Trouble & Treasure by Dave Moyer (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

pants, “These are fine. Anything that’s dry is fine.” I smiled hard. I wanted him to know that everything was okay, that despite the fact we were in a desperate situation, I was okay.

He shrunk into his shoulders and headed back to the stairs. “You can change up here,” he said, not turning to me once, “But stay away from the window.” He walked back downstairs in silence.

He left me with an uneasy feeling pitching in my gut. It wasn't because I felt frightened or angry at him; it was because I couldn't understand how to make him more like Sebastian Shaw again. The Sebastian from this morning, the one who’d been angry at me for being upset and running away to Elizabeth's.

I changed into my new clothes. They were warm and dry, and while the shirt was scratchy, it would do.

With a sigh, I took to the stairs, intending to find Sebastian.

I reached the level below, walking into the room and stopping suddenly; Sebastian hadn’t finished changing. While he did have pants on, he was lacking a shirt. He looked over at me, impassively, grabbing the shirt he’d put over the back of a seat and shrugging into it.

I, being the fairly decent girl I was, turned my back. “Sorry,” I mumbled sharply.

He chuckled from behind me. “You’re all right, Amanda.”

I didn't turn back, and it was less to do with the fact I was worried I was being rude, and far more to do with the fact my cheeks were hot and flushed.

“You’re a pretty weird woman,” he noted.

I wasn't sure what that was meant to mean, and turned to face him again.

As I did, realizing he was fully dressed and ignoring how disappointed that made me feel, I noticed one half of his mouth kinked up in a grin.

“Don't we look the pair?” He began to roll up his sleeves.

We were in matching red and blue checkered shirts and dark blue track pants. While we matched, it wasn't a pleasant match. While the men hunting us were dressed in the latest military gear, Sebastian and I looked like we’d rolled out of bed this morning, left our pajama bottoms on, grabbed our fishermen shirts, and hadn't even bothered to put our mean faces on. Rather than point out to him that he could look harder and try to find some better clothes, I chuckle. I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, so I ended up shrugging my shoulders and rolling my eyes.

Slowly the other side of his mouth kinked up. That was all he did. He didn't add anything, didn't emphasize how bad I looked; he stood there, one hand on the back of that chair, both sides of his lips curled up in a smile.

I was surprised at how much he could say without words.

That would be when there was a bang from upstairs. I flinched away from the stairs, taking several quick steps into the room and towards Sebastian.

His eyes flickered with concern, head turning towards the ceiling, still wet hair dripping down his face. He mimed a silent expletive and shook his head. “That better be them,” he said quietly.

Before I could ask who, the sound of heavy footsteps filtered into the room.

I took several more steps back, head shaking, shoulders tensing up.

“Get down, get behind this seat.” Sebastian motioned to the seat, voice quiet but firm.

I didn't protest, just did what he said and watched as he made his way into the kitchen, probably looking for a weapon.

As I crouched low behind the seat, limbs stiff and breath coming in short sharp bursts again, I listened with all my might to the sound of those footsteps. It sounded as if there was more than one person; the beat of the footsteps too close together for it to be one man.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out the rush of fear.

The footsteps reached our floor.

I didn’t make a sound, and I didn’t move. I stayed there, face pressed against the old musty leather of the seat in front of me, one hand over my mouth to make sure I didn’t make even the smallest of sounds and give my position away.

The blood pumped violently through my arms, and they shook, my whole body shaking with them. I was too scared to turn around and see where Sebastian was, whether he’d managed to get a weapon, or whether he was opening the window, ready to take his chances with the storm and drop below.

I heard someone give a rough cough, and it sent a tremble of recognition through me. I knew that cough.

“You here?” a voice asked.

The voice was Maratova’s.

Sebastian walked right past me. He didn't rush, he didn't attack, he walked.

“Shaw,” Maratova said, voice a growl, “About fucking time.”

My heart beat so strongly I felt sure everyone in the room could hear it.

Sebastian didn't answer.

“Where’s the girl?” Maratova asked.

I could have screamed, and it was only the fact I had one hand clutched over my mouth that I didn't.

“You did the right thing,” a different soldier said.

“Mark,” Sebastian managed.

“Come on, Shaw, you called us. Stop wasting our time,” Maratova replied, still growling.

I was shaking, shaking far more violently than I had ever shaken before. While I’d once believed I was trapped, I now knew I was cornered in a way I could never have appreciated.

Sebastian had sold me out.

“She is...” Sebastian trailed off.

I did something brave, something that didn't seem possible considering how frightened I was. Shaking all over, I stood up from behind that seat. Despite the fact all I wanted to do was get the hell out of here, I stood and stared at the three soldiers before me, without looking at Sebastian once.

I could easily figure out who Maratova was. He was the one in the middle, the tall one with the broad shoulders and thick muscular neck. The one with depressed, drawn lips and eyes that stared out at me with a hollow, dead, but determined look.

One of the soldiers next to Maratova, who was shorter and had a wiry frame and a far kinder expression on his face, looked my way. “It's all right.”

I stared back at him, still not blinking, and not speaking.

He let go of the heavy gun on a strap over his shoulder and let it drop to his side, and lifted his hands slowly. “It's fine, we aren’t here to hurt you.”

He sounded so genuine, so honest.

“We're here to help,” he said again, “And it sounds as though you need a bit of help, Amanda.”

Yes, it did. I had no idea whether the three soldiers before me were going to offer any. One thing was clear, Sebastian wasn't. He’d called them here, told them where I was. Why? Why had he spent the last day telling me how evil they were and how much I had to get away from this Maratova guy? Had all this been some game from the beginning? Had Sebastian had some plan, and was this part of it?

I swallowed painfully.

I didn’t know what to think, and it wasn't as if thinking would help anyway; I had zero options here.

Sebastian kept a pointed and conspicuous silence by my side. He was even leaning away from me as if I was some fetid, rotting scrap of meat that he didn't want to be anywhere near.

I swallowed again, this time harder.

Mark began to put his hands down. “Amanda, we are going to take you somewhere safe. You can trust us,” he said, again sounding genuine.

I nodded. I had no option but to trust this guy, or at least follow him.

“I tell you, Sebastian,” Mark said with a shake of his head, “We had no idea what you two were doing.”

Sebastian didn't answer, just gave a slight grunt.

I stood there, getting colder by the moment. It wasn't that my still-wet hair was dripping down my back; it was that the man I’d thought I could trust barely moments before was turning out to have played me. It sounded as if he’d been in contact with the army the whole time. So why lie? Why make me believe they couldn't be trusted? I’d run from them last night out of sheer surprise and fright, but he could have told me the truth this morning. Why string me along? It was so unbelievably cruel.

“How did you get here?” I found myself asking, voice low but not shaking.

Mark looked over at me, surprise lifting up his cheeks. He had wide, bright, expressive eyes and they locked onto me. He looked pleased I’d spoken, probably more pleased that I hadn't turned tail and started to run. “Chopper.” He pointed one finger upwards.

I flicked my eyes to the ceiling and flicked them back again. “There's a storm outside,” I replied quietly.

He shrugged. “Good chopper, good pilot,” he dipped his head, “But if you don't want to go that way,” he pointed downstairs, “We can always go out the door.”

I blinked hard, remembering how exquisitely awful it had been getting in here in the first place. I didn't want to walk on that path in a storm again.

“Up to you,” he said, and he seemed to mean it.

This, him, this Mark guy, he was the soldier you saw in action films and books. Dedicated, genuine, loyal, and a tad bit dashing. He was the guy you wanted to trust when you were in danger. If he’d been there last night, if he’d been the one to save me from my drawing room full of mercenaries, I had the distinct feeling that everything would have turned out differently.

Maratova, on the other hand, lived up to his monstrous reputation. I was scared to even look at the guy.

“Do you know how many contacts are out there?” Mark asked Sebastian.

“No idea,” Sebastian replied, voice quiet, shoulders hunched, his body still leaning away from me.

“We didn't spot any on the way in, not that we could see much in the storm,” Mark said, one hand remaining on his gun, though not in a particularly threatening manner.

I was starting to feel foolish, exquisitely foolish. Why had I run from them today? Why had I put myself through all of that when, far from being the monsters I’d believed, they was the saviors I required?

The more I thought about it, an awful, sick, stodgy feeling took to my stomach. God, how much trouble was I in here? Surely they were going to question why I ran from them? Why I didn't turn myself into the authorities when I’d had the chance?

While I could easily say it was all Sebastian’s fault, it was clear Sebastian was working with them.

As I stood there, wallowing in my self-hate, I heard the wind pick up from outside. What had previously been a gale fired up into a full-blown storm. There was even a sudden and powerful clap of thunder above us, and a correspondingly bright flash of light that filtered in through the small window above the sink.

My shoulders jumped instinctively, but fortunately I didn’t yelp in surprise.

“Wow,” Mark said, drawn out and slow, as the rumble of thunder passed, “Storm is picking up.”

Even through the thick insulation of the concrete and stone, I could make out the churn of the surf, the beating of the waves as they roared up the rocks and smashed against the side of the lighthouse, not to mention the appalling scream of the gale outside.

“What a day to be stuck in a lighthouse,” Mark added, “You sure picked it, Sebastian.”

“We have to stay here?” I asked automatically, words pushing their way out of my mouth before I could think about it myself.

Mark glanced towards the small window in the kitchen and nodded. “Sure seems that way.” He turned and faced me in full. “We will be out of here once the storm dies down a bit, it won't be long.”

There was another horrendous clap of thunder from above, and a startlingly bright flash of light from outside the small window.