by Jenn Bennett
Total darkness.
Thoughts stutter inside my head, and I’m suddenly remembering being a kid, waking up in a dark house and not knowing where I was. For several seconds, I was panicked, trying to figure out where the door was and how I’d gotten there. But what was worse was the moment I did remember. My birth mother had died two days before, and my father had shipped me off to his parents—people I barely knew. Strangers. And I didn’t know when my father was coming back to get me, or if he ever would, and in that moment, I’d never felt more alone.
It’s okay. You’re okay, I tell myself. You’re in a cave, and he’s coming back.
When Lennon turns around and jogs back to me, the light is like the sun, and I couldn’t be any more grateful.
“Don’t leave me again,” I say.
“I’m not going to leave.”
“That’s what you do, you leave! Without any explanation, you abandon people.” I’m crying, and possibly a little delirious. I feel stupid for being such a coward, and mad at him for dragging me into this stupid cave.
“I’m here,” he says, holding on to both of my arms. “It’s okay. You’re just panicking. That’s normal, but you’re going to be okay. I promise.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Can I look at the bite? Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” I say, angry. “I think.”
His hand is warm on my leg. How are his fingers not cold like mine are in this icebox of a cave? Why are boys always so warm? My dad always tries to freeze me and Mom out of the apartment, cranking down the air-conditioning to subzero temperatures.
He’s pulling up the edge of my sock to wipe away the blood. “Does this hurt?”
A lot less than I would have expected after being mauled by that devil serpent. “It’s a little sting-y,” I tell him.
“He got you pretty good.”
“Am I going to need antivenin?”
Lennon chuckles. “California kingsnakes aren’t venomous.”
Right. I know this. I think. “Are you sure?”
“It’s one of the most popular snakes we sell at Reptile Isle. I’ve handled a couple hundred of these. Been bitten by several too.”
“You have?”
“And much worse. I know exactly what you’re feeling now, and I promise it will go away. We need to get it disinfected, but you aren’t going to die. I have a first aid kit in my pack.” He glances down the tunnel as if he’s wary of something. And that’s when I remember the shadow troll Lennon thought he spotted in the cavern.
Lennon is clearly thinking the same thing.
“Get me out of here,” I say in a shaky voice.
His headlamp shifts back to my face. His stoic features are chiseled and stark under the light shining down from his forehead. “Can you stand?”
I can. And after testing out my foot, I find that I can walk, too. I guess he was right: I’m not dying. But I’m in an intensive state of anxiety, forced to rely on Lennon’s light to see. My muscles are so rigid, I’m in physical pain. And I can’t see directly in front of my feet, which slows me down.
“I found the way out,” he says. “It’s just down this tunnel.”
“You saw the ropes?” Our landmark near the northern exit.
“No, but there’s sunlight. See it?”
I do. Even better than some stupid ropes. A literal light at the end of the tunnel. It quickens my awkward steps. I can do this. We’re getting out of this hellhole, with its attacking snakes and lurking, nonexistent shadow trolls.
The exit is a lot smaller than the entrance we used to get in here. Only one person can fit through at a time, and Lennon has to clear away an old spiderweb before we can pass. But when we emerge into late-afternoon sunlight—so warm, so golden—I’m so happy, I could kiss the ground.
However, there isn’t a lot to kiss.
“Oh, wow,” I say, squinting.
We are standing on a narrow cliff bathed in afternoon light. Only a few meters of land stretch between the wall of mountain we just exited and a fall that would kill any living creature. We are far, far above a sprawling, tree-lined valley. Mountains rise all around us. Some of them are granite; some are green and covered in trees.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m awed. Completely and utterly awed.
And then I glance around the cliff, and that awe shifts into wariness. The ground we’re standing on is little more than a balcony that stretches around the side of the mountain. A few trees and shrubs are growing, but nothing substantial. No creek. Certainly no easy path down into the valley below that Lennon promised. A giant bird soars above the trees, circling until it disappears into the canopy.
“How do we get down from here?” I ask.
Lennon is silent. That’s not good. He walks around the cliff, heading past a lonely pine tree, and scopes out our landscape. Maybe the path into the valley is hidden. But even so, we are really far up.
“Shit,” Lennon mumbles.
“What?” I ask.
When his eyes meet mine, I know it’s bad. “I think we went the wrong way.”
17
* * *
There are few worse words to hear right now. All I want to know is (A) How “wrong way” are we, and (B) how do we get back on track?
Lennon whips out his phone to study the book he’s saved. His eyes flick over the screen, and then he whimpers softly. “I knew it. This isn’t the right exit. We got turned around somehow. I knew it felt like we were going up. I just . . .”
“Where are we?”
“We’re at the eastern exit. We need to be south, which is lower in elevation. A lot lower.”
Do not panic.
“Is there a map of the cave?” I ask.
“If there were a map of the cave, we wouldn’t be standing here, would we?”
Jeez. No need to get snippy. I’m the one with the snake bite. And speaking of snakes, I glance back at the dark, spiderwebbed exit. “I’m not going back in there. Forget it.”
“I don’t think we have to,” he says, flipping to another screen to reread a passage. “This cliff goes all the way around to the exit we should have used. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
He takes his compass out of his pocket. “It’s roundabout. The other exit was a straight shot to the path in the valley. It’s about a mile down from here to the northern exit, as a crow flies. But that’s more like two or three miles, hiking around this cliff. Then another mile down into the valley.”
“So, we’re talking, what?”
“Two hours. A little longer. It won’t be an easy descent. It’s not an actual trail.” Lennon looks down at my bloody ankle. It’s starting to swell.
I glance around the cliff. How could a place that’s so beautiful make me miserable?
“Hey, look,” I say, spotting something dark on the mountain wall, several meters away from where we exited. Maybe Lennon’s wrong. Maybe we are in the right place. That could be the southern exit there.
But as I hobble toward it, and Lennon shines his headlamp inside, I lose hope. It’s another cave entrance, yes, but not to the network of tunnels we were just hiking. It’s just a big, wide single cave. As though nature used a melon baller and scooped out a hole in the side of the mountain.
“This isn’t an animal cave, is it?” I say, imagining us waking up some hibernating family of bears.
“It looks clear,” Lennon reports.
We have to duck to enter the mouth of the cave, but once we’re in, the ceiling is high, so we can stand and walk around. It’s maybe a dozen feet wide and twice as deep. There are no hibernating animals. No stream. Not much of anything at all, except a dip in the rocky floor near the mouth that cradles the remnants of burned firewood.
“People have camped here,” Lennon says, bending down to inspect it. “Not recently, I don’t think. But look.” He kicks a discarded, empty can of food in the corner. It’s covered in dirt and bone-dry, so i
t’s been here a while. “Bastards. What about ‘leave no trace’ don’t people understand?”
I’m having trouble caring about that right now. I turn toward the half-moon mouth of the tiny cave and look toward the valley of trees. It’s like gazing into a framed painting.
“Look, it’s not what I’d planned, but I think we should camp here,” Lennon says. “It’s flat and protected. Seems reasonably safe—it’s obviously been used as a site by other hikers. There’s room enough for us to erect both of our tents inside this cave and build a fire.”
“What about water?” I say.
“I’ve only taken a swig out of my bottle. How much do you have left?”
The entire bottle. I haven’t touched it since we filled up at lunch.
“It’s enough,” he assures me. “I mean, we won’t be washing our hair or anything, but if we’re careful, we can make it until we can hike down to the creek. Or, if you feel up to it, we can hike down there now.” He checks the time on one of the compass dials. “It’s almost six. It will get dark at nine. That should be enough time, but we’ll be cutting it close. And this isn’t a big trail, so it might be a little rough walking it during dusk. We also need to take care of your ankle.”
I debate this. I’d like fresh water. It worries me that all we have is the precious little in our bottles. But I look at my ankle, and suddenly the weight of my backpack seems to double.
I’m tired and hungry and injured.
I want to stop.
“Let’s just stay here,” Lennon says encouragingly.
“What about your map? This wasn’t the plan.”
“No, but it’s workable. The map was just a general guideline. Things happen out here, and you adapt.”
I’m not good at adapting.
“This little cave is pretty sweet,” he says. “And I’ll bet you can see a thousand stars from this cliff.”
He’s probably right. I look at the clear sky above the mountains.
“Come on, take off your pack,” he tells me. “Let’s get you fixed up, okay? One thing at a time.”
Maybe he’s right.
Following his suggestion, I unbuckle my backpack and plop down on a boulder near the entrance of our little clifftop cave while he digs out the first aid kit. I spy my blue Nalgene bottle, and it makes me realize that I’m dying of thirst, but I resist the urge to drink. Must save it. Now I’m wondering if we need to spare water for cleaning my wounds, but Lennon has broken out alcohol swabs, and he squats at my feet to use one.
“Cold,” I say, flinching. “Oww!”
“Hold still and let me clean it,” he says.
“It stings.”
“That’s how you know it’s working.” He cradles my heel in one hand and cleans off the bite. “I once got bitten by an emerald tree boa. Beautiful snakes, but boy, do they have a mean bite.” He holds up his hand and twists it around to show me. A U-shaped line of scars arches around his wrist and the heel of his palm.
“Holy crap. When did that happen?”
“About six months ago. She was eight feet long and this big around.” He shows me with his hands. “I had to go the emergency room and get a couple stiches. The snake was upset about being moved into a new habitat. She was old and set in her ways. I get a lot of little bites at work, but they usually don’t hurt. This one scared me. I was so shaken up by the whole thing, I was scared to pick up another snake for a couple of days.”
“I don’t ever want to see one again, much less pick one up. If I’d known to expect snakes in those caves, I wouldn’t have agreed to go inside.”
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Don’t quote Monty Python to me right now. I’m mad at you.”
He snorts a laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re just grouchy because you’re in pain.”
“I’m grouchy because you led me into an evil serpent’s nest!”
“Snakes get a bad rap,” he says. “They only attack when they’re scared or hungry. We’re monsters in their eyes. And that snake that bit you shouldn’t have been in that cave. The temperature is too low for a kingsnake. I’m thinking it must have gotten lost in there somehow. I hope it finds its way out.”
“As long as it’s not through some tiny crack in the walls here. This is our cave, you hear me, snake?” I call out. “I wonder how this cave formed. You know, thousands of years ago, or whatever.”
“I don’t know, but it reminds me of The Enigma of Amigara Fault.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, Miss Everhart, I’m glad you asked,” he says, jolly. “See, it’s this Japanese horror manga story—”
“Oh, lord,” I grumble.
“—in which thousands of human-shaped holes appear in the side of a mountain after an earthquake. People soon discover that there’s a perfect hole for each person, made just for them, and when they find their own hole, they become crazed, trying to climb inside of it.”
“That sounds . . . weird. What happens when they get inside?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I shake my head. “I really, really don’t. No more creepy stories. Especially if we have to sleep here tonight.”
He chuckles. “My work here is done. And yes, I think we should definitely stay here tonight. So I’m declaring that the official new plan. Agreed?”
“All right.” I lean back on my palms as he finishes cleaning my wound. It’s pretty swollen, I think. He says it will be fine by tomorrow. He finds a couple of Band-Aids to keep the puncture marks covered, so they won’t get infected.
“We’re not, by the way,” he says quietly, pulling the paper backing off a bandage.
“Excuse me?”
“Jovana and I aren’t dating. We broke up before summer break. Well, she broke up with me.”
Oh.
This is unexpected, his bringing this back up now. I’m also a little embarrassed about how relieved I am to know it. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I mean, if you were upset.”
What a stupid thing to say. Of course he—
“I wasn’t,” he says, surprising me. His eyes are on my ankle as he adheres the bandage. “It was cool at first, me and Jovana. But we never really . . . clicked. I tried. I really did. It just felt like something was missing. She said I was distant and distracted, and that I was hung up on someone else.”
My heart thumps rapidly inside my chest. “Were you?”
“Yes.”
I hold my breath, unsure of what this means. Part of me would like to pass him a note that reads Do you like me? Check YES or NO. But I’m too much of a coward to say it aloud. Too afraid that he’ll laugh. And then it will be awkward between us for the rest of the trip.
“Were you and Andre serious?” he asks.
It takes me a long time to answer. “I was hung up on someone else.”
It takes him an even longer time to say, “Are you still?”
Does he know it’s him? Or does he think it’s Brett? I can’t tell if he’s just curious about my personal life, trying to make idle conversation. Being polite. I can’t tell anything from his blank expression and monotone rumble. Whether he’s talking to me strictly friend to friend, like when he had a crush on Yolanda Harris when we were fourteen, and I had to endure his ramblings about how cool she was, and would I help him talk to her?
But there’s that hope again, poking its head up when I don’t want it to.
Say something.
But I don’t. And he doesn’t. He just packs up the remnants of the bandage paper and stands up. “Don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s make camp.”
He spends the next half hour assembling both of our tents inside the cave while I find a place for our bear canisters outside, and farther around the cliff, find a few hidden places behind shrubs appropriate for an outdoor toilet. The cliff is narrow, but it’s long—miles long—and now that I see the distance with my own eyes, I’m thankful we’re not hiking it, because my ankle is starting to compla
in.
I find a few pieces of dry wood and carry them back to the cave. Lennon has set up our tents side by side, and he’s pulling out these twist-top LED lights that fit in the palm of his hand. He shows me how to use the light’s handle on top to hook it to a loop on the ceiling of my tent. The tiny lanterns thoroughly illuminate the insides of our tents, which makes me feel better about the encroaching darkness as twilight falls.
While I unroll my sleeping bag and dig through my pack, Lennon gathers more wood and kindling. He finds some small rocks and uses them to ring the old fire pit, to ensure that the fire stays contained. Then he teaches me how to set up his pyramid-shaped fire, which seems complex, because he has a million little rules about the tinder and how thick the wood should be. But I like that he’s so detailed and precise. I do the honors of lighting the tinder, and after a couple false starts—it needs more oxygen—I finally get the campfire going. Which feels . . . satisfying.
Once the wood settles into place, Lennon sets up his little portable grill and pan over the flames and we carefully measure out the exact amount of water we’ll need to rehydrate a couple freeze-dried meals. I’ve never been so excited about beef Stroganoff. Scratch that, I’ve never been excited whatsoever about beef Stroganoff, but when we pour the boiling water into the pouches, it smells amazing.
We don’t have any big boulders to sit on like we did back at the waterfall, so we spread out the rainflies from our tents on the ground near the fire and utilize our bear barrels as tables. And when we’re done eating, we use a wet wipe to clean our sporks in order to conserve water. Lennon adds more wood to the fire and we sit and watch the sunset. Stars are already visible, and I’m so glad Lennon suggested we stay here.
“How does it feel now?” he asks, glancing at my leg, which is stretched out in front of me. It’s hard to get comfortable on the ground.
“Still swollen. And sore,” I say.
He waves my foot toward his lap. “Put it up here and let me look at it.”
