Blood-drenched Beard

She is prostrate on the ground in muddy jeans and a windbreaker. There is dirt on her hands, in her ponytail, and on the tip of her nose. Her eyes are dull, and the cheekbones that he sees as if for the first time are glazed with tears. She gives him a pained little smile when she sees him. He turns on the light, kneels, and hugs her, asking what has happened. She sighs with relief, but her kisses are no more than involuntary reflexes. She points at the kitchen counter and turns her face the opposite way as if something terrible that she’d rather not see is sitting there. He gets up and goes over to the counter. There are two objects. A silver candlestick, the length of a child’s recorder, and a kind of iron goblet or chalice, with bronze or some other orange-colored metal on the inside. Both are still covered with dirt.

I’m positive the candlestick is made of silver, says Jasmim in a tired voice behind him.

This goblet here looks like it’s bronze on the inside.

I think it’s gold.

It can’t be.

Jasmim lets out a deep sigh. He puts the objects back on the counter, crouches in front of her, and takes her rough, muddy hands in his. She tells him that she asked her neighbor to help her remove the front steps last night. The neighbor noticed that the block of steps was a little loose, worked on it for a while with a sledgehammer, then tied it to the back of his pickup with a rope and accelerated up the driveway to pull it off. Because the travel agency doesn’t open on Mondays, she spent the whole day digging with the same tools her neighbor had lent her and already had weary arms, blisters on her hands, and an aching body when she hit something strange with the spade. The objects were wrapped in crumbling swaths of fabric, and she burst into tears as soon as she brought them inside.

That’s incredible. It was right in the spot you’d dreamed about, wasn’t it?

Yes, she says, exasperated. Tears snake down her cheeks again like rain on a window. She removes her hands from his and rubs her face, smearing dirt across it like fresh warpaint. Shit. What the fuck

have I done? What am I going to do now?

They must be worth a fortune. I doubt the goblet is made of gold, but if it is—

Fucking hell, don’t you get it? I had another dream on Saturday.

Now it dawns on him, and his only reaction is an exclamatory grunt.

After you and your mother left, I lay down to watch a TV series that I’d downloaded, and I fell asleep and woke up an hour later right in the middle of the dream. The same one as the other times. Two priests burying something in front of the door of my house, and a woman in white watching. And this time there was the old guy with his metal detector and some other bizarre stuff, but it was the same situation.

That’s why you’re like this? For heaven’s sake, Jasmim. It’s just a superstition. You dreamed about it again because you’d just told my mother about the legend and the dreams, and you got a fright when those guys came over here to dig around in your garden. Sometimes ideas get stuck in our heads, and then we dream about them. Don’t take it to heart.

It was the third time, and there really was something there. I never thought that—

Get up. Let’s get you showered. You’re a mess.

I’m going to have to change the position of the door. I’m screwed.

He pulls her up into a standing position.

You’ve let it get to you. Let’s think about what to do with your treasure now. I’m going to fill in the hole in front of your door. Everything’s okay.

Will you sleep here tonight?

He needs to go home to make sure the dog has food and water, but he knows that this moment is decisive, and if he wavers even slightly in his answer, it will change everything.

Of course I will.

While she showers, he goes outside to fill in the hole. It takes him a while because the soil is everywhere and the darkness makes it hard to work. An unnatural silence sets in, and he hears branches breaking in the nearby woods. A vehicle passing on the road above reassures him. When the hole is full enough not to cause an accident, he calls it a night and goes inside. He locks the door and shutters, takes a shower, and makes a sandwich out of whatever he can find in the fridge. Thinking it is probably a good idea to remove the candlestick and goblet from sight, he gets a cardboard box down from the top of the fridge, takes out the blender, puts the objects inside it, and hides it under the sink among the cleaning products.