The Secret of the Locket

Mark stared at the thick, heavy, intricately carved frame that he had taken from the crumbling building. He’d originally taken it to use as fire wood, but something told him to hold onto it. Once upon a time, the building had been one of the national museums, according to the dilapidated signage. The rubble had been mostly cleared out, and the building had been ransacked. Mark didn’t think anyone had been in the area in quite a few years.

As he had left the old building, he had placed his hand on a stone, momentarily mourning the loss of what he assumed had once been a great civilization. Now, he sat in the comfort of his tent and traced the patterns on the old wood. He was surprised no one had picked it up before him. Even if someone hadn’t used it as fire wood, the frame could have been used for tools, and the canvas inside could have been repurposed for shelter.

Mark took his cleanest rags out of their box and poured some water onto one of them. He gently began wiping down the frame, carefully cleaning each groove. Despite the apparent age of the frame and canvas, as the dust and grime fell away, he noticed it was in relatively decent condition. He took his time working on each section of the frame. As he cleared the first two sides, he noticed flecks of what appeared to be gold, a metal lost over four decades ago, when this wasteland lost its status as a country.

Mark couldn’t imagine what that must have been like. He’d heard stories from some of the older nomads, but even his wildest imaginings couldn’t come close to what it must have been like.

A noise outside caused him to jump. He recognised it as Adrian, one of the other nomads, an ally, camped close enough to call for help, if needed, but with enough privacy to not be seen, heard, or disturbed, just the way they all preferred it.

Mark glanced down at the frame in his lap, and noticed that, when his hand slipped, it cleared away a spot of filth on the canvas. There was something underneath the decades of dust and dirt. He reached for another rag and more water. His curiosity piqued.

He gently removed more and more grime, his eyes widening as he realised he was looking at a painting. His pulse quickened. He was eager to uncover the rest of it, but he knew he had to be careful to not compromise the artwork. There was something about the dull, aged colouring that he wanted—no, he needed—to see.

He barely registered his main fire outside his tent getting low. His focus was entirely on cleaning off the canvas, one small section at a time. The image slowly revealed itself to him, although he didn’t quite understand it.

Mark’s eyes strained as the light in his tent grew dim. He finally took a deep breath, and looked up from his work, realising he needed to relieve himself. He hid the painting before stepping outside, stretching his arms and back, and making his way over to the area he shared with Adrian for a toilet.

He glanced around, registering the night sky, a permanent copper tinge to the atmosphere. He noticed the desolate grounds, the short, sparse shrubbery, the shadows of the ruins in the distance. He shook his head and sighed as he headed back to his tent. He stoked his fire and reheated the meal he had neglected. After his meal, he crawled back into his tent, checked the security of his belongings, and fell asleep.

That night, Mark’s dreams were filled with the image in the painting. The people called to him, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He wanted to join them in their world, but he couldn’t move, just watched as their colours faded away, forgotten.

When he awoke, Mark removed the painting from its hiding place. He continued to work on it, foregoing his regular routine to finish uncovering the canvas and frame.

“Mark? You around, mate?”

Mark considered for a moment whether or not to show the artwork to Adrian. “Yeah, in here. Come on in.”

The older gentleman stepped through the doorway, and let out a whistle. “You know you don’t have to clean it if you’re going to burn it.” He chuckled.

“Take a look at this.” Mark said, rightfully ignoring the teasing remark. “I found it in the ruins of one of the museums.”

Adrian’s eyebrow shot up. “I thought they were all cleared out already.”

“Apparently not.”

Mark moved so the man could sit next to him. “It looks like gold on parts of the frame. And the colours and images in this picture are like none I’ve ever seen.”

As Adrian studied the cleared parts, Mark grabbed a new rag and fresh water to finish the job.

“There’s something odd on this part of the frame,” Mark noted aloud as his rag continued to get caught on the edge of something. He scrubbed it a little harder. “Like a flat piece of metal.”

“The nameplate?” Adrian asked. “What does it say?”

“Sometimes I forget you were alive during that time.” Mark noted. He cleaned off as much grit as he could from the small metal piece. “‘The Secret of the Locket’, artist unknown.” Mark read.

The two men bent over the painting to study it.

“Did the world actually look like this?” Mark asked. “All those colours and trees and people?”

“Once upon a time, yes. But after a while, humans got greedy and nearly destroyed the earth. And then the Earth got her revenge by wiping out as much of this country as she could. I was smart enough to respect her.” Adrian chuckled, “and, of course, I got out of there before all Hell broke loose.”

They fell into silence again, and Mark lost himself in thought.

“So, where’s the locket?” Adrian muttered.

“What?” Mark asked, surprised.

“It’s called ‘The Secret of the Locket’, so where did the artist paint the locket?”

Mark looked between the man and the painting, bewildered.

“Hold on,” Adrian said, grabbing a small knife, “something isn’t quite right.”

“Don’t cut the painting!” Mark exclaimed.

Adrian smiled gently at the younger man. He inserted his knife into the edge and skilfully cut the canvas away from the frame.

“There’s another painting here.” Adrian pulled back the edge of the first canvas, revealing the second canvas underneath.

The second painting hadn’t been exposed to the same conditions as the one covering it. Mark couldn’t hold back his gasp as the colours nearly blinded him with their vibrancy. Blues and greens and purples danced across the canvas in an image of a mystical forest, with the silhouette of a bridge.

The two men worked together to ease the top painting out of the frame. As they did, they noticed the main centrepiece of the painting: a gold, heart-shaped locket, hanging from the bridge.

“That’s odd.” Mark noted. “What do you think is inside?”

Adrian’s eyes watered as he touched the locket. He slowly picked it up and pried open the latch. A folded piece of paper fell out, but he didn’t reach for it. He was staring at the picture inside. A single tear fell onto it.

“What is it?” Mark asked.

“Someone I used to know,” he responded quietly.

“Adrian?”

“I painted this so long ago. I never knew what happened to it.”

“And this?” Mark asked, handing him the paper.

Adrian opened it, and let out a sharp sob. “It’s a letter I wrote to him. He kept it in the locket I bought for him before the world ended.”

“What does it mean?”

Adrian turned to Mark. The older man’s eyes didn’t show any signs of sorrow, just determination. “It means he’s dead. But it also means we’re going to be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s also a map to a bunker where we will find the supplies necessary to replant and restore the natural landscape. Trees, flowers, fruits, vegetables, all of it. We can have colours again.” Adrian locks eyes with Mark. “We can have hope again.”