A night at the... top of the mountain

Cris adjusted the backpack on his shoulders and took a deep breath. The narrow path winded on a steep mountain slope, and it was the only way to reach the forgotten ruins. He knew well what he was doing was illegal and four years of archaeology school thought him that he couldn’t dig without approval.

However, he wasn't digging; he was visiting. The crypt was full with thousands-year-old  statues, heavy rings adorned their fingers, and golden bracelets surrounded their arms. The archaeologist code asked he told the world about his find.

And here lay another problem, it wasn't his find. It turned his mission, when his father couldn’t climb the steep slope. To make sure the grass grew over the old ruins, that sheep grazed peacefully and the cave stayed hidden from the prying eyes.

In the later years, the interest for the spiral bracelets grew with their value on the black market. Treasure hunters pried on the lands and sometimes were successful.

Cris let a whispered curse. That's how he became a thief, on top of hiding important archaeological finds. By necessity, as he must reach the treasures before the thieves found them.

If the thieves arrived first, the bracelets would find their place in private collections or into the melting kiln. If he found them...

He reached the top of the mountain, and the large plateau was visible between the trees. Cris inhaled the crisp summer night air. He wondered, if any visitor detected the subtle whiff of incense and smoke, or just confuse it with the common smell of the resin on the fir trees.

And smoke? He crouched to the ground and took off his backpack. He approached cautiously the edge of the forest and gasped, as anger swept through his blood. How could this happen? The grass lay torn and scattered around a large marble block, which he knew it was part of the underground complex ceiling.

He looked at the humming machine in its vicinity. Ultrasound, he should have thought someone would use that.

Cris looked carefully, but he couldn't see any of the thieves. He circled the edge of the forest and detected the tracks of a four-wheeler leaving through the trees. He cursed at the thieves’ carelessness that could have started a damaging forest fire.

He approached the gaping hole and fell to the ground near the large statue the thieves managed to drag from the cavern. His eyes filled with tears at the sight of its vandalized hands.  Ridges encased the golden rings on their fingers to protect against falling. The thieves just broke the marble fingers to be able to take the gold, and they lay on the ground, mixed with the rubble.

The archaeologist in him angered at the sight of priceless artifacts destroyed for greed. The guardian hung his head in shame at his failure to protect his quarry. The friend sprung to action, as Cris knew he had little time left to reverse the damage. He feverishly dug into his backpack, throwing its contents on the ground until he found a small jar. He carefully picked up the marble fingers from the rubble, searching for each fragment he could find. He was thankful for the countless hours of restoration work at the museum that thought him how to put together complicated puzzles of broken pottery.

He assembled slowly the broken fingers, and love shone on his face while he dabbed them with the white paste in the jar and put them together. His eyebrows met in a frown of concentration while perspiration dripped from his forehead.

He looked at the white marble hands of the statue and sighed. He did a good job, but the break lines marred with unsightly scars the hands who had been perfect the day before. 

He couldn't lift the statue alone to slide it back safely into the cave. He hoped the thieves wouldn't return soon, so he stuffed the contents of his backpack and hurried down the winding path to bring his four-wheeler. The statue must return to its cave before sundown...

***

The sun shone low in the sky. He only had but few minutes when the motor of the four-wheeler gave up with a loud snort. He kicked one of the wheels in frustration and adjusted the backpack on his shoulders. He hurried up the slope, carefully following the winding path. 

A soft, golden glow pulsed at the edge of the forest. He hurried towards it, and the muffled thuds told him the thieves returned. 

Cris watched the fight, and cursed the ban to intervene. The dark-haired man held a curved sword in his hand and advanced towards the white-faced thieves. His scarred hand clenched tight the sword's pommel and only the red marks on his hands and puckered eyebrows spoke of the pain he forced himself to ignore.

It was a short fight and steel blue shone in the man’s eyes as he drew his curved sword through the thieves. Their blood was slowly seeping into the ground, and Cris questioned the man in silence. Nobody would believe he wasn’t the murderer when the man pointed at the sword lying near the thieves. Cris hoped the police would buy the story of the thieves killing each other. 

Cris handed the jewel-incrusted rings to the man, who answered with sadness, as he lowered himself in the cave.

"It is time."

Cris nodded to the tall man, and sighed as he noticed the blood that splattered his white clothes.

He pulled his iPad out of his backpack and started to write.

"To the curator of the museum of antiquities,

Thieves broke into a cave close to the top of the mountain. There are about fifteen statues in almost pristine condition, inside."

His letters were always anonymous. His finger hovered above the send button, when he added, as an afterthought.

"You might want to leave the rings on their fingers..."

Then he pressed send.