Dead Man's Chest

“Goodnight, Ma!”. I shouted down the long, narrow hallway in hopes that my mother would be too tired or too busy to come check in on me. She would come later, of course, but for now...

“Chores done?” I heard her sharp voice question, as she did every night.

“Yes, Ma.”

“Homework?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Goodnight, then. Be up to milk the cows before school in the morning.”

I turned, backing slowly into my room and closing the door softly.

“Charlie?” I froze.

“Go to sleep tonight.”

I held my breath for what seemed to be an eternity, my heart pounding in my ears. Did she know? No, she couldn’t possibly... could she? I’d hidden it well, I’d left markers to let me know if it had been tampered with, I’d taken every precaution. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t.

Still, I was tense as I creeped into bed, anxiety thick in my chest. I laid very still, silently breathing, listening intently for the creak of Ma’s rocking chair on the worn wooden planks of the old farmhouse we lived in. Many feet had memorized the groans of these floors, mine included. I knew the exact plank in the hallway that would send me a warning when Ma left her needlework to come check to make sure that I was indeed in bed. I just had to make sure I didn’t get too distracted.

I listened for several moments to the steady eeeer, grooo of my mother’s rocking chair before deciding it was safe to retrieve my treasure. Silently, carefully, I set my feet on the floor, then my knees, and kneeling, lifted my mattress. My room was cloaked in utter darkness, but no matter. I’d gone through this routine what must’ve been a hundred times by now. I slid my hand along the center of the underside of my mattress until my fingers brushed the slit I’d cut months ago. It was just a small cut, only large enough to slide my hand in and pull out my contraband: a small book in tiny print, only about 200 pages. Just a book, but a banned book, nowhere to be found on the list of approved reading material that our government updated and redacted regularly. If I were ever caught with this book, it would mean trouble for me, but worse for Ma. They’d assume she’d given it to me, or at least allowed me to keep it, and that was enough for public lashings in the square at minimum. I wouldn’t let anyone find it. Never.

Years ago, while walking every plank in the house to learn which ones would betray me and which were mute, I’d stepped on one that shifted slightly. This house was certainly aged, but well-built, so the plank immediately had my undivided attention. I remember the pit in my stomach as I’d lifted the loose board, expecting spiders or rodents, only to find a hardback book and a small, solar powered flashlight. The cover depicted rough waters, carrying a dark ship with white sails, bearing no markings but a title that made me catch my breath: “Treasure Island”. My mind swam with every possible scenario, worst and best case, of my holding this book in my hands, but I’d quickly caved. I’d devoured the pages, my eyes flickering from line to line like a starving dog scarfing down scraps. I’d read the whole thing in one night, and again the next night, and the next, and every night since.

I crawled on my belly underneath my bed frame, book clutched to my chest with one hand, flashlight in the other. I’d tried to read in the comfort of my open room, blanket over my head, but the flashlight burned so bright that I may as well have been a beacon of wrongdoing. Underneath the bed it was.

As I opened my book to the first page, it was as if the world around me melted away. “I remember him as if it were yesterday..” I whispered, darting through the details laid out on the pages before me, my mind filling in the gaps that my eyes missed. I was Jim Hawkins, for just a few hours each night, sailing across treacherous seas with venomous pirate Long John Silver, in search of an island bleeding jewels and gold, imagining that I, Charlie, could free my family from this godforsaken place. For a few hours each night, I lived.

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest – yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”

The music, the laughter, the booming voices of drunken seamen filled every crevice of my imagination as I turned page after page. The whipping sails seemed to echo in my ears, and I could almost feel the salty breeze against my skin. I could hear the protest of the ship against the sea as we weathered the storm that would throw half of the crew overboard. I could hear – Ma!

“No, no, no, no, no.” I frantically shoved the book and flashlight into the farthest corner under my bed and scrambled into bed and under the covers. The whole ordeal lasted about ten seconds, but felt like a lifetime. I fought to steady my heartbeat and slow my breathing as I stared at the wall, back turned to the door. I heard the soft metallic grinding of the knob as my mother opened the door, and saw her shadow against the glow of light from the hallway. She stood there for a moment, for what seemed too long. Finally, the frame of light from the doorway narrowed and disappeared, and I heard the click of the latch. I let go of the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and waited a few minutes more before returning to my lawlessness.

I flew through the next few chapters, hardly aware of the real world around me. I was enveloped in tales of freedom and adventure. Ma had gone to bed now; I had no more worries of being found out. Eventually I crawled into bed, as I always did. I would read here and return my book to it’s hiding place in the morning; I had to be up to milk the cows anyway, far before anyone else rose. I was safe, at this point in the night. I read until I dozed off, dreaming of one-legged pirates and booby-traps and too much treasure to carry home.

“Cockle-doodle-doooooo!!” the rooster crowed, snapping me awake. Stupid bird. My book was still sprawled across my chest, my flashlight dim with its waning power. I could’ve sworn I heard something else, too; probably just the last tendrils of my fantastical dreaming leaving my subconscious. Outside, the first hints of dawn lit the sky in the horizon. I quickly dressed, book still in hand, when I heard the familiar grind of my doorknob behind me. I whipped around to turn and face the doorway, habitually hiding my beloved tome behind my back, barely hanging on to the spine of the open story in my haste. There stood my mother, looking pained with a red welt blooming across her cheek, and three uniformed men framing the doorway behind her.

“Charlie...” she began, sounding anxious. “These men are here to search the house. Nothing to worry about, dear. Just some rumor about a book.”

My hands began to sweat. The spine of the book began to slip from my already precarious grip. As if to punctuate my mother’s fear, the book dropped to the floor from behind my back, snapping closed. The cover stared up at us all, the storm mocking us. There was no escape.