“Join a fireside confession, about a quest for hidden gold in modern-day Pittsburgh. Hear a tale of chivalry, dishonesty, thievery, and the hazards of acting on youthful impulse…”
More Info About the Author: “Megan Schreiber-Carter is a third-generation native of a storied, old borough in the Pennsylvania Wilds’ Allegheny Mountains. For decades, she lived and worked along the Potomac River, in D.C.. These days, she finds more inspiration in the forests of her ‘native altitude,’ in the place her family’s called ‘home’ for more than 100 years. She creates award-winning, multi-media content for clients and audiences, worldwide. She values loved ones, honest conversation, mountain air, the woods, a good story, cooking time, clarity, natural remedies, preserving historic structures, a good dog, simplicity, peace, and sitting by the fire. More of her work may be found at: www.megansdesk.net.”
Ill-Gotten Gold
Looking like a buxom wench, my niece Bonnie’s ample bosom was as laced up, spilling over, and tortured as the best of them. Her beefy, bearded fiancé Buck wore a brown tunic and tights over rather-nice gams. They’d just come from the jousting tournament and festival of an international society recreating medieval European culture.
Making a meal of the massive turkey legs and sweet mead they’d brought from the fest, the three of us sat out, by a big fire, on a cool, spring evening in the West Virginia Mountains. The fire smoke kept away the bugs, common along the Potomac River.
“I ran into that society years ago,” I told them, disturbing the dust covering my forgotten memory.
“Did you have a good time?” Bonnie asked. Firelight danced across her impressive bust line, her cheeks, and her bright, young eyes.
“Ah, no. Can’t say I did. Geez. I haven’t thought about this in years. The more I think about it, the more I’d just as soon change the subject.”
“Why?” Buck asked. “What happened?”
I hesitated. Then, I asked, “would you two like to hear an old-fashioned confession I should probably make before I die?” Buck nodded. He shrugged a bit, as if to say, “why not?”
Bonnie said, “have at it.” So, I did.
I told them, “on the first morning of spring break, decades ago, I headed out of the Pitt dorms with two of my five suite mates. In our back pockets, each of us carried a flask of bourbon, leftover from our party the night before.”
“One of the two, a regional rugby player from a large family of boys, went along to stretch her legs, as did I. The other, an art student from the Pittsburgh suburbs, needed to catch the last day of a museum exhibit, which was the reason for our trip. I don’t even remember what exhibit we saw, but it was a few miles up the road, near Schenley Park.”
“Afterwards, we walked towards the park’s woods, for a stroll along the shady trails on a sunny day.”
“Gathered in the field, near some entrances to the woods, we found a group of men and a few horses, all dressed in metal mesh and other armor. My Pittsburgh roommate smiled, waved, and spoke up cheerfully in the local slang, asking them, ‘What’r youns doin’?’”
“The men spoke over each other with pride and excitement about a ‘quest for gold, hidden in the park.'”
“‘As soon as a few more knights arrive,’ one burly man said, ‘we’ll be off.’ They and their mounts shifted on their feet, itching to get started.”
“In the spirit of the game, I smiled at them and asked, ‘pray, ye knights, may we pass?’ They seemed hesitant, seemed to be sizing us up.”
“Our rugby player, who threatened college guys because she enjoyed wrestling with them, surprised me with a shockingly vacant, empty-headed stare into space. She hung back, a bit, and avoided engaging these grown men. This seemed odd but wise. Our pretty, Pittsburgh roommate giggled, twirled a curl of her hair. The tallest and best-costumed knight, who appeared to be their leader, gave us a smile.
“‘Ye may,’ he replied, stepping aside with a gracious sweep of his gloved hand towards the entrances to the wooded paths. The other knights parted, so that we might continue on our way.”
Bonnie and Buck watched me almost too intently. Each nodded, here and there, as I spoke. They bit from the tasty turkey legs. They washed bites down with the mead, which was a bit sweet for my taste. They were so quiet, I suspected the mead was working on them.
“And,” Bonnie prompted, “what happened?”
“Well,” I said, “my roommates and I had never heard of their society, but we wished the knights ‘godspeed on thy quest,’ or something like that, before we followed the path, to the right, into the woods.”
“We strolled along the cool, dirt trail. We nipped on our flasks some more, smelled the fresh ferns, talked about a band playing that night, and we laughed about running into armored knights.”
“As we walked deeper into the forest…”
For more information about Ill-Gotten Gold, the newest short story in Megan’s Mostly-True Stories series — https://www.megansdesk.net/ill-gotten-gold
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