QUEST for the GOLDEN GRIFFIN

By Peter R.J. Deyell

J.W. Morrison, the mild mannered adventurer, wins a treasure map in a poker game. Its never been authenticated, but J.W. doesn’t care. The treasure of gold coins and jewels had been aboard the flagship of Sir Anthony Gibbons which had a solid gold masthead, the Golden Griffin. It had been attacked in 1849 on the Mediterranean Sea by Corsair pirates. After sinking the ship the pirates transported the treasure across the Sahara desert to a legendary mountain, the Jebel Khaoui. There, somewhere in the Atlas mountain range, was the ‘hollow mountain’ found by the three steps angularly cut by the Gods for easy access. Was the treasure real? Was the map authentic? J.W. Morrison and crew followed the map to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter R.J. Deyell
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476483535

Peter R.J. Deyell

Peter R.J. Deyell is an award winning writer, producer, director and actor. Growing up as child actor he appeared on the stage, television, and motion pictures. He made movies as a teenager beginning as Steven Spielberg’s assistant director. One of the Charter Founders of the Artist Rights Foundation along with Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Martin Scorsese, Arthur Hiller, and Allen Daviau, Peter is protective of the creative rights of filmmakers. He is an active member of ©reativeamerica to fight content theft. An afficionado of the golden age of cinema, Peter’s Quest for the Golden Griffin is reminiscent of the old movie serials where every ten minutes the heroes are placed in jeopardy and have to overcome obstacles.

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Quest for the Golden Griffin

Peter R.J. Deyell

All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication or artwork, may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from author. A Code Yellow publication.

Copyright 2012 Peter R.J. Deyell

Smashwords Edition

Edited by

RICHARD H. SCHWEITZER

THE ADVENTURES OF J.W. MORRISON

CHAPTER I – LADY LUCK

I’ll see your your twenty-five and raise you three hundred, proudly bellowed the bearded man at the end of the table as he pushed three dollar bills toward the pile of pennies, nickels, and dimes.

He was holding his cards close to his shirt but sneaked another peek.

J.W. Morrison, a boyish looking thirty-five year old, was watching the others at the table carefully.

Frankie always sat on the north and exactly at the center of the table. He was superstitious, claiming he only won when facing south. From the lack of coins in front of him, south wasn’t working too well either.

He gave up and threw in his cards, Too rich for me.

Henry, whose wife allowed him to go to Morrison’s Monday night poker game, claimed he was the boss of his family, and he had his wife’s permission to say so. He was almost out of coins, too. He silently threw in his cards as well.

Buck sat next to Henry. He constantly joked about almost winning, but his luck wasn’t as good as his jokes.

I’m out. It’s just you two. He pushed his cards toward the middle, J.W., it’s your call.

No one said a word as Morrison examined his cards, then looked at the money in the pot. He didn’t count it, but it was probably close to ten dollars.

He stared at David’s neatly trimmed goatee. He couldn’t decide if the college professor really had a winning hand or was trying to bluff. He checked his cards again.

I’ll see your three hundred. Three crisp one-dollar bills floated into the pile.

With three more dollars in the pot it was perhaps the biggest payout this weekly game had seen.

Buck looked at Morrison and then at David as he dealt the last card to each player, Last bet.

David picked up his card, scrutinized it and then placed it between the first two cards in his hand. With a big smile he closed the cards.

I raise two-hundred, he said, as he placed two one dollar bills into the pot.

Morrison left his last card on the table without looking at it. I’ll see your two-hundred and raise you five-hundred.

The others watched Morrison. One could never tell whether he was bluffing or not. He was very rich, but his friends had never been able to figure out what he did for a living.

His home, which rivaled the finest mansions in the world, sat in the middle of Holmby Hills— one of Los Angeles’ most elite communities. His backyard was the entire L.A. Country Club. The home itself was elegantly, if not extravagantly, furnished.

The den in which they were playing had solid oak paneling, wainscoting with hand-carved moldings, assorted bric-à-brac from around the globe and artifacts from his various exploits. Bookcases filled with first edition novels filled the walls. His life was a mystery, but he wore his interests on his sleeve.

David looked carefully at his cards, then nodded silently to Morrison. He reached into his wallet. It only contained four dollars. He took the bills out and set them down. Then he reached into his pocket and came out with twenty-seven cents.

I’m short.

He searched his coat pockets looking for cash. Instead he pulled out an old piece of paper, folded into squares with its browned edges cracking off.

All I have left is this map. He looked disappointed. Will you take my I.O U.?

Buck jumped in. Table stakes, only, he reminded.

Morrison eyed the folded of paper in David’s hand. Now his curiosity was piqued.

David was a professor of history and archeology at the university. He always had great stories and the weekly poker game often became a history lesson.

What’s the map?

Oh, it’s nothing really. One of my students found it in the stacks at the library; another one of those ancient treasure maps. He didn’t know what to do with it so he gave it to me.

For Morrison the card game was collateral now, win or lose, it was all about the map. He decided it wouldn’t be sporting to simply ask for it— no, he had to win it.

Okay, he said, put your John Hancock on the back and I’ll take it as your marker.

David signed the back and delicately placed it into the pile of dollars and coins.

Morrison, flipped over his first four cards; a ten, a jack, a queen and a king—all spades. His last card was still concealed.

Everyone was staring at the cards on the table. Then they turned their attention to David. It was now his call.

David, still smiling, coolly laid his cards on the table one at a time. He looked to Morrison.

Four eights, ace high. Beat that, he challenged.

Morrison casually flipped over his last card. It was the ace of spades— a royal flush. A moment of silence was followed by applause.

David reluctantly pushed the pile toward Morrison, Imagine that!

Morrison looked at the dollar bills and coins in front of him, but only reached for the folded paper.

Gentlemen, it’s only a game. Pick up your money, he said.

The others weren’t too surprised, it wasn’t very much money, but Morrison didn’t need money anyway. Besides, he had no doubt he would win the map, but it wouldn’t have mattered. If he lost the hand, he would have bought it.

To Morrison, money had a way of being boring, which can be true with many wealthy people, and he yearned for excitement.

He carefully unfolded the paper trying not to damage it.

David, what is this supposed to be?

A treasure map, he replied, seems to be the Maghreb region; North Africa, Morocco, Algeria, and the Sahara.

Hmmm... how interesting, Morrison laid out the map on top of the table to study it.

The crude map had little drawings on it; in one corner there was an ink drawing of a ship’s figurehead, a winged lion.

As usual, David started his history lesson. There are over 2,300 miles of coastline along the Mediterranean Sea; from the rugged Atlas mountains to the desolate Sahara. The history of these lands is filled with intrigue and the corruption of opportunism.

He continued, The Barbary Coast is named after the Berbers, who inhabit the area. Corsairs from the northern coast preyed upon Mediterranean shipping vessels, pirating their cargo and demanding ransoms of their prisoners and amassing legendary fortunes in silver and gold.

He paused only to take a breath; then continued. These treasures have long since been buried and swallowed up by the earth.

But is this map real? queried Morrison.

Who knows? It seems authentic but most of this is desert. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

What is this treasure exactly? Morrison’s intrigue was showing.

Another guess. The map and the drawing there of the griffin, he indicated the hand-drawn picture in the corner of the document appears to be part of an old story about a solid gold griffin which was the figurehead of the Golden Griffin, the flagship Galleon of a fleet Captained by Sir Anthony Gibbons.

Then he added, He was not to be out done by Sir Francis Drake’s massive Golden Hind.

Morrison and the others gathered closer around the map.

David continued, A gang of Barbary Corsairs, pirates, attacked the Golden Griffin, killing all on board, then after taking the cargo of Spanish gold and jewels, set the galleon afire.

Interesting, Morrison was already pursuing his next adventure. It was his nature. His mind was racing, compiling lists of contacts he knew in that part of the world, people who were familiar with maps, places he could acquire the gear he would need; and he was already composing excuses he could use to suspend any pending obligations.

The year was 1960, and Bobby Darren’s Somewhere Across The Sea was playing on the record player.

Morrison grabbed the deck of cards and shuffled them quickly. He cut them once, then twice, then spread them out face down in a semi-circle. He moved his hand across the arc and plucked one card from the fan. Expectantly, he turned it over— the King of Hearts.

Using that card he once again moved it across the arc, stopping randomly. Or maybe it wasn’t random, he might call it instinct. He used the King to flip over the new card. It was the Ace of Diamonds.

Somewhere, across the sea... Morrison sang the lyrics as visions of an exciting adventure danced in his head.

CHAPTER II – ALGIERS

J.W. Morrison arrived in Algiers two weeks later. He had done what research he could outside of the country, and after arriving had consulted most of his available contacts, local archeologists, historians and museum curators. All was ready; in a portfolio tucked under his arm were all the documents, notes and photos he had gathered, including the map. He was having lunch with an old friend he knew he could trust, and then he would meet up with his hired guide.

Now he was walking slowly through one of Algiers’ many bazaars musing on the fact that in many ways he was walking through history. These marketplaces have not changed in a thousand years.

All along the twisted street, the crowded bazaar was filled with small merchant stalls selling everything and anything imaginable. Tent poles held up colorful, fringed awnings with small brass bells hanging from the ties.

Shopkeepers haggled with customers over merchandise. The smell of incense, hashish and camels blended into a single odor, distinct and centuries old in this part of world.

He found himself staring at a weaver who was making a basket. The man’s hands moved so quickly it looked like a magic trick. Morrison was surrounded by baskets of every size and shape and considered buying one as a souvenir but there would be plenty of time for that when this adventure was over.

From there, he turned his attention to another booth which was filled with a rainbow of soft flowing silks. It reminded him of a veiled belly dancer he had met several years before. She had helped him uncover the ancient ruins of a Portuguese Monsignor.

In another stall was a display of hand-carved Meacham pipes. They were lined up on makeshift shelves. Some of the carvings were of human faces, others were animals. The delicately sculpted bowls topped long stems that reached from the floor to the lips. He couldn’t resist touching the realistic faces.

The bazaar was fascinating. Each area was different and unique. He was enjoying the culture and variety so much he almost forgot he had someone to meet. Someone he didn’t want to keep waiting.

He found himself wishing he had more time to enjoy all the sights and delicacies, but he knew he didn’t.

Turning away, he headed deeper into the passageways between the stalls and eventually came out onto a quieter cobblestone street.

The twisted, narrow street led to a pockmarked masonry archway which was the entry to the Casbah d’Algiers. Inside the walls of the Casbah quarter, thieves, grifters or simple scofflaws were held in high esteem by the inhabitants. Unsavory persons enjoyed a kind of respect, and were kept safe from the police. In these dim, menacing warrens anything could be bought or bartered.

Morrison walked past the entryway. He stopped for a moment, took off his hat and wiped his brow. The late morning sun showed no mercy and he was very glad it wasn’t the hottest part of the day which would reach well over 100 degrees.

He had dressed in light clothing, a sun-bleached muslin shirt and boots that were made out of water buffalo hides.

The boots were a gift from an oil executive in Sudan. He forgot exactly what he did to receive them. It was something about the man’s wife, or was it his daughter? He had a dalliance with both. Not that the executive was aware of, however, or he would have received the boots in an entirely different way.

He held on tightly to the portfolio under his arm. Now that he was out of the bazaar he was thinking about his impending quest again, and it was all in there. The portfolio’s patina had been pushed into the leather from oil, sweat, and coffee giving it a nice sheen. The coffee stains gave it character. It had been in his family for a long time having been his uncle’s favorite piece of luggage.

He stopped to catch his breath and looked at his watch. It was already set for the current time zone and the hands reported that it was only ten in the morning; but with jet lag it seemed to Morrison like midnight. He was tired but his excitement kept him going.

Almost directly across from the entrance to the Casbah was the Café Safsaf, an outdoor coffee and tea restaurant where Arabs and tourists sat in wrought-iron chairs around tiny wooden tables. A tented awning kept the direct sun off the tables. He had reached his destination, and he was on time.

At one of the tables sat his old friend Frenchie, a rotund, bearded man wearing a white silk suit, black tie, and a perfectly formed Panama hat. He came from Alsace Lorain while somehow avoiding the German influence.

He was fully dressed and there was not a drop of sweat on him; he was sipping a demitasse of coffee.

From his many trips to Africa and the Middle-East, Morrison always wondered how mad dogs and Englishmen could walk around in this heat without sweating.

Then again, he thought, this is Frenchie, and he is very French. And it was true; he always looked pressed and starched, right out of the pages of a magazine. Could he have been born without any sweat glands, wondered Morrison?

Upon seeing Morrison, Frenchie rose from his chair. The two men briefly hugged and kissed each other on the cheek.

Mon ami. How nice to see you, he said. Frenchie was always so polite.

Likewise, my friend, He said as he motioned for Frenchie to sit, and they immediately got down to business.

You received my telegram? Morrison asked.

Of course, M’sieur, his eyes implied that he knew there was more to it as he made a silent connection with Morrison.

He continued, Well, mon ami, another fantastic scheme. Half lion, half eagle... zee solid gold figurehead... Spanish doubloons, pieces of eight, jewels... zee King's treasure, non? He had always liked Morrison, even when the exploits he was pulled into fell short of expectations.

Frenchie didn’t wait for a reply, but added, slightly sarcastically, Another ‘real’ treasure hunt, n'estce pas? and then, with a little twinkle in his eye, Eh bien, when do we start?

Morrison already knew Frenchie was along for the adventure otherwise he would not have shown up.

He took the map out of the leather portfolio and stretched it across the table. He pointed to a route drawn across the desert. The map was poorly sketched and distances seemed inaccurate. His finger slid across the drawings. In five days’ time I should be here, at El Golea oasis, he explained. If we don't show up on time, start from there and come looking for us. Morrison always made it sound so simple.

His finger stopped across the other side of the map. "Then you can take us into Tunisia, the Port at Mahares