But nothing came, only the wind rustling the grass and the song of a well-known bird in the distance. I let go of the ring and walked away trembling. I waited a while, took a deep breath, and then, slowly, looked again at that strange thing on the ground.
Something inside me told me that this was no coincidence, but I didn’t yet know that that snap in the mountain had been the sound of my life beginning again.
I spent the rest of the day trying not to think about that ring. I swept the house with a dry branch I found in the woods. I chased away the cobwebs. I plugged some holes in the wall with mud and grass.
Work was always my way of keeping from going crazy. When your hands are busy, your mind slows down a bit, but it didn’t stop. The ring stayed there in the corner, calling to me with that rusty gleam.
The sun slowly descended, painting the sky orange and purple. The shadows of the mountain grew longer, creeping across the ground like long fingers. I lit a candle I had brought in the trunk, a blessed candle I kept for emergencies, and the faint light flickered on the mud walls.
Night fell again, and with it, fear. But this time it was a different kind of fear. It wasn’t fear of animals or people. It was fear of the unknown, fear of what might be lurking beneath the surface.
Because one thing I’ve learned in these 53 years of life is that when you find something hidden, it’s because someone didn’t want it found. And that’s never good. I sat on the floor, my back to the wall, staring at the ring.
The candle dripped wax onto the plate. Outside, an owl hooted, a deep, drawn-out sound that sent a chill down my spine. I recited an Our Father in a low voice, then another.
But curiosity is a stubborn beast. It gnaws at you until you give in. I stood up. I took the candle and went to the ring. I knelt again, this time more prepared.
I gripped the ring with both hands, took a deep breath, and pulled hard. The wooden floor groaned, creaked, and suddenly hit with a thud. It kicked up a cloud of dust that made me cough.
When the dust settled, I saw what was underneath: a dark, deep hole, and inside it, piles of old cloth sacks tied together with thick rope. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
The hand holding the candle trembled so much it almost extinguished the flame. I stood there paralyzed, staring into that hole as if it were the mouth of hell. Part of me wanted to cover it all up again and pretend I hadn’t seen anything.
The other side, the tired, humiliated side, discarded like trash, wanted to know. I lowered my hand slowly. I touched the first sack. The fabric was damp, reeking of dirt and earth. I pulled carefully.
It was heavy, very heavy. I lifted it to the floor and, with trembling hands, untied the rope. When I opened it, the candlelight hit the contents and almost made everything spill out.
Coins, gold coins, old, worn, with designs I didn’t recognize. They had a king’s face on one side and a crown on the other. There were so many. The sack was overflowing.
I picked one up in my hand. It was icy cold, heavy, real. The air left my lungs. I went back to the hole. There were more sacks. Three, four, five. I pulled out another one. This one had stones in it—red, green, transparent stones.
They glittered in the candlelight like stars fallen from the sky. I knew nothing about precious stones, but I knew that these things were worth something. They were worth a great deal. My head spun, my legs went weak, I sat down on the ground, still holding the sack, and stared at it all, unable to think straight.
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