Anastrophe (an-as’-tro-phee): Departure from normal word order for the sake of emphasis. Anastrophe is most often a synonym for hyperbaton, but is occasionally referred to as a more specific instance of hyperbaton: the changing of the position of only a single word.

We was a hole digging. Digging to time’s end. Digging down far. Digging. Digging. Digging. Digging ground-hog like. Digging fast. Digging slow. Tossing dirt. Tossing stones. Digging with hope. Digging like maniacs. Digging for what was below.

We are a club—a tightly knit group of detectorists. We look for treasure left behind by Vikings, or Romans, or robbers. We formed five years ago. Our clubhouse is a pub outside of Oxford called “The Perching Titmouse.” Some of us are retirees using our leisure time. The younger working members come out on Saturdays and Sundays, sometimes leaving crying babies behind. Our divorce rate is high. We call ourselves “The Merry Runes” after the mysterious symbol-inscribed, possibly magical, Viking stones.

To date, we have found nothing ancient or very valuable with our metal detectors. The most amazing thing we found was a 1948 Sunbeam-Talbot 90 buried on a derelict cricket pitch. The car had turned to rust flakes and was worthless, but exciting to unearth. We were able to identify it by the serial number inscribed on the engine block. It had disappeared in 1949 along with its owner Reginald Burke. “Reggie” was a stickup man who specialized in fishmongers and “Necktie men”—men who sold neckties on street corners—mostly veterans injured in the war. We considered digging near the Sunbeam, looking for Reggie, but decided not to. We decided to let sleeping thieves lie—the paperwork for the Sunbeam was bad enough, but for a human, we’d probably be filling out paperwork for the rest of our lives.

So anyway, now we’re digging for gold! We seem to have detected a horde about six feet down, about 1/4 of a mile from the Sunbeam. We decided if we found Reggie, we’d leave him there and go home. But it seemed he left some treasure behind before he disappeared.

We were taking turns digging—silently, brimming with anticipation. My shovel hit metal with a dull thunk! My hands were shaking as I cleared the dirt from what I had struck with my shovel. “It’s a gold bar!” I yelled. I raised it over my head dancing around in the hole. My fellow club members were whooping and jumping around.

All of a sudden somebody yelled “Hold on chaps! That belongs to me, I am Reginald’s grandson.” He was holding a gun. “My grandfather stole that gold bar fair and square and then he disappeared. When you found his car, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you found the gold bar. Hand it over!” I handed it over, right on top of his head. When he went down, his gun went off and barely missed my foot, but he was flat on the ground. We threw him in the hole along with his gun, covered him with dirt and took off for “The Perching Titmouse” to celebrate our find with a couple of rounds of lagers, and to figure out how to make the gold into cash without drawing any attention.

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