listening

It was James's eightieth birthday.
He could hear the Atlantic pounding to the west, and smell it's breath. He pushed his spade into the black earth. Every few feet he dropped a small potato into the disturbed ground and mounded it carefully. He thought of the miracle of it all. A gang of crows shot overhead, black against the thick clouded sky. Their voices were raucous and jarring.
"Laugh, you bastards," James said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper. He placed the sole of his boot on the edge of the spade's steel and pushed. The spade slipped easily into the black earth and then stopped suddenly.
"A great place for growing stones," he remembered his grandfather saying.
James caught the edge of the stone with tip of his spade and levered it up through the clumps of soil. He first saw the dull brass fitting, then the rotting leather.
"Jaysus," he whispered.
The crows had lighted in the branches of a bare oak and were watching James quietly. He bent over and exhumed a large satchel. He looked around, surveying the fields, and saw no one, save the black witnesses. James dusted off the clods of earth and pulled on the clasp. It broke free easily, the rotting leather giving way with only soft resistance. He recognized the rare bank notes by their size and delicate engravings. He had not seen such bills since he was a young boy.
James's eyes danced on the numerals "100" printed at each corner of the huge notes. He stared at the words "BANC CEANNAIS NA EIREANN," and the portrait of Lady Lavery as he crouched over the open leather satchel.
A strong smell of must reached his nostrils as he closed the lid and began to laugh.
Then he crossed himself silently.
The crows sat motionless.