Pandora's Jar

The myth surrounding Pandora's Box is well documented.
And it is wrong.
It was never a Box.
It was a Jar.
Pandora's Jar.

This myth has always been shrouded in confusion.
Pandora means all-giving or gift.
But became the harbinger of all evil to befall humankind.
The first woman the Gods made out of clay.
But with a twist.
A nasty twist.
She was given beneficial as well as,
Deceitful attributes by the Gods.
Then delivered to Epimetheus,
The brother of Prometheus,
As a wife.
And arrived on Earth bearing her,
Jar of gifts.
Which Epimetheus could not refuse.
It is never clear who opened the Jar.
Pandora or Epimetheus.
Whoever opened it,
Released all the Evils.
Misfortunes and disasters for the world flew out
With zealous cruel abandon,
On all humankind.
Except for Hope or Expectation,
Translated from the Greek word elpis.
The irony is...
Is this a good or bad thing for humankind.
If Hope is imprisoned in the Jar,
Then the human race is doomed.
If Hope however is kept safe in the Jar,
Then human beings cannot corrupt it.
It's how the reader interprets the myth,
Or how they perceive it.
Pandora's story is a mystery.
No-one knows what happened to her afterwards.
She simply vanished off the face of the Earth.
Her legacy and mythical Jar,
Will remain forever.

What follows is the Jar rediscovered and Pandora's final fate...

Our greed is playing for keeps this day.
As the sun is quickly setting.
Soon night will drop its mantle.
Our wagon hastily ventures on,
And the tired horses aren't spared.
Pure greed drives us forward,
In this unfamiliar, haunting land.
Wanton greed for the treasure we seek and lust after.
So impatiently for the past three years.
There's four of us myself included.
All murderers.
Myself included.
My name is Thomas.
Thomas Moore.
A failed English business man.
And a once highly educated, civilised man.
A once happily married man with two young daughters.
But those days are long gone.
Only my future remains.
Each of us with a single piece to the map.
Three men.
One woman.
Four pieces.
One map.
One legendary map now magically whole again,
After countless years.
A unique map not made of parchment and ink,
But one made of human flesh and inscribed in blood.
A map that never wears or fades.
It is indestructible.
Surely cursed by some evil spell.
But we don't care,
It's the vast treasure promised we seek,
And it's reward of power to all who find it.
Four of us to divide it up.
Billy, the youngest a mere kid aged 21,
Billy, the innocent looking American kid,
But a proven lunatic with his knife,
Who he caresses and whispers to every night.
Then there's Rosanna,
An old gypsy whore,
Who murders women and children.
And worst of the lot is Chew.
A huge Chinaman who strength is unbelievable,
Who, over our murderous searching years,
While seeking funding for our dark venture,
Snaps robust rich necks like twigs,
And crushes heads in between his hands
Like over-ripe bloated melons.
And then he devours their hearts.
Maybe it's Chinese greeting, Billy sickly jokes.
Every time, while he cuts out a victim's heart.
And hands it to a ravenous Chew.
And all the while Rosanna smiles,
Then cackles like a hen.
I am weary of the lot of them.
More so now as we finally reach our final goal.
And after we find our prize and load our wagon,
I will slaughter them all like unsuspecting cattle,
With my hidden cut-throat razor.
Chew first, so silently and then Billy,
Then finally that Romany bitch.
I'll enjoy gutting her.
And I'll relish killing them all.
So we hurry on, forever onwards,
As twilight now beckons.
Travelling with all haste,
Along this overgrown dirt track,
Seeking the church and it's vast graveyard,
As embedded on this cruel map.
There! Rosanna cries.
Old she maybe but sees with the eyes of a cat.
Up ahead!
The church!
The church!
I look and can just barely make out,
The outline of the church.
My God!
It's huge!
Even from this distance,
And we draw fatefully closer every second.
At last!
After all these long murderous years,
We've finally arrived!
No!
I've finally arrived!
And I will leave alone,
A rich and powerful man...
Billy has lit one of the lanterns.
And as we dismount our wagon,
Outside this vast church
It illuminates all our faces in its glow.
Faces filled with hope, dreams and avarice.
Chew and Rosanna tie the horses and light more lanterns.
We can see the church's outline in faint glow,
The church doesn't interest us.
We couldn't give a tinkers curse for it now.
Only it's vast overgrown graveyard filled with crosses.
That is what interests us.
And one grave especially.
The grave of a holy man.
The grave of a priest.
This vast churches one time serving priest to be exact.
As detailed on the map.
This damned priest,
And his damned grave.
It'll be hard to find in the dark,
Even for four killers with lanterns.
So many graves in this churchyard.
Strange.
I think.
Something calling me and the others.
Something whispering to me.
An urge.
One of many I've felt since starting this murderous quest.
We can make out the low wall,
Surrounding the church and its graveyard.
But just beyond the wall,
As we inspect the unkept graveyard.
Is something else,
Not shown on the map.
With lanterns in hand and as one,
We step over the wall,
Our greed for once, overtaken with curiosity.
And as we peer into the inky darkness.
We're drawn like moths to a flame only in reverse.
Whatever is hidden out there wants to reveal itself.
A cold wind from nowhere eerily blows,
And creates a break in the clouds,
For the full red moon, a hunters moon,
To ethereally shine down.
It illuminates clear as day what we struggle to see.
Rosanna gasps and this murderous hypocrite,
Then makes the sign of the cross.
Billy just whistles a long low whistle.
Chew and myself just keep looking on.
Completely staggered at what we all see.
For as far as we can view,
There are more crosses.
Stretching to the horizon.
Scores of them.
No.
Hundreds.
Hundreds of black crosses.
All the same height.
Around nine feet tall
All an ominous bible black.
And most terrifying of all.
All inverted.
They're upside down.
This wasn't displayed on the damned map.
What the Hell is going on!
Rosanna softly whispers what we all know,
And can feel deep down in our guts.
There is evil here.
And we will be lucky to survive this night.
Can't you feel their hate and their hunger.
We're doomed.
We're all going to die here.
Die horribly.
Oh cheer up you miserable gypsy bitch!
I scream at her.
So you won't be wanting your share of the treasure, will you?
It has the desired effect on everyone and myself.
A psychological effect that snaps everyone,
Out of the bewitching vista just witnessed,
As the clouds again conceal the unforgiving red moon,
A hunter's moon...
We stare dumbfounded at what we've just seen.
What the hell is this place.
And what else is waiting to be sprung on us.
Waiting in the darkness.
This bible-black darkness,
That's all around us.
Consuming us,
And all our thoughts and fathomless nightmares.
Snap out of it I shout!
Lets get back to business.
Lets find this damn priests damn grave,
And when we do, we find the damned treasure.
That's snapped them out of it, the mention of treasure.
Avarice can work wonders,
Even on murderers.
With lantern in each hand we search,
For this priest's grave.
I think to myself,
Will our dark crusade ever end.
Suddenly Chew shouts.
I've found it!
I've found it!
I've found him!
Strange, I think,
As we gather round him,
This priest's grave is outside the immense graveyard.
How can that be.
Damn it, who cares.
Billy has already doubled time it,
Back to our wagon and the still awake poor horses.
His arms full of new shovels and fresh lanterns.
We all look at each other,
Seeing absolute greed in each others eyes.
Then we dig.
Like maniac's,
Which we all are.
After only three feet not six,
Chew's shovel hits wood.
A coffin.
The priests coffin.
Three of us hold lanterns,
While Chew furiously clears the dirt,
Around its edges.
And reveals a carved name on the coffin.
The priests name.
The final clue of the map.
Discovered!
Chew doesn't wait for a crowbar,
With his brute force he tears the lid off.
To reveal,
The face down skeletal remains of,
Father Shamus Durran.
Hideous.
Absolutely hideous.
The stagnant smell and rotting flesh,
Still wrapped around his bony form.
Jesus! says Billy.
He's still ripe!
And why face down?
Because he's a suicide, I reply.
He was buried face down facing Hell.
And not on hallowed ground.
Yeah, Billy says,
But how can he still be ripe?
He should be dried out after all these years.
According to the map which is yonks old!
I don't know, I reply.
I just don't know.
Ripe or not he's holding something!
As Chew lifts him out of his coffin.
And easily rips a long jewel encrusted,
Rectangular golden chest from his bony rotten clutches.
And places it gently down on a dirt mound.
And we're all left speechless at what we see.
Wow! says Chew.
Beautiful, whispers Rosanna.
Billy lets out a long whistle.
And I, Thomas Moore,
I am hypnotised at this ornate treasure,
Displayed before me.
Beautiful and priceless.
I have never seen anything ever like it.
As Chew picks it up and shakes it,
There's something inside, says Chew.
And there's a lock on it.
Billy reaches down and takes his knife out.
No problem, I'll pick it.
There ain't no lock ever made,
That can beat ole' Billy.
And with a skilful twist of his blade,
It clicks and Billy puts it down.
Then as if by magic, it opens slowly on its own.
Ever so slowly, then stops.
Revealing a greyish black clay cylinder.
What the Hell is this,
We all think as one.
What on earth is inside it.
I seize the cylinder.
My God!
It's freezing!
I place it back down.
And then I hear it.
We all do.
Coming from the cylinder.
A faint whispering,
Of one voice then many.
A chorus of deathly sighs.
Then nothing.
Nothing again to be heard.
A total silence.
In the lantern's light,
We look at each other speechless.
I see Rosanna making the sign of the cross,
Hypocrite, I think.
Murdering gypsy hypocrite.
Chew and Billy look at one another,
Then look back at the cylinder.
Enough! I shout.
Enough!
Again I pick it up,
No more whispers emanate from it now.
I hold it closer to the lantern,
It has a lid secured tightly at one end,
And a faint engraving etched into its base.
Half covered in dirt,
Which I hastily wipe away,
I can just barely read it in the lantern's light,
A name.
Written in ancient Aramaic script,
The name of a woman.
Pandora.
I now realise this is no cylinder.
It's a jar.
Pandora's Jar!
My God,
The myth is true!...

Concluded in Part 2.