He could not sleep. Rising, he dressed quickly. The moon was full as he left the building. Something called to him. He couldn’t resist the impulse. The frosty ground crunched underfoot. He stopped to grab a quick coffee at Mr. D’s. A police cruiser went slowly past as he walked. They were used to the sight of him by now.
If the crazy old professor wanted to walk on a cold spring night, so be it. The road led out of town, becoming a two-lane highway that led to Aronka. Over the land to his right the moonlight shone down on the black tree-tops of the forest. It was a time he loved, to be alone on the open road.
The silence was not oppressive. He knew not where, or why, but he was going somewhere. A bridge loomed up ahead in the gloom. He paused, thinking about the shimmering creek that fell over the rocks down there. The nascent sun, about to be reborn, kissed the trees with a pale light.
Impulsively, he swung a leg over the steel barrier and made his way down the grassy slope. There was a limpid light here too, the lightness of snow still sheltered from the warm breezes of early spring.
He found a dry ledge, a cluster of boulders where he could rest. The air had an invigorating chill. It felt like he could stay out all night. Why not? It was Easter; and all the students were gone. He was pretty much alone on campus. No one to answer to. A kind of freedom beckoned.
A risen sun found him walking along the placid, crystalline river. A thin sheet of ice obscured, yet also highlighted deep pools. The shallows revealed colourful gravel bars. Underfoot were multi-hued stones, on all sides; icy bushes encrusted in snow. A little hummock of snow sat like a cap on every stone, the warmer gravel in between them wet and soft.
The river widened out into shallow rapids, ran up against the hillside, and then turned hard to the right.
He noticed something odd.
It was almost like a horizontal slot in the bluff.
He stooped and squinted, peering into the shadows amongst the brush.
The professor was fascinated by the discovery. A lot of the river went past, but a small amount must be diverted into the ground here. Treading lightly on the wet stones, the rapids splashed and splished behind him.
Stooping low, he saw grasses, frozen stiff, and more hole. A huge willow tree had fallen, collapsing the bank, and partially damming the river. With the much-reduced snowfalls of recent years, the trunk hadn’t been flushed out by the spring flood. He couldn’t see the back, but he could distinctly hear water in there.
It was definitely a tunnel.
Breathing heavily from unaccustomed exertions, his knees felt the cold bite of the snow as he scraped his way under the lip of the overhang. Despite the rising sun, it was dark, cold and gloomy in the cave. He could sit upright, barely. Did this arm of the creek cut right under the finger of hill that separated parts of the ever-turning river? Sometimes the river switched back on itself, creating an ‘ox-bow,’ before straightening out and then heading on again.
The professor taught journalism to an ever-diminishing pool of students. Bigger schools in larger centers attracted more paying students. With his retirement, the program was finished. He put the resulting ache in his heart away, and focused on the pleasures of the moment.
Directly in front of him chuckled the brook, about two metres across, and thirty millimetres deep. There was a bank of blue ice, and a couple of logs jammed in there. Tracks of tiny feet could be seen, perhaps raccoons, or squirrels, who knows what?
Birds chirped in the trees outside. A shaft of raw sunlight broke into the cave, giving more illumination to the rear. The roof rose up within a few metres. He slithered in, over rocks, lichens, sticks and leaves. Pulling out his tiny pocket flash, he stood.
“Incredible!” he breathed in morbid fascination.
The creek plunged further into the depths of the earth. He followed it, using his light, stepping with care. The occasional wide place offered solace. He saw driftwood, realizing he could build a fire for warmth. He went on further. Looking up, the walls rose on either side, in a gorge that arced over and almost met at the top. It wasn’t really a cave at all; more of a cleft; although it was roofed with stone in places. A rock slide a thousand years ago must have blocked this arm of the watercourse. More recent erosion had carved a new notch. The whole river might eventually divert through this channel again. The creek narrowed, and he stood on a flat rock to keep his feet dry. What about a spring flood? Then he relented, having spent too many hours with the Weather Station TV to miss much.
Dry weather was expected all week.
There was magic in the air, in this place.
When he got home, he would pay in all kinds of little arthritic aches and pains. Maybe even a cold. But it was worth it. It was a fantasy, reliving a forgotten part of his youth in this subterranean world.
It was his alone.
“There. I’ll have a fire there,” he told himself.
Up ahead, a vision. Sunlight streamed into the cavern, and it danced on the rapids of the stream. Keeping his eyes alert, he gathered driftwood as he approached the golden beams of light. Craning his neck, he couldn’t see much in the way of detail from up above.
The brightness was too much and it blinded him. He found a bleached old log to sit on, and placed a flat slab of stone to act as a reflector, feeling quite proud of his Boy Scout skills. With a pocketknife more usually used to open the mail, he made some shavings to begin with.
The tinder started right into flame with one match, and never looked back.
Wouldn’t it be nice; to return with a tea pot, something to boil water in. Tea bags, sugar…a tin of condensed milk. A spoon, a cup. It would be a relief sometimes.
The aural part was a beauty all of its own. The distant call of birds up above, water flowing over the stones. A light breeze cleared the smoke but made the fire crackle. They were peaceful sounds. A wisp of smoke caught him in the eye. He enjoyed the aroma of the fire, and stayed where he was. Soon enough, the breeze changed and the smoke cleared. He took off his damp shoes, putting them to dry beside the fire. While the heat was nice, the day was almost warm as well. It was a promise of good things to come. He realized with a little sadness that this would probably dry up in summer. In fact the creek would run ten or twenty metres farther down the bank. It would just be a trickle.
Comparatively speaking, it was quiet in here, compared to the roar of the actual river.
In his socks, he went three or four metres and picked up another handful of driftwood. Now came the tiredness of one who has been up all night. Geoff took off his glasses and bent down to drink from cupped hands.
The water was sweet, cold and clear.
“This is the life,” he said in reverie, and that was when he noticed some footprints nearby.
His own shoes were a little drier now, he thought, as he idly pondered the prints.
Seems a bit far for walking distance, but a local farmer?
Wonder if someone has a still in here, he grinned.
Kids might know of this place, and their parents never even dreamed of its existence.
Kids on bikes, he thought. He slipped on his shoes. Rising, he gathered his coat tightly around his neck. Head sunk deep in his collar, he prepared to venture forth. Put out the fire with a stick, and stir it up.
Follow the tracks. Just like that.
The decision, once made, was not easily undone.
From time to time he tried to find the sky, so reassuring.
He stood there very quiet and listening, feeling like someone in a James Fenimore Cooper novel. Leatherstocking, that Fatty Bumpo character or someone. Natty. That’s it.
A glimpse of the heavens, stark and silent above.
Deeper into the hillside, he could hear wind in the treetops, or perhaps it was an odd echo of the water. Seeing another footprint, he sto
pped to examine it. It was an original of the first, of that he was almost positive. It was a small foot, but clearly no child.
Something about the distance between the prints, the depth of the heel, bespoke a deeper purpose, a firmer resolve than his own.
This person knew where they were going.
More than mere childhood adventures, he kidded himself. When he came to it, he stood stock-still. He gazed at it in cold, clinical consideration, guts tense; but mind calm.
Now this was really amazing! This was clearly a real cave.
It was like a giant set of stairs. The wet footprints went down into the black depths.
Sculpted by water, sand and gravel, he saw flat terraces with water in the middle, but it looked like better going on each side. The water going over the limestone lip was about two centimetres deep. He pulled out his little pocket flash, and turned it on to check the batteries. This part of the world was known for caves, he remembered.
He had never felt any real curiousity before. So this was what he was missing.
The light looked okay. He decided to go on a little further, although each drop of a metre or more increased his unease. It was fairly easy going. The river was a constant roar, echoing around and around inside the cave and inside of his head.
After one last look at the blackening hole above, he went on for another couple of drops. The cave still descended, but the roof arched upwards. Shouldn’t he see some stalagmites? Sure enough, as he pointed the light around, he did find some. This was worth the effort! He had little fear of drowning, and few thoughts of the lonely little apartment he called home. Looking around, the chill had dissipated from his exertions. He examined a pool where moss, algae and stuff grew. He shone the light into the pool’s recesses, curious as to what he might see. Small creatures wriggled in the water.
His ears were getting used to the sounds of water. He could hear his footsteps now.
It seemed drier, underfoot. A slight breeze could be felt on his cheeks. It came from up ahead. He was surprisingly confident when he knew that.
On the side of the hall, was a bank of clay such as a child might use for modeling, and it looked like it was being worked at by human hands. Handfuls had been taken out for some unknown purpose. Sticks were being used to dig it out. With a finger he prodded at the edge of a bare footprint, strange enough in itself. It was embedded in damp clay, still soft and wet.
Obviously quite recent.
He rose and went on.
He went d own another step, this one a drop of a metre and a half. If he were to fall and break a leg; he would have big problems. Certainly no one would ever hear him.
The next one went down, a big slab at an angle of about seventy degrees, almost two full metres. He was pretty sure he could make it up again. Down he went.
He played the beam of light around and then kept going.
Why did this adventure not seem irrational? What the heck was he doing in here? Was his life that boring? He also wondered if the light had gone progressively dimmer over the last hour, and his eyes merely gotten used to it? He probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. It seemed okay. He tried one more big step, one more drop down the slope, and that’s when it happened. He slipped, falling heavily, and felt the shock of pain as his spine hit solid bedrock.
In shock, he tumbled over the lip and kept going, end over end. Too quick to comprehend, he hit the bottom of a steep slope, still clutching the light. It took a moment to catch his breath and figure out what happened.
He was grateful to be alive, at that point.
“All right, all right. I can take a hint,” he said, gingerly examining himself to see if he was badly hurt, or was it just pain?
The light was pointing at a peculiar group of marks on the sheer face of the nearest wall. His sharp intake of breath shocked his senses with a massive wave of pain.
The sudden movement did it.
He took his time next attempt. In front of him was a bizarre, brightly-painted petro-glyph. A couple of gentle, deep breaths and he was able to sit up. Shins, roughed up arm, twisted knee; and elbow banged up. Left hip almost immobile.
His back didn’t feel too well, neither did his left ankle.
With his back to the wall, he studied the painting, as he ever so carefully sought out his pipe and filled it. He puffed away in quiet contemplation. If truth be known, he’d played rugby in worse shape. He should be able to climb back out. He was very calm.
Geoff Pakenham turned off the light to save the batteries, and enjoyed the pain and the silence for a while.
“Now, this is really living,” he chided himself.
He heard a noise. It was a new noise.
A different noise.
A mini avalanche, just a tiny handful of disturbed gravel.
“Who’s there?” he called into the blackness.
He flipped the switch again. Pointing the light, he searched around the chamber. Nothing. The noise came from over there…nothing. Could have been an animal, he reasoned.
“Anyone there?” he shouted.
No answer, no noise again.
The professor decided it was time to get the hell out of there and go home. Enough for one day. Going back up the slope, all hefty chunks of rock, wasn’t so bad. He leaned forward and scuttled crab-wise, with much of his weight supported one-handedly. It was hard to hold the light and climb at the same time. He stopped and surveyed an opening, a little to the left. Working over to it, he was grateful that he hadn’t fallen too far. There was another of the ubiquitous footprints in a clump of silt held in a crevice.
He had completely lost interest in them. The trail led up the stairs now. He clambered up the first ledge, and then another. It was oddly-angled and tilted in a way he didn’t remember from the way in. Louder now; with water noises in the background again, reassuring in their familiarity.
The faithful flashlight held out. His back, especially the pelvis and hip; ached savagely with a sting that foretold gashes and scrapes. The light held just a hint of yellow in its circular orb. He kept crawling again, up another step, and then came a shock. A blank wall. With the light, he could barely see another of the blasted paintings. Damn! Only one way now; or rather two: a tiny hole, barely big enough to squeeze into, yet pointed invitingly upwards, or back down the way he came.
“Crikey!” he said uncertainly.
He wedged himself into the tube and kept clambering upwards.
There was light! He climbed up and out of the hole. He stood on a wide, mossy ledge looking out over a pond or lake in a grotto. Huge trees ringed it, blocking out the sky like sentinels around the edge of the cliffs, the branches stark and white in their serene reflections.
“Awesome…simply awesome.”
He stood tall, breathing deeply in sheer delight.
“Who…you?” came a rasping, guttural voice.
One of the green, slimy boulders at the water’s edge was speaking to him!
“Oh, my God!” blurted Geoff Pakenham.
The boulder came to life. As it swished the water, he saw two arms, curiously naked-looking. They were covered in fine spots, smaller than the large mottles on the back and sides.
The professor stood riveted.
“Um, um, just going for a walk,” he told the fish-man, as a strangely-intelligent eye regarded him, from one side of the massive, rock-like head, with its obscene tongue moving and quivering.
Then the head turned and the other hideous eye rolled around to look him over.
“Tou…tour-ist?” the grotesque thing asked, easing up directly in front of him.
It was less than three metres away, he noticed in stunned shock.
Oh my God! Was it some kind of freak? Industrial pollution, genetic drift, or rando
m mutation?
What?
“Yes! I’m a tourist,” he said to the horrid-smelling creature, stark and evil with its wet, glossy, olive-dark skin.
“We get a few of those,” it said.
Its head was turned to regard him with a single, huge, spherical, and baleful eye. A black and shiny eye, with no human emotion anyone could recognize. It straightened up and the professor stared in shock it moved.
Just then the horrid gaping mouth opened up, the lower jaw going right down into the silt-laden water at the rim of the ledge he stood upon. His heart began to beat a little faster. The curiously elongated, bilious yellow tongue shot forth at lightning speed, and slapped, hot, wet and heavy right into the middle of his solar plexus. It stuck there.
“Wha..!” he began.
Then the professor felt his backbone shatter in several places, even as his face and forehead slammed into the great bony upper lip of the monster. He heard a noise like the crackling of twigs in a fire…he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t even see; beyond that last impression of hard ridges inside.
Just like the insides of his cat’s mouth….his cat…
Who would feed her?
Then he tried to scream as hot, acid juices were forced under great pressure into his eyes, his nose, and his throat. Up his very asshole…he tried to scream, as powerful muscles contracted.
But it was already too late.
Chapter Seven
More juicy tidbits from the evening paper…