Heavy Metal
by Steve Bates
part 1
“Is he dead?”
The words float on the ether for time unknown before they penetrate mental fog. My body checks in with an all-too-familiar report: everything hurts. My mouth seems to be filled with dried blood and irritating grit. I refuse to open my eyes. Maybe this is a bad dream.
The universe spins chaotically as an insensitive boot rolls me onto my back. Rivulets of memories trickle back. Shadowy figures flickered across my peripheral vision. A bunch of brutes pummeled me without mercy on an isolated jungle path. I suppose I should be grateful that unconsciousness descended quickly. If only it would return.
A new boot impact on my right side is more like a nudge than a kick, but it riles an aching rib. I flinch inadvertently.
“Looks like he’ll live,” someone observes.
What else do they want from me? Surely they have taken my gold, my map, my ID card, and my dowser, which I designed to home in on rich deposits of a certain rare ore. I’m in no shape to fight back if they commence Round Two.
At the dock, I had offered them or their accomplices generous compensation to take me and digging equipment to an area of the island that I believe hides a fantastic ore deposit. Plus, they could earn a sweet bonus if they got me and a big load of the mineral safely to my boat. I guess they figured: Why wait to collect?
The ore. That goddamned, almost mythical ore, worth so much more than gold or gems. How many souls has it lured to horrible fates? How many times have I bragged in grimy port town pubs that I’m the only ore hunter who can find it in large quantities? How often have I talked myself into believing those boasts and the rumors about the mother lode that is just begging for someone to haul it away? The mother lode on some unknown island. Unknown, that is, until a barely legible map that I won in a late-night poker game provided the final clue to its location.
Cacophonous bird calls, the buzz of a billion horny insects, oppressive heat and the short, sticky brush upon which I lie suggest that I’m still where I was attacked. I sit up and open my eyes slowly, as if reality will be kinder if I admit it gradually.
Three men are decked out in camouflage outfits and wide-brim hats that make them appear almost like tour guides. These don’t look like the guys who attacked me, but I have to assume that their intentions are similarly evil. I spit and groan, an announcement that I’m working my way back to life. I look up and am rewarded with a searing blast of sunlight, broken only by what resolves as starkly silhouetted limbs and leaves.
I slide my hands slowly into my pockets. They’re empty, as I expected. I take stock of my surroundings while attempting to deny these thugs the pleasure of recognizing anything like pain or fear in my face. I notice something like a dark totem amid ochre foliage just off the path. It might be my dowser, which looks like an oversized remote controller.
“Can you stand?” says a tall man with piercing brown eyes and a neatly cropped moustache and goatee.
I rise deliberately and brush off my clothing, cringing repeatedly, because every movement hurts. I turn my palms toward the men to demonstrate that I hold nothing dangerous. A slow sigh escapes my lips as I await the next beating. Something familiar tickles my senses.
Of course, it’s the ore. The feeling is faint but unmistakable. It’s calling to me. It’s bringing back memories of my earlier expeditions in search of the unremarkable-looking gray mineral. I’ve heard that that the stuff gets coughed up from the core of the planet to the surface only by a few volcanoes and only at infrequent, unpredictable intervals. I wonder for perhaps the thousandth time if other people can hear the ore’s silky song.
The man with the goatee approaches me briskly and produces a strange grin. It doesn’t seem like the smile of someone who is telegraphing the torture he plans to administer. I brace myself as he reaches out a muscular, calloused hand. Instead of striking me, he raises my chin gently and studies my face.
I can’t imagine what this is about. My sallow skin is pockmarked from decades of skirmishes in other jungles as well as urban settings. My nose looks like it was born broken. My eyes are coal black. Not one of my features is remarkable, let alone attractive. I’ve been told that I look like the devil himself. On a good day.
He turns to his buddies and shakes his head. “It’s amazing. He’s almost the same man.”
He pivots back to face me, his smile a faint memory. “There’s someone who would like to meet you.”
My mouth is still suffused with blood and grit, but I manage: “I don’t suppose he or she is a doctor.”
The stranger rocks his head sideways a couple of times. “In his own way, he is more than a doctor.” Before I can add something glib, the man strides into the brush and recovers my dowser. He hands it to me, commenting, “This must be yours. But you won’t need it.”
* * *
The path is winding, uphill and interminable. The vines, bushes, and trees lining our way seem to reach halfway to heaven and, at times, the route is so narrow as to appear nonexistent. The men take turns in the lead, hacking viciously through tangled foliage. With the sun near its zenith and the air as still as a coiled viper, we are sweating mightily.
I feel like a prisoner, though none of these guys ordered me to march with them. We all know that I have no other decent option if I wish to return to civilization eventually. I suspect that, if I ran in my current condition, they could catch me. Even if I escaped them, the jungle would devour me in a couple of days unless I got lucky. I think I’ve burned through a lifetime’s worth of luck. I strain mightily to obtain any useful intel from ambient scents and sounds. Absolutely nothing emerges.
The longer I spend in the company of these three, the more I think that they’re not the men who attacked me. So, how did they find me, and what do they want with me? If they intended to kill me, they would have done so by now. Wait... they might be cannibals. Or religious fanatics planning a ritual sacrifice. The potential for a slow, agonizing death is still significant.
“What’s your name?” comes a gruff voice from close behind me.
I consider offering a fake name or refusing to answer. But I’m in no mood for further trouble, so I turn and respond truthfully: “Mercurio.”
The man, whose bushy, black beard seems to be consuming his face, offers me a skin filled with water. I take a small sip, swish it around, and spit it out. Then I drink deeply, return the skin, and offer thanks.
The tendrils of the ore are strengthening by the minute. These guys must have a huge stash of it nearby. Enough to bankroll their own gold-plated city and travel in a luxury aircraft, I suspect. So, why are they treading an arduous path, cursing as they swat thick clouds of angry bugs on the edge of freaking nowhere?
We halt in a small clearing. The leader appears content to soak in the scenery but, on closer inspection, I suspect that he is making sure that we weren’t followed. He reaches into dense foliage covering a mound and removes a chunk of it. That reveals an opening barely wide enough for a fully grown adult to enter.
He slides into it feet first and beckons me to follow. I don’t figure that I have much choice, so I squeeze through, groaning as the edges aggravate my wounds. The last man replaces the camouflage once he’s inside, and we are plunged into darkness.
“Follow my footsteps,” the man with the goatee advises.
I brush against rock walls frequently as the tunnel goes down for some time, then up slightly, before leveling off. We encounter several centimeters of standing water occasionally, and a musty odor stifles my senses, but there must be numerous drains as well as shafts to bring in fresh air. This is more than a subsistence community.
I detect faint voices, intriguing odors, and finally welcome light ahead. We turn a corner and a broad chamber appears, barely six feet high. Uneven lighting bathes the occupants in a ghostly glow. More than a dozen adults are joined by a few children, the youngest one fussing in a woman’s arms. Some people are sitting cross-legged in small circles on woven mats; others are standing or milling around, wielding candles against the insistent darkness.
Lilting notes of melodic chanting distract from the bitter scent of melting wax. A few people are wearing camouflage; most are dressed in drab, practical, homemade fabrics. Faces — some with eyes closed, others seeming to stare at infinity — betray a range of feelings. Anticipation, sadness, bliss. I pick up a strong sense of sharing, of belonging.
It takes me a moment to notice the portrait on the wall to my left, small but surrounded by gilt and flowers and flanked by two candles. It’s almost like I’m looking in a mirror. Except the face in the frame is me as I’ll appear in about ten years. Make that five; the stress of these expeditions is aging me rapidly. I’m beginning to understand the strange comments of the goateed man who brought me here.
He steps close to me and asks, “Can we help you with your injuries?”
“No, I’ll heal in a few days.” Some salve would be welcome, but I don’t want to stay here longer than necessary.
The man adds in a lusty voice, not unlike that of a true believer belting out a hymn: “He will join you soon.”
* * *
Are we sitting on the universe’s largest cache of the ore? It’s taunting me. It’s almost sexual in its appeal: subtle and mysterious, yet fully conscious of my most secret desires. I want so badly to bolt from this smoky room, find the treasure, and calculate its value four or five or six times. I fantasize about how I might get a load of it to my dinghy and deliver it to my client, whose ship brought me close to shore and who is waiting for me to deliver the goods.
Occasionally, I daydream about keeping the big score for myself and buying some remote island where I can retire without a care. Then I recall that two other ore hunters tried to double-cross one of the big, shady, corporate clients that are aggressively seeking the metal. No one has seen either of those fellows since; message received.
I don’t hear the man as much as feel him enter. I turn to face him, and it is immediately obvious that, like me, this guy is a spitting image of the man in the portrait. Though he’s pudgy, his candle reveals a healthy complexion. I assume that he’s the leader of this gang.
“That’s our founder,” he says without glancing at the painting. “One of my distant ancestors.” He waits for me to speak and appears disappointed when I don’t. “Perhaps one of yours, too?”
My curiosity is waging war with my desire to survive. I offer a crooked smile and state, “It seems kind of incestuous around here.”
He rubs his hands together. “It’s a small island, and a small world, when you get to know it,” he says. “I understand that you are called Mercurio. Welcome, Mercurio. I am Caleb.”
I nod but do not offer my hand. I didn’t ask to come here, so I can forgo niceties.
He examines the portrait as if he has never seen it before. “There is a legend,” he says. “This man, whose name is lost in history, was once a slave, the story goes.”
I nod again.
“It is said that his ship was wrecked on rocky shoals near here, and that he escaped and hid from his captors on this island. Perhaps he joined with other shipwreck survivors. Perhaps he befriended natives.” Caleb closes his eyes briefly. “It matters not. All that matters is that he found the metal or it found him. Somehow he acquired the wisdom necessary to use it for good. He shared that wisdom with others, and this community was born.”
Caleb stares somewhere beyond my eyes and continues: “I know why you have come to our island. You may have your precious metal. However, be forewarned. It will not be conquered.”
I stare back at Caleb, my mouth open. I drop my dowser, which makes a loud clang that elicits curious gazes from some of the people holding candles. “That’s it? You’ll just give it to me?”
“I can see that you will obtain it one way or another.”
I nod yet again.
He smiles broadly. “We believe that the sacred metal belongs to everyone.” He gestures toward the people camped in the circles. “Three of our community are preparing to embark on journeys of discovery. You are welcome to use some of our metal for this purpose as well. The only condition is that you receive proper instruction; it’s for your own safety.”
I examine the circles, recognizing the person in each one who hopes to go on this supposed journey. Each one clutches a cloth bag next to their heart. Their eyes are closed so tightly that it almost hurts me to look at them.
“They are attuning themselves to the sacred metal, which has been processed to remove all impurities,” Caleb says. “They will go when and where they are meant to be.” He pauses to look me up and down. “You would benefit greatly from such a journey.”
I chuckle. “This is all fascinating, but I’m here on business. I will take as much of the ore as you will allow me, and I’ll be on my way.” I add quickly: “With my extreme gratitude.”
Someone in the closest circle gasps. I notice that one of their participants is missing, along with the bag of metal they had been clutching. Several people are smiling, some with tears rolling down their cheeks.
Says Caleb, “You can know the wonder, and the transcendence, that our travelers enjoy. But only if you approach the sacred metal as a gift, not a transaction.”
“Where did that person go?” I say. I’m not convinced that anyone simply “raptured” out of the room, but I don’t want to piss off these cult members by suggesting that I’m witnessing a hoax.
“I do not know when or where.”
Copyright © 2026 by Steve Bates
