I didn’t catch Parker’s response, but he thumbed through papers, nodding. Theresa rose soon thereafter, walked over to them, said, “But Professor, the story which dragged us out here hails from this very spot. Isn’t that significant?”
Vorchek massaged the iron-gray at his temples, said, “The fact intrigues, yet stands alone, without late parallels. If I follow rightly the chain of logic, I deduce an exceptional case, one not often repeated. Concealment appears the primary goal, indicative of a reasonable wariness and desire to avoid detection. Those we seek do not overtly tempt trouble, otherwise their existence would be plain to us.”
Good Lord, what was that all about? Theresa accidentally passed near enough that, to get by, she was forced to acknowledge my presence. I seized the opportunity to quiz her. “You tell me what’s going on,” I urged.
“It’s up in the air,” she said vaguely.
“Surely you know.”
She tossed her long blonde hair. That pointlessly thrilled me. “Just theories, hypotheses, deductions and inductions. Nothing is firm. This kind of thing pans out or it doesn’t. The professor will explain to you before long, if he wishes.”
“What’s the exceptional case?” I pressed.
Oh, that. That’s simple enough. I read about it in the newspaper. Right here, last month, three campers-- college types, just like you, Finn-- disappeared, vanished without a trace.” She cocked her pretty head smartly. “It wasn’t the first time.”
II. The Descent
I contrived not to sleep well that night. I could conjecture a host of excuses-- that crappy little tent which suffocated, rustled in the wind, attracted clicking insects; the thin mattress that molded itself over every sharp rock; the baleful howls of coyotes-- but things in mind played a role. I remained odd man out, isolated within the group, ignorant of what went on around me. What did bring us here? Were Vorchek and Parker working for the police? That didn’t strike me as at all likely, but then nothing did. I brooded about missing campers, envisioned meeting up with drug runners or other nasty types. I felt too exposed, despite the tent, in that forsaken land.
Come the dawn, after a full breakfast in which we all shared duties, we prepared for a big march. They incidentally explained to me, or I picked up from stray comments, that we indeed intended to brave the scary slopes of Canyon Diablo, making our way to its gloomy bottom for reasons unspecified but undoubtedly important. Now Theresa wore more fitting gear, still pretty fashionable, a buff-colored combination with long skirt from which those boots peeped. Vorchek dressed more sensibly, although he insisted on retaining his stupid tie, and he wasted time trimming the little beard on that strong-featured, hawk face of his. Dr. Parker looked proper, in rugged attire, like a man accustomed to the harsh outdoors. I wore tee-shirt and jeans with tennis shoes. We all carried food, a lot of food, concentrated stuff, and water, a lot of water. That made for heavy loads. The professor also packed a camera bag in which he kept his antique film gear. I got stuck with a massive wooden tripod, which I quickly resented.
Under fair skies we returned to the edge of the gorge, advanced over rocky ground to the east of the old bridge. Up close I saw it was a harrowing mess, the metal supports rusty, the superstructure as well, and incomplete, as if parts had dropped off or been stolen. The terrain around the bridge absorbed our attention. Vorchek and Parker hunted for a way down. They spotted a number of hikers’ use trails, but none of these, apparently, would do. A few hundred yards south of the bridge they found what they sought.
“Very interesting,” said Parker. “A hazy path to be sure, nearly invisible, but ancient, literally worn into the stone by passing feet. It fits, Vorchek. That much fits.”
“There had to be something like this, Parker. I detect the wear of centuries. Whether any of it be recent, of course, I can not tell. Do you see your way down?”
“Certainly. We need be cautious, that’s all. This trail exists for walking, not climbing.”
I asked, “Why this trail rather than the others?”
Theresa snorted, “Haven’t you figured out anything yet?”
“No, I haven’t. How about telling me?”
She said hastily, “It’s a prehistoric Indian trail. The Anasazi made it ages ago, in the centuries before Columbus.”
I got that okay. I knew something about the Anasazi, tourist’s info, enough to know they were the primitive people who once lived in that land-- a large chunk of northern Arizona and beyond-- dwelling in stone villages or pueblos, and who vanished before the white man came, leaving behind their impressive ruins. I’d visited a couple, thought them interesting. At the moment I pondered the subject of vanishing, which had cropped up again. I wondered if that pattern was significant, then shook myself. It couldn’t mean anything.
Vorchek said, “Parker, you are the expert. Kindly guide us.” With those abrupt words we hit the trail, almost immediately commencing a precipitate descent. It wasn’t that hard, so long as I kept my mind on where I stepped, but the plunging route gave rise to morose thoughts concerning the difficulty of climbing out. Parker’s praise of the path only meant we didn’t require ropes and spikes. I knew it would be torture getting back.
Down, down, switch-back, switch-back, this way and that we went, ever dropping in elevation, past layers of dark volcanic rock, then yellow sandstone, to a deep region of gray limestone. A crow flew past, cawing angrily. Fleet lizards skittered from underfoot. Theresa squealed at a tarantula watching us from a cleft in the rocks. That made me laugh. The arid walls of bedrock rose high over us. The bridge dwindled to a little thing, a rust-dulled toy. We kept to the march without a break. I swigged a mouthful from my canteen, the water sloshing in my belly. Dr. Parker, in the lead, tramped at a rapid pace. I’d described him as fat, but stout would be the right word. He turned out to have plenty of muscle, nothing soft about him. After a full hour we reached a limestone shelf overhanging the bottom. From that vantage I could see into the shadows, observing what looked like a typically Arizonan, boulder-strewn wash. Natural basins contained dark, weedy pools. The presence of water down there pleased me, just in case. We carried purifier tablets, although Parker warned they made the water taste awful. Fortunately it was not brutally hot at this season.
From that ledge my fellow hikers endeavored to locate a particular point. The sun had crawled over the rim of the canyon, so they shielded their eyes with their hands, indicating one spot or another. I got into the act, not wanting to be left out, although I didn’t know what I was doing, and the thought started to rankle. I’d had about enough of their blasé treatment.
Vorchek earnestly mused, “It can not be below the flood line. That would be impossible. It should be at least somewhat up the wall, within the limestone sections.”
“Not too high up, though,” Parker replied. “That would defeat the purpose.”
“Come on,” I burst out. “What gives? I’m part of this. What’re we looking for?”
Parker turned to me, said pleasantly, “We’re hunting for a cave, Finn. If my colleague is correct, there should be one right down here somewhere. It has to be above the bottom to avoid the sporadic floods that surge through the gorge, yet low enough to have remained unnoticed for a very long time. If it’s there, we must be close.”
“It is there,” Vorchek stated tersely. “Parker, how do we get off this shelf?”
“To the left, I think. Follow me.”
Down again, abruptly now, pacing precariously on a narrowing path with a frightening sheer drop of a hundred feet to those evil boulders. Directly beneath the big ledge we reached a shallow rock shelter where we came upon evidence of fire. “Possibly a camp,” muttered Vorchek, “or a look-out, perhaps, seldom manned. I see no modern detritus. It gives me hope.”
I spoke, in an unaccountable whisper. “A prehistoric Anasazi trail, descending to a cave, you believe, at the bottom of a canyon. Was this their territory, too?”
Vorchek chuckled. “Three miles up canyon, Mr. Walters, there
lies, high in the cliff face, a notable ruin, akin to Montezuma’s Castle in the Verde Valley.”
“I’ve seen that one. Are we going to this one?”
Parker laughed aloud. “No point, not for us, not this trip. That Anasazi ruin has been abandoned for seven hundred years. We won’t find anything there.”
To Vorchek I asked, “What will we find in this cave of yours?”
Theresa, gesturing wildly, shouted, “Professor, there it is!” I tracked her stabbing finger, spied that ragged oval of intense darkness in a fold of the canyon wall down and to our right. I wasn’t any expert, but it sure looked like a cave mouth to me. The big boys obviously agreed. Immediately we made for it, losing the path for a spell, backing up, trying again, this time finding the way. Within twenty minutes we stood before the opening.
Vorchek’s head bobbed as he grinned widely. “This will do. It can not be coincidence. As you tell me, Parker, this is not cave country.”
“I didn’t expect to find a single one, Vorchek. This is something, all right. Your hunch paid off. For the rest, though, I still won’t commit myself.”
Theresa said, craning forward to peer into blackness, “It seems perfectly natural. There aren’t any signs. Professor, wouldn’t you expect something: a painted mark, a foot print?”
“No prints on bare rock, Miss Delaney, nor deliberate signs to give away their location. We deal with determined folk.”
Parker said, “Let me see.” He removed his heavy pack, fished out a flashlight. Switching it on, he strode briskly into that alarming hole. We lost him to view in a second.
I moaned, “I can’t stand this any more. What’s he expect to find?”
Vorchek, staring into that darkness, stroked his beard, muttered absently, “Traces of recent occupancy, my boy.”
That dumbfounded me. So did what happened next. Light flashed from within. Dr. Parker emerged, his broad face frozen with amazement. He stood there before the mouth, clicked off his light, said, “I didn’t believe it, Vorchek. I still don’t get it, but I don’t deny it any longer. There are steps in there, chiseled out of the stone, and a well-built ladder of ironwood. There’s ornamentation on and by the walls, of exotic make, primitive, yet indisputably modern. I recognize the artistry. What I’ve seen has been fashioned by the Anasazi... at no remote date!”
III. A Subterranean Adventure
Professor Vorchek said, “The time arrives for decisions.”
“And theorizing,” Parker shot back. “Putting together all your evidence, that means we’re walking into a questionable situation.”
“I am prepared.”
“You can’t be. There’s no telling what’s down there.”
Theresa opined, “I’m not going to enjoy this.”
I said, throwing up my hands, “I’ll die if somebody doesn’t explain, and fast.”
The professor said, “Let us withdraw, eat and refresh. During that pause, I shall bring all up to date.” We accepted his advice, returning to the rock shelter, fabricating a meal from our trail rations. I pushed him to get on with it.
He said, “The basic facts are simple, Mr. Walters. I organized this expedition for the purpose of seeking prehistoric survivals. We are currently sitting squarely in the heart of what was once the vast domain of the Anasazi, a mysterious tribe which flourished here in a remote age before the coming of the white man. They built impressive dwelling places, ceremonial sites, monumental structures, even roads. Then they vanished utterly from the face of the earth, leaving behind only the less perishable of their material remains-- much of that badly, perhaps deliberately, damaged-- and a modicum of curious and conflicting folklore. They were great, they were terrible; they were a magnificent, godly race, they were monsters. Take your pick of tales. What has excited me most has been the vague, furtive clues suggesting that they are not yet entirely extinct.”
“You’re telling me they’re still around,” I cried, “after all this time? In a country like this? That’s hard to swallow.”
“Truth, and possibilities, often are, yet there are signs in the anthropological literature which may be favorably interpreted. According to Hopi legend, the Anasazi were tyrants who, following a bitter war, surrendered the land to their enemies, retreating to the local conception of Hell. May that suggest something to you? The Navajo, later arrivals on the scene, tell of ‘night demons’ who stole livestock and spirited away lone individuals. I found that intriguing.”
Murmured Theresa, “Which brings us to the disappearances.”
Parker said, “That’s weighing heavy on my mind right now.”
“As it should,” Vorchek conceded. “The historical record provides sporadic evidence of disagreeable activity in these parts. From the late Nineteenth Century come reports made by Navajo sheepherders to reservation custodians concerning unexplained kidnappings. Documents relating to the building of the railroad offer similar instances. More stem from the relatively brief occupancy of Canyon Diablo; the town, I mean. Then, too, you must be aware of more recent cases.”
“Missing campers,” I muttered.
“Campers, hikers, one telephone lineman. I have in my files of newspaper clippings a half dozen such cases in the last generation alone. There are still more, older, less well documented. I say that something untoward is happening here. In addition, these occurrences are distributed tightly about our present location.”
“What’s it mean?” I asked.
Parker replied. “If it all fits, then we’ve got company underfoot.”
“That we investigate now,” said Vorchek. The professor rose. “I brook no delay. Parker, give me your expertise. What of the cave?”
“It is a cave,” said his colleague, “not a mine shaft, more than a crevice. I’m guessing beyond that.”
“Let us transform guesswork into data.” Discussion ended. We trooped back to the cave mouth, all looking grim, I entirely lacking in eagerness. I didn’t really accept their guff, yet I worried. Old Vorchek might be a nut, but chubby Dr. Parker seemed to take that junk seriously too, so yes, I was bugged. If I’d an easy way out I’d have taken it with good cheer. From the geologist each of us received flashlights. We entered, Vorchek leading, then Theresa, Parker, finally me.
We’d gone about fifty yards into the rough limestone passage before I began to see the weird stuff. Daubs of red, yellow, and black (ochre paint, the professor thoughtfully informed us) on the smoothing walls made images of spirals, starbursts, human stick figures. Just past that our wavering beams picked out a rapidly descending flight of clean stone steps. At the bottom of these we reached a small chamber. I didn’t relish what waited for us there: more artwork, of a very different and suggestive cast. White, stylized images of skulls lined the walls-- polished here-- in a long, unbroken band. At the far end of the chamber yawned another black opening. Flanking this stood two poles decorated with black feathers, and atop each pole a clean, red-painted human skull. Red ochre paint on them, I mean; the skulls were the genuine article. That got my blood bubbling.
The professor photographed this with a flash attachment. After a period of dreadful silence Parker whispered, “This is as far as I went, Vorchek. See, down there’s the ladder.” It was a heavy thing, with fat wooden parts, protruding from the depths of that dark cavity.
Vorchek asked the doctor, “Can you see beyond?”
“No. It’s a big chamber, too large for the flash to cover. I’d say we’re plumbing a major cavern. There’s no telling how large.”
Vorchek, his eyes glittering, spoke as if in a trance. “It must be extremely large, for human beings to exist down there. They would require much room.”
“Not if there were few of them,” I pointed out.
“Even then. I commend to you, Mr. Walters, that there is little or infrequent game in these parts. These people would need much space.”
I didn’t get it, but he snubbed my next words with a dismissive wave of his hand, went to confer quietly with Parker. The latter nodded
, mounted the ladder. We were still going down, into that awful unknown darkness. Nobody said anything. I wanted to shout.
The ladder took us down twenty feet at a frightfully steep angle. There we regained a smooth, solid stone floor. At Parker’s direction we swept our lights about the space. Save for the wall directly behind us there was unnerving emptiness. The air was surprisingly cool, with an odd trace of dampness. The doctor tried to pick up a trail, thought he found slight indications. That way we went. Our boots and shoes scuffed on flat stone, as clean and level as pavement. The darkness was appalling, the silence worse, that of the tomb. It felt like being buried alive in there. I’d never cared for caves, not even brightly lighted tourist attractions. Not for the first time I cursed getting roped into this lunacy without prior knowledge of what I faced. I could swear they were picking on me, that my presence gave them a private laugh..
Blocky shapes loomed ahead. The professor dashed forward to examine them. Within moments I saw them for what they were: ruins of adobe and stone, better preserved than anything I’d seen on the surface, yet clearly abandoned. Vorchek snapped a picture, said into the clammy air, “Definitely Anasazi, of a late form; note the compact masonry, the protruding support beams of the roof. I detect more over there, and--” he swung his flashlight-- “there as well. We enter a broad complex, yet this is not what we seek. These are old, as old, or nearly so, as those above. I note no evidence of occupancy.”
“Looks like you crapped out, Professor,” I said, scarcely concealing a sneer. “So a few Indians hid down here for a while. They didn’t last long. There goes your theory. Admit it, that was a wild long shot.”
Theresa sniffed at me, upturning her little nose. “He specializes in long shots. Don’t count him out. Well, what about it, Professor? Maybe this stuff is more recent than it looks. It could be the survivors have finally died out.”
9 Tales Told in the Dark 5 Page 3
