Taron's Awakening

Taron Swift regains consciousness on a mysterious beach. Battered and wracked with pain, he tries to piece the events that led him there together.

      A rumbling of thunder clamored overhead, lingering dully in Taron’s water-filled ear canals. His cranium was heavy, a slight sharpness of pain radiating from his right temple. He was lying on his stomach, and he could feel a warm, tropical rain pattering rudely upon his back in heavy, fat drops. This slowly brought him to life. His shoulders moved slightly, and the toes of his water-soaked boots shifted, burrowing meager furrows into the soft sand. He had yet to open his eyes, but he could hear the steady roar of the ocean, the angry sky overhead, and the crackling and hissing of healthy flames, now afflicted in the lethargic rain. He could feel the warmth of a salty smelling breeze come off the water behind him, caressing his bared back where his stained t-shirt was torn across; the tattered edges flapping open in the stiffening breeze. There was also the sensation of burned skin at this region of his body, but, as the battered man dug his fingers into the wet sand, leaving narrow trenches as his hands filled with the gritty soil, one could draw the conclusion of bigger problems facing him.

Come on Taron, get up! Open your eyes! Do something! his inner voice commanded, and his body shuddered briefly. His eyes suddenly opened in awareness to the tremendous pain this determined impulse had wrought, and seizing his flash of strength born of pain, he lifted himself up on his hands, his palms sinking deep into the cushy sand as they bore his weight. For a moment, propped up on his arms, he resembled a sea lion perched on the shore, but he couldn’t stay up for long; his left elbow failed him, and he collapsed to that side, rolling onto his back in that briefness of miserable motion.

“F**k!” he cursed through salt dried lips, his voice hoarse. He labored for his air, as his blurry gaze stared blankly up at the dreary, gray sky. The rain came quicker, and the churning clouds above seemed to grumble perpetually their warning of building volatility.

He was in a bad way"to say the least. However, he maintained the belief that he was not ruined physically, that all he needed, as his swooning head"the bridge of his mortal vessel"did a quick damage assessment, was more time to rest and recover. After all, he had just been through a lot"what he could remember of it, that is. What he couldn’t, his bruised, scratched, nicked up, banged up, burned, and bleeding body, would soon be able to fill in the blanks. He closed his eyes as the rain vexed his heated face. Tried to calm his aching muscles into relaxing, as he began to examine just how he had ended up in such a fix.

He recalled it had been but two days earlier, that he and Sam, were walking hand in hand from the pier where they had just made plain their true esteem for one another. All was in that moment, right with the world. Mason was on his way home, laden with he and Taron’s share of the treasure, soon to be sold, soon to be divided. The trying weeks of danger leading up to then, was over, and Taron, remembering his feelings in that moment, had no desire for future exposure to such harrowing thrills"but then again, he could always be persuaded.

But all such notions were absent in his thoughts at that moment. Everything, in which his always active mind seemed to entertain, was for that brief period, blissfully absent as he walked up the sloped, concrete-drive leading them from the docks. He still held Samantha’s hand, his heavy bag slung over his other shoulder, as they stood briefly on the sidewalk, looking down the shimmering cement of the street. Freight trucks and various makes of small vehicles rolled steadily by, their noxious exhaust insulting to the nose. The day was bright and the Sun’s glow, shown down on the two with a warmth of exuberance that mirrored their inner spirit. For before them was any possibility, any endeavor, any desire they so sought. They had the security of money, the savvy of hard won experience, and the sublimity of new love.

“Well,” spoke Sam suddenly, her dark, bluish-gray eyes meeting his divinely, “where too?”

Taron could only answer by dropping his heavy bag, and, taking her in his arms. He kissed her passionately for a long while, the two parting only for the annoying necessitation of air. His right hand caressed her soft cheek, his left nestled in her silky, red locks. Their eyes were ravenous and singular in focus, as they maintained stares. “That was something,” she remarked with a sweet yet mischievous grin. “It took you a month to work up the courage"now you’ve kissed me twice in ten minutes.”

Taron smiled. “Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.” He leaned in to kiss her again.

“You two should get a room!” stated an observer. The voice was female with a very American dialect, and its tone hinted of wry sarcasm. Taron and Samantha turned around to face the stranger, both gazing curiously into the shadowed portico from which the voice had come. The dark figure was petite and slender, leaning against one of the colonnades that lined the front of the mariner’s cantina.

“Jessie!” stammered Sam in amaze, as the figure stepped into the sunlight. Sam moved quickly to her, and both women hugged, hysterical upon their reuniting. 

Taron could only stare at them in bewildered astonishment. He studied the girl closely, finding her to be quite pleasing to the eye; her dark brown"almost black"hair, streaked in sun bleached shades of gold; her skin equally affected by the sun, but in the result of a well browned complexion, like that of a barnyard fresh egg, its porous and freckled surface, glowing softly in the light. She was a very pretty girl, but Taron was not sure what else to think of her, watching the two women hug again as they rambled excitedly about days gone by.

Abruptly, the shorter girl glanced over Sam’s shoulder, her light blue eyes, sparkling like shallow pools contrastingly landlocked by her dark skin, seemed to measure Taron, in a single, quick, but all encompassing sweep. And though he was uncertain at the time"and still is"he could have sworn that the right corner of her mouth turned up slightly in an absurd grin. It puzzled him, but only briefly, for both women promptly turned to him, their smiles wide.

“Taron,” said Sam, accompanied by her friend, “this is Jessie Thompson.”

“Hello,” greeted the brown-faced girl, and now there was no mistaking the presence of an absurd grin.

“Pleased to meet you,” Taron replied, covering his uncertainty with a friendly smile, and thrusting out his palm. They shook hands with their stares locked, both seemingly trying to learn the other by looking into the windows of the soul, only to find that both of them were equally adept at drawing the blinds. 

Soon the three were sitting at a corner table in the cool shade of the cantina from which Jessie had emerged; her and Sam chattering blisteringly in their reminiscing of their university days in Virginia; Taron, sitting quietly with a pleasant grin, trying halfheartedly to follow their conversation. But, aside from the occasional, laugh-worthy story of collegiate mischief, he was largely detached from their talk, merely peeling the label on his outdated Dos Equis, wondering, rather selfishly, how long until he and Sam would be alone.

“So, what brings you to Lima?” Sam asked her old friend. Taron’s interest was suddenly resurrected, and he glanced at Jessie, studying her countenance closely.

She chuckled faintly"awkwardly"and Taron noticed a flash of unease in her till then, stolidly reticent eyes.

“Well,” she began, “to tell you the truth, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me?” Sam was pleasantly puzzled. “Why?”

Jessie’s eyes suddenly shifted, meeting Taron’s inquisitive glance, and he could immediately sense a proposal of obligation resting behind her smiling lips. It filled him with a dread he could hardly understand, but thrilled him, none the less.

Her eyes moved back to Sam. “I think”"she paused, glancing around for a moment before returning to her listener"“I think I’ve found something big.”

Taron could see Sam’s eyes grow eagerly bright at Jessie’s enthralling statement, himself, not knowing what it meant, or even if Sam had more of an understanding; but he also was aware of a slight excitement beguiling his incredulity.

“Well, go on,” Sam entreated, smiling.

Jessie grinned, her head seeming to duck low over the tabletop, her listeners instinctively leaning closer, as she continued quietly: “Do you remember that story I told you years ago, that first night we were in the field in Guatemala? Remember that leaky tent, the mosquitoes, the"”

“Jessie!” Sam broke in, “I remember the night, but tell me, which story.”

She nodded, smiling. “The story of my Great-great-great"ah, to hell with it! Too many greats to recall. My great uncle,” she finally decided.

Sam pondered for a moment, Taron and Jessie, watching her intently. Her eyes suddenly twinkled in remembrance as her brain found the file in the database.

She glanced at her friend. “The same great uncle, the ship captain who made off with the treasure of Lima?”

Jessie bowed her head, her smile wide.

“Hold on,” blurted Taron suddenly, his interest was now perked; not just with the hint of treasure, but at the element of history in the matter presented. He looked at Jessie. “You’re ancestor, he was Captain William Thompson?”

Jessie nodded, glanced at Sam with a pleased grin before shifting back to Taron. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Of course,” replied Taron, folding his arms across his chest. “In eighteen-twenty, when the city of Lima was under the pressure of revolt, the Viceroy of the city, decided to ship its considerable riches to Mexico for safekeeping. But”"Taron, ever the story teller, held up a solemn finger"“he made a mistake in trusting William Thompson"no offense.”

“None taken,” returned Jessie affably, with a shrug.

Taron continued, “Not long after leaving Lima, on Thompson’s ship the Mary Dear; he and his crew slaughtered the guards and the priests aboard the vessel. They made their way to the island of Caqataal, where they are supposed to have hidden the gold, vowing to return later and divide their plunder. However, it wasn’t to be. They were soon captured, and the Spanish hung the entire crew with the exception of the good Captain and his First Mate. The Spanish brought them back to the island; willing to spare their lives if the two men would lead them to the treasure, but, Thompson and his Mate disappeared; never to be heard from again”"here, his thespian inclinations, manifested a grave solemnity to his expression"“and the treasure was never found.” Taron looked at Samantha, a grin spreading across his face in delight at her pleased smile. He would never grow tired of making her smile, but to see pride in her expression was something he could relish, like an addict his drug.

“Well,” spoke Jessie pleasantly, “handsome and smart. Where did you find this one?” She was now looking at Sam with a thoughtful smirk, but prior, she had met Taron eye to eye as she had indulged his ego, and despite his uncertainty with the blue-eyed brown-skinned girl, he was flattered.

“We met on vacation in Italy,” Sam replied, glancing at Taron with a smirk of her own, which spoke of the understated irony in her statement. She looked at Jessie. “So, what is this big discovery? And what does it have to do with your Great Uncle the pirate?”

Jessie smiled at Sam’s light forwardness. However, her smile shortly faded, and her bright, blue eyes glowed in severity. “I found a clue,” she muttered softly. Turning, she reached into her small bag which hung from the back of her chair, and after a few moments rummaging, she produced a large, stiff yellow envelope. She overturned the packet, a smaller, rectangular, and thoroughly aged envelope, sliding out onto the smooth surface of the table. 

Taron and Sam glanced at one another curiously, before staring down at the aged parcel. Its wax seal was broken. Jessie, promptly swept it up from the table, holding it between her thumb and index finger, she thrust it toward Taron.

“Would you care to have a look, Mister Swift?” she queried with a sort of taunting tone, as if knowing that his incredulousness was her last obstacle.

With a steady gaze into her challenging expression, Taron took the ragged envelope from her, slowly opened it and pulled out its contents, which happened to be a folded, even more, worn piece of parchment. He unfolded the paper, turning it over to find the faint but still legible scribbles of a man’s hand. He neglected the poorly scratched letters for a moment, studying the paper itself, quickly realizing the page to be a leaf torn from a journal or ship log, and he looked over the top of the page"as he was holding it up in front of his face"to see Jessie staring at him, her absurd grin dominating her expression.

There was something strange about the girl. He glanced at Sam, she too was watching him, but her eyes held a curious intent. Obviously, she felt no misgivings over her friend’s strange demeanor; perhaps not noticing how Jessie’s eyes, seemed to ever glint in challenge when they met Taron’s; or how often in the course of her and Sam’s conversation, her gaze had shifted to him, her devilish grin forming, and her eyes measuring him.

Taron pushed his misgivings aside, focused on the musty paper in his hand. He slowly read the short entries on the page, thinking nothing out of place, finding the usual, day-to-day accounts any captain might write, but toward the bottom of the page, he discovered an odd little sentence. It stood out from the rest, written in a hastened hand, and separate from the other entries. He read it to himself:

From the island’s eye, tears wash over the lonely dragon, greedily in sentinel over his lair.

A riddle he thought, but one that had geographical intent. And just like that, Taron knew Jessie’s aims. He glanced at the blue-eyed girl, still staring at him from across the table. He handed Sam the journal page, coolly returning Jessie’s gaze, but he said nothing, knowing it would do little good.

“This sentence,” said Sam, “does it mean what I think it does?”

Jessie’s attention shifted to her friend. “That’s the clue Sam. My great uncle scribbled that phrase on the journal page while he was in prison. He smuggled it from his cell, and sent it to his sister.” She smiled, glancing between her two listeners. “On the envelope he wrote instructions for her to hold the letter, until such time, he could retrieve it personally. But"”

“He never came back,” Taron broke in dryly.

Jessie met his dubious stare with a slight scowl. “Precisely,” she continued, “but, his sister was to open the letter, should he never come for it, and”"she paused, looking at Taron, expecting his interruption, but he refrained"“clearly she never did.”

This time it was Sam who showed uncertainty, and she glanced at Jessie. “But why would he leave a written clue to the treasure’s location. He was there, he would know where to find it"why run the risk of someone intercepting his letter?”

Jessie, with her elbows resting on the table, locked her hands together with a pleasant grin. “I told you, he wrote the message while he was in prison. Things must’ve looked bad for him. So he probably figured, better his sister have the treasure than no one.”

Sam nodded her acceptance to that reasonable likelihood. She smiled. “So, how did you come across it?” She held up the ragged leaflet. 

Jessie’s smile, as far as Taron could tell, seemed legitimate just then. “When I was home last,” she began, “my sister and I were searching through some things in my grandmother’s attic.” She took the paper from Sam, started to put it away. “We found it in an old trunk. My sister didn’t know what to make of it. But luckily, I knew the story well. You might say it’s an obsession of mine.”

“You certainly used to talk about it a lot,” remarked Sam with a chuckle. She looked at Taron. “You wouldn’t believe how she used to ramble on about her great uncle, the man who made off with the treasure of Lima.” Taron smiled meekly, trying not to show his uncertainty, for he still didn’t know what to make of her friend. Sam turned back to Jessie. “You never said why you were looking for me?”

The other woman grinned. “I want you to help me find the treasure Sam.” Taron’s eyebrows lifted impulsively. He had known the proposal was coming, but the ease in which she had uttered it, took him off guard. “And you Taron,” she said, glancing his way. “I want you both to come along. I want us to find it together.” Her eyes were piercingly earnest, her solemnly wrinkled brow, imploring.

“We’d love to!” Sam burst with the answer. Taron shot her an astonished look, but then again, Sam’s response hardly surprised him. For in truth, he himself, needed little convincing. After all, it was an exciting prospect. A treasure hunt on a Pacific island, noted for its beauty; a treasure the whole world knew about, but none had ever found, but they possessed a clue the others lacked; and also, perhaps the most significant thing for Taron, no malevolent shadow organization was after this treasure. Thus, this endeavor seemed very enticing to him. But none the less, he could not shake his feeling of unease with Samantha’s old friend. Though he could hardly sense a malicious intent in her, he could feel that all was not well; and just then, his gaze met hers, and he could see that now familiar, mischievous glow in her eyes. It was as if she were laughing within, already seeing the prank she intended to play, going off without a hitch. And that was the feeling Taron got from her expression; not dark, and perhaps innocent enough, but he knew that interesting things awaited them.

It was then, that the lithe but man-hefty footfalls wrapped echoingly on the Cantina’s ceramic floor. Leather soles, moving in their direction. The three looked up as the stranger halted near their table. He was a young"perhaps a few years older than Taron"handsome man, with a strong, square jaw that framed a flawless, clean-shaven face; his soft, hazel eyes, taking the three of them in with a friendly gaze.

“I’m glad you’re back!” said Jessie, rising giddily from her chair. She wrapped her arm through one of the stranger’s, which was bent at the elbow as his hands rested softly on his narrow hips. The two kissed suddenly, energetically, like kids still in high school, and Jessie hung on him as she glanced at her bewildered friends. “Sam, Taron, this is Bryce.” Her voice was light and floating, matching her spritely demeanor. “Say hello,” she bid the stranger.

“Bryce Dagfield,” he said pleasantly, stepping out of Jessie’s grasp and stooping to shake Sam’s and then Taron’s hands.

“Dagfield,” Taron muttered, “you any relation to the billionaire family?”

Bryce grinned, somewhat conceitedly. “I’m afraid so.” He laughed softly. “Been trying to live that down for years now.”

Taron couldn’t help but smile, the man was outwardly charismatic, and he seemed a very personable individual.

“Isn’t he the most down-to-earth billionaire you ever met,” stated Jessie, causing Bryce to cringe at the awkwardness, and Taron liked him even more, thinking his humility admirable.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” said Bryce. “my family’s wealth is still a novelty to her. But as for me, I assure you, my only appreciation for money, is in its complete inadequacy to enrich one’s life. I guess that’s why I prefer a thrilling life experience, over anything money can buy.”

“Bryce enjoys a good quest,” inserted Jessie dotingly. This time, Taron and Sam joined Bryce in cringing, the three pitying the poor girl for being so outwardly infatuated.

Abruptly, the wealthy heir opened his hands in a friendly gesture. “Shall we have a drink?” he queried, signaling to the lazy barkeep, who was nodding drowsily with an elbow on his bar. Bryce sat down with a weary sigh, Jessie, also retaking her seat.

The two couples sat quietly for a moment, in that self-conscious, uncomfortable way in which recently acquainted people so often do. But promptly the barkeep appeared, balancing his tray on his left palm, setting out their beers as he went round the table. Now at least, they had something to drink during their awkward silence.

Taron thumbed the cap from his bottle, gulping down a swig of the cold, but bitter"in this part of the world, domestic"beverage. He became aware of the other man studying him, and he sat the bottle down. “Thanks for the beer,” he said affably.

“Tell me, Taron, is it; where do I know you from?” queried the Heir. His expression was kind, his gaze sincere.

“I dunno, could be any place. I’ve done some considerable traveling lately,” he said, glancing at Sam with a grin.

“He’s a writer,” inserted Jessie, chirpily. Taron looked at her, not remembering if whether, during her ramblings with Sam, the subject of his occupation had come up.

Bryce put up a finger, as if to place him. He nodded with a friendly smile. “Oh, I know now. You’re Taron Swift. I’ve read your book.”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Taron, laughing amiably.

The other man grinned. “I enjoyed it. I thought it was very exciting. Your styling is very fast, quite enthralling.” He glanced at Sam. “I’m sure you’ve read it?”

Sam cleared her throat awkwardly. “No, I haven’t,” she admitted meekly. “But I will,” she affirmed, meeting Taron’s somewhat amused, somewhat intrigued gaze, passionately.

 

Suddenly a booming of thunder, like artillery dueling in the clouds above, made Taron set up. He groaned at the immediate pain this caused, wrapping his arms around his aching abdomen. His head was spinning from the suddenness of his rise, as he tried to discern whether he had just been sleeping, or had drifted casually from consciousness during his recollections, and he was left wondering if he had been conscious the time before; or, had he dreamt that.

Another crashing of thunder sounded overhead, and the occasional drop of rain could be felt upon his heated skin. He looked up at the swirling sky, the strong wind whipping through his sweat drenched locks. He cursed internally as he looked out over the rolling, angry sea, pieces of the wreckage, still burning on nearby rocks. He glanced about, noticing that the shoreline was thickly littered with the debris.

“Jesus,” he muttered huskily, his laconic summary of the scene before him. A rain drop soon found the gash on his forehead. Hissing in pain, he brought his hand to the oozing wound above his right eyebrow. He growled his displeasure at all of his nicks and bruises, his body sore and ever protesting, and he felt as if he had fallen down every flight of stairs, in the"hell, take your pick, there was no building too tall to overstate his miserable condition just then.

Thunder grumbled overhead. He sighed. “Well, Sunshine, you gonna lie in the rain and wait to die"or are ya gonna get yer a*s up,” he prompted himself, emulating Mason’s practical frankness. “I’m gonna get up,” he answered. Thus he demanded his body to action, growling and groaning, as slowly his rigid frame extended to where he was stiffly standing on shaky knees and ankles. It was a victory. He grinned, turning slowly to gaze into the thick, shadowed tree-line bordering the beach. Grimness filled him as he placed his hands on his hips, thinking wearily of trekking through the wet brush. However the rain became more prevalent, and he, realizing that he had to get started sometime, would be better sheltered from the storm in the canopy of the forest; or, at the very least he might have the good fortune to be struck by lightning, which would remedy all of his worldly miseries. “Well, hell,” he muttered huskily, sighing. His hands fell yieldingly to his sides, and he took his first step forward, followed by his second, and so on and so forth, and soon he was in the harrying foliage.

 

Author's Note

This is an idea I've had with a cast of characters I've already used in a novel. Quite likely, I'll expand this story into a novel as well.