The Mirror After the Cavern

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “Stay here with the wagon,” Silas needlessly instructed the mule. He stepped forward, lifting his feet high to step over possible unseen stones and debris, until he stopped at the edge of a noticeably rising slope of debris. He was only feet from the exit to the outside world, able to smell the fragrances of plants that lived beyond the cave, as well as feel the relative warmth of the air that flowed in through the bright hole.

  He picked and stumbled and climbed up to the opening. It was wide and not too high. He could possible squirm through it and escape from the cave in that instant, he thought to himself, only to hear Hron release a forlorn cry, as if afraid of being abandoned.

  Silas picked up a small stone and threw it outward through the opening, into the world beyond. He threw another rock as well, then selected a larger one, and strained to press it forward so that it rolled down the slope on the outer side of the blocked exit.

  He began to move and pluck and toss the smaller stones, making the larger stones begin to tumble and settle lower in response to the changing supports and weights, so that after half an hour he could see that he had effectively deepened the opening. It was large enough for him to easily squirm his way out.

  But the fate of his mule companion seemed to have grown in importance, and weighed on him after the long hours spent together in the cavern, so much so that he refused to leave Hron behind. He pulled the long knife out of his belt, the knife that he had commandeered from the dead Moochie, and pressed it beneath a large stone, to use it as leverage that could help him move the heavy object.

  The knife seemed to glide easily, as though it were guiding itself into the optimum area for moving the stone. It clicked as its tip struck the its most advantageous location. When Silas prepared himself and pressed down with great force, praying that he wouldn’t break the metal blade, the stone flew upward and outward easily, erupting away from the pile in the cave entrance, and tumbling to a resting place several yards away, out of the path.

  Silas lifted the knife and looked at it momentarily, surprised by the ease with which it had allowed him to lever the stone off the top of the pile. At least it had proven useful for something besides threatening his own life while in Moochie’s enraged hands, he shrugged to himself, then placed the blade beneath another stone, and found once again that the long knife worked at least as well as a crowbar in moving the debris out of position.

  It seemed to work too well to be real. He decided to test the blade; he squirmed up over the crest of the wall of stones that blocked the exit, then found the largest boulder within reach. He pressed the tip of his blade against the tight crevasse between the stone and the rocks below that it rested on. The blade somehow managed to find an unseen path as it slid deeply into the pile of stones, and when Silas pressed down mightily upon it, the blade began to bend, just before the boulder suddenly trembled, then rose and rolled downward with a thunderous noise.

  Silas stared in amazement. There was no logical explanation for the event that had just happened. Neither the blade nor Silas should have been able to move so large a stone. But the stone was moved, and the opening to the outside was that much larger, letting that much more light filter into the interior of the cave. Energized by the inexplicable success, Silas set to feverishly working at the remaining heap of stones and dirt that remained in the entryway.

  He ignored the weariness in his arms as he pulled stones free, threw stones outside, and levered stones off the pile. When he stopped to rest finally, he found himself drenched in sweat and grime. But he also saw Hron and the wagon clearly, as a wide field of opening allowed a surfeit of light to penetrate the cave. Silas examined the mouth of the cave, then looked speculatively at the wagon and mule.

  The wagon could not yet depart over the rubble that still piled across the cavern mouth. But Hron could certainly pick his way out, and Silas knew the animal wanted to eat and drink badly.

  “Come on my friend, let’s you and I take a break,” Silas spoke aloud as he found his footing and picked spots to walk across the cavern floor to return to the mule. He pulled the animal free from the traces on either side of it, and then walked it forward, leading it by its tether.

  “Step carefully now,” he warned the animal as they began to find footing among the loose stones, and tentatively crossed out of the cavern and into an open gully that descended towards a small river valley. Silas could feel the mule’s excitement as it caught the scent of water. The animal hurried its pace, so that Silas had to trot beside it as it raced towards the river bank, then impatiently looked up and down the bank in a search for the best way to get down to the water.

  “Come over here,” Silas tugged on the lead and showed it a path down to the water’s edge. The mule followed his advice, then stepped into the water and lowered its head to begin greedily lapping up the cool water that flowed by. Silas moved a few steps upstream, then lowered his own head and scooped up handfuls of water to relieve his own parched state. After he’d sated the worst of his thirst, he sat up on his haunches and took a deep breath.

  He was really, truly free of the cave. It shouldn’t have been possible. He shouldn’t have survived. He shouldn’t have survived Moochie’s attack. He shouldn’t have survived the plunge into the cave. He shouldn’t have survived the collapse of the large cavern chamber. But there he was with Hron, in the open air beside a peaceful stream.

  “Thank you Krusima,” he sincerely muttered the brief prayer. The god had not let him die when Silas had been in Krusima’s realm underground.

  Hron had raised his own snout from the water and looked at Silas.

  “You can graze on the grass while I go move the rest of the stones so we can get the wagon out,” Silas needlessly explained his plan to the mule. Yet he sensed that the animal seemed to understand him. The two of them seemed to have bonded through the course of the underground journey – or perhaps it was simply Silas’s imagination that they were more sympathetic to one another.

  In any event, he rose and returned to the mouth of the cavern. He cast an appraising eye on the gully outside the cave, judging for the first time whether there was really even any possibility that the wagon could travel out of the cave.

  There was just enough flat and open space to allow the two sets of wheels to roll along, at least for as far as Silas’s eyes could see, he decided. Which meant that he was going to roll and push and sling more rocks for the next couple of hours in order to clear the way, and to bring his cargo of mirrors along with him. He wasn’t sure to what purpose – he had no idea where to take them, or how to sell them, and Prima’s caravan was long gone in some direction that Silas couldn’t imagine, miles away from his isolated spot.

  But he had started with the mirrors, and he decided he would continue with the mirrors, until the road ran out.

  He pitched and moved the stones, growing so tired he decided to just clear two ruts through the last of the rubble on the floor along which the wheels could pass upon a relatively smooth surface. Hron might have to pick his way, but the mule had little to complain about, Silas decided, after he had been allowed to rest and freely graze during the hours that Silas had worked.

  The sun was setting, he realized as he looked out for Hron. And he was hungry. He was very hungry. The mule had grazed, but Silas had lost sight of his own hunger in the excitement over reaching freedom from the cave. He wanted to eat, and he didn’t want to try to drive the wagon in the dark, after sunset. He would go out and hunt for food, he decided. The wagon could spend the evening in the cave, where he and Hron would be sheltered from the elements overnight, and then the hardy survivors of the cave ordeal could have a full day to travel on their first day back above ground.

  He rummaged through the wagon, looking for tools that he might be able to use to fashion a snare or trap. In his days as a youth in Brigamme, he’d not only been a well-trained tracker, but a fair hand at hunting and trapping too. He was hopeful that he’d be able to find something to roast in the short hours left before twilight.


  That meant he was going to have to gather firewood and start a fire as well, he realized. A fire would be nice for a number of reasons, but he didn’t have time to add collecting wood to his list of essential duties.

  “Hron, come back to the wagon!” he called as he walked out to the mouth of the cave, empty-handed without any implements from the wagon to help him hunt. He hadn’t found anything that seemed useful. He stepped out further from the opening, and heard the sound of the mule’s hooves traipsing upon stones, as it dutifully climbed up from the riverside pasture.

  “I want you to stay here with the wagon now,” Silas instructed the animal, as he tied its lead to the wagon’s traces. “I’ll be back soon enough,” he promised. The animal seemed to radiate a sense of tranquility, after drinking and browsing for hours contentedly.

  Silas left the cave and walked forward, then down towards the water once again. He debated whether to look for fish he might catch barehanded, but dismissed the idea as unlikely, and instead walked along the riverbank, looking for fruit-bearing bushes or trees as something – anything – that would begin to fill the gaping hole in his belly. He found several partially ripe water apples, and stuffed them in his pockets, before he tramped uphill to begin hunting for game.

  When sunset began in earnest, Silas still had not caught anything to eat besides the fruit in his pocket. Despite the descending darkness, he spotted a large pheasant sitting in a tree, and judged whether there was any way he could catch the bird. He slowly crept along the ground, but when he was still fifteen yards away from the tree, the bird squawked and flapped its wings as it took off from the branch. Frustrated, Silas threw his knife at the bird.

  To his astonishment, the knife struck the moving bird squarely, and knocked it to the ground, providing him with protein. He’d never had such success throwing a knife before, and he belatedly realized that he could have just as easily lost the knife if he’d missed the bird and sent the weapon flying through the air into the forest beyond.

  He’d been lucky in more ways than one.

  Once he carried the bird back to the mouth of the cave, he hastily gathered a pile of sticks and small logs inside the cave entrance, then began to strike a flint against the metal knife blade. Once again, the knife produced unexpectedly positive results, as a pair of large sparks leapt away and immediately caught fire in the pile of kindling he set up among the rocks, where there was little worry about the fire spreading.

  From that happy beginning, he fed the flames, skinned and roasted his bird, then sat contentedly in the flame-lit cave until he fell asleep, happy to be on the verge of the next step in his adventure.

  Chapter 15

  When Silas awoke in the morning, the world outside the cavern was gray, as rain-laden clouds rolled across the portion of the sky that was visible from the bottom of the river valley he was in.

  “Let’s get ready for this,” he said stoutly to Hron as he took the mule out to graze upon fodder before the day’s labor began. He let the animal stroll and find mouthfuls of food while Silas went to the river’s edge and disrobed. He wanted to cleanse the layer of cave dust and grit off his skin. Even though it looked likely that he would be showered clean by a morning rainfall, he preferred to make sure he was rinsed in the river’s flowing water.

  As he stood in a pool of water that reached his waist, he noticed that the scratch across his chest had healed strangely. It had transformed into a streak on his flesh, a side-by-side streak of yellow and purple that traced the length of the shallow cut he had received from Moochie’s knife during the wagon’s plunge into the cavern. He splashed water on the scratch and rubbed at it vigorously, but it remained stubbornly in place, a noticeable line that was embedded in his flesh.

  Silas sighed. He was disfigured now, another event in the string of horrors that were being inflicted upon him. The colorful scar wasn’t a terrible mark; it was the least of his worries – he’d be able to keep it easily hidden beneath any shirt he wore, he comforted himself as he began to get dressed again.

  Soon afterwards, he led his mule and wagon out of the cave and on their way back into the world. He didn’t know towards what end, but he was at least in motion.

  An hour afterwards, misting rain began to fall. The trail he was traveling on had remained unobstructed and wide enough for the wagon to continue to roll along, and its surface was merely weeds and pebbles. When the mist turned to light rain, then heavy rain, the road remained passable – covered with puddles, but not turning into a muddy bog that would slow or capture the wheels of the wagon.

  Silas and Hron stoically accepted the drenching shower. Silas was walking rather than riding; with the rainfall, his posture became one hand holding the leather lead to the mule while the other hand typically sheltered his eyes from the rain as best he was able.

  They ended their first day of travel early, when they entered a grove of thick evergreens that Silas thought provided a hint of shelter from the still steady rain. Silas stuck stones as chocks beneath the wheels of the wagon, then unhitched his mule and took the animal to a patch of grass where the beast ate contentedly while Silas contemplated what he could do to find a meal for himself. A quick walk took him down to the riverside, where the water level of the river was rising from all the fresh runoff entering the stream, and the water color was turning cloudy from the dirt and debris being washed into the current. There was no hope of seeing or catching a fish or finding fresh mussels in any way, but he did find a patch of wild celery that provided a portion of unsatisfactory food.

  He dreamed that night that the gods were watching him. Figures far above stared down and commented to one another about his actions, and even meddled in his life, he observed.

  The small contingent of survivors from the cave catastrophe walked through the next morning, no longer plagued by rain, as tattered clouds drifted overhead from west to east, crossing the valley while Silas found that he was remarkably able to travel with a wagon in the midst of the uninhabited wilderness of the mountains.

  At noon he spotted a flash of sunlight that reflected off some shiny object higher along the mountain slope, and he wondered briefly what it was. Hron’s bray at that moment distracted him from the flash, as the mule sounded nervous, and Silas sensed its apprehension. There was a creature stalking the wagon, particularly the mule; Silas seemed to be sympathetically attuned to the emotions of his beast, and could tell that it believed there was a predator nearby.

  Silas turned his head, his senses attuned to the stalking craft he had learned in Brigamme, watching the jostle of leaves on the trees and the bend of the branches. The birds had ceased their cries nearby, a sign of something happening, and though he couldn’t tell where the predator was, he knew it was in the vicinity; the mule’s worries were justified.

  Silas rose, and placed his arm backwards to hold onto the back of the sitting bench, while his other hand slid along his hip, grasping for the handle of his knife. He wanted to have the blade ready to use in the event of any attack, though he knew he wasn’t particularly proficient in the use of the weapon. Training as a tracker hadn’t involved a lot of preparation with weapons – the trackers of Brigamme usually simply had to find their person, and identify themselves as a Brigamme specialist. It was enough to tell the quarry that they couldn’t escape.

  Bu whatever was in the trees and bushes along the side of the trail, whatever combination of claws and teeth and sinew, it was not likely to be intimidated by the name of Brigamme, and so Silas needed to be ready.

  And then, as his mind was woolgathering, recollecting the training and tracking from Brigamme, his hand suddenly latched onto the handle of the long-bladed knife with a sudden grasp, one that was sure and strong; it involved his fingers, his palm, his wrist, acting with effortless speed. Silas felt his arm lift the blade and then his body twisted around while he was only beginning to grasp that he was in motion. His arm rose, his back arched, and then the blade that he held high overhead came slashing down.


  There was a high-pitched scream of pain and fear, followed by a thud. Silas found that his arm hung limply by his side. And a dead creature, perhaps a wild dog, perhaps a jackal, lay on the bench of the wagon, blood streaming down from the slashing stab wound that Silas’s blade had inflicted on the creature. It was a large beast, perhaps nearly as heavy as Silas himself, with a mouthful of large yellow fangs that were intimidating to see.

  Hron brayed loudly.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay,” Silas repeated. “The hunter is dead. You’re safe. Relax, there’s nothing to fear,” he told his companion, and he jumped down from wagon, then strode forward to comfort the trembling mule. The animal was no longer moving, nor was the wagon, and Silas realized he was trembling. Hron stood trembling too, between the wooden traces. Silas calmed and stroked the animal while talking gently, until it calmed down. He then dragged the bloody body off the wagon and threw it in the ditch by the side of the trail. Afterwards, he took the lead and pulled it forward with him as he walked, restarting the mule’s motion, so that they once again began to move forward.

  Silas walked silently, thinking about the encounter. He felt shaken and confused. He was frightened by the attack itself, the large jackal that could have easily killed either him or Hron. It was larger than anything of its kind he had seen in his own region of the mountains. He was also troubled by the way he had fought the animal. He hadn’t done the fighting. His hand had been manipulated to take action when Silas hadn’t even been aware that the attack was about to begin. After the fact, he felt like a puppet, as he’d used his knife with stunning efficiency to fiercely fend off the jackal’s attack and leave the brute bloody and dead.

  Silas’s eyes hadn’t even fallen on the creature until it had already been killed. By his own hand. He was disturbed by the way he had been mysteriously manipulated – nothing similar had ever happened before.

  And he was confused as well by his sudden, intimate empathy with the mule, Hron. As the pair had strolled through the wilderness, Silas had found that he could rely more and more on the animal’s senses almost as much as his own. He could intuitively decipher the sounds and movements of Hron and understand what the animal was experiencing.