Thirty Coins

     An infamous collection of coins travels through history in the hands of people who jealously covet them.

     My heart dropped upon seeing the bookcase slightly angled away from the wall.

     “Please do not have the coins out.” I thought as I opened the bookcase all the way and rushed down the short flight of stairs to the hidden chambers beneath.

       Underground bunkers are not always built to protect the occupants from the dangers of the outside world, sometimes they are built to entomb secrets, and protect people from what is contained within. And my bunker was one of those. These coins have spent most of their existence in caves, tunnels and secret tombs. I liberated the coins from one bunker, only to build another when I returned home from the war. I justified the expense and need by calling it a bomb shelter, and it functioned as one for a time. Now it was a huge cavern with a small office walled off from the rest. And all hidden. Only my wife and children were aware of it. Now the grandchildren must have stumbled on to it.

     The small entry room was dominated by a desk, and on the walls was a scorched and tattered swastika, a scratched helmet, and a Beretta pistol and sub machine gun. As I entered the room and saw the twins, Brook and Dallas studying the items adorning the walls.

     The children appeared scared when they noticed me entering the room.

     “Grandpa.” Brooklynn asked timidly. “Are you a Nazi war criminal?”

   

      “No.” I responded. “Never was a Nazi.”

      “Then why all of the stuff?” Dallas asked.

      “These are the items I collected when I was a soldier in Germany.” I replied.

      “All of the items you see in this room came from the bunker where my best friend died.” I told the children.

     “Grandma has your ice cream ready. So run along.” I concluded, shoeing the twins out of the room. They appearing relieved for not being in trouble, ran back up the stairs, to claim their treat.

Hands shaking, I sat down at the chair behind the small desk and withdrew the small soft leather bag from the bottom drawer. Then, unceremoniously dumped the contents of the pouch onto the black, and scored rubber top of the desk.

     The thirty silver Tyrian Shekels gleamed on the desk before me. They appeared as bright and shiny as the day they were struck. There was no tarnish on the silver, and they gleamed with an unnatural light. As if they were immune from corruption. However, that was the lie, their corruption passed onto whomever possessed them.

     Even without touching them, they were whispering their secrets to me. I had the sudden image of the original owner of the coins. Then it switched to the person who sold the first holder of the coins a piece of ground called Potter’s Field. When this man held the coins, he discovered how the coins were acquired. Enraged, he quickly strangled Judas. Then the new owner of the coins hung him from a tree to make it appear as a suicide, to cover his crime. Much as I have done by recreating this bunker to create a new version of how my friend truly died.

      Every hand that touched these condemned coins is forever imprinted on them. And every life secretly condemned. Because, you can only gain possession by an act of betrayal, then they are yours until you are betrayed.

     The power they convey is astounding. To be a part of history, to see things from the eyes of people long dead. I have lived hundreds of lives through these coins, and witnessed all of their pleasures and pains. If a past owner had a skill, I can access and learn the skill. I can understand any language that a previous owner knew, although I could not speak them before.

     My possession came about by betraying my friend and brother in arms. They whispered to both of us, and momentarily, both of us had possessed them. We soon discovered the coins could not be divided, and must remain together. That is the price of ownership. They cannot be given away, divided, destroyed, or even buried for long. Well destruction may be possible, if the owner could bring themselves to destroy such a rare and valuable artifact.

     Only this second death earned me the coins. The betrayal of trust given to the SS officer was not sufficient for ownership, as he offered the coins for his release, and we shot him. The officer thought he could turn the tables on us when the coins started whispering in our minds, and we would turn against each other. A good strategy, however, he died first, then my friend and I started wrestling for the officers dropped Berretta, realizing that if we used the SS officers gun, we would be held blameless. Just soldier doing their grim duty.

     

       The coins constantly whispered to me of the past lives of previous owners. It was the reason I became a scholar in history after the war. These dreams led me onto making remarkable discoveries. I became renowned worldwide for my knowledge of the historical lifestyles of people from the Roman Empire, and lifestyles around Jerusalem in particular. I went on to write many books, both fictional and scientific on early Christianity.

     Today, I knew fate had chosen the next owner, they may be too young and innocent to hear the whispers. However, someday, they will return to claim their right. I shudder thinking about which one will pay the tribute. Surly one of the twins will murder the other for possession. Whether they kill me is not important, the cold bitter truth was that I have condemned them both. One in living and the other in death. And they cannot betray me, any more than I have already betrayed them.