The Maw

by Taylor Zajonc

  “Exactly. Only I usually use a Zippo.”

  “Well, if you were Lord DeWar,” said Dale, handing the camera back to Joanne and slapping his hands together in anticipation, “which one would you pick first?”

  “The biggest,” said Milo with a grin.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Dale. “Has anyone stuck their head in yet?”

  “Not yet.” Joanne snapped the camera’s display closed and placed it back in a protective plastic crate. “Duck is still setting up—will probably be tomorrow before we make any further penetration. We’ve already accomplished a lot today.”

  “Nonsense,” said Dale, a glint in his eyes. “Let’s go ahead and take a peek. Just a few of us. If we hit anything requiring rope work, we’ll turn around straightaway.”

  “I don’t know,” said Joanne, unconvinced. “Now that we’re past the main shaft, the terrain will get more difficult with every step.”

  “Back by dinner. I promise.”

  Joanne thought about it for a moment. “I don’t see why not. I’ll let Duck know. Get your helmets and lights. We’ll have to keep this outing small, that means no camera team.”

  “Probably means no Charlie either,” said Milo.

  “I’d be more comfortable if we added one last person to our party,” said Joanne.

  Milo wasn’t surprised when Dale made a beeline for Bridget. Logan wasn’t busy in the slightest, but no offer was extended him. Milo had a feeling that Dale wasn’t happy with Logan’s modern-explorer theory. His supporting role in the theory—the supposed discovery of the now-missing anchor—now seemed forgotten or forgiven.

  Following Dale, Dr. McAffee came to join Joanne and Milo, making the final adjustments to her helmet strap and newly recharged headlamp. Though he was within earshot, Joanne instead radioed to Duck and explained the plan.

  “Okay,” came the crackling response. “Keep regular contact. Out.”

  Milo felt as though he were in a giant anthill. They’d only made it a hundred yards from the base camp, still close enough to see a faint refracted light from the balloons if he turned around and squinted. The curved cavern walls were claustrophobically narrow, forcing Milo to turn sideways to fit through, brushing them with both chest and spine. He was glad for the kneepads, as the ceiling drooped lower and lower with each step. The passageway twisted and turned, breaking off into smaller forking sub-passages. Finding their way back seemed easy enough, but Joanne still dutifully stopped at each intersection, marking the date and direction with thick white chalk.

  Joanne led the party, followed by Milo, Bridget, and finally Dale. The passageway she’d chosen progressively shrank, like a withering artery slowly retreating from a belabored heart. Soon the ceiling was too low to even stoop, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees, pulling themselves ever deeper into the tunnels.

  Milo quickly learned not to stop too suddenly. Bridget followed him closely, uncomfortably so, meaning that she’d bump her helmet into the seat of his pants if he didn’t keep a good pace. She’d mutter an apology each time but wouldn’t back off. He suspected she didn’t like the claustrophobic stillness of the passageway any more than he did and had decided to keep as close as possible. It was almost strange how normal it felt being around her, a familiarity both soothing and exciting.

  Milo’s anxiety wasn’t gone, but it was now buried under curiosity and fascination. The exploration was physically challenging, mentally exciting, intellectually engaging—wholly consuming in every way. He hadn’t eaten anything in what must have been hours and he’d almost completely lost track of time. But he felt fantastic all the same, thrilled by his part in the grand adventure.

  The passageway angled upward, the gritty flowstone beneath their knees turning dry. Above, the ceiling was filled with clinging calcium straws, small translucent tubes resembling upside-down candles beside the marble limestone walls and shimmering calcite drapery. He was reminded of a story he’d once read about early American masonic rituals. Potential members were often left abandoned in dark caves with nothing more than a candle and a book of matches. If successful, the men would emerge stark naked from the earth many hours later, having burned down the candle and every thread of clothing for light.

  “Watch this,” said Joanne. She took off her headlamp and pressed it upward into the straws. The fragile geology glowed like a candlelit chandelier, illuminating the tight passageway with warm, inviting luminescence.

  “It’s beautiful,” breathed Bridget, in awe. Milo couldn’t agree more.

  “I can’t see it,” complained Dale from the back of the line. But Joanne didn’t pause, just kept moving. The foursome soon passed another fork in the passageway, one leading upward and a second leading further down. Joanne frowned at the steep, muddy slide and instead took the tighter passageway above it, dutifully marking the intersection with chalk.

  The ceiling dipped again, now so low that Milo had to shuffle forward on his belly like a snake to catch up with the British guide, inadvertently smacking his boot against Bridget’s helmet as he squirmed away.

  “Hey!” said the doctor from behind him. Milo muttered an apology as he reached the passageway, feeling genuinely terrible about the accidental kick.

  Ahead, Joanne had stopped. She silently gestured for Milo to come join her at the head of the line, right below where she’d just made a directional mark at a forking passageway, the arrow aimed at the larger of the two options.

  “Take a look at this,” said Joanne, tapping on the ceiling above her with a single gloved finger.

  Milo immediately caught sight of what Joanne had discovered. Below the guide’s white chalk mark was a second, much fainter mark. Milo took a closer look at the black smudge. Was it mold? No—it wasn’t growing on the wall—it was a tailed triangle, a man-made drawing. His eyes widened with realization.

  “What do you think?” asked Joanne beside him.

  “What’s happening?” demanded Dale from the back.

  Milo raised his voice so that everybody could hear. “Joanne found something,” he said. “I think it’s a calcium hydroxide marking—it looks like someone painted an arrow with it.”

  “Is that another cave painting?” asked Bridget. “Like what we found in the galley?”

  “Oh,” said Joanne from in front of him, her voice indicating her immediate realization of the implications. “Oh. I’ve never seen one so old before, didn’t know what I was looking at.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Bridget.

  “Back in DeWar’s time, they used calcium carbide gas lamps,” explained Milo, loud enough for everyone to hear. “An upper reservoir was filled with water, which dripped a bit at a time into a lower chamber filled with calcium carbide. This produced acetylene gas, which was burned for light. They’d use the leftover hydroxide ash to mark passageways. Definitely not native art.”

  Dale cleared his throat. “He’s right,” he said from the back of the line. “Would have been cutting-edge technology in 1901. No doubt more evidence of DeWar. No way one of the local tribes could have made it this deep. Milo, my boy—you’re becoming my good luck charm!”

  “Let’s continue, see if we find more,” said Joanne. “Don’t want to hang out here for too long—we’ll run the risk of hypothermia if we stop moving. I can’t turn around, but we can take some photos and samples on the way back.”

  “We’re on the trail!” said Dale excitedly. “I can feel it!”

  “Just be careful around this next bend,” said Joanne from up ahead. “Looks like a bit of a drop to one side.”

  The guide was right—when Milo caught up to her, he found the passageway had opened up to form a natural bridge over another chasm, deep enough to where he couldn’t quite see the bottom. Milo snuck a look back to see Bridget smiling behind him.

  “I didn’t expect this to be so . . . fun,” she said. “So long as nobody gets sick or hurt, I’m officially on vacation!”

  Milo turned to flash a grin when his hand suddenly sl
ipped out from underneath him, the slimy flowstone betraying his grip. He grunted, losing his balance and falling over to one side, and slid over the edge of the natural bridge.

  “Milo!” screamed Bridget. Milo was in freefall, but before he could even process the feeling of weightlessness, he slammed against the side of a curving wall, sliding and rolling through a tinkle of fragile calcium straws as he was unceremoniously dumped at the bottom of the chasm. His helmet had stayed on but the headlamp had come free, lying a few feet away from him.

  Moaning and with his eyes watering, he barely saw the flashes of light from the rest of the party above him. Milo tried to say something reassuring, but the wind had been knocked out of his lungs by the impact. He could only manage a labored wheeze.

  Dale, Bridget, and Joanne called his name over and over, shining their lights down from the bridge, trying to see him. But he was directly below and in the shadow of the natural structure, as good as invisible.

  “I’m fine,” groaned Milo, bringing himself up to a sitting position. “Everything is okay . . . nothing broken, I think . . .”

  Milo checked himself again. Only his ego seemed bruised.

  “Stay put,” ordered Joanne, her voice echoing throughout the chamber. “We’ll find our way down to you.”

  He nodded—an easy enough request to obey. Fighting his own protesting body, he reached over to retrieve his still-lit headlamp, placing it back on his helmet.

  Milo turned to survey the small chamber, slowly rotating in a lazy circle. Just inches before him, the illumination fell upon the grimacing, empty-socketed face of a mummified human body.

  CHAPTER 14:

  AUTOPSY

  2,350 feet below the surface

  “There’s a body down here,” Milo shouted to the others, trying to keep the adrenaline-fueled warble from his voice. The back of his shoulders and head hurt; he’d jolted himself back six feet and into a boulder after first encountering the desiccated corpse.

  “A what?” Joanne shouted from above, her voice distant and echoing. “I can barely hear you—did you say you found a body?”

  Sucking in a long, slow breath, Milo closed his eyes for a moment, willing the shock to subside in his twitching limbs. Opening them again, he slowly scanned the entire room from end to end. No other ghoulish surprises revealed themselves—but he did catch glimpses of metal and cloth fragments half-buried in the muddy floor. Milo forced himself to look again at the cadaver, illuminating the hollow-eyed mummy in harsh yellow light. The instinctual fear began to fade, replaced by an increasing sense of curiosity. Before he knew it, Milo had shifted back to his hands and knees and approached the body with careful consideration, swiveling his head up and around to take in all angles. Stones jostled from the other end of the chamber as the others approached. His attention diverted, Milo let the body once again disappear into pure, unspoiled darkness.

  Joanne emerged from a small, angular crevice in the far wall. As the cave guide stopped to survey the room, Bridget pushed her way past, rushing to Milo’s side.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, patting at his arms and legs, checking for broken bones or bloody patches. It was all he could do to not pull himself away—her touch felt electric.

  Dale emerged last. “Milo!” he exclaimed. “We’re going to have to put a bell on you—that was quite a tumble.”

  “I’m okay, really.” Milo gave them a wry smile. “I hit a slick section on the way over the bridge, slid off the edge. The only thing damaged is my pride.”

  “Not exactly,” corrected Joanne, frowning as she surveyed the chaotic, muddy trail where Milo had tumbled. The fragile calcite straws had taken the worst of it, hundreds snapped like twigs and scattered in every direction. Milo reddened as he looked at the scene. She was right, of course; in one clumsy moment he’d irreparably wrecked an ancient natural formation.

  “I’m really sorry,” said Milo.

  “Oh, leave him alone,” said Dale. “There’s a whole cave of that stuff.”

  Joanne issued a stifled harrumph. “I suppose it does happen on occasion—better than breaking your neck. So where is this body?”

  Milo didn’t answer but simply swiveled his head toward the corner of the chamber, illuminating the pale, dry skin of the corpse. The figure leaned upright against the wall, impossibly thin from the mummification process. Its skeletal hands were palms-up, knees to chest, head angled with a mouth yawning open like a silent scream.

  “Good lord!” said Dale, taken aback. “You weren’t kidding!”

  Neither Bridget nor Joanne gasped, but instead intently stared at the body from a distance.

  “It’s quite ghastly,” admitted Joanne. “But I suppose we ought to look around a bit, make sure we’re not trampling a larger archaeological site.”

  “Way ahead of you,” said Dale, slowly making his way around the room-sized chamber. Milo joined him and the pair quickly began to identify other evidence—fabric scraps, rusty nails, even a stick of rotten wood.

  “It was a camp,” concluded Bridget as she picked up the surviving half of a corroded tent peg.

  Milo wondered if the camp had been washed away by a flood—being on higher ground, the mummy could have survived unscathed.

  “Should I have the next team retrieve the body?” asked Dale. “Take him home for identification and a proper burial?”

  Joanne cleared her throat. “A recovery is certainly within the realm of possibility,” she said. “But it won’t be a pretty process—they’d likely have to break him—or her—into pieces for the smaller passages.”

  “At least he’s dried out,” mused Dale. “That’ll make it a lot easier. Let’s table this for now; I’d like to get Duck on the radio first.”

  As the rest waited, Dale grabbed his walkie-talkie and tried to reach Duck. No response came, and the device didn’t so much as crackle with interference.

  “There’s too much rock,” said Joanne. “You’ll never reach him from here.”

  “Let’s get a little closer and try again,” said Dale, gesturing for the cave guide to follow him back into the crevice passageway. “Joanne—come with me. Milo and Bridget, you can probably hang tight, we’ll be back presently.”

  Dale and Joanne disappeared, leaving Milo and Bridget in silence.

  “Guess it’s just you and me,” he said.

  Bridget just nodded. A pause fell between them. “Did you know we’ve been awake and active for nineteen straight hours?” she finally said.

  “No. I guess I haven’t kept track. I don’t even feel tired.”

  “It’s the darkness,” said Bridget. “Disrupts the circadian rhythms. Without outside regulation, cavers find their cycles elongating . . . they’ll work for days without rest, then sleep for twelve, eighteen, even twenty-four hours straight.”

  “That’s actually pretty cool.”

  “Yeah.” Bridget sighed. “But it comes with a price. Weakened immune system, reduced mental acuity, even auditory and visual hallucinations over time.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to keep an eye on that, Doc. I’ll let you know if I start hearing voices.”

  Bridget chuckled as she fished a digital camera and latex gloves out of her backpack.

  “Document everything,” she ordered, handing him the compact Nikon as she turned back toward the mummy. “May as well do a little investigation while we’re waiting. We’ll keep it basic—anthropological autopsies are not my specialty—but best get a rudimentary examination done before Joanne and Dale start sawing the poor thing to pieces.”

  With that, the doctor shuffled over toward the body, gingerly touching the face and appendages as she learned in for a closer look. She gently pressed the figure’s skeletal knees apart, aiming her light down the exposed belly to the crotch.

  “Well,” said Bridget. “He’s naked. And he’s definitely male. Remarkable state of preservation; likely due to the consistent temperature and humidity.”

  “Was he stripped postmortem?” asked Milo.


  “Hard to say,” mused Bridget, shaking her head. “Could be any number of reasons why we found him in this state. Maybe he burned his clothes for the light, or maybe someone needed his clothes more than he did. Could have even been paradoxical disrobing . . . in the final stages of hypothermia, victims oftentimes strip themselves naked and burrow. Let’s see if I can find cause of death.”

  Bridget gently pressed against the chest, pelvis, spine, and skull of the naked mummy, probing for clues.

  “Ah,” she said, finding a soft spot on the side of the skull, where dry, peeling skin covered a baseball-sized lattice of shattered bone.

  “His head was caved in,” said Milo, observing as her gloved fingers sank into the spongy wound.

  “It would appear so,” said Bridget. “But I can’t tell much more . . . could have been an accident or violence. I don’t see any defensive wounds on the arms.”

  “It’s definitely not Lord DeWar,” asserted Milo.

  “I agree,” said Bridget, eyeing him quizzically. “But what makes you so sure?”

  “The chin,” said Milo, pointing at the yawning lower jawline. “DeWar had a very prominent chin. The rest of the proportions are all wrong as well. Maybe one of his men?”

  “Probably not—take a closer look at the eyes,” said Bridget, using a pen to probe the depth of the empty socket. Milo made a mental note to bag the pen at the earliest opportunity; Bridget had a bad habit of chewing on the ends.

  “What am I looking for?” asked Milo.

  “The skin is withered, but you can still see the epicanthic fold,” answered Bridget. “But he doesn’t appear to have any Khoisan or Malagasy features. If I were to make an educated guess, I’d say this man was likely Asian.”

  Milo rocked back and forth on his heels in consideration. “To the best of my knowledge, there were no Asian men in Lord DeWar’s party,” he said, frowning. “A few Europeans and a number of African porters, that’s it. Can you date the body?”

  “He’s definitely not black or European, and I can’t date the body with what I have on hand,” said Bridget. “Mummies are tricky that way, and I think we’ve already reached the limits of my ad hoc autopsy.”