Short Fiction – J. V. Montague

A Misadventures of Montoya and Rose short story

“This is not the amulet, Rose,” Montoya hoists up a necklace with chunky turquoise beads and a centerpiece of a carved flat stone. “This is the amulet of protection,” he purses his lips, “if the name were to be directly translated…”

Rose sniffs, crossing his sweaty arms. Around them, water drips from stalactites, and the hole they dropped down from allows some fresh air to permeate the muggy space.

“Toya, why would they make it this damn difficult to get to if it weren’t the amulet?”

“For the same reason you make it so… difficult to get a straight answer out of you.”

“Touché.”

“No, see, this can’t be the amulet…” Montoya holds it up to his face, and it gently sways back and forth. “It doesn’t add up—the records I looked into said it should be in a specialized area, like a throne room and this… is not…” He looks to Rose, who raises a barely visible eyebrow in response. “Besides, it’s not the right shape, or size, or… anything. And it was in the dirt! The dirt!”

“I was in the dirt and I’m still a prize.”

“That is what academics call, debatable. Now stop distracting me… there has to be a way to test it.”

“Put it on.”

Montoya looks at Rose like he just insinuated that Montoya’s mother works at a brothel.

“Dear God, no!”

“Why not? What is the worst it can do?”

“Do you want the list in numerical or alphabetical order?”

“It won’t kill you.”

“If you put it on, it certainly wouldn’t be me that’s dead.”

“It’s not my dirty necklace. Besides, if it were to curse anyone, it would be the man who touched it first and…” Rose whistles while pointing at his partner. “Go on, prove your absolute certainty it isn’t the amulet.”

“Why don’t you go and—” Montoya bites down on the last part of his sentence. With a flutter of a hand, Rose illustrates his point, then shifts on his feet.

“No good archeologist would run around and place something around his neck; it would disrespect the culture the artifact originates from…” He chuckles and thrusts the amulet to Rose. “Good thing you’re a treasure hunter and never cared about such blights.”

“That was one time.”

“And what’s one more?”

Looking as if he’s sucking on a lemon, Rose plucks the amulet from Montoya’s fingers, holds the necklace above his head, and makes noises that could possibly be classified as singing. Immediately after draping the necklace on, Rose collapses to the ground in a heap of sand. He lifts a pale hand as his eyes go wide.

“Goodbye, Toya,” he wheezes.

Montoya puckers his lips and raises a single eyebrow.

“I’ve always loved yo—your eyebags.”

“That’s the only thing you love about me? Rude. Inconsiderate. Have you ever considered my flabby arms?”

“Those, too, I guess.”

Montoya crouches down, knees popping. “What about my sarcasm in French?” He tries to pull down Rose’s lifted arm to take his hand, but Rose twists out of his grip, and barrel rolls into him. Losing balance, Montoya topples to the ground. Rose keeps on rolling until he’s atop Montoya.

“I’m dying!” He yells.

“Well you’re crushing me to death!” Which by Montoya’s standards, is not the biggest exaggeration he’s made, seeing as the majority of Rose’s weight is on his torso.

“I have to take you out somehow.”

“Get,” Montoya presses his palm into Rose’s forehead, “off,” he shoves, “me,” he keeps pushing, but Rose just moves his head to the side. “Argh!” He pulls his hands away and Rose rests his cheek on Montoya’s chest.

“It’s nice to die in your flabby arms.”

At that, Montoya goes to slap the top of his head, but his hand bounces away without even touching Rose. That answers that question.

“The amulet works, you oaf. Now get off.”

“Fine. But I had you convinced there for a second—don’t deny it, I saw the love in your eyes.” Rose rolls away and lays flat on his back, limbs spread out, grinning. Montoya’s expression mirrors his.

Then it falls.

“So, uh, how do we get out of here?” Montoya asks. They both stare at the hole in the ceiling, then at the closed-off, empty chamber surrounding them.

“Maybe we are dying.”

THE END

For now.

So you have come again, little lamb? Tell me, where is your family? Your shepherd, your herd? You come so very alone, little lamb. You stomp through the forest like it’s yours, you gaze upon the trees like they’ll sing, you humm a tuneless tune to keep the shadows at bay.

I know what’s underneath your layers of clothing, under you skin and you muscles, I know what makes up your brittle, broken bones. Oh little lamb, turn back now my sweet. They’re searching for you. Of course you don’t hear them calling your name. You never listened before, so why listen now?

You’re going to save them, are you? You’re going to walk into my land and take back what was never yours, little lamb? Tell me, are you going to keep the screams that ripped out of their raw throats? You can have them; they’re still echoing around in the frosty air.

They won’t come to your calls, little lamb. They never could. They’re rotting into the soil as we speak. Their fluids are making the leaves underneath them soggy, the buzzards are pecking out their eyes, the wolves have ravaged their flesh. You’ll smell them before you could ever see them. Your stomach will twist into knots, you’ll go pale, you’ll have to lean up against one of my trees as you spew out your guts. I’m sure the maggots will be twisting and crawling around in their skulls. What good treats they make!

Oh little lamb, I cannot wait for you to fall. How long will it take you, hm? A week, a month, maybe three? Watch as the night grows closer, how the moon hides behind her clouds. Listen as my forest stills around you, as the leaves stop whispering in the highest branches, as a brave owl hoots — mocking your name. You’ll stumble around for shelter, hugging your thinning arms about you, shivering, chattering, wasting water with hopeless tears.

There’s nothing in the sky that wants to smile down on you, for there’s only the insatiable hunger of all that hides. They will eat you as they have eaten the ones that you love.

What now little lamb? You lay on the earth in a ball, still. But you breathe. You are nothing more than the dirt you lie upon. That’s the problem with creatures like you, always taking more, chipping away at me and what I am, for your own benefit. What of your mother? Will she follow you like your father did?

They would still be alive if it weren’t for you, little lamb. You would still be able to to have their warm arms wrapped around you, their soft words being whispered into your ears, you would be full, your cheeks rosy, you smile wide. But no. You had to take.

Now you watch as snow settles down onto your stiff body. You don’t have the energy to shiver anymore. Your blood is thick as sap as it settles. Ice snakes up your face, holding it like a mother would hold her newborn. Your heart is laying down to rest — the last thing to go.

It’s too late for you have killed another, little lamb.