A dry branch snapped under his boot with a crack so loud it flushed a thrush from a nearby hemlock. Mike Sullivan stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead under his faded ball cap, and listened to the woods. It was late August 1992, and the heat was stifling. Even here, in the thick timber on the edge of Oak Creek, the air was heavy and still, smelling of pine needles and sun-baked bark. Mike was thirty-two, and he’d spent the last ten years mostly on his own. His job with the Forestry Service suited him perfectly: no unnecessary crowds, no prying questions about why he hadn’t settled down or started a family. Oak Creek was a small town of barely eight hundred people; everyone knew everyone else’s business far too well.
That was why his cabin on the very edge of the ridge felt like the only right place to be. He’d been patrolling his sector for three hours, checking trail markers, when he heard a strange rustling. Something was moving ahead, breaking brush, but it was too slow and rhythmic for a deer or a bear. Mike frowned and moved toward the sound, pushing through a thicket of wild blackberries. In a small clearing bathed in slanted afternoon light, an elderly woman in a simple dark headscarf was dragging a heavy canvas bag—large, gray, and cinched tight with thick nylon rope.
She moved in small, agonizing increments, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. Her thin hands shook with the effort. “Ma’am? You okay out here?” Mike called out, stepping into the clearing. “You out foraging for mushrooms?” The woman startled and turned. Her face was a map of kind wrinkles, but she was a stranger. Mike knew every senior in Oak Creek and the surrounding valley, but he’d never seen her before.
“Oh, Mike, you gave me a fright!” she said, resting a hand over her heart. “I’m not looking for mushrooms. I’m trying to get down to Oak Creek. Am I on the right track?” Mike looked at the bag. It was packed so tight the fabric was strained white in places. The shape was odd—long, with a distinct widening in the middle. “Definitely not mushrooms. You’re on the right path,” he nodded. “About a mile and a half straight down this trail and you’ll hit the back gardens of the main street.”
“What have you got in there?” the ranger asked. “Just something that needs to go home,” she replied evasively, gripping the rope again. She pulled with all her might, moving the bag maybe twenty inches before she doubled over, coughing. Mike watched her for a moment, then sighed and stepped forward. “Let me take that,” he offered, pulling off his cap. “You won’t make it by dark at this rate.” “You’d help me?” Her eyes sparked with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, son. I wasn’t sure I could manage the rest.”
Mike grabbed the rope at the other end, braced himself for the weight, and paused. Through the heavy canvas, his fingers felt something hard, smooth, with sharp, carved angles. It wasn’t clothes, it wasn’t groceries, and it certainly wasn’t firewood. The shape felt like a sculpture—vertical, with protrusions near the top. “What is this?” Mike asked bluntly as he hoisted the bag. It had to weigh at least sixty or seventy pounds.
As they started down the trail, the woman finally introduced herself. “Eleanor Vance,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I’ve come from quite a ways off. I’m bringing an old treasure back to your town.” Mike nearly tripped and glanced back at her, but she walked with a calm resolve, as if she’d said the most ordinary thing in the world. “A treasure? To Oak Creek?” he repeated with a dry chuckle. “You’re serious?”
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