The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Ten: The Line in the Leaves

 

Dover Hill Clearing – Moments Later

Ryland stepped out from behind a cedar tree, his boots crunching the frost-dusted leaves with deliberate calm. Two men followed—Brenner and Mason—both armed, both looking like they’d done this before.

Kate shifted closer to me, and I tightened my grip on the wax-bound chest.

“Easy now,” Ryland said, raising a hand like we were old friends on a morning stroll. “No need for drama. You’ve done all the hard work. Just hand it over.”

I didn’t move.

Kate didn’t either.

“I’m guessing you’re not with the local historical society,” I said.

Ryland chuckled. “No. But we care about history. We care about what’s… rightfully ours.”

Kate crossed her arms. “Funny. I thought Silas Vickery meant for it to stay hidden.”

Ryland took another step closer, his tone sharpening.

“He was a courier, not a philosopher. He followed orders. What he buried doesn’t belong to you. Or to him. It’s older than all of us.”

He looked at the chest in my hands.

“And it’s not just gold, is it?”

I felt it then—a vibration. Subtle. Like something shifting inside. I looked down, and the wax seal had begun to flake at the edges, cracking where the cold air touched it.

“You have no idea what’s in here,” I said.

“I know enough,” Ryland replied. “I know it was stolen from a place where power and purpose were once one. And I know the people I work for believe that power can still be used.”

Kate stepped forward. “Used by who? And for what?”

Ryland smiled. “The world’s out of balance. Always has been. But this—this is a keystone. A relic tied to land and legacy. If you open it without the proper context—”

He paused.

“You could unmoor something.”

“And if we give it to you?” I asked.

“We contain it. Secure it. Use it… strategically.”

That was all I needed to hear.

“No,” I said.

I turned slightly, as if to move the box away—but Brenner raised his pistol.

Kate instinctively stepped in front of me, her voice steady but cold.

“You fire that, and every agency from here to Bedford is going to be combing these woods.”

Ryland held up a hand to Brenner.

“Put it down. We don’t need a scene.”

Then he looked at me again.

“You can’t keep it forever, Eli. That thing in your hands? It’s not just a mystery. It’s a burden.”

I nodded. “Then maybe it’s time someone carried it for the right reasons.”

Ryland’s expression hardened.

“This isn’t over.”

He turned, motioned to his men, and disappeared back into the woods.

I waited until the sound of their footsteps faded completely before I exhaled.

Kate looked at me.

“What now?”

I looked down at the chest. The wax seal had fallen away.

And beneath it, etched into the lid, were three words in a language I didn’t recognize.

But I understood their meaning.

Bound. Not broken.

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Nine: The Tree That Split the Sky

Dover Hill Road – The Following Morning

The frost was thick along the gravel edge of Dover Hill Road, making the grass crackle underfoot as Kate and I stepped out of the truck. A heavy mist hung in the folds of the hills, reluctant to lift. The land here was different—older, quieter. It felt like even the birds didn’t want to break the silence.

“This is the parcel Grey Pine bought,” Kate said, unfolding her hand-drawn map. “Technically, we’re trespassing.”

“Technically,” I said, “Ray’s box already told us where to go.”

We followed the remnants of a wagon trail that hadn’t seen a wheel in over a century. It led through a corridor of hardwoods, mostly maple and oak, until we came to a clearing surrounded by limestone outcrops and scattered chunks of broken fence.

Then we saw it.

The tree.

It was a massive white oak, dead now but still standing. The trunk was split clean down the middle, as if lightning or time had driven a blade into it from sky to root. It was exactly as Ray—and Silas—had described it.

Kate walked slowly to the base of the tree. The trunk had split into a hollow deep enough to hide a grown man.

“I think this is it,” she said, kneeling down.

I scanned the bark. There, just above the hollow, carved in the soft rot of the trunk, was the triangle and dots—but this time, with something new beneath it:

An open eye.

Kate traced the symbol with one gloved hand.

“He knew someone might come after him. He left this as a warning.”

I reached into the hollow and felt something firm.

Wood.

Wrapped in waxy, resin-soaked cloth.

I pulled it out slowly—a small chest, no larger than a toolbox, bound with cord blackened by age and sealed with a wax stamp nearly worn smooth.

Kate stepped back.

“That’s it,” she said softly.

But neither of us moved to open it.

Because we both heard the same sound.

The distinct, deliberate click of a camera shutter from somewhere in the trees.

Then a voice:

“I wouldn’t move too fast, if I were you.”

Ryland.

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Eight: The Watcher in the Pines

 

Outside Loogootee, Indiana – Same Day

Mark Ryland lit his cigarette with a shake of the match and leaned against the tailgate of his black Suburban. He watched the smoke curl into the chill November air, then tapped the ash into the brown leaves at his feet.

Behind him, two men stood quietly—both younger, both dressed in camo gear that actually showed signs of use. One of them—Mason—scanned a tablet, while the other, Brenner, kept eyes on the trail camera footage feeding in from the bluff.

“Latest hit,” Mason said, turning the screen. “They're heading south. Took a shot of them near Hindostan Falls. Not subtle.”

Ryland looked but didn’t say anything at first.

He already knew where they were going. Knew it the moment he saw the chalk tracing Kate Lander made at Jug Rock. The triangle. The dots. It was all part of the cipher. Most people thought it was folklore—something the Civil War cooked up and left behind like a ghost story.

Ryland knew better.

The American Sovereign Trust had been following these clues for years. Longer than Eli Turner or that overeducated teacher had been chasing dusty diaries.

Ryland had grown up in Greene County. Not far from the river. Not far from the box.

He remembered his grandfather’s stories—whispers about something hidden during the war, something never meant to be found. But his grandfather was weak. A believer. Mark was a doer.

And he wasn’t about to let two aging treasure hunters bumble their way into a piece of real power.

He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his heel.

“Send a message,” he said to Brenner. “Nothing loud. Just close enough that they know they’re not alone.”

Brenner nodded and disappeared toward the truck.

Mason looked uneasy. “If they find it first—”

“They won’t,” Ryland cut him off. “We let them do the digging. Follow the trail. But the moment they find the fourth mark—we take it.”

Mason hesitated. “And if it’s already been removed?”

Ryland’s smile was cold and humorless.

“Then we dig them up instead.”

 

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Seven: The Courier’s Last Ride

 

Silas Vickery’s Journal – November 3, 1864

Somewhere along Dover Hill Road

The storm had broken by morning, but the fog remained—low and clinging, wrapping the horse’s legs like swamp gas. I could feel the sickness in my chest now, creeping deeper with each mile. The fever had caught me somewhere near Hindostan, same as the others. I prayed it would hold off long enough to reach the final point.

There was no more escort. No more comrades.

Just me, the wagon, and the box—heavy as sin, tucked beneath the false floorboards and bound with chains. I hadn’t looked inside, only followed orders. But even sealed, I swear I could feel it humming.

A weight not just of gold, but of history.

And maybe something older.

I made the turn off the main road and followed the old trail toward the limestone ridge. That’s where Captain Jernigan had said it would be safe. “Bury it where the hill flattens out and the oak splits in two,” he told me. “Make your mark, then burn the map.”

But I didn’t burn the map.

I copied it.

And I left the cipher instead.

Because I saw the man in black again—just once—riding behind me near the bluffs. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink. Just watched. And disappeared. We were not alone out here.

I reached the clearing by nightfall.

The tree stood just as Jernigan said—a wide old oak with a trunk split in the center like it had been struck by God Himself. I unhitched the horse and pulled the box from beneath the wagon floor. The ground was soft and wet from the storm, making it easy to dig.

But I didn’t bury it.

I bound it—ropes soaked in pitch, wrapped tight, sealed with wax and cloth, and wedged it deep into the hollow of the oak. I carved the mark, then covered it with moss and leaves.

And then I wrote this.

If you’re reading it, the others have failed.

Or worse—succeeded.

Whatever’s inside that box isn’t just payroll. It isn’t just stolen gold.

It’s something they should never have taken.

I was told it came from a man in Savannah who’d spent time with French mystics. That it was once part of a cathedral vault. That it was carried west to avoid Union seizure.

But I don’t believe it anymore.

I believe it was carried to this place, not away from it.

This land remembers.

And some treasures—God help me—should stay lost.

If you find the final mark at Dover Hill…

Do not open the box.

Bury it again.

And walk away.

—S. Vickery

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Six: Whispers from the River

 Hindostan Falls – Late Morning

The river was low, but the current still moved with purpose—carving smooth patterns into the limestone ledges as if time itself had worn out its boots and taken up carving rocks.

Kate and I stood just off River Road, at the edge of the old townsite. Hindostan had once been a bustling pioneer town, a stop for traders and a waypoint for settlers headed west. Then, in the fall of 1820, it was gone. Yellow fever, some said. Others blamed contaminated water. A few whispered of something older—a silence that moved in before the sickness did.

Now, all that remained were stone foundations tangled in underbrush, half-buried bricks, and the wide hush of the White River rolling past like a tired secret.

Kate flipped open Ray’s journal.

“He wrote: ‘Where the water once cleansed, the mark lies beneath the broken wheel.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“Could be a mill,” I said. “Or a wagon wreck.”

We started walking downstream, skirting along the edge of the limestone ledges. I scanned the stone, Kate the vegetation. About a hundred yards from the modern parking area, she stopped short and crouched.

“Here.”

Tangled in roots and half-submerged in dirt and moss was the rusted outline of an iron wagon wheel. Just the outer ring and a few spokes.

“Looks like it washed in decades ago,” she said.

I knelt beside it, brushing back the soil.

There it was again—the triangle.

But this time, the dots were inside the triangle, and below it, a short series of etched letters:

SV – 1864

Silas Vickery.

Kate snapped a photo and then read aloud from his journal, which she'd brought along.

---

Journal of Silas Vickery – November 1, 1864

The third mark I made on the stone below the old river crossing. If the cause is lost, let this stone endure. If they pursue, may the cipher mislead. The fourth lies at the Hill. Only those who listen shall hear it.

---

I stood and scanned the opposite bank.

“What do you think he meant by ‘If they pursue, may the cipher mislead’?”

Kate answered without looking up. “It means we’re not the only ones who’ve ever come looking. Silas was trying to protect whatever this is from someone even back then.”

I turned to speak—but froze.

A glint from across the river.

Just beyond the sycamores.

Someone stood there. Watching.

I couldn’t see their face, just the silhouette. Hat. Binoculars. Then gone.

Kate followed my gaze.

“He’s still tracking us,” I said.

“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s working alone.”

We both looked back at the stone.

Kate wiped off more dirt and discovered something else etched at the base—almost invisible in the shadows.

A narrow arrow, pointing upstream.

And beside it, three words:

“Not buried. Bound.”

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Five: Tracks in the Past

 

Shoals Public Library – Two Days Later

The paper with Ryland’s message sat between us on the table in the Shoals Library’s back reading room, tucked behind shelves no one but Kate ever seemed to use. Outside, the wind slapped dry leaves against the windows. Inside, it was all dust motes and muffled silence.

Kate slid her laptop closer.

“I cross-checked hunting licenses, land leases, and tax records for Martin County, and guess what—no one named Ryland is listed anywhere near the bluffs or Jug Rock.”

“So he’s not local?” I asked.

“Not officially. But I found something else.” She spun the screen toward me.

It was an archived news article from the Bedford Times-Mail, dated eight years earlier.

“Historic Land Parcel Near Dover Hill Sold to Out-of-State Private Trust”
…a 320-acre tract along Dover Hill Road was quietly sold to an organization called Grey Pine Development, headquartered in Virginia. The trust representative, Mark Ryland, declined to state the group’s purpose but said it would remain ‘non-public land for heritage preservation.’

“Grey Pine Development,” I said, reading aloud. “Sounds like a cover for something else.”

Kate nodded. “And they own a tract of land right near the fourth site in Ray’s cipher—Dover Hill.”

I leaned back, trying to connect the dots.

“So either Ryland’s just protecting his turf… or he knows about the treasure too.”

She clicked over to another tab. “And here's the kicker—Grey Pine is connected to a shell LLC that’s donated to a political action committee in D.C. focused on ‘heritage recovery.’ I dug deeper and found Ryland listed on the board of a group called the American Sovereign Trust.”

“Sounds… ominous.”

Kate shrugged. “They present themselves as historians. But there are rumors they’re more like treasure hunters. Or cultural control freaks.”

“And they’re following us.”

She nodded. “I think we spooked them. If we weren’t close to something, Ryland wouldn’t have left a note—he’d have let us walk off a cliff.”

I glanced back down at the paper on the table.

“Some treasure isn’t meant to be found.”

It didn’t read like a warning.

It read like a claim.

---

Later That Night – Eli’s Uncle’s House

I was sitting in Ray’s kitchen, flipping through his journal for the third time that night, when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. One of the pages had a water ring from a coffee mug—but under the ring, faintly visible in pencil, were numbers:

12.4.3

I jotted them down.

Three digits.

I walked out to the barn, pulled the metal box from the crate, and spun the dial.

12… 4… 3.

The lock clicked open.

Inside was a yellowed envelope with a brittle wax seal marked with the same triangle and three dots.

I carefully peeled it open.

Inside were two items.

A small, aged fragment of a military payroll ledger, with several entries crossed out in thick ink.

And a letter.

---

To whoever finds this,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve followed what I couldn’t. I found the trail, but not the truth. I believe the gold exists—but I also believe it was hidden for more than money. There’s something else buried with it.

I saw it once. At night, under the bluff. I don’t know what it was. I stopped digging.

If you continue, be ready for more than maps and riddles. Be ready for the people who want it to stay lost. And the ones who’ll kill for it to be found.

—Ray

Chapter Four: Watched from the Woods

 

Bluffs of Beaver Bend – Late Afternoon

The bluff looked like a sleeping beast—weather-worn limestone rising above the bends of the White River, jagged in places and soft in others, overgrown with brush and stubborn cedar. It was beautiful in the way old bones are beautiful: a silent reminder that everything changes, but not everything fades.

Kate had marked a spot on her topo map, just beyond the bend where a natural ledge overlooked a steep drop. She believed it might have been used as a lookout or signal point. Ray’s journal had made a cryptic reference to “the cliff above the water that sings,” and the wind here did hum strangely when it pushed through the hollows in the stone.

We climbed in silence, the damp chill of October clinging to the air. At the top, she scanned the trees while I checked a flat stone slab. More symbols—worn but present. One looked like a compass. Another was just a series of hatch marks.

We didn’t hear the man until it was almost too late.

A twig snapped, sharp as a gunshot.

Kate froze.

I turned, hand instinctively going to the folding knife in my coat pocket, even though I knew it wouldn’t help much.

He was standing about twenty feet away. Late forties, maybe. Dressed like a hunter, but something was off—no orange, no rifle. Just a sidearm and a too-clean camo jacket that looked like it had never seen mud. His hat was pulled low, face partly shadowed.

“Didn't expect anyone out here,” he said, casual-like.

Kate answered first. “Just hiking. We’re locals.”

“Funny. I’m local too,” the man replied. “Name’s Ryland. You folks looking for the overlook?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Heard it was worth the climb.”

Ryland smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Some say the view can kill you. Slippery edge and all.”

The wind picked up, rustling the branches above.

Then he nodded toward the trail. “Well. Enjoy the day. It’s getting short.”

He turned and disappeared back into the trees.

We waited until we could no longer hear his steps.

Kate whispered, “He was watching us before we saw him.”

“I know.”

We scanned the bluff and took photos of the symbols quickly, then made our way down.

Back at the truck, I noticed something tucked under the wiper blade.

A strip of paper. Folded.

I opened it.

“Some treasure isn’t meant to be found.”

There was no signature.

Just a small triangle drawn in pencil.

And below it, the same three dots we’d seen carved into Jug Rock.

The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Three: The Mark Beneath the Jug

 

Jug Rock – Present Day

We parked on the edge of Albright Lane, just beyond the faded sign welcoming visitors to “The Largest Free-Standing Table Rock Formation East of the Mississippi.” The woods were quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being watched—by squirrels, ghosts, or memories. Hard to say.

Jug Rock stood alone like a stone sentinel, slightly off-kilter, like it had been set there on purpose by something ancient and unseen.

Kate walked slowly around the formation, scanning the base.

“Most people just come here to take pictures and leave,” she said. “They don’t bother to look at the rock’s foundation. But Ray always said the answers were in what people ignored.”

I knelt, brushing away a layer of damp leaves. That’s when I saw it.

A faint symbol, carved low into the sandstone, nearly erased by time.

A triangle with a vertical slash down the middle. Beneath it, three small dots arranged like a pyramid.

Kate’s breath caught. “That’s the mark I’ve seen before… but only in a Civil War-era diary housed at the Shoals Library. It belonged to a man named Silas Vickery, a Confederate courier who supposedly passed through this region during the war.”

I stood and looked at her. “You have a copy?”

She nodded. “Not just a copy. I transcribed the whole thing five years ago. There’s a passage that mentions ‘the stone that stands like a sentinel, marked with the trinity flame.’ This has to be it.”

She opened her satchel and pulled out a printed transcript of Silas’s diary, flipping to a marked page.

---

Journal of Silas Vickery – October 29, 1864

Somewhere near the White River, Indiana

“We passed through the river town they called Hindostan—now a shell. No light in the windows, no prayer from the chapels. The sickness left behind only whispers and bones. From there, we moved west, keeping the wagon covered and the horses quiet.

At the great stone rising like a jug from the earth, I made the mark, as instructed: the trinity flame. Our destination lies four turns past the bluff, down the road of Dover. There we’ll leave it—in the earth, for the cause, or for another future.

Should I fall, let this record guide the loyal hand. What was taken must stay hidden until the light returns.”

---

Kate closed the binder slowly.

“He was talking about the Bluff of Beaver Bend. And ‘the road of Dover’—that’s Dover Hill Road. Your uncle might’ve been following this trail for decades.”

I looked at the mark again, running my fingers across the worn grooves.

“We’ve got one symbol. One landmark. And a journal written by a man who thought the Civil War treasure belonged to the future.”

Kate pulled a piece of chalk from her bag and traced the symbol onto black construction paper.

“One down,” she said. “Three to go.”

But I was still staring at the mark.

Something about it didn’t feel like it was guiding us to gold.

It felt like it was warning us away.