The Treasure Hunter

(a short story)

PART TWO

–

Fr. James O’Shaughnessy was young, perhaps newly ordained, Tollers thought, and probably not well educated enough to hold his interest for long. Seminary educations were not what they used to be. In his day priests were renaissance men with sound groundings in several languages, literature and history, in addition to philosophy and theology. But you never know, Tollers thought to himself, he might be good for an hour or two of harmless conversation. They sat across from each other at the small oak table in the middle of Tollers’ tiny dining room, just in front of a large bay window that looked out over the lake. Tollers had set out some cheese, crackers and fruit for a light lunch.

“Shall I say grace?” Father asked, already bowing his head and crossing himself.

“Sure…” Tollers said hesitantly.

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts…” Father O’Shaughnessy prayed, devoutly and earnestly, while Tollers glanced out the window and smiled at the sight of one of his neighbors’ sailboats gliding by. He wished for a moment that he were on it instead of sitting here uncomfortably with this priest. “…from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.” Father O’Shaughnessy crossed himself again and this time Tollers joined him. The sensation of his fingers sweeping in fluid gesture from his forehead to his chest and to each shoulder felt odd but at the same time surprisingly natural. A cool breeze blew off the lake and through the open window, and the sailboat disappeared around the point of the cove.

“So what brings you out here today, Father?” Tollers asked.

“Just visiting the flock,” Father answered. “You and your late wife have been on the parish roll for quite a few years now. But I haven’t see you around, have I?”

The priest’s tone was not accusatory, and Tollers weighed his response a few seconds before speaking. “No,” he said, “you probably haven’t.”

Fr. O’Shaughnessy merely nodded, and Tollers was glad for the silence. “I hear you taught at St. Francis. What did you teach?” the priest asked.

“English lit…the old stuff,” Tollers answered, picking up a strawberry and staring out the window. “Beowulf to Chaucer to Shakespeare.”

“I love Chaucer!” Fr. O’Shaughnessy said enthusiastically and then launched into a perfect rendition—in the Middle English language of the last half of the fourteenth century–of Chaucer’s prologue to the Canterbury Tales.

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour…

Tollers raised his eyebrows. “Well done, Father! Now you have my attention. A man after my own heart.”

Fr. O’Shaughnessy straightened in his chair and squared himself to Tollers. “And just how and where is your heart these days, Professor?”

Tollers looked down and stared into his plate as if counting the bumps on the strawberries and the grains of salt on the crackers. And although he tried to shake off the feelings that were welling up inside him, he was beginning to appreciate the forthrightness and the presence of the younger man. He was wondering how to best respond when he suddenly (and surprisingly, he thought) opted for honesty. “I think I lost my heart about nine years ago,” he said, “so it’s probably seen better days. I have trouble finding my heart, you might say.”

“And how do you spend your time, your days and nights here on Raccoon Cove?” Father asked. “I noticed the metal detector on the way in. Had any luck lately?”

Tollers’ eyes glistened. “I find a few things—coins, a few Civil War uniform buttons, bullet casings and even one old iron cannon ball. Those kinds of things, mostly.” Tollers’ hand went to his pocket. “Actually, I just found something this morning that might interest you.”

Tollers reached into his pocket and pulled out the crucifix. As he did so the chain broke and the cross fell to the table, landing face down with a clank on his plate. The light from the window played against the tarnished gold of the cross and he saw for the first time that there was engraving on the back. He picked it up in his hands and tried to rub the silt and the years away.

“There’s something here but I just can’t see it,” Tollers said. “Help me out here, Father.”

He handed the crucifix to the priest who held it up in front of his face, turning it first to his left and then to his right like a benediction, trying to catch the right kind of light that would illuminate the writing. “It looks like a scripture reference,” Father O’Shaughnessy said. “Let’s see…looks like Matthew 6:21. Do you have a Bible? My memory’s not what it should be about such things.”

Tollers rose from his chair and walked across the room to the massive bookcase that spanned the back wall of the living room. In between books of literary theory and the history of medieval England he pulled out a well-worn, leather-bound, gilt-edged Bible. He returned to the table and handed it to Fr. O’Shaughnessy. “You do the honors, Father.”

The priest carefully laid the book on the table and thumbed his way to the first book of the New Testament, finding the sixth chapter and then the twenty-first verse. He read the passage first to himself, a wide smile spreading slowly across his face as he did.

“What does it say?” Tollers asked.

Father O’Shaughnessy cleared his throat and read: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Tollers’ eyes opened wide when he heard the words. He smiled a knowing smile for just an instant before lowering his head into his hands. His tears flowed freely and painfully and overwhelmingly like a cleansing, purifying flood, like a baptism of fire and rain, and for the first time in nearly a decade he knew he had found what he had been looking for.