Take It Or Leave It

The cold rain beaded on the back of his neck as the grave digger thrust his shovel once more into the wet earth. Steam rose from him in tiny tendrils, circling towards the inky black and starless sky. Grave digging was hard work. His body heat was the only thing protecting him from the icy chill that surrounded him. A thick shovelful of sludge flew over his shoulder to join the rest just outside of the hole, meeting with a loud smack before merging down and becoming one with the puddle that had become everything.

A job is a job is a job. That was his mantra. Sometimes he’d find himself repeating this in his head as he dug, the words synching with his movements until the work was basically doing itself. Tonight, however, was a different story. No tricks or rhythms would get him through this harsh cold night. Only the knowledge that once this was complete, a warm bed awaited him at home. A warm bath. A warm meal. Warmth was the only word on his mind tonight.

He had been employed at the Red Oaks Funeral Home for over fifteen years now. "A deadline is a deadline. There were no exceptions." It was a morbid joke that went around the staff of the facility, but the principle behind it was no joke. Another bit of gallows humor that circled more discreetly around the office was that the director was colder than his clients. Mr. Harbinger suffered no excuses for missed deadlines. That was a proven fact.

It wouldn't be too much longer before this job would be complete. He was nearly five feet down. For all its faults, the rain did help clear the walls out some and the sump pump was keeping a steady stream of water channeling out to keep it from building up along the bottom. He would get down to the required six feet and then call it a night. In the morning, once the weather cleared, he would return and trim out the walls and floor to make it presentable for the following day's ceremony.

His thoughts were on the turkey leftovers currently boxed up in the refrigerator when he struck something hard and solid with his shovel. "Great," he thought, "I've hit roots." This would require a trip back to the tool shed to retrieve more heavy-duty tools. Setting the shovel along the slick wall, he leaned down for further inspection.

At first, it was all just a glistening form of wet mud and knots but as he splashed water along its surface he noticed something peculiar. A small square of metal emerged, carved with a rough-etched insignia. He used his fingers to pull the mud from around it and soon discovered it to be a container of some sort. Whatever it was, it wasn't as large as it first seemed. He loosed it with a wet popping sound and held it up into the light of his lantern.

Aside from the insignia, there was no other writing. It was a small wooden barrel, that he could see, but what might be inside of it remained a mystery. "Maybe it's one of those old brandy casks?" He delighted, "That'd sure help warm up these old bones. A hot shower and then settle down with some brandy and turkey." The thought of this future had sapped him of any desire to continue. "To hell with it." He said to himself, "The rest of this can wait until morning." He tossed his shovel up onto the earth above and hoisted himself back up to level ground.

The walk back to his shack seemed much lighter than it normally did. Though his rain-soaked clothes easily added an extra ten pounds to him along with a body already stiffening from a hard night's work, he felt lifted with the excitement of his discovery. He'd found things here and there before: old bottles, arrowheads, even a locket that he still carried with him to this day for good luck; but never anything quite as unique as this. He spent much of the walk deep in thought and soon found himself approaching his front porch.

The light from his old modest home cast a yellow glow out into the darkness. It reflected down into the pooled-up waters as the rain set it off into tangents. With the exception of a few gnarled roots, there was no telling where the water ended and the ground began.

The wooden stairs of his deck creaked beneath his weight. It felt good to be out of the cold rain. He set his shovel along the edge of a chair set just outside of the front door and kicked off his muddy boots. The screen door pulled towards him with a loud familiar squawk. Once inside, he stood in the doorway and stripped himself of his jacket and jeans and dropped them to the floor. He peeled off his damp socks. After dinner, he would come back for them and set them in the washer but for now his only thoughts were of shedding himself of his remaining layers and hopping into a nice warm bath. That, of course, and the cask.

His feet left wet prints all the way into the bathroom where he placed the plug into the bottom of the tub and began to draw hot water. He removed his undershirt and long johns and cupped a hand beneath the running water to test the temperature. Warmth. Beautiful warmth. He threw a leg over and settled down into the steaming water.

A sigh formed deep within him and rose until it reached his lips. He sank down into the water and soaked. His thoughts were of nothing but calming bliss. Steam hovered through the air, a welcomed contrast to the cold fog outside. For tonight, the cold was over. He laid weightless, releasing the tension in his muscles, surrounded by the all-encompassing pleasure of a hot-drawn bath...

His eyes shot open. Time had passed. Thirty minutes? An hour? He wasn't sure. He had just meant to close his eyes and relax but had apparently fallen deep asleep. Now that he had awoken, he found the water was cool and his enjoyment of the bath quickly drained. Besides, his stomach was now gurgling it's reminder to him that it had been since morning that he had provided it with anything of substance. He rose from the water and dried himself off with a towel. Once he was dry, he wrapped it around his waist and proceeded to his bedroom to slip on some warm, fresh clothing. The burdens of his long day slipped from his mind as well as from his body. He made his way into the kitchen to rummage through his anticipated leftovers.

He had almost forgotten about the cask until he saw it sitting near the door. The rain had all but cleared the mud from it. He wiped it dry with a paper towel and set it up onto the counter. His eyes remained on it as he made his way to the refrigerator. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open and turned his head into the bright glow inside. His eyes darted back and forth as he reached in and pulled out various containers. He set them out along his kitchen table and retrieved a ceramic plate from the cupboard. He dumped their contents out in neat little piles and pushed them around with his fork until they forfeited the square shape of the containers that held them. He slid the plate into the microwave and set a timer for three and a half minutes.

With that underway, he returned to the counter with the cask. He lifted it to his ear and shook it. He had anticipated a slosh of liquid but was surprised to hear instead its innards clinking around with each other. "Hmm." He said aloud as he brought the form back into his gaze. "Well. There goes my brandy fantasy, I suppose." He spun it around in his hands. There didn't seem to be any latches or hinges of any kind. He turned it back to where the insignia faced him. With two callused fingertips, he grabbed along the sides of it and spun. To his astonishment, it turned. There was a soft click as the metal twisted clockwise and a previously unnoticed seam split sideways along the barrel. He raised the top and it opened easily. Inside were wadded bills, old coins, random jewelry, and a small black notebook. His eyes lit up at the sight of it. He fumbled through in awe. There had to be at least $20,000 worth of currency in here not counting the coins. His mind raced at the possibilities of what this money could do for him. A new wood burner! That would be his first purchase! The old one was rusting through and had caused him some concern of what he would do once the bottom inevitably fell out.

Whoever created this container was indeed a fine craftsman. The rain and muck that had surrounded this thing over the years had never found their way through the tight seal. His eyes bore deep into the grain admiring its handiwork.

The loud chime of the microwave startled him out of his concentration. He spun around confused for a moment and then remembered his food. His curiosity quickly subsided for his eagerness to eat. He pressed the button to pop open the microwave and was met with a thick steam of aromatic delight. A strong scent of turkey and stuffing soon permeated the entire kitchen as he carefully carried the plate to the table. He quickly grabbed a knife and fork and sat down before his meal. He lifted his utensils for the first bite and halted. "Right. Guess there's no brandy for the night. I suppose a cold glass of water will have to do the trick." He chuckled. He filled a glass with ice and water and set it down next to his plate.

He stared at the meal for a short while just to rebuild the anticipation before stabbing his fork down into a large chunk of turkey. He placed it in his mouth and sighed with relief. The warm grease and tender meat filled his mouth with relish. His eyes sank back in his head as he drooled with pleasure. He had waited for this meal all day and he had earned it. Come to think of it, he had earned this box as well. Fifteen years of hard manual labor. Of anyone who could benefit from finding such a treasure, he was certainly a fit contender.

He continued to eat as his eyes wandered back to the cask. He slid his chair back and retrieved it from the counter and placed it to the left of his plate, propping the top back open. He gently lifted the moleskine notebook and flipped to the first page. Along the top began a scribbled note:

"Feeling overwhelmed? Take what you need. Feeling generous? Leave what you can. Whatever you do, please send this back into the ground to be discovered once again."

Beneath it, a ledger of names and dates going back until they were too faded to read. The man smiled warmly as he read what he could. He took two twenties and set them aside. This would be more than enough to get a new plate for his burner. But what would he contribute? He pondered this as he finished his meal.

After dinner, he walked back to the doorway and gathered his wet clothes. As they shifted in his arms, a small metal object fell and hit the floor. He bent down and retrieved it; his good luck locket. He smiled at the idea. Slowly, he lowered the locket into the darkness of the cask and closed it.