Of all the plaster heads, this one was cast without a face. It was made to teach students what lies beneath the skin: every muscle bare, every tendon open to the eye. Like the others it is solid all the way through, with no room for a thought of its own, and like the others it was given one. The Prophet was given fear. The Sage was given time. This one was given thirst.
Thirst is the only gift that comes with its own reward. Whoever is meant to find a treasure is first given the hunger to look for it. Without that hunger no map is ever drawn, no shovel ever bites the earth, no chest is ever opened. So he searched, and because he was skinless, nothing could distract him. No cold, no shame, no tiredness. Only the wanting.
And he found it. The lid is open now. The gold spills out in heaps, coins and gems and trinkets older than any kingdom, and his eyes burn over it like two lamps that will never go out. He has put on a jeweller's lenses so as not to miss a single stone.
But look how he holds the lid. Not like a man who has found what he was looking for. Like a man who cannot let go.
That is the second half of the gift, the half no one mentions. Whoever cannot part with a treasure ends up carrying it. And a chest that cannot be closed is not a fortune. It is a weight. Near the top of the heap, just past an old compass, a pair of winged shears lies half buried among the coins, waiting.
The title comes from the old sea song in Robert Louis Stevenson's "Treasure Island" (1883).
(Fine Art Photography. Created in April 2024.)
