard the groans of men slumped in the shadows, their money taken from them either by force or by drink. They may have even realised that the streets seemed to clear in front of them as people scurried like roaches as fear dragged them back into the shadows. But no, the boys went on, oblivious to the world around them.

  Finally they came to the familiar curved oak door, whereupon they turned, quickly jumped the hedge and made their way around to the side of the house. Their window was still ajar as they had left it and, trying to silence their bodies, the brothers climbed through the windows and then turned to face the shapes in their beds. They drew the covers back, removed the strategically placed pillows and took their place in the bed.

  That night was a restless one for both Farren and Peter, as their dreams were frequented with visions of leering old faces, knives and blood that would not stop flowing. They awoke to find their beds and clothes drenched in sweat.

  They made their way out to the kitchen. An elderly lady stood over the stove, sweat trickling down her brow as she stirred a large pot that simmered over the open flame. The room was filled with the smell of breakfast and the sound of bubbling and humming.

  “Hey, nanna,” exclaimed Farren as he pecked her wrinkled cheek.

  “Good night was it lads?” she asked, ruffling Farren’s blond hair.

  “What do you mean? What are you saying?” asked Peter nervously.

  She gave a wry smile. “I was just asking whether you enjoyed your night out, love.”

  Farren glared at Peter, “Course we did nanna, just a … just a quiet night out.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured a twinkle in her eye, “Well I hope you’re planning a quiet day as well, because there are plenty of jobs to do – and cleaning the privy is one of ‘em.”

  “Yes nanna,” the boys groaned (although secretly they were pleased at the chance to return to normality after the previous night).

  They both sat at the large wooden table and a rich creamy soup was soon placed in front of them. Nanna turned back and, taking deep breaths of its intoxicating aroma, slowly spooned soup into her bowl. She smiled to herself, blue sky, soup and the boys – what better way to start the day. “Look boys, how about today we ….” She turned and stopped. Two empty bowls stared back. She sighed. Kids!

  ...

  The boys had quickly completed their chores under their grandmother’s watchful gaze and, it being a typical Saturday, were heading to the local market.

  “Do you think she suspects?” Peter asked his brother.

  “Lord Almighty Peter, let it rest! I’m more concerned about getting more bolts. I can’t believe that you wasted that many on one small rabbit!” Irritated, Farren pushed on through the crowds gathered around the two bedraggled roosters who were making a half hearted attempt to fight and made his way to his favourite stall.

  “I just don’t want to get in trouble from Nanna, that’s all. And if you let me use your crossbow more often, then I wouldn’t need to use so many bolts,” Peter frowned. “Besides it was a really quick rabbit,” he added.

  Farren laughed, “Yeh, right. Well all I know is that you can pay for them.”

  “What!” cried Peter, “That’s not fair! You know I have almost saved enough for my own sword. That’ll set me back a couple of weeks!”

  Frowning, Farren replied, “Look, it’s not my fault that you chose to be an apprentice for old Cleman. Everyone knows that locksmithing doesn’t pay as well as blacksmithing. I mean, it should, because everyone seems to want new locks these days, but it doesn’t. It still doesn’t change the fact that you used all my bolts.”

  There was a pause. Farren stared into his brother’s brown eyes. “Alright, that’s fair,” Peter conceded. Farren smiled. “Typical,” he thought. Peter reluctantly bought the replacement
bolts. He glanced longingly at the sword that now seemed even further out of his reach.

  ...

  As they walked, Farren gazed at his new bolts, which he lovingly caressed.

  “Twelve bolts … twelve dead rabbits!” he exclaimed. Noticing that there was no enthusiastic response about his rabbit-killing abilities from his brother, Farren glanced up from his beloved bolts and noticed that Peter was frowning.

  “What, you don’t think I can kill twelve rabbits?” he asked.

  “Farren,” Peter replied, ignoring his brother, “Last night that man gave you something didn’t he?”

  “Oh yeh,” Farren’s brown eyes lit up, “I’d forgotten all about that. Here … it should still be in my pocket.”

  “NO!”

  Farren paused, his hand half inside his tunic.

  “Wait until we get back. It must have been important for him to give it to us just before he … well … you know. We should look at it when we get home not out here in the street where anyone can see,” insisted Peter.

  Farren looked into the determined eyes of his brother.

  “Well, I suppose,” he reluctantly conceded.

  ...

  Upon their return, the boys quickly retreated to their room and Farren fumbled through the pockets before he found the scrap. He uncrumpled and flattened it out on the bed.

  “Beware! The … Ursula is an … What is all this?”

  Peter paused and scratched at his short, brown hair, “… Well, I guess it’s a map, obviously. There’s clearly a piece missing, but that bit there looks like part of an island. I guess the writing is some sort of warning – but about what? And I have never heard of a ship called the ‘Ursula’ before.”