by Maira Dawn
Ian had broken human laws before, but to flaunt authority over nothing was not something he did. This case was different. While getting into the building may be illegal, the removal of the Artifact was not—it was his to take.
Ian drew in a deep breath and let it out as he looked at Blake. He hoped they didn't get caught. Where he would eventually get away, Blake was literally putting his freedom on the line.
"It is time," Ian said.
"Yep."
With bowed heads, they kept to the shadows, raising the hoods of their sweatshirts. There was no doubt cameras hidden somewhere nearby were tracking them.
After making their way to the back door of the museum, Blake revived some of his old skills. As he worked with the wires, his hands trembled. He snorted. "Not as steady as I used to be."
But they were lucky. It was a small museum with an outdated security system, so cutting the power was an easy matter. When it was done, Blake wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Your turn," he said to Ian and moved away so Ian would step up to the lock.
Earlier, while Blake had poured over security systems, Ian spent his time learning how to pick a lock. As Ian worked, he wondered how Sonora had gotten close enough and gotten the pictures she did without arousing suspicion. He decided he didn't want to know.
Both the men held their breath as they slowly squeaked the steel door open. Several large crates and boxes were scattered around the barely-lit shipping and receiving area. Blake's foot scraped against the concrete floor. The sound echoed.
Ian's eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and he shot a look at Blake. The old man nodded. It seemed he hadn't lost his people’s sharper night vision. Crucial in the dim depths of the ocean, or the pitch black of an underwater cave, where an Atlantian needed to see with confidence.
Ahead was an interior door, light spilling from around its frame. The men cautiously moved toward it. On one side of them were make-shift hallways created out of metal shelving. They needed to go through them to reach the next room.
Near the door, they stopped and listened. Ian's heart thumped until he slowed it. Blake nodded to Ian that he felt it was safe, and Ian agreed. He cracked the door, peeking through before he opened it wider.
They stepped into a lobby-like room with a few red-covered chairs and a desk. An open, wood door led to a gray-carpeted area. Across from that door was a side-by-side commercial glass door. Through those was the museum area.
With care, they moved through the clear doors. Ian raised a surprised eyebrow at Blake and grinned. He'd expected them to be locked. Still, they would have to watch for any security guards.
In this exhibit area, the muted light shone from low areas around the exhibits, though an occasional low-watt ceiling glow could be seen. Ian took a few steps further into the museum and scanned the area, and waved Blake in.
After creeping past more than a few exhibits about the local area and explanations of local flora and fauna, they rounded a corner to a larger room. Blake huffed out a breath and stepped back, bumping into Ian. A large shadow loomed over them. Before Ian could stop him, Blake struck at it.
The stuffed bear wobbled on its foundation. It loudly creaked as it moved back and forth on its furry back legs. The bear's stiff raised arms looked as if it were ready to attack the men. Blake hurried to steady it, shooting an apologetic look at Ian. After making sure they were not heard, the men resumed their careful, quiet trek around the displays.
The air was heavy with the scent of saltwater from the large tanks on the other side of the building. Ian took a deep whiff, enjoying its perfume while trying to ignore its call. He scratched his dry skin. He would be there soon. Tonight, if all went well.
A light up ahead grabbed Ian's attention. It shone stronger than the others. The Artifact was there, he was sure of it. His footsteps quickened in anticipation.
When he broke free from the displays, he saw it. In the center of the room, it was the focal point of the area. Ian crossed to it.
It was a comfort to see the Artifact in such pristine condition. The beautiful outer case still smooth and glossy, the knotted wood giving it a unique pattern. Tiny precious jewels of various colors scattered across it, gleaming in the light and accenting the loops and swirls of the knots.
Ian's hands ached to hold it.
Enclosed in an acrylic case, a small door with a lock was on one side. It seemed simple. Unlock the case, take the treasure.
Somehow Ian knew it would not be.
They listened for a moment, ignoring building creaks and the ventilation system. They waited for the sounds of men. After finding none, they moved closer to the case.
A display sign outside the case declared the Artifact an example of old Greek woodwork, stating it was found along the shores of Europe. Ian ripped the sign from its stand, crushed it, and threw it at a nearby display of waterfowl.
He inserted his lock picks into the small bolt and fished around the tumbler, hoping to trigger them. Though the lock was small, it gave him trouble. His stomach tightened. Every second spent here was one too many.
Ian tried to pay no mind to the worry he was tripping a silent alarm and focus on his task. Time slowed, he was sure he felt each second tick away. He blew out a sigh with the feel of one click, then another as the lock gave way. The door popped open.
With awe, Ian reached in. For the first time in decades, he touched the ancient symbol of his people. He wanted to savor the moment but knew it impossible. They surely must have triggered an alarm by now.
As if on cue, the hard slap of leather against the linoleum floor confirmed Ian's worry. He sent a startled look to Blake, and reaching further into the case, wrapped his hand around the Artifact's end and pulled. It didn't budge.
Ian's heart slammed against his ribs as he tugged again with no success. The sound of rushing feet seemed to grow and echo around him.
He ran his hands along its sides and bottom. Why wouldn't it move? What held it in place? There is was. Small cables.
"They're coming," Blake hissed.
Ian waved a hand at him, indicating he wanted the cutters.
Blake dug around in this small bag and handed the tool to him.
One powerful squeeze for each cable and the box was free. Ian yanked the Artifact out of the case, holding it close to his body as he turned to flee. One glance over his shoulder to make sure Blake kept up, and he raced through the exhibits, back the way they'd come.
He clasped the box tighter as he heard the squeak of a security guard's shoes. It seemed he had halted and changed direction. Ian glanced at the door ahead. They were so close to success.
Blake and Ian flew past the glass doors, back down the shelf-lined hallway and out to the open shipping and receiving area. Behind them, a guard was calling for backup.
Blake peeked out the outer door to the parking lot and waved the all-clear. Almost blindly, the two ran out, straight for the stolen car as he chanted to Ian and himself, "Go, go, go, go!"
Sirens screamed in the background as they slammed the car doors. When Blake launched them down the hill toward the beach, Ian reminded him not to draw attention.
Ian's heart still knocked against his sternum as they made their way to the beach, but when he saw water, relief took the edge away. He smiled and barked out a sharp laugh.
Blake joined in, saying, "I have friends on the police force. This is going to be awkward for a while."
Ian sent him a sharp look and laughed harder. As the ocean came into view, and they crunched over the sandy road, Ian asked, "Will you be okay returning the car?"
"Yes. It's just a matter of parking it and walking to mine. I'll be fine. I'm not that decrepit, you know."
Ian nodded, a smile covering his face as they got out of the vehicle and walked closer to the water. The stiff sea breeze pushed at them as they turned to each other. "Our people will rejoice," Ian said. "They have waited so long for this day."
Blake nodded. "I only hope this will go far in forg
iving me for taking it in the first place."
"I will do what I can for you," Ian said.
He smiled. "You're a dear friend even after what I did, and I'm thankful for… for everything.”
The men raised their arms, clasping forearms before falling into a hug. Then Ian stepped back, and after stripping off his excess clothing, waded into the ocean. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of its silky welcome.
Ian looked at his old friend once more. He turned his head toward Sonora's home as if he could see her, feeling his heart twinge as he did so. Then, clutching his treasure, he dove into the ocean and returned home.
Thirteen
The Box
Chapter Thirteen
Ian wanted to shout through the oceans his success. He chuckled. It would do little good until closer to the city. And now, he wanted to see the happiness spread across their faces. He would tell them in the council chamber. This was not the time to spill his news like a ten-year-old boy.
The thought made him think of childhood stories, and in particular, the one about humans so important to Atlantian culture.
He let it play through his mind, almost hearing his father's baritone. Ian grinned. The tale would have a different ending now.
On the day the Artifact was created, the sky was bright and sunny. White, puffy clouds lazily moved across a bright blue expanse. A soft wind stirred the tops of the trees as a father directed his two sons to a stand of giant, old timbers. The boys stood in awe at the base of the tallest one, shouting for it to be the one, but the father shook his head. He knew what he wanted.
He pulled the children to the side, to a tree long abandoned to rot though parts of it were still solid. If the tree had been human, it would have been considered ancient, wizened, even deformed. But this damaged tree would turn into a beauty beneath the father's caring hands.
Once the decision was made, the boys pulled out their small axes and bashed them against the tree. Once or twice, a small chunk of bark flew from the trunk, but they made little progress. They stopped and pouted. They wanted better tools, but the father reminded them they were doing this the old way. No modern tools allowed.
The boys tried again, succeeding in removing a bit more of the rough exterior. However, even at their young age, they knew if they continued as they were, it would take them days to complete the task. When their strong father offered them help, they wisely took it.
Once the boys settled a safe distance away, their father hefted his long-handled ax. He bounced it in his hand a few times, letting his large arm muscle dance with the weight of it. The boys laughed, as he had hoped they would, but they also dreamed of the day they would be as brawny as their father.
The man split through the bark with a few licks, and from there, it was just a matter of perseverance. He chopped at the wood with steady, solid strokes, chips flying around him. The boys watched in awe. There was no one stronger than their father.
When the tree fell, the three dragged it home. Some of it would go into the fire bin to keep the house warm when the winter winds blew, and some parts, the most special ones, would make a box.
Choosing a section filled with tight knots and whorls, the father ran a hand across it, anticipating his creation. It would be extraordinary, much better than he had even dreamed. The man instructed his sons as he built, letting them work the small hand saw, showing them how to find the beauty of the piece. He explained how to plane the wood and sand it until it felt like butter.
When it was done, the three stood back in wonder. Mother came out and exclaimed her excitement over what they had created. Nothing had ever looked so good. And she was right.
Once born, the box gleamed in the light, the intricate pattern something rarely seen. It was a treasure, and the family treated it as one. It proudly sat in the most important place in the house, the fire mantelpiece.
Time passed, and the boys grew into men. Father prematurely lost his brawny bulk, wasting away with some human sickness. When the time came, they picked out a different, larger box for their father. Remembering his fondness for woodworking, they looked for the most beautiful one, but nothing came close to that small box they made together on that bright sunny day.
When the brothers moved away, Mother insisted they take the box, telling them it was more theirs than hers. A piece of their father to carry with them. In the new home they shared, they gave it the only place of honor available. The top shelf of a bookcase.
Mostly it gathered dust, but from time to time, one of the boys would take it down and run their hands across the still gleaming surface. They would lift the top lid and look down into its empty interior, and they would turn it over and pop open the tiny hidden drawer their father added to the bottom. And they would remember the day they built the box. They would remember their dad.
One day as the box sat on its high perch, there was the sharp bang of the outside door and the angry shout of voices. The brothers were arguing, not the good-natured arguing they enjoyed, but something red and raw.
"What have you done?"
"I don't know! I didn't mean—"
"I'm glad Father died before he saw what you've become!"
A heavy silence filled the air, and one of the brothers picked up the box and threw it into a bag along with some other odd items. A map, a compass, a large book, a bit of food and water. On top of that, the boy-man crammed clothing. The items pressed hard against the top of the box.
The boy-man swung the pack onto his back. He looked at his brother with a mixture of shock, disgust, and sympathy. "I will try to fix this, though God knows how. But if I can't, this is on you. You and all your cohorts."
"Thank you, brother," the other one said through the cloth mask covering his face. He fell to the couch in grief and disgust for himself. Far greater than any his brother felt for him. He choked out, "I'm sorry" around his rough cough. But it didn't matter, his brother was already gone.
The box bounced along as the boy traveled, carrying it away. At one point, he pulled out the box and shoved vials filled with an unknown substance, and something small—small enough to fit into its secret drawer into it.
Sounds were odd. A wind sped by, a hum, the slap of water against a boat. From time to time, the brother would take the box out of the pack and hug it tight to himself as silent tears lined his face.
Once there was a shout of pain and a flash of light so brilliant it lit up the inside of the dark pack. Then it was quiet.
Eventually, the sound of a large boat slicing through the waves made its way through the dim interior of the bag and, finally, the feel of solid ground under the boy-man’s feet as it once again bounced against his back.
One day, after a loving pat, the box was thrust into the hands of a stranger. After showing the man, all the box's secrets, including the small secret drawer, the boy-man left.
The stranger held the box tight against his body as he turned from the brother, and when he arrived at his home, he put the box in a place of honor. The mantel above the fireplace.
Chaos began, unbelievable upheaval. The stranger grabbed the box off the mantel before it bounced to the floor and raced behind two young boys as they entered the sea.
Over time, the stranger built a home in the sea, and the box was once again given a place of honor. Glittering gems were added to its exterior, enhancing the beauty of the box. It was not worshiped, but it was revered. For its beauty, for the remainder of what it held. A remedy for all humankind.
For decades—centuries—it held a place of honor in a cave under the sea surrounded by a garden fit for a wonderland. A silent sentinel, a protector of the cure. It was given a name—Cilelaara, The Artifact.
One day, a rough hand grabbed it from its pedestal and ran. The box, once again, saw the bright blue sky before it spent years imprisoned in a gruesome laboratory. It was poked and prodded until almost all its secrets spilled onto a table in front of the evil men.
Secrets exposed, the box was cast aside. It was shel
ved in a dark, backroom until dust caked every part of it. Then the day came when someone took it off the shelf, swiped at the dust, and put it on display. First, at the city's Museum of History, then at Seaside's Marine Center. The box shone with joy, if not with purpose.
Now, once again it moved through the depths of the sea, back to the underwater city. It was returning home.
But what Ian wanted of it, what they all wanted, it would seem unable to fulfill.
Ian believed he triumphantly returned home with the vials, the elixir of life, but he was wrong. The box was empty. It had been empty for a long, long time.
Fourteen
Hope
Chapter Fourteen
Ian pushed the Molaairis, the water bike, faster than he ever had before as he hugged the Artifact close to his body. Its hard edges dug into his stomach, but he didn't care. Ian preferred the slight discomfort to the despair of never finding it. He was actually traveling home with both the Artifact and the answer about his murdered people. And it hadn't cost Ian nearly what he thought he would. Just the opposite, in fact. He had regained an old friendship and rekindled his lost romance.
His lips curved, and he threw his head back and laughed with joy. It was over. His mission was over after all these decades, and it was successful.
Ian zipped past a school of blue tuna, noticing some almost as long as him. The water-filtered sunlight glinted off their silver-sheened skin. It was good to be home. The water pressed against him like a lost friend. The small currents within the sea rippled against his skin like a caress. He was eager for his first glimpse of Atlantis. He left there a broken, angry man, and he returned to it a hopeful, optimistic one. His family would be pleased.
The ache returned the further he got from Sunny. It would remain until she was at his side again. But this time it was different. It wasn't as deep and black, and Ian could see its end. It need not have happened at all. Wouldn't have if Blake had not requested it.