My first guess was heirloom silver, or maybe the family jewels, buried and forgotten, years ago by some light-fingered  servant or paranoid ancestor. I was wrong.

         The metal crate was heavy, about two feet wide and three feet long with a small handle at one end. Crouching down at the edge of the flower bed, I dragged it out of the hole, and used my trowel to pry it open. I was hoping for a reward or at the very least an interesting story to tell.  That time I was right.

         Inside was another smaller container, ornately carved and cushioned by paper, padding and disintegrating excelsior. I opened the smaller box and took out a tattered bundle wrapped in many layers of thin material. Given the weight of the box, the bundle was lighter than I expected – as if the fabric surrounded nothing more than a handful of feathers. That’s when the butterflies first entered my stomach.

        Picking at the rotting fabric with gloved fingers, I exposed a slim chain with a tiny medal. Above it, leathery and doll-like, was a shrunken head.

        I fell back on my butt, flinging the bundle into the air, then I watched it drop and roll over until it stopped facedown in the decomposing leaves behind a stone wall. I looked around, half-hoping there was a witness, but, just as happy there was no one to see me act like such a chicken.

       I got up and tiptoed over to where the bundle rested. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it but wanted to get the tiny face out of the dirt, so I nudged it with my toe. It didn’t move. I did it a second time, but pushed too hard and the bundle rolled again, this time picking up speed on the sloping lawn that would take it into the Long Island Sound, if I didn’t act fast. I wasn’t much of a football fan, but instinctively knew what I had to do. I tackled it. I scooped up the body and ran up the hill, back to the garden, as if I were heading for the end zone. When I got there, I shook off my hoodie, made a circle on the ground with it, and nestled the tiny body inside, so it wouldn’t roll over again. Then, on unsteady feet, I walked a few steps, and puked, over by the album elegans rhododendrons.