Buried Treasure

Even now, knowing what I do, I must admit that it was a thing of rare beauty. Its surface seemed to both absorb and reflect the sunlight, as if a deep pool of water. I found myself caressing its surface when the others weren’t around. I told myself I was inspecting it, but I knew I had become enamored with this strange object.

I couldn’t look away. It had a hold on me unlike any other. For once, the question in my mind ceased its incessant mocking and fell silent. It too seemed cowed by the relic. It seemed as if a piece of space itself had landed here before us, beckoning me to unlock its secrets. And yet, for all the time I spent before it, it remained a mystery to me.

There was no way we could move the antiquity we had unearthed. Even with its immense size, it hid well its weight. Cranes and machinery were of no match for its considerable mass, and so it was decided that we would leave it where it lie and instead build around it. A hastily constructed shelter was built around the cube, protecting it, and us, from the elements.

I had no concerns about the weather, but was glad that with the lighting installed I could observe it at any hour. By the second week, I had all but stopped sleeping, spending my time walking around it, trying to find any signs of a seam or inscription.

Eventually I became frustrated by the lack of progress, and in a fit of rage I kicked the side of the cube. Not a scratch. Not even a blemish. The only thing that appeared to be affected was my own leg. And still I persisted. I was consumed. Possessed. It was as if everything in my life, all of my questions, everything would come into view if only I could unlock the mystery of the cube.

In a rare moment of rest, an idea occurred to me. We were only seeing five of the six sides of the artifact. I bolted from my bed, calling out for a work crew.

Within the hour they had begun to dig tunnels under the cube, bisecting the area supporting it into four pieces. Slowly and carefully they dug outward, placing beams of iron to brace the weight. I feared that the beams would not support the immense weight of the cube, but not for the workers safety, I am sad to say. No, I feared that if it were to fall, I would never have the chance to look upon the final portion of what had become my obsession.

When they had finished, I stepped down under the massive bulk now looming over me and began to inspect. It seemed to be the same as the other sides had been. Perfectly smooth, seamless, beautiful. Without realizing it, I began brushing away at the dirt still clinging to the underside. That anything should mar its polish seemed almost sacrilege. I scrubbed as if something had taken hold of my mind, not stopping when the others came down to inquire as to my actions. They tried to get me to leave, to rest, but I paid them no heed. I felt I had to finish. The cube had to be clean. Perfect. Gleaming. And then I felt it. Almost imperceptible. I stopped my scrubbing, staring at the surface above me. A groove. It was as thin as a single hair, but it was there. I reached up and began to follow it, tracing its path with my hoof. Again, a perfect square. Five feet on each side. This was it.

I called for a light to be brought down. Once illuminated, the seam was obvious. And there, at the exact center of the square it formed, was a small discoloration in the otherwise endless silver. A darkened patch, in the shape of a perfect circle. Without thinking, I reached up to touch it.