Michael Devaney - The Elisha Pool

I’ll use the Monkey’s Paw to create MY OWN Elisha Pool, he thought.

Owen watched his grandpa’s demeanor change in a matter of seconds. “Grandpa, are you okay?” he asked.

The question broke Stephenson out of his trance.

The creepy smile got wider. “Owen, my dear grandson, I’ve never been better.”

Finn and Andria arrived a full hour early to the meet the missionary supply plane. Neither of them had bothered to ask their mode of transportation, but by the looks of things the missionary’s supplies were going to be flown in on a floatplane.

The aircraft was an older model floatplane with ample sized pontoons attached to its undercarriage serving as feet. Yellow cursive writing on each side of the fuselage read — PUDDLE HOPPER followed by EGOT 03201 in black, block script. If the plane actually made it off the water, the experience of riding in a floatplane would be a first for the both of them.

Their flight left a little after noon and landed just over an hour later.

When the propellers stopped they were hurried out of the plane to wait while the supplies were unloaded onto small wooden pallets then readied for transport. The air was steamy and thick with mosquitos but the process was efficient. By three o’clock they were introduced to the trail leader.

“So, I’m told you two will be tagging along with us for a few days,” the trail leader said.

“Yes, sir,” Finn said. “My name is Finn and this is Andria,” he said, motioning to Andria.

“It’s always good to have more bodies to lighten the load as long as they can carry their own weight,” the trail leader declared.

“We’re field agents,” Finn reassured him. “We can hold our own.”

“Fine. Just as long as you understand it’s not a joy hike out there and that we’re here to do a job.”

“Understood,” Finn said, nodding at Andria.

“Yes, understood,” Andria confirmed.

“All right then,” the trail leader said, summoning them to follow him with his index finger. “Successful travel in the jungle requires specific gear. Come with me and we’ll set you up with a backpack full of goodies. After that we’ll load those canoes and continue our journey.”

Stephenson’s patience was wearing thin while he waited for Owen to finish packing. To expend some nervous energy, he paced circles inside the hut. He furiously wrung his hands and mentally recited his future plans for creating his own pool. When Owen finally appeared to have things in order, Stephenson stepped toward the hut’s door and slide his hands down into his pockets. Within seconds, a sudden look of alarm passed over his face. He anxiously began digging around inside both his pants pockets as if he were searching for something. When his search was complete he blurted out a question. “Where is my key ring?”

“What key ring?” Owen asked.

“The one I had my lucky charm attached to,” Stephenson said. “I had it with me yesterday and now it’s gone!”

“Calm down, Grandpa. It’s just a key ring,” Owen said. “We’ll find it.”

“You don’t understand,” Stephenson said, his eyes wild with panic. “I have to find that key ring.”

“Okay. Okay,” Owen said, holding his hands out in front of him. “If you had it yesterday, it’s still here somewhere, we just need to find it. What did it look like?”

“The key ring was a simple gold loop about an inch in diameter and it had an animal’s foot attached to it.”

“Like a Rabbit’s foot?” Owen asked.

“Something similar, yes.”

“What color was it.”

“Dark brown.”

“Okay. Now we’re talking. When do you last remember seeing it?”

“It was in my pants pocket. I remember checking when I changed clothes after returning from the jungle. I also distinctly remember having it when we went to take part in the Chief’s big feast.”

“How about this morning?” Owen asked.

“It was early when they woke us and I was hungover. That part’s still a little fuzzy.”

“So that means it was most likely lost sometime between the feast and now. Maybe we could get the Chief to—”

Stephenson interrupted him before he could finish.

“No!” Stephenson said, his face and eyes ablaze with fury. “I’ll tell you what happened. It wasn’t lost, it was stolen.”

“Grandpa. Why would anyone want to steal a key ring?”

“I don’t know, but someone took it from me while I slept last night. I had so much to drink, they could have crept in here and taken it and I wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”

The crazed anger was back in his voice again. “When I find out, I’m gonna kill whoever it was,” he said.

“Please Grandpa, just stay calm and we can figure this out,” Owen pleaded. “You keep looking around inside the hut and I’ll go get the translator. Maybe he can ask the Chief to find out if any of the villagers picked it up. Just don’t do anything rash until I return.”

Owen turned and pushed open the thatch door of the hut. As he stepped through the door he was nearly bowled over by someone moving fast. Amazingly it was the translator.

“Whoa there,” the Translator said. “Sorry about the collision, but I heard shouting and wanted to see what all the commotion was about.”

“Well speak of the devil,” Owen said. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”

“Is that so?” the Translator asked.

“Yes. My grandpa lost his lucky animal’s foot last night and is on a rant trying to find it. He’s convinced someone stole it from him last night while he was passed out.”

“He did have quite a bit to drink, but you were the only one in the hut with him last night, right?”

Just then something thudded against the inside wall of the hut. Stephenson was making no effort to hide his less than civilized pillaging tactics.

“Yes, but he could have lost it anywhere between here and the Chief’s hut. That’s the last time he remembers having it.”

“What did this animal’s foot look like?” the Translator asked.

“All I know is that it’s similar in size to a rabbit’s foot and is dark brown.”

Just then Stephenson poked his head through the door of the hut. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were wild. “Empty your satchel,” he growled at the Translator.

“What?”

“Empty your satchel,” he said with the authority of a marauding Viking. “You’ve been slinking around our hut ever since we arrived. I’m looking for something that was stolen from me and I’m betting there’s a good chance you have it.”

“What? I haven’t been slinking,” The Translator said, innocently. “I’ve been trying to help you.”

“Sure you have,” Stephenson replied, sarcastically. Then he squinted his eyes. “Either you empty your satchel, or I do it.”

The Translator didn’t respond. He just stood there in shock. Stephenson gave him a couple of seconds. When the Translator didn’t move, Stephenson made an advance toward him that forced him into a back pedal.

“No, wait!” the Translator pleaded, already in the throes of twisting his body to remove the leather satchel he had strapped over his shoulder. He pulled the satchel’s makeshift rope strap over his head then reluctantly shoved his hand down into the satchel’s mouth and fished around a few seconds. Withdrawing his hand from the bag, he presented Stephenson with a closed fist. For effect, he turned his fist over slowly and opened his fingers. In his open hand, he held a sling-shot, a few small, marble-sized rocks, presumptuously the ammunition for the sling-shot, a piece of fruit and some bread wrapped in leaves.