The Cabin of Secrets

A fable of transformation.

Deep in my psyche is a perspective that at worst, overvalues the virtues of courage, wisdom and compassion. At best it is one that gives me ample doses of exactly these three things, much to my benefit and the benefit of others who hear me out. I’ll tell you the moral first.

The moral of this old story I have twisted up is that there is always the possibility of transformative wisdom if one bothers to take the opportunity. At the very edge of civilization even greed, fear or lust could be the first step in the long and profitable journey to enlightenment. Wisdom transforms one completely. Then again courage is required to approach wisdom, and the result is compassion born of the humility one who is truly transformed must inevitably admit.

Let me tell you a story:

At the core of this is the story of three thieving yokels who have heard tell of a mysterious cabin at the edge of the woods. This cabin is said to contain an extraordinary treasure, a treasure so valuable that it would forever transform one’s life. The yokels, let us call them Curly, Larry and Moe, are desperate to possess this treasure. Still, they are not hungry enough to really give up their semi-lucrative careers at breaking & entering in the corners of town they know.

One evening at the town’s dive pub where the likes of these had not yet still worn out their welcome, they overhear a conversation about a great man who lives in a cabin at the edge of the woods. Moe gins up the courage to ask at which edge of the great woods this man might be found. After all, it would be to much of a journey to leave their town and trek to the north edge if the cabin were located far to the east. The storyteller is an older man in a long dark coat who looks like someone from a far away town. He eyes Moe suspiciously, upon which Moe quickly comes up with a tale not far from the truth about his wretched life in the slums of town and his desire to meet such a great man who might have the ability to transform his life. The storyteller relents, smiles and tells Moe truthfully that the man lives at the far western edge of the woods. Moe thanks him profusely and returns to plot with his fellows.

Having taken the spoils from their latest capers, the thieves collectively buy a compass and a wheelbarrow. They set the date and when it arrives they set off on their great adventure. Not knowing how long they will be gone, they tell others that they will be on a pilgrimage. It takes them two days and nights before they finally reach the westernmost edge of the woods. Sure enough they can see a cabin sitting alone on a small rise only a quarter mile away. The trio waits for the cover of night and then slowly head across the field to the cabin.

They arrive breathless hardly able to contain their anticipation. Yet there is nothing particularly special about this cabin. Still, they see that a light has come on so the great man with his great treasure must be there. Moe knocks on the door as the other two lurk behind waiting to rush in at the first opportunity. Larry wields a crow bar and the muscular Curly crouches behind the wheelbarrow. Moe waves them back as they all hear the sound of footsteps approaching the front door of the cabin.

“Larry, you go around the back and stand watch! Curly, get ready with the wheelbarrow!” The door opens and there stands a small wizened old man with a thick white beard and spectacles. He is pale and weak, looking every bit a hermit who hasn’t seen the sun in months. Moe explains, holding a compass in front of him, that he is lost.

“Uh, I’m sorry to bother you kind sir, but I was trying to take a shortcut to the next town. I fear that I have gotten lost in the woods.”

“And what of your large friend here with the wheelbarrow? Is he lost too?”

“What? You saw him? Well then you must know why we are here as well. Come in Curly!” Curly joins and the two push their way into the living room of the cabin. “We have come to relieve you of your great treasure. So where is it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is no treasure here. Look around, see for yourself.”

Moe closes the front door. “We gonna to take our time.” As Moe and Curly began to look around, they saw nothing out of the ordinary. The old hermit backs out of the living room into the kitchen.

“Not so fast.” Moe yells, turning away from a bookcase he has just rifled with no golden results. Slowly he turned, step by step, inch by inch menacingly approaching the old man.

Suddenly the front door bursts open again. It’s the police, lead by the pub storyteller in the dark coat. “That’s him!” he yells pointing accusingly at Moe. He and Curly are cuffed and hustled out of the cabin. The police sergeant tells the storyteller to collect his brother. In the kitchen, he finds him too late. He’s suffered a heart attack and is slumped into a pile on the floor with his back to the sink. “Oh God, Miles!”

Meanwhile Larry has found the basement door in the back of the house and climbed down into the darkness while all the commotion inside proceeded. Too frightened to move, he waited patiently until an hour after all was quiet. He fell asleep in a corner of the basement and awoke with a start when sunlight strikes his eye from the basement window to the east, rising over the forest. For the first time, Larry can look around him and inspect the contents of the basement. It looks ordinary. There were obviously some bags of potatoes. Above them were several shelves containing pickles and preserved fruits. Not much treasure in that. He felt a grumbling in his stomach and grabbed a jar of pickles on the furthest end of the shelf.

After having belched up the last taste of peppercorns and garlic, Larry settled back into his potato sack corner and listened intently for any sign of footsteps in the cabin above. He remembered that the hermit’s heavy shoes were audible from outside last night, so why the quiet now? He continued studying the basement as much as the ambient light would allow. Surely the treasure must be around somewhere. He kept his crow bar ready, just in case.

After the second day, Larry decided everyone was gone. His friends were arrested and the man who lived here must have had to stay in town for the trial. So he gathered his courage and left the basement. He peeked into all of the windows of the cabin and back towards the woods. He could see for a good distance in every direction from the rise on which the cabin stood. At the front door he grasped the handle quietly and the door gave on its hinges. He moved inside and saw that the fireplace was cold. Over on the bookcase were a few books that were scattered on the floor, this was the only disorder he found. As he looked around the cabin he saw no secret compartments, no jewelry. He went to the bedroom. Nothing was out of the ordinary. A dresser, a mirror, two bookcases and something with fancy writing in a frame on the wall.

As he returned to the living room and decided to light the fireplace, he saw no kindling though there was a large flint in a brass holder along with a fire steel. Perhaps one of these books on the floor would work. He bent over to pick up one in order to rip out some paper, but he noticed the drawing of a strange looking woman and man in an embrace. Maybe she was some kind of princess and he a prince. Larry could read but many of the words on the page were strange. He looked to the cover. “Kama Sutra” it said. There were many more drawings inside. Soon Larry forgot that he was cold.

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It was 14 years later when Curly and Moe were finally released from prison. Convicted of forced entry and manslaughter, they had kept their mouths closed for the whole time about the treasure. They had not implicated Larry. Surely he had found the treasure, but no word had gotten back to them at all. As the two sat back in the town pub, they discretely asked of his whereabouts. Nobody had seen Larry all of this time. Perhaps he had taken the treasure to some far away town never to return to this sad old village. That’s what Moe would have done, he said wistfully to Curly as they stared into their beers.

“We gotta find out.” Curly said.

“We gotta see if there was any treasure left.” Moe chimed in.

Once again they prepared for the journey through the woods. They arrived two evenings later to find smoke pouring out of the chimney of the rustic old pile. It was just as they remembered it on that fateful night. “Let me do the talking this time.” said Curly, as they covered the damp ground up the rise. They often turned to see if there were police, but none had followed this time.

He rapped on the door which immediately opened to reveal Larry who was finely dressed in a dinner jacket. The savory aroma of something delicious wafted out of the front door and Curly froze in place. Larry’s eyes betrayed nothing to Curly and they stood looking each other up and down. Curly was overcome by hunger and didn’t know what to say. Neither man recognized the other.

“Good evening. Can I help you, er gentlemen?” Larry was first to break the silence.

“I’m starving. Got anything we can eat?” Curly burst out.

“Where is the treasure?” Moe demanded simultaneously, moving in and shoving Larry aside, also without a hint of recognition. A look of surprise, then momentary terror flashed across Larry’s face as the other two men split up intent in their hungers. He moved back and fell into a chair facing the door and slyly grabbed a poker from the fireplace.

“Do you intend to kill me?”

“Not if we don’t have to. Just tell me where the treasure is and you’ll have your chance to walk out of here alive.” Moe spat. He was already getting frustrated having to deal with yet another old fart who pretended not to be sitting on a fortune. “You know what happened to the last guy we...”

“Delicious!” Curly interrupted. “This is the best beef stew I ever ate. Hey Moe! Get a load of this.” Moe? Suddenly, Larry realized that these were none other than Curly and Moe, his old partners in crime. They must have just been released from prison and the fools believed some golden treasure was still here. He began to chuckle under his breath, relaxing his grip on the poker as Moe paused and then turned towards the kitchen.

Moe looked back over his shoulder. “You stay put. I’ll be back to deal with you in a minute.” He wagged his finger at the seated stranger who was completely bald and looking like he was chewing on something sour.

The two men in the kitchen were ravenous and stuffed their faces with the stew. Larry remained seated watching them in the light of the single lamp above the kitchen table. They were the same crude knuckleheads he had known. He had almost forgotten about them. Moe, with his ridiculous haircut, foolhardy schemes and obnoxious insults. Larry thought of all those years he had been led around by these two bonehead brothers. Curly. The mountainous imbecile with the mind of a 12 year old, who barked like a dog. That ridiculous laugh and idiotic gesticulations.

Larry began to recall the halfwit ventures they always botched, always close to some kind of legit working-class success but never enough. He remembered the cruelty of Moe who betrayed his older brother Shemp for childlike gullibility of Curly. If Larry hadn’t figured out how to get the spurned Shemp to act as a fence in the next town over, none of their sly thievery would have paid off. For every socialite pie fight that ruined their chances as waiters, there was always a pocket full of silver service, or filched pearl earrings that got them by. It was the one thing Larry could hold over Moe. Ahh but living in fear like that made him a nervous wreck so he let himself be dragged around by the ear, slapped and kicked like a mule. That was so long ago. Thoughts of revenge had long been forgotten. Larry closed his eyes and composed himself.

There was indeed a great transformative treasure in this modest cabin. It was only by the most outrageous fortune and grace of God that Larry found the chance and the time to make use of it. Three simple bookshelves, one here opposite the fireplace and two in the single bedroom, 327 volumes in all paved the path beyond the mindless fiasco of his slapstick youth. He worked his way from the most elementary texts to Mark Twain to almanacs and encyclopedia, through mathematics to the ancient scriptures and astronomy. He had literally read his way to the stars and the world hung brightly in the dark sky, all of its secrets revealed. He worked to contain the contempt he felt for the troglodytes before him - making a pig trough of his.. of this scholarly inheritance. He reckoned with the great irony of his life. Were it not for the murder of professor Miles Quackenbush, he might still be trawling for menial labor with those half-wits. He owed them at least that much. Yet, weren’t they killers? He had to confront them. He called out.

“Morris! Joseph! Brothers! It’s me, Lawrence. I’m Larry. The treasure is here. I will share it with you. Sit down and let me tell you a story.”

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