“Where are the berries, Mason?” his mother asked, rubbing her forehead.

“Ma, you gotta understand, I found real life treasure in them woods!” Mason protested excitedly.

“Treasure? That’s a fool’s ambition. I wouldn’t care if you found a whole entire treasure trove out there; I need those berries!” She took a long inhale. “I swear, I never stop hearing about you and your treasure. Never should have kept his things,” she muttered.

“But Ma, that’s all that’s left of Pa.”

“Oh, Pa for what, that no good scoundrel. Go make yourself useful and get those berries.”

“Yes, Ma,” Mason responded weakly. He trudged out of the house in pursuit of the lost berries.

Walking back up to the house with bucket in hand, he passed by Jeremiah, who was busy tinkering with one of the chairs on the deck. 

“Hey, Jeremiah. You wanna see some treasure I found?” 

Jeremiah looked up from the chair with a cockeyed stare. “Yeah? What is it?”

“Look!” Mason rummaged about in the pocket and procured the coin. Jeremiah took it from his hand and looked a little closer.

“This be one of them old coins from the war. Half-dollar, if I remember correctly. Where’d you find this?”

Mason puffed up proudly. “I found it in the woods, like a great adventurer! You know, Jeremiah, I’m going to be a treasure hunter when I grow up, just like Pa.” 

“Sounds good. Just don’t be too outgoing about it, your Ma don’t like it much,” Jeremiah whispered.

“Yeah, she never likes to talk about him,” he said, deflating a little. “Hey, but I’m sure you’ve met him before, right?” 

Jeremiah shook his head.

“That’d be a no from me. I’ve only been here since the war four years back. But you could always try to find Harbuck. I’ve heard the two used to meet up in the woods often.” 

“That crazy old man knew my Pa?” 

“Well, I’ve heard he’s gotten feeble-minded. I don’t know about askin’ him,” Jeremiah remarked, chortling to himself. His smile eased back into his usual unflappable expression. “Might be worth a try if you’re willing.” 

Mason thought for a moment, then set the pail down on the deck before running back towards the woods and calling over his shoulder, “Thanks. Later, Jeremiah!”

At the treeline, a girl stood over a mound of upturned soil, flinging dirt from the ground onto it with a small garden spade, moving in short bursts of rabid fury. 

“Hey! What’re you doing?” Mason exclaimed. 

“Digging,” the girl responded, turning back to the ever-growing pile.

The sound of the metallic edge crunching through the soil hung in the air for a few seconds, before Mason grew to uncomfortable to continue waiting.

“Is there, er, any particular thing you’re digging for?” he asked, cringing in anticipation of the next round of dirt that might come flying in his direction. The girl halted suddenly, tapping the spade against the ground with a philosophical look on her face.

“Nothing, really. Sometimes, you just gotta, you know, dig. You never know what’s under there.”

Mason began to get a glimpse of the meaning behind her words when a piece of soil abruptly splattered against his shirt. He groaned, wiping at it half-heartedly.

“Just tell me why you’re here, alright? I’m late for something important.” 

“Digging is important too,” she said simply, not even raising her head to respond. 

Mason threw his hands up in exasperation and walked away.

Weaving through the tree trunks, Mason flicked aside mosquitoes and brambles that found themselves in his path, following the vaguely visible markings of a trail lost to time. Unseen were the fledgelings that chirped a resonant melody to the forest, and the response came with a croak from a frog somewhere on the riverbank. Harbuck was an urban legend of sorts, known to the community as the crotchety hermit of the woods. As such, his residence was thrust into the heart of the woods, representative of his desire for solitude. Yet, Mason was creeping toward the old man’s lair. Twigs of various sizes were strewn about the forest floor, releasing a crunch whenever he set his foot down. With every snap, Mason flinched, fearful he had awakened some lurking spirit. 

“Everything’s so damn loud in these woods,” he grumbled, wiping his brow.

“Yeah, it sure does seem it.”

Mason twisted in an instant, spinning around to come face-to-face with the girl he had met earlier.

“You!”

“Yes?” she asked, the picture of innocence painted in her eyes.

“What're you doing, stalking me out here? Don’t you have some digging?” he practically screamed.

“Well, I got bored. So, where’re we going?” 

“What, you don’t know Harbuck?”

“Harbook-who? That some kind of tree? Lotta trees out here, going to take a long time to find,” she remarked.

“No, Harbuck the old man. You don’t know him? Everybody round these parts knows Harbuck!”

She twirled her hair, which was messily pinned in a braid that trailed into an entanglement of brown. “Yeah, don’t know him. What, he’s a celebrity?”

“You new or something?”

“Yeah, my Pa’s working down in the town, and we moved into a nice little farm.” She pointed in the opposite direction of Mason’s farm. “See, right over there.”

“Oh, the Joneses’. Forgot they moved out.” There was a bout of silence. The girl broke away, prancing impatiently about the trees.

“Well? Harbook’s still waiting, right? Let’s go!” 

Mason rigidly semi-sprinted in the hopes he might shake her from his tail, but she stuck close, making occasional commentary on the texture of tree bark and quality of soil. Stopping her impression of a tree, she asked, “So, uh, who is this Harbook guy anyway?” 

Mason grumbled out a response. “Old guy. Lives in woods. Kind of creepy. Might know stuff that’s important.”

A structure in the distance rose over the incline of the hill, taking the next words from the girl’s mouth. A snapped weathervane creaked as it swung back and forth, entangled in a throng of ivy that enveloped the entire shack. And it truly was a shack. Seemingly no more than fifteen feet wide each direction, the walls were discoloured a moldy green, and the crack-frosted windows seemed more opaque than the dim forested backdrop. 

“It don’t seem too likely anybody’s still here,” Jenny whispered as she peered out from behind a nearby tree.

“Well, there’s one surefire way to find out. Well, two, but I haven’t got a sledgehammer.”

Mason slowly moved toward the front door. As he neared, a howl from within the shack penetrated the silent din. Both Mason and Jenny leaped back, and Mason, being the closest, crouched with hands huddled protectively over his head in fear of what creature had produced the noise inside. The door flew open with a shower of a sawdust-like sediment, and out stepped Harbuck.

“Eh, who’re you, creeping around like that? You better not be from the tax committee. I’ve told you people, I’m not paying up!” he shouted, each word emphasized with a pound to the door. At that point, Mason was equally fearful that he was about to be killed in the forest as he was that the door would fall off its hinges.

“H-hey, uh, sir, I just wanted to ask you about something,” Mason stammered. Harbuck squinted at him.

“Huh?” 

Mason looked around for support, but Jenny had long since shrunk back into the forest, and not a whisper of her presence remained.

“Do you remember a man ever coming to you about a treasure?” Mason inquired hopefully.

“Treasure? Don’t know what you’re on about, boy. The closest thing I seen to treasure in my seventy-some years in this place is the look on those townspeople’s faces when I showed up with my pitchfork. Real golden treasure, that.” Harbuck cackled for a bit before beginning to wheeze and clutch at the already sagging door frame.

Mason waited as Harbuck’s fit ended, and continued, “Does the name Charles Williams mean anything to you?”

Harbuck seemed to seriously consider it for a moment, then something changed in his expression. “Who’re you? You a tax collector? Get out of here, you filthy money-hoarding @#%$!” he shouted before disappearing back into his shack and slamming the door shut. Mason took the opportunity to quickly scamper away before Harbuck potentially returned with the fabled pitchfork of his.

Mason was coming up the last step of the porch when he heard a call from behind him. 

“Hey! Wait up!”

Jenny raced up the hill, barely missing the magnolias Mason’s mother had planted the day before. At the sound of Jenny’s voice, Mason’s mother looked up from the half-finished sweater she was knitting, squinting at the figure coming toward them. 

“You’re finally back! And, well, who’s that?” she asked, lifting a finger to motion in the direction of Jenny’s approaching form.

Jenny bounded up the steps and stood with a sloppy salute in front of Mason. “I’ve arrived!” she declared.

“Where did you go? I had to face him down myself!” Mason hissed quietly.

“Well that Harbook fellow didn’t seem too friendly, and something came up, so I had to skedaddle.” She gave him a pat on the back. “And you made it out in one piece, too!”

“Harbuck?” Mason’s mother cautiously asked.

“No, no, she’s just talking some nonsen—”

“Yeah, a real scary individual, that one. I tell you, even though he was hunched over like a water-heavy oak, he seemed a good twelve feet tall. Fangs, too!” Jenny made a motion with her hands in some vague indistinguishable impression of her tall tale.

“Mason, why were you at Harbuck’s? It better not be about your father again,” Mason’s mother said, setting down her knitting needles and rubbing her temples. 

“Listen, Ma, it’s not like you think. I was just nearby, and I wanted to hear a little story or two, nothing really serious or anything of the sort,” Mason protested.

“Of course! Is that why it’s taken you hours to come back, pail-less and with stories of Harbuck and your father? If I weren’t so tired right now, I’d tan your hide right here and now in front of whoever this is!” Mason’s mother seemed visibly drained of energy, and she slumped against the back of the chair.

Mason couldn’t bear to look any longer, and turned around only to see Jenny awkwardly slink away. Defeated, he sat on the top step of the porch as the clinking of sewing needles resumed behind him.

Mason groggily opened his eyes to the sun peeking through his tattered curtains. A soft weeping crept into the room, breaking the tranquil morning silence. His mother passed by the open doorway, and Mason followed, creeping to the hall, watching her until she turned the corner. A frustrated growl followed. Flinching back, he decided the situation had escalated and the solution was to let her cool. As he moved quietly back to his room, he passed by the closet door that was so frequently locked it had almost become part of the wall. Except, the door was already cracked ajar by a small sliver.

Mason whipped his head about in disbelief, searching for the culprit of the unlocked door. After confirming nobody was watching, he pulled the door open with surprising ease, producing a quick squeak as it settled on its hinges. Behind the door lay stacks of books, nearly tall enough to stretch to the ceiling, and amongst the organized mess was a pair of knapsacks, identical in their leather and distinct wear. Curious, Mason hefted one to his shoulder, inducing a brief shower of dust to rain down from every nook and cranny of the bag. A picture dropped to the floor face-down, with the words: Me and Margaret on the new farm written across the back. Mason bent to pick it off the ground, but he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Scrambling to snatch the photo, he shrugged the knapsack more firmly up his shoulder, and dove behind the open door just as his mother’s head rose over the final step. Careful to stifle his breathing, Mason watched his mother heave a stack of books down the stairs through a slit between the door and its frame. He exhaled audibly. 

“Mason!” Mason nearly hit the roof as he jumped at the sudden call. “Go ask Jeremiah if he’s loaded the wagon yet. The market’ll be over by tomorrow!” 

Mason fired off a quick “Yes, Ma!” before jamming the photo into his pant pocket and scrambling out of the room. He pushed open the front door, careful to conceal the bag beneath his shirt as he passed by his mother heading toward the woods.

“This is boring,” Mason declared.

“Okay. Don’t matter to me,” Jeremiah replied in a distant monotone. The stand they stood behind attracted customers the same way a police coroner might to a dead body, in that everybody stood nearby with muffled whispers and turned glances. It probably didn’t help the stand could hardly classify as a stand, and that Harbuck’s shack was in slightly better condition than it. Even worse were the squash, of which flies buzzed wildy around, and were discoloured brown in various splotches.

“These squash don’t seem too appealing, Jeremiah.”

“I didn’t pick em. Tell your Ma to stick to lima beans next year.”

“I’m going to get a drink from the well. You gonna come?” Mason asked.

Jeremiah shook his head, and pushed a few pennies across the stand. “Take these. Too hot for well water. Get yourself a lemonade; bring me one back, too.”

Mason headed off toward the nearby town square, where a number of rambunctious festivities were taking place, many including drunk people performing for the people’s amusement. The closest tavern, fittingly named the The Thirsty Traveler, seemed the most popular, and therefore the most trustworthy. 

Stepping into the dimly lit room, the smell of beer and hygienic disregard washed over him.

Mason walked to the bar, where a burly man was in the act of polishing the glasses, and set down a couple pennies on the counter. At the sound of the coins, a man drooped over the bar perked up. 

“Hey, kid, you wanna hear a tale of adventure and treachery?” The drunkard grinned. “Course, nothing’s free around here, but I’ll take a penny off you for a story of a lifetime,” he said with his hand out expectantly.

Mason felt the inconsequential weight of the coin pouch in his pocket, and hesitated for a moment.

“What sort of story you gon’ be telling?” he asked, hand unconsciously covering his pouch.

A loud jeering erupted from the far side of the room.

“Scamming kids, Chuck? Never thought I’d see this day,” he called. A smirk burst onto his face. “As if! You done tricked a kid out of his pennies just last week! Some heroic adventurer you are! Probably can’t find the bed after a long night of drinking, much less some fantasy of a buried treasure!”

“Treasure?” Mason inquired. 

“Yeah, and it was a real big one too. Word got around quickly in the uh… treasure hunter’s society,” the drunkard replied.

“You’d be more likely to be involved with the women’s sewing society than some treasure hunting society!” somebody from the crowd shouted.

“Treasure hunting society. Has got a nice ring to it. Alright, old man, spit it out.” Mason dropped a penny into the drunkard’s outstretched hand. 

“Nice to meet you, kid. The name’s Charlie, or Chuck. So, treasure, right?”

Mason nodded. Chuck continued.

“Well, I was living in this area, working my fields every day, taking care of the animals; all the farming necessities. But, you know, the longer you stay in that kind of life, the more your feet sink into the quicksand of the farmer’s life. And I couldn’t stand it. So on one of my monthly trips to town, I noticed a post on the board about ‘riches beyond belief’ or something of the sort.” 

“Come on, that’s gotta be the fifth time this week we’ve heard that!” a brutish man hunched over his beer said impatiently. The drunkard looked at him over his shoulder.

“If you’re listening, then pay up! Words ain’t free around here.” he quipped back. The brute looked ready to instigate a scuffle when another man scurried over to pull him, grumbling, out of the bar. Free from prying ears, the drunkard resumed his story.

“There were quite a few obstacles in my way, though. I had a new wife; we were expecting kids, and the farm wasn’t going to take care of itself if I left.”

“Did you leave them, then?” Mason blurted out. The drunkard quieted him, and continued.

“Now, look, some form of God himself must have heard my call, because within the next full moon, my wife’s father came to the farm out of the blue. He was a real genuine fourth-generation farmer, and I didn’t want to interfere with his farming, so I left.”

“Left? Just like that? No warning or nothing, not even a goodbye?” 

“To be fair, I wasn’t really a farming individual. But when my father-in-law came, I knew my destiny was to be an adventurer, and his to stay on that farm.”

“How’d they feel about that?” Mason interrupted. The drunkard shook his head.

“Beats me. Probably better off without me. The father never was too fond of me.” He took a long swig. “When I get that treasure, who knows? Maybe I’ll be welcome back.” 

“So, you didn’t get the treasure.”

“Yet. But the story’s not over. Back then, Harbuck was like the oracle of the town; the man seemed to know everything. So I confronted him in his shack.”

Mason shuddered as he remembered Harbuck’s looming figure.

“Soon as I heard what I needed, I was off. I took ships to places without names, crossed lands not yet acknowledged by maps, and I kept searching. I got real close a few times, but each and every lead drove me straight back to the start. The last one cost me the last of my funds, and I’m back in town to recuperate and retry.”

Mason nodded along. 

“Then, you used to live here?”

“Yup.”

“Say, what’d you say your name was?” he asked. The drunkard puffed up like he was dressed in the finest suit ever made.

“Charles J. Williams, professional storyteller and adventurer, nice to make your acquaintance.” He put himself off balance with an ill-timed salute; stool beneath him listing backwards as he drunkenly grabbed for the bar counter. Mason dropped his gaze to Chuck’s position on the ground, his knapsack now dangling directly over Chuck’s face.

“That’s a heavy-duty bag there.” Chuck said.

Mason looked at the bag, then Chuck.

“You know, you’ve got a familiar face. Have you been in town recently?” Mason asked.

“Not since years ago. Why do you ask?”

Mason opened the knapsack and withdrew a picture. As Chuck stood and stretched with a great yawn, Mason compared the figures in the photo to Chuck’s features. He looked at Mason, noticing the picture.

“Hey, what’s that?” Chuck snatched the picture from Mason’s hand and examined it. He showed a brief look of surprise before hiding his reaction behind a cough. He glanced from the photo to Mason, squinting at each with an increasingly haunted look.

“Hey, uh, I gotta leave.” Chuck pocketed the photo and began to shuffle toward the exit.

“Wait, can I get my picture back?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t know why you’ve got this photo in the first place,” he mumbled.

“It’s my Pa and Ma in the picture.”

“Really? Well, that’s interesting; I’ve really got to leave now.”

“Wait a second. What was your kid’s name?”

“What’s with the random question? I don’t know, I didn’t name him. Wife probably named him Michael or Mason or something. She loved the M’s.”

“That’s my name, Mason. You’ve gotta be my dad, then.”

“What? Kid, I told you, my family’s long gone. Probably moved outta this hellhole soon as I left. Every letter I sent had no response; they ain’t here! And who’re you, claiming to be some long-lost son?” Chuck scrambled to his feet, backing away from Mason.

“No, no, I swear I’m telling the truth here. Farm’s still here and all. Ma and Jeremiah and all your stuff are still there! And me, too!” Mason exclaimed, growing increasingly more excited. Chuck’s eyes widened with shock and horror as he backpedaled, tripping himself in his alcoholic stupor and hitting the floor with a muffled thump. He started to scuttle on all four limbs.

“Now, kid, I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’ve got lots of errands to run and not enough time for all of them, so…” Chuck realized Mason was beginning to walk after him. He desperately shouted to the nearest table, “Hey, this kid’s after my money! Somebody stop him!” 

Mason felt a sturdy pair of hands on his shoulders, pulling him back away from Chuck, who was still in the act of moving his drunken entanglement of limbs out the door. He tilted his head back to see the bartender looming over him. The bartender sighed a deep grumble.

“Let him go, kid. Man’s been drunk going on three days straight now, and he’ll babble nonsense to everyone.”

“But he really was my dad. Doesn’t he want to come home to at least get his treasure hunting gear? Or see Ma? Or, you know, just, come home?” Mason struggled with a lump in his throat that was threatening to take his speech. His eyes were inexplicably wet as he watched Chuck fall through the open doorway and pull himself out of sight. The bartender let out another sigh, deeper than the first, and released Mason, leaving him to rock back and forth on his feet.

“I’d consider it a profit, kid. For only a penny, you got him to go away. Cleaning services like that aren’t usually that cheap. Might as well go home now. You don’t have to waste your life trying to dam up a waterfall of scum.” The bartender moved back behind the bar and started to wipe off the glass Chuck had been using two minutes prior.

The bar was still filled with the same chaotic hum of conversation as before, but Mason heard none of it. He purposefully pushed out the door, stepping back into the bustling market. To his left, he still saw the tiny silhouette of Chuck stumbling away into the distance. He started in that direction before pivoting and turning to run back in the direction of the farm.

The flames crackled in an almost tame manner.

“Kind of odd how you’re burning all his stuff,” Jenny mentioned casually. The flames popped a little, almost as if it was responding to her.

Mason shrugged. The two stood in silence for a bit, just gazing into the fire with a strange satisfaction.

“You probably could have sold all this off. Won’t your mother get angry about you wasting all of this antique treasure? I mean, she’s had that stored there for so long for a reason, right?”

Mason shrugged again.

“Maybe she’ll get mad. Couldn’t get me down any further than I already am,” he mumbled. Something rustled in the brush; a person pushing through moments later. Mason’s mother briskly moved past him to chuck a framed photograph into the fire.

“Ma, what’re you doing?” Mason asked quizzically, mouth agape.  

His mother dusted off her hands on her apron and replied, “Just makin’ some more room in the house. Can’t hold onto these old things forever.” 

The photograph burned into a pile of black ash before succumbing to the winds and swirling away.