Mammon

Cocoa-dusted soil ran off my gloves like Adam’s ale as I began to unfold and dig deeper into the ground’s underbelly. Kneeling in dew on that mistier-than-usual morning, I tucked gazania seeds into a bed of grass in time for Spring. With each tiring scoop of my spade, the ephemeral rush of a warm exhale among cold inhales of the frosty air exhilarated me inside. Distracted by this balmy sensation, I almost missed that my pine-shaded spade had hit a dead-end. I could only make out what it was from the tip of what looked like pale-green shaded paper peeking out among the earth hiding this bewildering object like a blanket of shadows concealing Mammon itself. I tossed my spade aside and began uncovering the paper, revealing itself to be stacks of money, brushing off the last fragments of the petrichor-scented dirt. I couldn’t decipher between the adrenaline of my frosty inhales or the thrilling consternation of what my eyes were perceiving. I kneeled in stupefaction as £100 bills smirked deceivingly at me, giggling at its power over my senses.

As I began to uncover more stacks, my hands laid upon a small, nuit-black, leather book. I ran my fingers over the textured scales of the front cover as chills ran up my arm. Embossed in a gold, metallic font in the top-centre portion of the book’s cover was the words, ‘PETITE ET ACCIPIETIS’ which I translated from my days of the school choir to mean, 'ask and you shall receive.' As I flicked through the pages inside the book, allowing them to run through my fingers like strands of platinum hair, I noticed that the book seemed to be empty. The pages held that old scent of vanilla pods and crushed almonds, yet they were gleaming with vacancy. I bundled the money wrapped in satin, mustard bands into my arms like a child being coddled by its mother and scampered through my back garden, clappering across a grey-stone patio into my cramped house to write something inside. I scurried through wooden, creaking drawers to find a pen before stumbling upon a dehydrated, almost-finished fountain pen buried deep.

I whipped open the book and scratched, ‘£100’ into the page in a timid font, half-hysterical and half-intimidated by the bijou pages that lay before me silently, an elephant staring directly into the eyes of a mouse. I tapped my foot impatiently, looking around to see if £100 had appeared anywhere and after around a minute of standing in silence, familiar to those who dare not to peep a word as a ball rolls towards a goal, I began to question my sanity. I intensely stared into the ink on the page until my eyes saw double and as if it was natural, the page absorbed the ink, leaving the page blank again. I had lost it, I was sure. Of course, one might feel non-compos-mentis after discovering thousands of £100 bills and a haunting book laying underneath the house that had endured the blood, sweat and tears of 30 years of your hard work, leading up to you suddenly believing writing numbers in a book would find you plentiful. However, just as I was about to call a psychiatrist, believing it must all be a hallucination brought on by the cold, I noticed a new-found bulge in my purse at the end of the dining table. Inside my ruby, cracked, faux-leather purse, laid £100 in the form of 10x£10 bills. My heart tumbled down into my stomach as my body slammed onto the floor, my shaking hands meeting the glacial abyss of the tiles below me.

After having contemplated all the possibilities, hows, whats, whys and what nexts of the situation that sat in the palm of my hands, I supported myself off the ground and immediately called my mother. I reached for my partially shattered phone, tapping in her number and trying to focus on nothing but the monotonous ringing sounds as I attempted to gather my words together. The sounds came to a holt.

“Hello? Are you okay, my love?” She spoke with a tone of innocent strength, a stronghold that wrapped you in solace, distress evaporating instantly.

“I-uh-well, I…” How was I to explain the series of events that just took place, what would you say? My mother’s voice waited patiently; we could both sense the tension running through the phone signal. “To put it simply, I- Well, I have money… Well, I mean- Lots of it… What I’m trying to say is I don’t think we have to worry about money anymore.” I stood in silence while I awaited a response. To my surprise, a hearty giggle travelled down the phone line.

“Why do you sound so upset? That’s great! Did you get a promotion? Or a new job, I always thought you were too goo-”

“Uh- Not exactly. I found it. In the garden. Un-under the garden, I mean.” I cut in, distracted while my mind was elsewhere debating whether or not I should mention the book.

“Right. Under the garden? Are you sure it’s not like… mafia money or-?”

“No, mum! No, of course not. This was our family house! Are you sure grandma or pa didn’t leave it there?”

“Trust me, you would’ve known if my parents had left a bundle of money in the back yard. You sound slightly disorientated, my love, are you sure you’re okay? I can come round if you want.”

"I'm fine mum, don't worry, I'll come to you," I spoke sternly. After ending the call, I contemplated why it was so hard to confess and discuss mere paper.

After having researched online what a mustard band of money represented, I took five stacks with me to give to my mother. Rushing out of the house, my hands still shaking, I ran towards my tin can of a car, looking around with paranoia. Struggling to insert my key into the car, drowning in trembling epinephrin, I quickly took a deep breath, closing my eyes in an attempt to shut out the money, staring at me craftily. I lifted my eyelids and successfully turned on the car, revving sounds matching the pace of my breathing.

I had relaxed slightly by the time I reached my mother’s house. Her humble, medieval-styled cottage stood in front of me, waving and welcoming me inside. When my mother opened the door, I ran towards her and felt every point of warm pressure in her embrace. As I pulled away, I reached into my bag and without filling her in with any added context, handed her the five stacks. Her eyes smiled with relief, although it seemed to be more out of relief that she no longer had to worry about my financial status rather than her own.

“Come inside, this seems like a situation that demands some tea.” She chuckled, I followed her inside as the nerves stood stiffly at the porch, bidding me farewell. The lack of ventilation in the house always gave a scent of unique charm and the cushions puffed out dust as if they were smoking cigars as you sat into them. I relaxed into the sofa whilst mother went back and forth in the kitchen for our tea.

“Quite a day you’ve had then, love! What a wonderful surprise.”

"I can't believe it took me this long to find something like that hiding in our garden!"

“Well then, have you thought about what you’ll do with it first?”

"Mum, honestly, the thought of being responsible for such a large sum of money intimidates me. I'm thinking of just giving it all away, the burden is too much already." I looked down as anxiety began to toss and turn in my stomach again, churning my appetite into oblivion.

“What?! Darling, I completely understand this must be slightly daunting for you, but this is a very unique opportunity. I completely agree, some of this money would do a great use in the arms of charities but you deserve a little slither for yourself too! Think about all the hardships you have endured over the years; we both know you’ll regret it in 10 years if you decide to give it all away. When I gave birth to you, all I ever wished for was that you’d have a life full of safety and limitless possibilities, I wanted to give you the world and I still regret that I couldn’t. You were born to live; I could provide you with the life and now you have been given the key to unlocking the door of opportunity. For me, please unlock that door. I beg of you.” I looked up and met my mother’s eyes, such desperation on my behalf poured out of them. She had provided me with a new perspective, I had only seen this money and this book as a weight on my shoulders when it may actually be able to lift me, revive me. After a couple more hours of chit-chat, I decided on fulfilling my lifelong dream of travelling the world. I gave my mother the key to look after my dog as she gave me the key to new standpoints for the future. We exchanged a final hug and twisted round in the front porch to say my final goodbyes, my mum’s face suddenly dropped with anguish.

“Just one final thing…” A stern-cold tone overtook her warmth as her eyes slowly raised with a hint of creepiness, “There wasn’t a book in there, was there? A small, black book?” My heart fell into my stomach once more. She looked so worried that I felt the need to lie, I didn’t want to burden her, and I could see how distraught this book had suddenly made her feel.

“No. Just money. Lots of money.” I forced a nervous laugh and grin in an attempt to lie, something I was never very good at.

“If you ever come across that book, please be careful. Never judge a book by its cover.” The sternness remained in her tone and her eyes as I ineptly found myself back to the car. A released a large exhale as I closed the door and played back her words in my head. Her tone gave me shivers each time I tried to decipher her words. I dragged the car mirror into my view, so I was looking into my eyes, “Best not to worry, Aurora. You’ve been given a key, that’s all you need to remember, okay?”

✎

Years had passed, the book had become just as fatigued as I had. The misty mountains of the Himalayas, the city that never sleeps in Seoul, the taste of sun-kissed oranges in Italy, I had become educated with every corner that the world had to offer. I went to surprise my mother once returning home, she was someone I hadn’t spoken to since I had left 5 years ago and the yearning for her warm embrace was unbearable. As I drove through my old town on the way to my mother’s house, I realised how small my once overwhelmingly large world had now become. As I pulled up to her house, a feeling arose. Or should I say descended. It was that feeling again, my heart falling deep into my stomach. She was gone. Her house abandoned and worn-down, in desperate need of some care. I trembled towards her house with my book and phone in hand. A note clung desperately onto her crumbling, black door. ‘Check the last page. Don’t blame yourself, I love you.’ I instantly knew she referring to the book. Just why did I lie? As guilt began to bubble up my throat, I scurried through my bag and found the last page of the book.

‘Pretium venit cuncta et.’

I had never been handed a key; the key had never belonged to me. I had become a thief blinded by cupidity.