Thursday 16 June 2011

Reconsider Phlebitis

The statue of the long-dead king had three legs. Phlebitis looked at it and counted again, but it definitely had three legs. It towered above him, easily four times his height and carved, it seemed, from a single block of stone. Stone like no other stone he'd seen down here in these gloomy caves. On its head was a crown with jagged points, it wore a carven robe that drew back at the waist; there was a real leather belt wrapped around it there holding nothing up. And there were three legs. Still having trouble convincing himself of what he was seeing, Phlebitis climbed up on to the statue's dais and touched each leg in turn, checking that he wasn't getting confused with a stone scabbard, or that part of the statue had broken off leaving just a spare leg behind.
But no. This ancient king had had three legs, and had commanded enough respect from his craftsmen at least that they'd created this statue of him to celebrate the fact.
Phlebitis sighed and sat down on the dais, wedging the pitch-soaked torch into a convenient gap between two of the statue's three legs. It guttered briefly and then recovered, its smoky yellow flame making shadows dance and jump all around. It stank of pitch as well, but Phlebitis preferred this to the smell of boiled frogs he'd had to breathe during the sea-voyage.
The map was in his pocket -- the treasure map was in his pocket -- so he took it out again and smoothed it out. He'd found the cave system, found the waterfall in the first cave that was actually a true cataract and had nearly drowned him. He'd made it past that to the beach of golden sand that had turned out to be quicksand and had nearly drowned him again. Then there was the limestone cavern with the pools of milky water that he'd carefully avoided in case they tried to drown him too. Now, here, in this vast cavern with the three-legged king of some ancient people there was supposed to be treasure. And apart from the statue he'd found nothing. Not even an IOU.
Something sproinged above him and he got hurried to his feet, worrying that the statue was somehow going to spray water at him and attempt to drown him. Whoever had lived on this island had, in his opinion, had an unhealthy obsession with water. He looked at the statue, and saw that the cloak had somehow popped out slightly above the waist. Touching it he found that the stone was warm and deduced that the heat from the torch must have been the key to opening it. His heart now feeling as though it was in his mouth, he braced his feet, stretched up and gripped the cloak, and pulled.
The cloak moved only a few centimetres outwards but there was a loud grating sound, a gust of air like something very large had moved like a piston, and the ground in front of the dais sank gracefully into the ground. Water gurgled and hissed and bubbled over the descending land creating a large lake. Phlebitis's mouth turned up at the corners in a wry grin; exactly where everyone but the statue-molester would have been standing on a proper expedition was now a steep-sided lake of water that smelled rather putrid. These damn people were still trying to drown intruders.
There was a clunk and then a whooshing sound and another gust of air but in the other direction. In a spray of water that nearly extinguished his torch, a small island, barely big enough for a man to stand on, rose out of the lake. On it, though it was hard to tell in the gloom and with a sputtering torch, was a wooden crate of some kind.
The treasure.
Phlebitis looked at the lake and sighed, certain that the only way to get to the crate was to swim, and equally certain that there would be something living in the lake that would attempt to grab him and drown him.

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