by Cave, Hugh
Receiving no answer, she turned away—pausing on her way to the door to blow out the white candles.
21
"I Left Her Sleeping"
I'm going to die here in Gourie Cave, Will thought. The water will continue to rise until it fills the passage, and I'll drown up here with my mouth pressed against the ceiling for one last breath.
He could accept the prospect now without panic. There had been so much time for him to study the situation and weigh his chances. How much time? He lifted his wrist to look at his watch again. Its glowing hands stood at ten minutes to eleven.
At night.
It could not be as dark outside as it was in here, though. There would be stars unless the rain that had caused the flash flood in the cave was still falling. The air would be fresh. There would be blessed silence, or at least only a whispering of tall pines, instead of the everlasting suck and gurgle of the stream here.
He switched on his flashlight to look down at the water for a moment. Only for a moment. Hours ago he had realized that if the water did go down in time for him to continue upstream, the light represented his only hope of ever reaching the ladder.
He must save the batteries as much as possible. The instrument was a good one, though, or it would not be working as well as it did after its dunking earlier. His watch, too, had been submerged but was still running. His luck was not all bad.
Were Ken Daniels and Waldon McKoy still waiting for him at the top of the ladder?
The water was only inches below his perch now, and the ledge on which he sat was the nearest he had been able to get to the ceiling. He could reach the ceiling with his hands. If he stood up, he would knock his head against it. How many hours had he been waiting here while the water relentlessly climbed to drown him? His aching body, numb with cold, thought it a lifetime.
But something different seemed to be happening to the water now?
He held the light on it longer than he wanted to, to be sure his eyes were not playing tricks. Just below his dangling left foot began a smooth stone slope that had twice thwarted his efforts to reach the ledge on which he sat. The water climbing the slope was only a few inches below the sole of his shoe, and for hours he had been able to judge the speed of its climb by watching it rise past selected points of reference. Now he was seeing a thin dark line of dampness above it, like wetness on a beach as the tide ebbed.
The water was receding! It had come so close to reaching his foot and starting its deadly climb up his body, and now it was retreating!
He had never been that close to death before, and stepping back from the threshold was a wholly new experience, even if he could not be certain yet that he had been saved. His emotions broke from control and ran riot.
First came noisy elation as he voiced premature yells of triumph that rang through the cavern like gunshots, creating a babel of echoes. "I'm going to get out of here! I'm going to live! I'll make it!" Then he took an interest in the near paralysis of his body and began to massage as much of his legs as he could reach without danger of losing balance. He would need all the strength and agility he could restore when the time came for him to attempt his escape. While massaging, he prayed silently for patience, for wisdom, for luck.
Then came the fear. Fear that when the water at last dropped enough for him to struggle upstream under the low roof of rock that had stopped him before, he might reach the ladder and find it gone. How could it still be there, dangling from a mere outcrop of stone, when the stream at the brink of the drop would have widened into a fury and engulfed it, almost certainly tearing it loose?
Don't think about that, Platt. Concentrate on getting your legs in shape, on watching the water go down, on being ready when the chance comes.
He used the flashlight sparingly, to conserve its already weak batteries. Timing himself with his watch, he thumbed the switch only at thirty-minute intervals and kept the light on only long enough to be sure the water was still receding. The process became an exercise in discipline. After a while he forced himself to wait thirty-five minutes, then forty.
Thus the time passed and the stream descended to its original channel. The opening under the low-hanging stretch of ceiling became visible again, though from his perch high up on the passage wall he could barely reach it with the beam of his flash and for a while was not quite sure. Then as the sound of the stream's flow decreased in volume, its level fell more swiftly. The time was right for him to make his bid for freedom.
He quit his perch and picked his way with infinite care down the boulder-packed slope to the water's edge, as much concerned for the safety of his precious flashlight as for his own. The light had to be left on now, and the weakness of its beam alarmed him. Could he make it last? As he approached the tube that led to the wider, safer passage above, the glow dimmed even more and he plunged ahead almost at a run.
He stumbled into the water now, first knee deep, then waist deep in order to clear the arch above. The current was still stronger than he had anticipated. Water growled against his thighs, hurling him back. Aghast, he saw that he had only a few inches of breathing space ahead where the roof dipped jaggedly down to stop him.
He filled his lungs with the cave's cold air and ducked under, holding his flashlight against the ceiling to keep it dry. Stumbling on a few steps, he surfaced again to find the danger behind and relief driving him on with new strength. Another five minutes of determinedly battling the current, and he was clear of the tube altogether, staggering up out of the stream onto the cavern floor.
Moments later he heard faintly the sound of the waterfall ahead, a sound that grew louder with his every step until it filled the cavern. And suddenly, as he rounded a bend in the passage, the beam of his failing flashlight showed him the cascade itself, more powerful now, arching far out into space before plunging down into the pool—an awesome sight in this underground world.
But he spent no time or light on it. Both his gaze and the dimming beam passed swiftly to the vertical wall of stone where the ladder should be.
There was no ladder now.
"Oh God," he heard himself say, and staggered two steps toward the blank wall and sank exhausted to his knees.
"Will! Up here!"
The roar of the waterfall muffled the voice but he recognized it. Ken Daniels. Still dazed, he looked up and saw a round yellow eye at the top of the cliff owlishly returning his gaze.
"Will, are you okay?"
Reeling with weariness, he struggled to rise from his knees and finally succeeded. "Yes, I'm okay. But the ladder—"
"It's gone. We have a rope."
Rope, rope, rope the echoes repeated, bouncing the beautiful word back and forth as it penetrated his anguish. Not even the thunder of the cascade could rob him of it. And then, "Here!" Ken yelled, and a long, thin, yellow snake uncoiled down the face of the rock.
Will stumbled forward to grasp it.
"Tie it under your arms to leave your hands free!" Ken yelled down at him, spacing the words so the echoes would not run them together. "Give us all the help you can."
He was no expert with knots, but the one he fashioned against his chest after looping the rope around his body would not come undone. He was sure of that. They tested it from above, found it good, and began with infinite care to draw him up the cliff face.
His fingers clawed the wall to add lift. The toes of his sodden shoes sought nooks and crannies from which to push. His flashlight was in his pocket again. The only light was the owl's eye—from a flashlight apparently wedged in a crevice now—peering down at him and seeming to grow a little brighter as he rose toward it.
His groping hands found the edge. It had been dry when he went down the ladder at this spot; now it was slimy. While one set of fingertips sought vainly for a hold, the other discovered a crack and curled into it. With what could have been his last all-out effort before collapse, he hauled himself over the brink.
Daniels and McKoy dropped the rope and knelt to grab him.
T
hey dragged him a safe distance from the edge and helped him to stand. Briefly they shone their two waning lights on him to check for injuries. The darkness flowed back and Ken said, "Where were you when the flash flood came through?"
He took his time telling them. There was no need for haste now, so long as the lights were not in use, and he needed a rest before undertaking the still rugged journey to the entrance.
"You are a lucky man," McKoy said.
"I agree. Watched over."
They had been sitting at the edge of the drop awaiting his return, they told him. McKoy had removed his knapsack from his back and laid it beside him to rest his shoulders. They were talking loudly because of the waterfall and so perhaps did not hear the coming of the flood as quickly, as they might have.
It caught them so nearly by surprise that there was no time for McKoy to snatch up the knapsack when they scrambled to their feet and raced to a less exposed place near the cavern wall. It was carried away by the tidal wave that came boiling through the passage.
"There were spare batteries in it," the guide said with a grimace in his voice. "Now all we've got to lead us out of here are the ones in our lights and they're all almost gone. We tried not to use ours much, but it's been a long time and we had to keep an eye on the water level. At one point we were only a few feet away from being washed out of here, over the brink."
"Where did you get the rope that saved me?"
"You know"—McKoy's voice in the dark seemed to hold a note of awe—"you could be right about being watched over, Mr. Platt. When we first got here, that piece of rope was in the knapsack. Later I got to thinking you might have some trouble at the top of the ladder when you climbed up here. So I took the rope out of the sack and carried it over to the wall and tied one end of it to an outcrop there. The other end I just took to the top of the ladder, meaning to hand it to you when you needed it."
"I'll be damned."
"More likely you been blessed, Mr. Platt."
Will thought about it and silently nodded, though with the flashlights not in use the nod was for himself alone.
"We'd better get going," McKoy said. "I don't foresee any special trouble, but it's still a long way we have to go and—my God, you fellows know what time it is? It's ten minutes to three. I wish I'd taken those bammies out of the sack when I took the rope out. I think we should use only one light at a time where we can, and only two if we need more. That will keep one in reserve. Okay?" Not expecting an answer; he did not wait for one. "Let's go, then. Close to me. Mr. Platt, you walk in the middle again in case you need help. You've had a rough time."
For Will it was like repeating a journey only parts of which he remembered, and even those he recalled but dimly. The stream was higher, the stone ceiling seemed ominously lower; where they had walked at the water's edge before, they were now forced to climb high against the walls and pick their way through new obstacles.
It was a scene from Dante, Will thought. One pale light, not strong enough now to reach even eight feet ahead. Three men struggling to stay close enough to use it for a common eye, in an underworld made wet and muddy by still receding floodwaters. A mocking sound of flowing water that never ceased. Sodden shoes—except for barefoot Waldon McKoy—that kissed and squished at every stumbling step. The cold that crept up the legs and chilled the gut and made even breathing an effort that demanded too much energy.
"Here it is," McKoy said. "Whoever looked after you back there is still doing it, Mr. Platt. Now let's get out of this place."
His light just barely touched what appeared to be an earth slide to their right, filled with boulders. Through the boulders a cluster of more distant lights—stars winked in a tiny patch of black sky. They scrambled toward it, Ken Daniels yelling in triumph at the top of his voice, and clawed their way up through rocks and earth and scrub until they stood together, bodies touching, in a cathedral of pine trees.
The flashlight in Waldon McKoy's hand slowly gave up the ghost.
"What time is it, Mr. Platt?" the guide said.
Will read the luminous dial on his wrist. "Five to four, Waldon."
"It's been a long day and night," Ken Daniels said.
There were clouds in the night sky but the scattered stars provided light enough for McKoy to find a way through the forest. No rain fell now. The three of them trudged along over a wet carpet of pine needles with the treetops sighing overhead and their own talk filling the ground-level stillness. They talked mostly to let out the pent-up fears and tensions, though, and had lapsed into silence again by the time they reached the Land Rover near the cave entrance.
Behind it now stood a second vehicle.
When they were close enough to identify it, Ken Daniels said, "Well, what do you know. The police Rover from Christiana. Someone in it, too." He yelled, waving an arm to attract attention.
The vehicle's lights came on, and two persons dropped to the road. One, Will saw, was a woman. Vicky? No, not Vicky; it was the housekeeper, Ima Williams. The man with her wore a uniform.
With Ken and McKoy he hurried forward, and Ima ran to meet them. The policeman followed more slowly, gazing at them in disbelief. To McKoy he said, "Where you coming from, man? You supposed to be in the cave, this woman tell us."
"We came out the entrance below here." McKoy turned to frown at the nearby steps. "Is someone gone down there searchin' for us?"
"Two men."
"How long they been gone?"
"We only just got here."
"Blow your horn, then. Maybe they will hear it."
The policeman returned to the Land Rover and filled the forest with the goat-bleat of its horn. Will Platt turned to Ima.
Something was wrong, he saw at once. She was more than worried or alarmed. Her handsome face told a silent story of some ordeal that had exhausted or even aged her.
He reached for her hand. "Ima, what's happened to you?"
"Nothing, Mr. Will."
"But you look—"
"I am fine. It is just the hour."
He would have to question her later, he decided. This was not the time for it. "Anyway, bless you for being concerned. Is my wife all right?"
As she gazed at his face, hesitating, there was a strange look in her eyes. A look of fear? "Yes, Mr. Will, she is all right."
"Where is she? At the station?" The two women had probably walked to the station together.
"I left her in bed, Mr. Will."
"In bed?" He could not believe it. No matter how Vicky felt toward him—
"She was out all day. When she came home after eight o'clock, she said the supper was cold and she didn't want any. She sat at the dining room table for two hours, writing in a notebook, then went to her room. I went to bed about eleven." She paused, as though to let her thoughts bypass something she was not prepared to tell him. "When I awoke at three o'clock and discovered you had not returned," she finished, "I walked up to the police station."
The look in her eyes made Will certain she was holding something back. Was it something about Vicky? Hearing Waldon McKoy yell, "Here they are!" he was almost glad to turn back to the business at hand.
Trudging up the steps from the cave entrance, the two policemen who had been in Gourie looked as though they had been let out of jail. Will didn't blame them. To be ordered into Gourie at four in the morning after a hard rain . . . not even the rigorous training they received at the Port Royal police school could have prepared them for such an assignment.
He walked over to thank them for what they had tried to do. Then, as weary as he had ever been in his life, he went to the U.N. Land Rover and leaned against it.
Ken, McKoy, and Ima Williams joined him. "Should I drive?" Ken asked.
"Maybe you'd better."
The taxi man peered at him. "Is something troubling you, Mr. Will?"
"No. I'm fine."
Something was troubling him, of course. And it was not the knowledge that the woman to whom he was married hadn't even worried when, after twenty-odd
hours and a torrential rain, he still had not returned from the most dangerous river cave in the island.
What troubled him was a question, or rather two of them. Where had Vicky been all day? And what had happened between her and Ima when she returned?
22
Sister Merle's Pupil
Vicky was seated on her bed when he walked into their room. In her sexy pink nightgown she eyed him with sleepy accusation. "Your jeep or whatever you call it woke me up. You've been gone rather long, haven't you?"
He glanced at the clock on the chest of drawers. From eight A.M. to four-thirty the following morning was "rather long"? "Yes."
"Did you find your buddy Sam?"
"No, we didn't find Sam."
"That's too bad. But it was really a long shot, wasn't it? You only looked there because there was nowhere else left to look."
He began to undress, aware that his clothes were still wet and his shoes ruined. "Do you know the police came to find us?"
"What?"
"Ima walked up to the station."
"For heaven's sake. When?"
"About an hour ago."
"In the middle of the night? And after—" A frown touched her face. "I can't believe it."
"After what?"
"Well, I'm sure she sat up late, waiting for you to return."
That isn't what you were going to say, Will thought, but let it pass. "I was very nearly trapped in there by the rain." he said. "You do know it rained?"
"Of course."
Naked now, he sat on the edge of his bed, facing her. It always embarrassed her to see him naked, he suddenly realized. "You know something about caves," he went on relentlessly. "Enough, at least, to be afraid to enter one yourself. Couldn't you picture what a downpour like that might do to us?"
"I didn't think about it. I had other things on my mind."
