Gunther's Cavern

by Edward Etzkorn

  Spinning.

  His side hurt.

  His head hurt.

  He shook his head to clear it, but still it kept reeling.

  Whatever had happened, he was still alive.

  “Gunther!” In an instant June knelt by his side—poking, prodding, pinching.

  “Ow!!!”

  “Gunther, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he heard his voice rattle off. “Fine.”

  “What happened?”

  The crucial question: What had happened?

  He concentrated on his hands. Yes, fingers wiggled.

  Feet. Yes, toes wiggled, feet moved.

  Mid-section. Holy doozemabob …

  His back hurt.

  “I don’t know.”

  He moved his hands, tried to turn himself over so he could stand. Rocks bit through his clothes and into his skin. Jabs of lightning shot from his lower back down his legs and into his belly. But all the parts moved.

  He shifted his weight again, and this time felt the weight of the rope on his chest. Both ropes. For reasons he did not yet know, the ropes had given way. He ran his fingers over the rough surface until he found his double fisherman’s knot—intact. And the runner. The runner! The runner that he’d fastened to the rock. Somehow, it had slipped off.

  Their lifeline to the surface had been severed.

  No way! No way! He’d fastened the runner as securely as any runner could be fastened. He ran his fingers around it—once, twice. No tears—it was as intact as the ropes and the fisherman’s knot. It could not have slipped. Unless … Unless his rock had shifted, and tilted the runner so that it slid off.

  The light from June’s headlamp was shining on him. “Gunther?”

  Ignoring the pain in his lower back, he forced himself to sit up. “I’m okay, June. We’ll just climb back up.”

  “Gunther …” Her voice was laced with fright. “Gunth, what happened? The rope!”

  “It’s okay, June. I’ll just climb back up and fasten it.” A bolt of pain shot through his lower spine—way down low, between the buttocks and down into his groin. But still he managed to pull himself up and stand. The bolt of pain disappeared as fast as it had come. He took a step. Two steps.

  “The rock must have moved. The runner slipped off.”

  She was looking up at him now. “How could that … How are we going to get back up?”

  “I’ll climb a few steps at a time and reattach the rope. We have an aider.”

  “You can’t use the aider unless you have a place to attach it.”

  “I’ll find spots on the cliff face. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

  Her headlamp splashed light in his face, then moved away. “Oh, Gunther. I knew we should have told somebody. We’re stuck. We can’t get out.”

  “Don’t say that. We’ll get out just fine.” Sliding his pack off his shoulders, he opened it and fished around inside until he found his aider, a ten-ounce ball of nylon webbing that opened into a six-foot-long ladder, with loops for climbing. He still had to climb the cliff face, but he could do it one step at a time. He simply needed to find a rock or other secure element above his head to which he could fasten his climbing rope and tie in the aider. With the aider in place, he could climb its loops to where he’d tied the rope, untie the rope and retie it to another rock higher up. Again he could tie in the aider and climb it, and once again refasten the rope. He could continue climbing in the same fashion until he reached the stone slide. From there, he could walk the rest of the way to the surface. Once on the surface, he could tie the rope to the rock again—or, better, around a nearby tree—and he and June would once again have their lifeline. They could eat lunch in Grandma Cowley’s porch, explore a little deeper into the cave as they’d planned, and still get home before their mother returned from work.

  “Turn off the light, June. We better save the batteries.”

  “Why? You say we can get back up with no problem.”

  “Just in case.”

  At once they stood in darkness, with but a glimmer of light from above.

  June gasped. Gunther could hear her breathing—pulses of life stirring the otherwise static air of the cavern.

  Ancient waves of claustrophobia flooded his brain. He and June had become cave people, forced to hide within the earth to escape the jaws of the giant cat.

  A vision of his mother appeared, conducting one of her lessons on dealing with the unknown. She was reciting some kind of incantation while she drew a veil across the middle of his bedroom, as a much younger he and June smirked on the far side. Following her commands—which at the time had seemed absurd—he closed his eyes and concentrated on the darkness. Then opened them, looked at June, focused on the veil, then shut his eyes again.

  Two deep breaths, his mother told him in the vision, and he obeyed.

  It’s okay, her voice in his brain said. Two more breaths, if you need them. Focus on the veil.

  Opening his eyes, he looked for the veil, half expecting to see it. But in the darkness he could see nothing. Then two eyes flashed at him. June’s. Two miniature moons in the darkness.

  Despite the situation, she laughed. “You looked for the veil, too—didn’t you?”

  “I did. Maybe having a weird mother isn’t such a bad thing after all.” Indeed, he felt more relaxed, and his brain seemed clearer. He could almost ignore the sudden wrenching of his back as he squatted down.

  June’s voice was full of concern. “Gunth?”

  “Just my back.” He twisted, and the pain went away. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  He ran his hands over the ground until he found his headlamp, positioned it on his head and turned it on. He began at once to scan the cliff face for a protruding rock to which he could tie his rope.

  The cliff face did not look friendly. Wherever he looked, it angled upward at a ninety degree or greater angle. He could not find a spur for anchoring the rope. The few protruding rocks were small and loose, and grabbing any of them might trigger a rock fall that would bury him and June beneath a city of stones and mud.

  Still, he had to try.

  Draping the aider over his shoulder, he selected an area where the rocks appeared larger and better cemented into the mud. He reached for the first rock—and slipped. The rock was too slick for his gloved hand to hold. Once more he scanned the cliff face, and found all the rocks to be the same. Not one was dry enough or coarse enough for him to hold.

  Trying to ignore the deep, sinking feeling within him, he dug a channel in the mud above a protruding rock and managed to fasten the rope in the channel.

  “Yesss!” he heard June’s voice.

  Bolstered by her support, he tied in the aider and climbed it to its top loop, found another rock in the overhang above, and dug another channel. After fastening the rope to it, he removed the aider below his feet and tied it in. Once again he started to climb, only to feel the rope and the aider slide off their anchor. In an instant he was back on the cave floor, the rope on top of him. Although he landed on his feet, the dagger of pain in his lower back made his leg give out and throw him on the floor.

  The pain passed as quickly as it had come, and he stood again. With his headlamp pointed upward, once more he surveyed the base of the cliff, as well as the bases of the walls beside it. Again and again he shined the light upward, but saw not a single large stone or rock that might accommodate a rope. Tears formed in his eyes, and he feared to blink. He shined the light out into the room that resembled a war zone. Then up at the ceiling, so high above. Anywhere but in June’s direction. He could not face the fear and condemnation he would see in her face.

  Unexpectedly, her voice murmured behind him, soothing and gentle. “It’s okay, Gunth.”

  He blinked, setting off miniature torrents of tears. He turned his light toward her, aiming for her mid-section so as not to destroy her night vision. He could see enough of her face to see the fear he had expected, bu
t—thank God—not the condemnation he felt he deserved.

  He sniffed back the tears. He did not speak until he was sure his voice would not sound like that of a baby about to cry. “I’m sorry, June.”

  “It’s not your fault, Gunth. Things happen.”

  For an instant they stared at each other, then he opened his arms and drew her in. Her arms wrapped around him like clinging vines.

  Reluctantly, they let go.

  “It may not be that bad,” she said. “Remember, the cave’s breathing. There’s another way out. And the silver paper …”

  A surge of hope, surprisingly powerful, electrified his body. Yes, the shiny silver thing that looked like a candy wrapper. Someone had entered Grandma Cowley’s porch before—and had entered from a different direction. “You’re right, June. There is another way out.”

  “Then we’d better find it.”

  “Let’s do it.” He spat on his thumb. “Farts be with you, Sis.”

  She, too, found her thumb. “Farts be with you, Bro.”

  Despite the darkness, their gloved thumbs found each other.

  “Ugh!!!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Now that the decision had been made, they moved fast. Gunther untied the fisherman’s knot that bound the ropes together. Each of them coiled a rope and tied it to their packs. They rearranged the items in their packs to reduce any unnecessary bulk. Gunther took particular notice of the extra batteries and lightbulbs he’d brought—enough, perhaps, for three or four days of caving. Food, too, would be at a premium. Better to keep the former information secret from June. She’d find out about the food soon enough.

  Using only his headlamp, they made their way to the Cellar Window. With his pack, he brushed the cobwebs away, then threw the pack in ahead of him. When no splash of dust accompanied its landing, he knew they’d reached the heart of the cave, where the humidity would approach 100 percent. No more dust would accompany their progress. Just wet, sticky grime.

  Without his pack, he squeezed through the window with ease. Crawling on all fours, stopping every ten or fifteen seconds to be sure June could see well enough to follow, he headed straight for the candy wrapper.

  It did not disappoint him.

  With June crouched beside him, he shone his headlamp on it.

  Picked it up, fingered it. Handed it to her so she could do the same.

  A shiny leaf of silver, a rectangle perhaps 8 1/2 by 5 centimeters—5 x 3 inches—lay in her palm. Eight letters, embossed by a machine somewhere far away, slanted over and over across the paper. “WRIGLEY’S,” they read. The silver leaf had come from a pack of chewing gum.

  Like a slot machine in an Atlantic City casino, his mind spun through the implications. The conclusion was inescapable—and gave him a great sense of relief. The cave definitely had another entrance. One of the previous visitors had made it this far, and evidently turned back. And he or she had chewed gum—or carried a “Wrigley’s” leaf around like a lucky rabbits-foot.

  June took a deep breath and sighed happily. “Comma so jole-yee ban lo ronk.” We’ll be able to make it to the other way out.

  He slipped the gum wrapper into his pocket—it was now his own lucky charm. “Comma dolly ronk.” We’re going to be okay.

  “I think the next passage is ahead and to the right,” she said. “I thought I saw a dark oval area there.”

  Directing his headlamp to the far right side of the porch, he nodded. “I think so, too. Looks like we’ll have to squeeze through—the ceiling looks nasty.”

  Moving more slowly, they half-walked, half-crawled to the dark oval. Together they leaned through into the darkness beyond, transfixed at the view that opened up before them. The oval—which proved to be wider than they’d expected—led down a short cliff into a chasm below. From somewhere off to the left, water dripped into the chasm, where white and green stalactites guided the way into what appeared to be the heart of the cave.

  “Whoever left the chewing-gum wrapper must have been a good climber,” June said.

  “You’re right, Sis. Better use a rope here.”

  Uncoiling his rope, he looped the end around a wide-based stalagmite near the oval window. Within fifteen minutes, the two of them stood in the next portion of the cave, and Gunther retrieved the rope. No need to keep it anchored here—they would not be returning this way.

  The chasm that lay before them was beyond beautiful. No footprints sullied its rounded floor. Stalactites of white, green, and amber grew like the teeth of a thousand saber-toothed cats above matching stalagmites below. The stalagmites sported an even broader range of colors, from ivory to deep-green to gold and even red. Although no path wended its way through them, the floor of the cavern seemed to beckon them downward and to the right—without doubt, the course of the stream that had created the cavern thousands of years ago.

  At times they had to stoop to make their way beneath a curtain of limestone, making Gunther’s back wrench with pain that struck like a karate chop and passed as quickly. At other times the ceiling reached so high their light beams could barely etch out its highest cornices. They walked so close together they might have been twins who had been born conjoined at the hip. One misstep could cause a fall that would result in a skin tear that would not heal in this world of wetness.

  The chasm ended in a hole that wound its way downward through the rock like a water slide. Except for the slide’s gray color, Gunther’s headlamp gave it a quality that reminded him of the photos his mother had showed him of her colonoscopy—a tube of red, with even redder bulwarks, that wound its way through her abdomen. Just as he had not appreciated the view of his mother’s insides, neither did he appreciate the view he now faced. He could not see even around its first bend.

  His voice sounded overly loud in the dark silence. “It’s like the point of no return. Once we go down this chute, we may never be able to come back up.”

  “The guy with the chewing gum made it up. Or girl. But we’re not coming back this way, anyway.”

  Her words lay like balm on an inflamed wound. “You’re right, Sis.”

  “I’m going first,” she announced. A rustling sound accompanied her movements as she slid off her pack.

  “No, June, I’ll …”

  “I’m going first. I’m smaller. I’ll let you know how it looks from the bottom.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she’d already taken off her helmet and backpack and positioned herself head-first in the mouth of the tube, arms out in front. In an instant she had vanished. Gunther’s last glimpse of her showed the heels of her boots wiggling at the first bend before disappearing with the rest of her.

  When the sounds of her movement stopped, an instant of panic overtook him. He shone his headlamp into the hole, leaned forward, turned it right and left, up and down.

  “June,” he called. “June!”

  Like a flicker of flame in a wind, his voice evaporated in the void of the cavern.

  A light flicked on somewhere below, followed by a scream, a scream so primal it shook Gunther to the core of his being.

  “June!”

  He thought he could hear her breathing. A good sign.

  Panting. A bad sign.

  “Gunther!”

  A good sign.

  “June, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  But she sounded out of breath.

  “Send the packs down. Yours and mine. And the helmets.”

  “Okay.” He felt so rattled he did as she asked without thinking. He dispatched her pack first, his a moment later, followed by their helmets.

  “June, are you okay?”

  “Fine. Got the packs and helmets. Come down head-first. About two seconds down, you’ll feel like you’re stuck. When that happens, twist a little to the right and you’ll get through. After that, it’s easy.”

  After a pause, she added: “Send your headlamp down, too. It’ll get you stuck.”
/>   Breathing hard, Gunther flicked his light off and did as she ordered. Without his light, he was like a blind person.

  Farts be with you, he thought—and propelled himself down the tube.

  As June had predicted, in two seconds he got stuck. That terrible feeling of claustrophobia struck with such power he thrashed about, waving his arms and kicking his feet—but to no avail. He was stuck like a rat in a trap.

  “Twist to the right!” came the voice from below. “Twist to the right!”

  Still he thrashed about, unable to process her words.

  “Gunth—STOP!”

  He paused in his thrashing.

  “Twist to the right!”

  Heeding her words, he twisted—and the vise around his middle released. His body slid downward, right and then left, over a bump in the floor. All at once, he fell a foot or two. His back wrenched, then released. He looked about without seeing, and then stood up.

  A light flicked on and off. Arms grabbed him—short, fourteen-year-old arms.

  “We made it, Gunth. We’re okay. But Serge isn’t.”

  “Huh?” The only Serge he knew was Serge Sheffield, their high-school friend at the New Calar school who defended them from the bullies.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She flicked her headlamp on again and directed the beam off to his right. Wordlessly, she pointed.

  There, propped against the wall, body held erect by stony projections, stood a boy who looked to be in his late teens. In the three seconds before June flicked her light off again, Gunther saw the mouth agape, the eyes sunken. Fluids from the wall had oozed over the face and onto the chest, giving the body a waxy look. The chest was bare, the skin just a mite darker than the ivory of the stalactites. Only a pair of boxer shorts covered the lower part of the body.

  The vision was so unexpected, so overwhelming, Gunther could not react at once. He understood why June had screamed. His own first reaction was to retch and grab for the wall behind him. He mentally thanked June for keeping the light off.

  “June, isn’t he one of the kids who …”

  “Disappeared last month.”