The Diver.

Jealous eyes watched him from out of sight.

They watched as he worked and toiled

and strained and struggled.

They watched him throughout the night.

*************************************************************************************************************

The Diver sat in his car for a few minutes with the engine switched off, allowing the last remnants of warmth provided by the rattly air conditioning to fade into the cold. By the end of this meditative cycle, the car was icy enough for The Diver to see his breath as it condensed in the air, and each inhalation was biting. He checked his watch.

5am.

The Diver unscrewed his Thermos and took a swig of Earl Grey. His first of the day. He allowed it to warm him up from the inside out, revelling in its ability to bring heat into his old bones. He screwed the lid back on and opened the car’s door into the cold morning air.

It was a bleak, wintery morning; the fog still hung over the hard earth, and there was frost covering the ground. As The Diver swung his legs out from the car, he heard the cracking of an ice-covered puddle underfoot. Muddy water began to seep through his Birkenstocks into his knitted socks.

Bugger.

He lifted up a single foot to assess the extent of the damage. One hand-knitted Christmassy sock was now covered in brown, muddy water. The Diver rolled his eyes and let out a soft chuckle,

“Dangers of the job, I suppose”,

he said to no one in particular. He moved around to the back of his van and opened up the large door of the boot; it rested above him, like a roof. Peering into the back of the car, it looked as if someone had placed a bar in there. Instead of a large, empty boot, there was a custom-made wardrobe, complete with two swinging doors, and a number of small drawers. The Diver first opened the cupboard section, revealing a withered wetsuit, covered in duct-tape repairs, and patches that had been sewn over. He took it down. Then, he moved to the drawers, opening a combination of them to obtain:

1 pair of wetsuit shoes.

1 pair of goggles.

1 map, with a pencil glued to a string tied to a small hole made in it with a hole puncher.

1 pair of wetsuit gloves.  

1 bottle of “stimulate her pussy” lubricant.

Then, he opened a flap at the bottom of the plywood-wardrobe, and fished his hand in. Owing to the rattling around that the van had done on the way here, The Diver ended up having to lay prone in the car to reach into the back of this compartment. However after much exertion, he finally completed his check list:

1 oxygen tank.

1 mask.

1 flipper in perfect condition.

1 flipper with a small bite mark taken out of it from when his dog had been teething.

A set of strange rods and luminous ropes, fastened into a ladder-like contraption.

With all of his things together, he reached up to the makeshift door-roof and began pulling a curtain around its exterior that he had formerly fixed to a rail; it looked slightly like the curtains one sees covering beds in a hospital. The van rocked back and forward slightly as The Diver wrestled with his wetsuit behind the curtain. The silence of the early morning, broken only by singing birds before The Diver’s arrival, was now punctuated with grunts and heaving. A very sensitive ear might perhaps also discern the ‘click’ opening of a bottle, the slurpy, sloshing sound of some sort of liquid being applied, and then the ‘pop’ sound of a hand-now-lubricated appearing through the end of one of the neoprene arms. Then another.

He cleared his throat and began to walk in the direction of the water’s edge; clutching a camping chair in one hand and a torch in the other.

The morning was still young, and – it being winter – there was very little light in the area surrounding the lake. The Diver clicked his torch on, hitting it a few times with the heel of his hand in order to get it working properly; it was somewhat temperamental, especially in the cold. He put the end of the torch in his mouth and then began to look at the map.

It was dogeared and well-worn, with numerous holes and tears, and edges that were perforated from constant use. It was covered in scrawlings in a variety of different pens and pencils, with years separating the most recent and the earliest additions. The map contained a lifetime within its scratchings and scrawlings; you could see The Diver’s earliest beginnings, misspelling words and using handwriting that was messy and illegible; you could see where hands other than The Diver’s had written on the map – a Father’s? A Mother’s? Perhaps a Lover’s? But most of all, the map was covered in a sea of crosses, peppered over the surface of the lake. Some of the Xs were neat and methodical, perhaps drawn with a ruler; some of them were scribbles that had very little in common with a conventional X; and some of them were so aggressive and belligerent as to have torn through the surface of the map itself. These Xs, often comprised of countless Xs, layered over one another as the pen moved back and forward, hastily. There was despair in these areas.

The Diver took out his pen and, as was his habit, squared off the section of the lake that he was to look at today. He no longer needed the ruler to measure out the portions correctly; his hand had drawn an identical square thousands of times, and he could recreate it perfectly now. He had been able to for years. His hand, however, quivered slightly as he traced out the line, causing it to be slightly jagged. He stared at it for a moment and swallowed deeply. It was just a jagged line, but it meant a lot more than that to The Diver. It meant the imminent end. It meant a life wasted. The lines had started to become jagged a few months ago, and they were only getting worse.

Alas, the cold water was good for circulation.

The Diver spat into his goggles, rubbing his spittle around with a single finger. He spent a minute or so working it into all of the cracks, making sure not to miss anywhere. Once finished, he plunged the goggles into the water to clear them off. Even the act of his hands entering the water was bracing; The Diver mentally prepared himself for a cold swim.

Well, that’s what the tea is for…

Of course, it wasn’t dignified to warm yourself up with your own piss, but if you could find a better method than man’s natural radiator, The Diver was all ears.  

He rose with a grunt and began fastening the relevant kit to himself; he placed on his goggles, his gloves and shoes, and lifting the rest of his kit up with a further grunt, dropped it into the water. Once it had descended down to the murky depths – though not more than 8 feet or so here – The Diver stepped in after it, striding out from the rocky platform and plunging into the water.

As it always did, the water knocked the breath out of him. When his head resurfaced, he took a number of greedy gulps of the cold morning air, and tried to acclimatise. Once his heart-rate had returned to normal, his breathing was regular, and urine was beginning to circulate around the inside of his wetsuit, The Diver dropped down to the bottom of the lake to retrieve his gear. It was more inconvenient doing it this way, but his old bones could no longer put the gear on themselves.

When had it become so heavy?

When had he become so weak?

His gear now on, The Diver began swimming out in the direction of the grid. The water was pitch-black apart from the luminous beam of light expelled by the torch, and it could overwhelm you if you thought about it too much. The Diver had never given much credence to such thoughts, but if you allowed them to creep in, the water – when dark like this – always felt as if it hid unspoken horrors; as if there were things in the depths that you weren’t supposed to see, nor see seeing you. There were stories about this lake, after all, and how – in its history – it hid a whole manner of atrocities. In actual fact, The Diver was here hoping that one of them was true. Well, it had gone beyond the point of hoping that it was true; The Diver knew that it was true. He knew it in his bones. He was out here trying to prove it to the rest of the world. Of course, many people believed it to be true, though none as vehemently as he. However, for every person who believed it, there were 20 who didn’t. He often overheard children mocking him in the village; perhaps they didn’t think his hearing was as good as it was.

“That’s him. That’s the one”.

“I heard he killed his wife and buried her in the lake.”

“I heard he’s looking for buried treasure”.

“I’m going to fart in his oxygen tank”.  

He’d actually heard one of them say that. He’d chuckled, truth be told. The mocking of the children was one of the reasons he came so early; he preferred to be uninterrupted.

It mattered not what the children said or did to him – whether it be the incessant mocking, or the jokes that they played on him from time to time – the weird man who dives in the lake. It would all be worth it in the end. If he found it, he could die happy. It would be his life’s work. His final act. His name would be immortalised until the end of days.

The Diver who found it.

He shuddered from the cold and kept swimming. He was nearly there now.

The section of lake he arrived in was no different from any other. Indeed, one unaccustomed to the lake itself might think they’d swum in a large circle; or simply swum to another nondescript portion of the water. Once underneath the surface and flanked on all sides with darkness, it’s easy to become disoriented. However, The Diver, to whom the lake was home, was able to decipher his whereabouts and swim to the relevant pocket of its earthy bed with relative ease. Of course, his eyes weren’t what they once were – and were getting worse as the days drew on – but the beam of light was presently strong enough to aid him.

Also guiding him were the various markers underneath the lake. Not markers that a conventional map would designate; nothing such as levels of elevation or anything of actual importance.  

Here there was a patch of lake where The Diver had lost a pair of goggles many years ago; it was marked by a large rock that looked like a frog, and poked out of the surface of the water.

Here there was a pocket of lake where The Diver had had found a relic of ages past. He had believed that this was the beginning of discovery, and had thus spent several brutal months excavating only around this site. It turned up nothing. This section was marked with sections of corded rope, much like The Diver currently held, only these he didn’t have the heart to retrieve. He hadn’t dived for a long time after that.

Here there was a pile of rocks that was home to an eel.

The Diver sunk to the bottom and began unfurling his rods from the rope that connected them. There were 4 in all, one for each corner of the square to be excavated. He drove them in with his bare hands, and the effort caused them to cramp slightly. Once he was finished – 5 or so minutes later – he rose to the surface.

The Diver took off his mask, allowing it to hang around his neck, and paddled slightly with his fins; just enough to keep him afloat, but not so much that he was out of breath or strained. After not longer than a minute, The Diver sunk below the surface, pushing downwards with powerful legs and using the weights strapped to his belt to ease his descent. He was now on the bottom surface of the lake, staring at the square to be excavated.

Looking in all directions, barely anything could be seen. He could be on the surface of the moon for all anyone might know; it was murky and grey, with shadows all around and a rocky floor, and strange noises pulsating through the depths. He pushed off in the direction of the square and, once there, angled his body so as to be floating over it. He removed a small trowel from his belt. Beginning slowly, he started to scrape away the top layer of mud.  

It was boring work, shovelling small amounts of mud at one time, and never going too fast in order to prevent making the water murkier-still with your shifting the sludge around. It was boring, but not altogether hard; although, holding the torch in one hand meant that it had to be completed one-handed. The Diver found that you could get into something of a meditative state, taking mental comfort in the continued movements and repeating patterns. It was almost tranquil.

The Diver’s small trowel picked up another piece of mud and began to shift it to the side of the square when something caught his eye; something glimmering in the torchlight. Very carefully, he placed the torch down on the floor and – with his now-free hand – cradled the trowel, protecting it in his two palms. He slowly sank to the floor of the lake and angled his hands such that the torch on the floor would illuminate them. He opened his palms and began to scrape away at the mud with a finger. He could no longer see what it was that had been glimmering.

He began small, but soon became frantic in scraping mud away from his palm. Quickly his finger was moving so fast as to be blurred in his vision, and a large cloud of mud was now obscuring the water. Eventually, he had worked the entirety of the clod of mud in his hands, and had come up empty. Did he imagine it?

Somewhat disheartened – though practiced enough in disappointment to not let it get to him – he turned to pick up the torch.

And there it was.

Poking out of the mud, dazzling in the light of the torch.

A gold coin.

The Diver’s jaw dropped, and his mask fell from his mouth. He quickly picked up the coin and immediately rose to the surface. Tearing off his goggles, he stared at the coin with fresh eyes.

This was it. This was the beginning of it.

He placed the coin, carefully, in his bag, and descended once again.

He couldn’t remember specifically where the coin had been plucked up from, and so tested the trowel in a number of different portions of the corded-off lakebed.

Nothing.

He continued to carefully poke and prod, desperately looking for another piece of the puzzle. Eventually, he became frustrated. He removed his gloves – they were too restrictive – and began to claw through the mud. There were rocks and old branches and a whole manner of other things trapped down here, and soon his fingers ached from the strain, and stung from the cuts. He was bleeding and a few of his nails began to loosen under the strain of his excavation. He began to scream as he tore through the earth with his shaking hands, manifesting only as bubbles rising to the surface of the lake, unheard.

The water surrounding him was shrouded now in a cloud of silty mud, and barely anything could be seen. Yet still The Diver persisted in his mission. He persisted until he –

His hand found something.

Deep in the pocket of mud, and only by the fingertips.

But it had found something.

Barely able to see, he forced his hand further into the mud, grabbing his prize with a snapping claw, scared lest it escape him again.

He birthed it from the mud and shook it off slightly, his hands encasing it in a vicelike cage.  

He was staring at two coins.

A smile came across The Diver’s face.

*************************************************************************************************************

“Can I give you a hand with all of that?”

The man with the goggles gave a start; he was still in the water and clearly hadn’t noticed the newcomer. He removed his mask, still in the water. Only his head was visible above the surface.

“I’m sorry?”

The Newcomer gestured to the pile of coins by the side of the lake. They sparkled in the morning sunshine.

“Can I give you a hand with all of this?”

The Diver stared down at the coins for a moment, then to The Newcomer. The Newcomer felt as if he was being assessed. The Diver got out of the water, slowly. His wetsuit was covered in tears and scratches.

“Are you a diver?”

He was breathing heavily.

“Just a walker, I’m afraid”.

The Diver considered for a moment. As he did so, The Newcomer noticed him staring at his hands. They shook slightly, and were covered in cuts and bruises.

“I could use a break”.

“What time did you get here?”

“6am.”

“You’ve been at it for 4 hours!?”

 “6am yesterday.”

“Well get out of the water, man! Have a cup of tea!”  

“Tea sounds good, thank you.”

The Newcomer watched as he moved over to a camping chair and slumped down. The Newcomer pulled up his own chair, and sat down next to him. He handed his Thermos over to him along with an enamel mug. Once the man had poured himself some tea, The Newcomer handed him a bottle of brandy.

“If you’re really cold, this is what you need”.

The man stared at him for a moment. He continued,

“Besides, it looks like you’re in need of a celebration!”

He gestured to the coins.

“Fingers crossed, I guess.”

The two sat and drank their tea in silence for a few moments before either one spoke again. It was The Newcomer.

“So, what is all of this?”

The man shrugged.

“I’m not sure. It could be Roman coins but I’m really no expert”.

Was he trying to downplay it?

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! You were out here in the first place, after all!”

The man smiled.

“I suppose you’re right”.

“So you think it’s real, then?”

“I do.”

“Wow! Are you one of those archaeology types?”

The man smiled again; he might have been blushing.

“No, no. Just a hobbyist.”

“Right”.

The Newcomer took a swig of tea.

“And all of this… is it worth much?”

The man turned to look at him; he looked him up and down, inquisitively for a moment. The Newcomer smiled.

“Not to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not going to be sold. It belongs in a museum.”

“I see. The honourable thing”.

“Exactly! What’s the point in collecting all of these relics just to sell them to a private buyer?! The world deserves to see these”.

“I couldn’t agree more”.

The Newcomer took a deep swig of his tea/brandy mix.

“So, is this all of it?”

“All of what?”

“The treasure”.

“Oh.”

The man paused for a moment.  

“No. There’s a lot more out there.”

The Newcomer’s eyes widened. The other removed a map from a bag on the floor and pointed to a square drawn in red. He was clearly proud, and pleased with the appreciation.

“I’ve still got all of these grids to search. It could take all night”.

The Newcomer noticed that The Diver was smiling to himself.

*************************************************************************************************************

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they’re worth nothing.”

3 plastic bags filled with gold coins lay on the counter.

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“You must be. I’ve got it on good authority that these are worth an absolute killing”.

The man in the pawn shop looked at him for a moment. His eyes narrowed to slits. He pushed the bags across the counter.

“Well, if you’re so sure they’re worth something, sell them somewhere else”.

He sighed.

“But I –”

No words came to him. He stood, staring at the man behind the counter, thinking. It couldn’t be for nothing.

Then The Newcomer had a thought.

“How much for an old diving suit?”