"Much of my brothers and sisters haven't made it, however, as the great unknown that befell the land swallowed most whole."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
"Evening, Francis," one of the younger men said. "Didn't expect to see you tonight. You usually vanish with the sun."
Francis nodded politely. "I figured I should pass by for once. See what's happening."
"Happening? Same as always. Drink, cards, and the same stories you've probably told a hundred times."
"Thousands," he corrected with a faint smile.
Francis then began watching the room, letting the noise wash over him. Patrons talked over one another, shouted jokes, and cursed at spilled drinks. He noted small details: the way a young man tried to impress his friends, the woman at the table straightening her dress as she laughed, the worn counter that he was all too familiar with.
He took a seat at the far end. From here, he could observe without being drawn into it. Conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Sometimes he caught snippets of news — a ship spotted off the coast, a sailor boasting of a tale from another town — but mostly it was familiar repetition, utterly mundane.
Francis sipped his ale slowly. He didn't think less of them. There was comfort in knowing their world was a predictable one. It sharpened his own sense of alienation, made him aware of how little he belonged here — and yet how warm it felt to simply watch, to feel the faint hum of life, even if he wasn't truly part of it.
The quiet didn't last long. An older man shuffled toward him, leaning heavily on a simple cane, a crumpled piece of paper in his aged hand.
"Francis," he rasped. "Could you… read this for me? I'm… not so good with letters anymore."
Francis blinked, caught between irritation and the faint tug of obligation. He opened his mouth to refuse, but the man's eyes—hopeful, weary—made him pause. With a sigh, he took the paper.
The moment he unfolded it, his jaw nearly dropped. The script was… meticulous, like something copied from an old Bible brought across the ocean. Letters looped into each other, ornate but deliberate.
He stared at it for a heartbeat, then another, until the edges of the room softened and all he could see was the ink. Slowly, he leaned closer, scanning the lines.
Thee who is of most closeness.
Dare not think that I departed with no wholeness.
Remains you shall seek, prepared only for one who is not meek.
Heed my word, remnant of mine, for what I entrust aids in crossing the line.
A line most deem madness, but I see it as a gateway to vastness.
Heed and look far, what centers the green is the color of tar.
A tar most splendid, guarding an essence and metal that are blended.
It wasn't just the script. The words themselves were… a puzzle. Written as a poem, each line layered with meaning, subtle rhyme, coded hints. Francis looked carefully, attempting to decipher the stanza.
No wonder the man had carried it for so long. No wonder he had clung to it. Francis swallowed, feeling a small thrill, the kind that came when the monotony gave way to unpredictability.
"This… this is clever," he murmured. "Very."
The old man's eyes twinkled faintly. "I knew you'd see it."
Francis nodded, already tracing the next line, feeling the quiet stir of excitement.
As Francis worked through the lines, the meaning began to crystallize. Clues, subtle directions, hints hidden in metaphor and rhyme. He frowned, his pulse quickening.
Buried treasure.
The realization hit him like a cold wave. A fortune hidden, carefully encoded, waiting for someone sharp enough to find it. And right here, in this noisy, half-drunken bar, he was holding the key.
Suddenly, his earlier amusement, the faint thrill of curiosity, vanished. He glanced at the old man, who watched him expectantly, oblivious to the delicacy of what he had entrusted.
Francis's voice dropped to a near whisper. "I… I think I understand it. But we must be careful."
The man blinked. "Careful?"
"Yes," Francis said, leaning closer, folding the paper back neatly. "Too much talk. Too much attention… someone could ruin it before it's ready."
The old man nodded slowly, confused but trusting. Francis's hands rested on the counter, his posture tight, every sense alert.
He had to think. Every patron in the bar was a potential hazard. One careless word, and the secret could vanish.
He felt the weight of the discovery pressing on him. The puzzle that had thrilled him moments ago now demanded caution, secrecy. His curiosity remained, but it was buried beneath a careful, reserved vigilance.
Francis's eyes flicked to the corners of the room, the shifting shadows of patrons, the clatter of mugs, and the laughter. None of them could know. Not yet.
And he would make sure of it.
Francis folded the paper carefully. He looked at the old man, meeting his gaze. "Let me hold onto this for a while," he said softly.
The man hesitated, fingers curling around the edge. "I… I don't know, lad. It's been with me a long time."
"I understand," Francis said. "But you know where I work. I'll be here every day. If you need it, you can get it back. No one will touch it."
The old man studied him for a long moment, then slowly nodded, finally releasing his grip. Francis's fingers closed over the folded parchment, and a quiet sense of relief washed over him. One small danger mitigated.
Now, all that remained was leaving. Simple enough, he thought. Step out, avoid notice, return home.
But life had other plans.
A hand seized his wrist. He turned, startled, and found himself looking into the eyes of someone more perfume than woman leaning in far too close. Her intentions clear as day. He recognized her, of course; the town barely had a hundred people. But he never went past the small talk. "Well, well," she said, voice low and husky, "you look like you could use some company."
Francis jerked his arm back, careful but firm. "I'm… not interested."
She laughed, perhaps mockingly. "Oh, come now. A fine young lad like you must be... itching for a bit of fun."
"Sorry, but I'm really not interested," he repeated, more assertively this time. His heart raced—not from fear of her, but from the thought of the paper in his pocket. Any delay, any distraction, and someone might notice, someone might pry.
Her grin faltered slightly, but she leaned closer anyway. Francis tightened his grip on his coat, stepping back and finally freeing himself from her reach.
The crowd barely noticed, too caught up in their own laughter and arguments. Francis exhaled slowly, adjusting the weight of the paper in his pocket, and moved toward the door, swift and deliberate.
Outside, the cool night air hit him, carrying its usual saltiness. He let himself relax, blending into the shadows as he walked back toward his home.
***
Francis should have slept hours ago. The night had long since passed the point of ordinary rest, and his body ached from hours of sitting in the dim lamplight. Yet curiosity had none of it. The puzzle demanded attention, and he was determined to answer.
He spread the folded paper across the small bed, its creases sharp beneath his fingers, and worked through each line with painstaking care as every word mattered. The dictionary sat beside him, open, pages marked with slips of paper, as he traced the meanings and the hidden nuances.
Hours passed. Dawn nearing by the minute when he leaned back, exhausted but triumphant. The puzzle spoke of a treasure, buried somewhere within the archipelago.
His pulse quickened—not from the promise of gold, but from the sheer audacity of it. The clues were clever, woven to guide the diligent and test the patient. But there was a catch: the exact location was deliberately unclear. The writer had left nothing to chance. Every hint pointed to one of the dozen sparsely inhabited islands, but which one?
Francis ran a hand through his hair, groaning softly. "Or maybe… I'm just bad at solving mysteries," he muttered, though the faint smirk that tugged at his lips betrayed his doubt.
The existence of another parchment seemed unlikely. The instructions implied that he was the one to act, and alone. It was a test, a game—or perhaps a trap. Search each island, uncover the treasure, and do it without drawing attention. Quite the unsettling thought that was.
Yet, despite the danger, despite the sheer impossibility of it, a spark lit within him. Hours of monotony, of waiting for the horizon to change, had been replaced by something that demanded action, reasoning, cunning. And he—reluctant and solitary—was the best fit.
Francis leaned back against the wall, staring at the folded parchment in his hand. The weight of it was both promise and burden. The islands waited. And he would need all his wits, and more, to uncover what had been hidden so carefully for so long.
His body ached, his eyes stung from hours of concentration, and the night had long since passed its quiet peak. Despite the thrill, a stubborn part of him knew the limits of endurance.
"But first," he muttered to himself, voice low, "I should probably sleep."
He set the paper carefully on the bedside table, brushing the edges with a finger as if committing it to memory. The bed was small, the apartment humid and cramped, but he sank into it, letting exhaustion claim him. Sleep would not last long. His mind would wander back to islands, clues, and riddles, but for now, even a brief rest was a necessary reprieve.
The first hints of dawn streaked faintly through the shutters as Francis finally closed his eyes, the puzzle whispering at the edge of his thoughts, promising adventure—and danger—once the world awoke.