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

to pull out my gun.

They were called the Stargazer Set. And among those in the know, they were the most famous, previously elusive, and most highly desired treasure maps in the world.

Ditsy Amanda had them. All of them, apparently.

I was sure she didn't have a clue what they were, nor, it was obvious, did she understand what was happening to her.

What was happening was what happened when you blurted out you had the Stargazer Set in your basement.

“Come on, Jefferson,” I tried, voice at normal volume, as I was sure there was no one left conscious in the house, “You know Maratova: he's going to scare the shit out of her, or worse. You want that?”

Jefferson wiped his nose with the thumb of one of his combat-glove-covered hands. “She threw a pasta jar at you – I don't think she's a fan.”

“She has no idea what's going on. She isn't the criminal here. Let me...” I trailed off, not sure what I wanted. Did I want to be the one to go out and pull her out of the ditch while she flailed at me with the butt of my own gun?

Nope. But I owed it to the girl. She'd been dumb telling everyone in that auction room she had the Stargazers, but I'd been worse for not warning her when I'd had the chance.

The trouble was I wanted those globes. The only person who knew where the rest of them were, and the legitimate owner (not that anyone in this building – good or bad – cared who officially owned the things) was pelting through the forest trying to get away from me. Maratova, despite my insistence that her gun wasn't loaded, would still treat her as armed, and he'd use protocol on that. That same protocol wouldn’t be kind to Amanda. The poor girl would explode if she was tackled by a trained soldier or had several M-15s pointed in her face while Maratova screamed at her to drop the weapon and drop to her knees. In other words, she was in trouble.

There was a lot of trouble going on here tonight, and I doubted it was over yet. Chapter Three

Amanda Stanton

I kept running for my life. My heart beat so fast and violently a cold pressure spread through the top of my chest.

I’d managed to make it down the dark garden path, my bare feet grating against the rough stones and soil as I headed towards the forest below. When I hit it, despite the leaves and sticks and god knows what else on the forest floor, I kept running.

I hadn't had any time to think since the moment I’d rolled out of bed and walked down stairs to meet the first of my attackers.

They were after my globes, like the one I’d been so foolish to sell at the auction house earlier that week.

When I’d come to my great-uncle's estate, entrusted by my great aunt to sort through his junk, I’d never expected to find anything valuable. Great-Uncle Stanton had only ever collected junk. From the mountains of yellowed paper in the drawing room, to the boxes of old tattered photos in the lounge room, to the cupboard full of used baked-bean cans, old Great-Uncle Stanton, though a collector, was a collector of rubbish not treasure.

That had all changed the Tuesday before last when I'd made my way up to the attic. I could still remember heaving the door open and recoiling from the loud bang as the old wood swung back on its hinges and impacted the floor. A massive cloud of dust spilled towards me, and I almost fell off the ladder from the coughing fit that ensued. When I pulled myself up and onto the floor of the attic, everything had been worth it. All those weeks of going through all that junk, of trawling through the millions of old newspaper clippings, cigarette tins, postcards, stamps, and badges, so yellowed, bent, and rusted with age I had to wash my hands every half hour – all of it had been worth it.

For there was treasure above. While the majority of the manor, from the bottom floor to the top, was filled with glorified rubbish, the attic was a sight I’d never seen outside of a fancy museum. Statues were pressed up against the side walls. Old urns had toppled on their sides, coins spilling in a sea of gold. There were fancy desks and seats, covered with leather-bound books and parchment manuscripts.

On a side wall amongst all this treasure sat a simple desk. On top of the desk were two things: one worn leather notebook and one old hideous spotting globe. Amongst all the wonder that surrounded me, that simple sight caught my attention.

My old Great-Uncle Stanton had been the black sheep of the family, having left medical school halfway through his degree to take up treasure hunting instead. The rest of the family thought he was mad. They’d also thought, incorrectly, that all his years of traveling and toiling had brought him naught but further insanity.

The family had been wrong.

Old Great-Uncle Stanton had an attic full of treasure.

My great-aunt, Imelda Stanton, the executrix of Great-Uncle Stanton's will, dealt with the treasure, leaving me to deal with the dregs. Great-Uncle's Stanton's will had already gone to probate, all gifts given, and the residue of his belongings were to be sold and split up between the principle beneficiaries named in his will. So old Imelda had been quick in getting the goods removed and sold off. But the dregs? Oh, the dregs had been mine to deal with.

And that was why I was in this current predicament.

But I had a plan, and that plan was to continue running.

Sebastian Shaw

It was over for tonight, and maybe it was over in general. Despite the fact I would do anything for those globes, my hands were tied, literally. I hadn’t ingratiated myself with my comrades in arms. At the second suggestion I run after Maratova, the boys he’d left behind had got mad, complaining I was drawing attention to them before they’d checked the house for contacts. So they’d done the first thing they could think of: pistol whipped me, tied my hands behind my back with cable, and gaffer taped my mouth. It was genuine military hospitality.

Though we were meant to be on the same team, technically, I didn't begrudge them; they wanted those globes as much as I did, maybe more. Heck, you could bet that every single well-informed, well-armed guy out there wanted the same thing.

You couldn't calculate how much they would be worth, and it would be a world full of fun finding out. Treasure hunting, was the grand pappy of fun.

I hadn't grown-up wanting to be a treasure hunter. I hadn't seen Indiana Jones as a kid and thought “that right there, that's the job for me.” Nope, I fell into it.

Despite the thrills, spills, maps, and gold – treasure hunting also had its down side, and Maratova, boy was he a down side.

By the time Maratova came back to the manor, I was sure Amanda would be dragged in by his side, a shaking puddle, tears streaking down her face, feet bloody from running through the forest, and body a bundle of bruises from tripping in every ditch from here to town.

My expectations were wrong.

Amanda Stanton

As I ran, careful to avoid the trees and scrubby undergrowth, I realized I needed something to run towards. The more I heard the frenzied sound of pursuit, the more I realized I couldn’t carry through with my original plan and run for the old country road and into town; they would catch me the moment I hit open ground.

I couldn’t hope to outrun them – I needed a place to hide.

So I veered off, remembering that down an old glade was a storm pipe. It wasn't massive, not like in Jurassic Park; it couldn't fit a van in there or anything, but it was big enough for me to crawl through on my hands and knees.

I reached it, managed to fit inside, hands shaking, body convulsing, heart a roar in my ears. And there I waited.

For those short moments, or minutes, or hours – for I’d lost track of time – I’d never felt so much fear in my life. It was like some horror film where I waited alone, my attackers descending upon me from all sides, my escape routes blocked, my advantage lost, and my life probably to follow.

As I rode out the fear, hands so sweaty as they pressed against the dirt and leaves underneath me that I would have to bathe for a week to get the marks out, the sound of pursuit passed.

Somehow I’d managed to get away. That or my attackers were of the particular cruel variety and were standing outside of the pipe ready to catch me in a sack, or however it is you kidnap maidens in distress these days.

Eventually, I realized I was indeed alone.

I stood there, back pressed against the storm drain, mouth open without the ability to close it, for god knows how long. I was still waiting for every criminal in the country to round the corner or jump out of the trees, all shouting that they wanted to see my goods, antiques, or old and valuable items.

When the attackers didn’t come and I realized how cold I was, I urged myself to move. One step after the next, I gathered speed until my bloodied feet sprinted along the forest floor once more.

I had to be careful. I didn’t want to flee from the forest only to find a major road; in my mind every satellite in the country, every machine that could fly, and every guy who’d never listened to his mother and had become a murderous thug, were all trained or milling about on those open roads, ready to catch me the moment I nipped out from the forest. So I decided I had to keep to the forest as long as I could, or at least keep out of sight.

The section of woods I was in led behind several of the old country manors in the district, and I realized, teeth chattering with the cold, that if I kept to the path and tried to navigate from the lay of the land, I could head to old Elizabeth Brown's house. Elizabeth had been a good friend of my great-uncle, a woman of considerable eccentricity herself, but with better taste and less used tins of baked beans in the pantry. When I’d been a child I’d visited my great-uncle on many occasions, and had grown to know Elizabeth and remembered her fondly. Since I’d been at my great-uncle's manor dealing with the estate, I’d been to Elizabeth's several times for tea, and she’d always said to pop in whenever I was around.

I was about to take her up on her invitation. I hoped I wouldn't be bringing along a truckload of mercenaries and bad guys to the tea table though.

Somehow I kept my footing as I navigated in the dark. Though it was a full moon, it was hard for the silvery light to penetrate the thick canopy above. I managed to make my way, as quietly