The Treasure

Esperanza sat in the weak winter sunlight, still as the statue of the Virgin de Guadalupe that protected the mission’s chapel. Though she dare not say it, she felt the Virgin had lapsed in her duties. High on the bluff, she and her husband Carlos watched a man in a gold-trimmed uniform follow a boy with a wooden box and spade across the sand. Together, they knelt beneath the stone arch and bowed their heads. Then, the boy dug a hole, placed the box inside, and covered it. The man stabbed a cross of sticks into the spot and hung something from its top, as if marking a grave.

Esperanza crossed herself and felt the child in her belly stir, as if he, too, were warding off evil. She and Carlos had fled the mission four days ago when the pirate Hippolyte Bouchard and his men marched into San Juan Capistrano. She and Carlos headed north when they saw the plumes of smoke. They would be missed now, and yet they continued up the coast, knowing the number of lashes awaiting them increased the longer they were gone.

Once the man and boy had rowed back to the schooner on the horizon, Esperanza and Carlos clambered down the hill. She moved slowly, her back aching.

“Look, wife! God has blessed us!” Carlos cradled something in his hands.

He held up a heavy silver crucifix. A brilliant red stone shone in Jesus’ chest.

“Why would anyone leave such a treasure?” she asked.

“Maybe he is so wealthy he does not value it? Could that man be la Pirata?”

“Maybe it is cursed!” Esperanza stepped back.

“What other riches did he leave?” Carlos eyed the sand beneath the stone arch.

Esperanza nudged the baby’s foot from her rib.

“It is no concern of ours.”

Carlos found a piece of driftwood and began digging.

Esperanza built a small fire, setting stones in the flames. When they were hot, she placed them with water and corn meal in a round basket. While the mush boiled, she admired the silver cross, its gem afire in the setting sun. She heard a loud crack as Carlos pried the box open.

“What is it?” she called.

Carlos held up two bottles of brandy: Padre Jose’s specialty.

“It was he! La Pirata!”

“Padre will think we stole these,” Carlos worried.

“Surely he will believe us if we return everything?”

“We will decide tomorrow.”

Carlos draped his serape over her shoulders, and together, they ate to the lull of the surf.

That night, while Carlos snored, Esperanza thought of her long-ago baptism. A great warmth had filled her friend Marcela’s heart when the padres anointed them with holy water, but Esperanza had felt nothing. She thought of being locked in the monjerío each night with the other girls, of supping on tasteless gruel and of carrying a rattle in her lungs for months on end.

She thought of Padre’s last sermon. The joy of Christmas approached. Perhaps her son would share a birthday with the Savior. She thought of all the infants buried beside the chapel. She held the crucifix. His heart pulsed with light. A star shot across the sky. The babe stretched against her taut skin, reaching for the Savior, for the stars, for his mother, who would do what she must to protect her treasure.

Amy Francis Dechary’s work has appeared in Coast Kids magazine. She hopes Santa brings her a metal detector this Christmas.