Nocturnes (2004)

by John Connolly

  Clements and Molton had become believers in the merits of rope following an encounter with the legendary Irish scientist and climber John Tyndall in London some years earlier. In 1858, Tyndall had successfully completed his first solo ascent of Monte Rosa without the aid of guides, porters, or provisions, and with only a ham sandwich and a bottle of tea to sustain him. Only the most foolhardy of critics would dare to impugn the bravery of such a man. In 1860, he had aroused considerable controversy when he ascribed the blame for the deaths of two Englishmen and a guide on the Alpine slope of Col du Geant to inadequate use of ropes. Clements and Molton had read Tyndall’s letter to The Times concerning the accident, and the correspondence that quickly followed. When, in the spring of 1861, Tyndall invited the Alpine climber and guide, Auguste Balmat, to speak at the British Museum, the two men were in attendance, and later enjoyed a supper with Tyndall. By the time he was finished with them, it was all that they could do not to seek out the nearest rope maker and set him to work on miles of stout line.

  Thus it was that Clements and Molton were clad in what was, for the time, considered more than suitable attire for a descent beneath the earth: stout boots, strong tweeds, and stiff leather gloves. Lengths of rope lay coiled at their feet, alongside two packs filled with water, some roast chicken, two loaves of freshly baked bread, and a flask of burgundy. They had brought four lanterns with them, and enough fuel to give them light for about twelve hours, although they expected to be belowground for no more than half of that time.

  Molton’s gaze drifted across the rocky landscape, then alighted like a crow on a vertical wooden stave that stood off to his right.

  “I say, what do you think that is?” he said, pointing with his right hand.

  Clements squinted, then walked toward the pole. It was about three feet in height, and was set deeply into the ground. A metal ring hung from the top, adorned with strands of old rope.

  “It looks like a tethering post,” said Clements.

  “Odd place to tether an animal,” Molton replied.

  Clements shrugged.

  “They’re odd people.”

  He rubbed his hands together and headed back to the opening in the rock.

  “Right, then,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

  While Clements anchored the rope, Molton checked the kit and tested the lamps.

  “How deep did you say this was?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Clements replied. “Couple of hundred feet, maybe.”

  “Huh. A few hundred feet doesn’t sound like much of an abyss.”

  “It’s merely an estimate,” said Clements. “It could be more. Nobody knows. It’s virgin territory.”

  The Wakeford Abyss, as it was known locally, extended for about fifty feet along the south face of Bledstone Hill, like a scar in the earth that had never quite healed. At its widest point it opened to about twenty feet, narrowing at either extreme to mere inches before losing itself among the bare rocks. By standing on its very edge, one could see only the first fifteen feet of the interior before the curvature of the rock blocked out the sunlight.

  It was not entirely clear what had caused this geological anomaly and, in truth, few in the region cared much to discover more about it. Clements and Molton had dined at Wakeford’s sole inn the night before, and made efforts to plumb the depths of local knowledge about the hole torn in the hillside. For their troubles they received a hodgepodge of myth, tall tales, and regional superstitions. The abyss was said to be the lair of a dragon in ancient times, according to one regular at the bar. Another claimed that it was formerly known as The Devil’s Hole, a name as much bound up with the locals’ penchant for earthy humor as with any satanic origins. There was talk of druidic sacrifices, of long-dead lords tethering animals to the rocks as a means of appeasing the appetites of whatever lay within. As the evening wore on, and the beer flowed more freely, the stories grew more and more extreme in their details until a credulous listener might have felt that Bledstone Hill contained every form of devilment known to man, and more besides.

  Finally, while they were finishing their ales in preparation for bed, a farmer took the seat nearest to the two ex-soldiers. He was a small man, with the dark, worn features of one who has spent most of his life out-of-doors confronting the harshest of elements. The other men and women at the bar did not greet him by name, although they followed his progress carefully as he crossed the floor to join the two strangers.

  “I hear you gentleman are intent upon visiting the abyss tomorrow,” he said.

  Molton advised him that yes, that was indeed the case.

  “Have you another tall tale to add to our collection?” asked Clements. “We seem to be accumulating quite a number.”

  The impatience was audible in his voice. Clements had earlier hoped for some useful information that might have aided them in their exploration, but two hours spent in the best company that Wakeford could offer had left him no wiser than before, although slightly poorer and considerably more weary.

  “No, I’m not much of a one for telling tales,” replied the farmer. “But my fields lie at the base of Bledstone Hill, and you’ll be passing through them tomorrow on your journey, I don’t doubt.”

  “We’ll take care to close the gates,” said Molton. “You don’t have to be concerned.”

  The farmer took a sip of his beer.

  “I’m not concerned about gates,” he said. “I told you: I don’t have any tall tales to share with you, but I do know this: there was a time when flocks grazed on the lower reaches of Bledstone. They do so no longer.”

  Clements shrugged. “We’ve seen it from afar. It doesn’t look as if there would be much grazing there.”

  “Sheep, and goats more, will find food in the barest of places,” said the farmer. “This is hard land, and we can’t be choosy about how we fill the bellies of our livestock. But I’ve lost animals on Bledstone, and never found them again, and now I’d be hard pressed to make even sheep graze on that hill. They don’t like it, so I leave them where they are.”

  Molton and Clements exchanged a glance, and the farmer picked up on their skepticism.

  “I don’t expect you gentlemen to listen to much that I have to say. You’re from the city. Army men too, I should say. You think you’ve seen it all, and it may be that you’ve seen much, it’s true. But I’ve found substances on the rocks, sticky in the morning sun, as though something had passed that way in the night. I’ve found the bodies of birds drained of life. You talk to other people here, the ones who kept their own counsel tonight, and you’ll hear the same from them.”

  “Nonsense,” scoffed Clements.

  Molton, ever the diplomat, attempted a more conciliatory tone.

  “Has anyone ever seen anything?” he asked. “I mean, it’s all well and good telling us these things, but Clements here has a point: there could be a hundred explanations for what you’ve just told us, and none of them stranger than the next.”

  The farmer shook his head. He seemed untroubled by the doubts expressed by the two men, as though he were so certain of the truth in his own mind that he had long since learned to hide his frustration with those who chose not to listen.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve not seen anything, and anyway there are precautions taken now to keep it at bay. Whatever’s down there knows better than to show itself too, for fear of being exposed or hunted. I’d say it tries to venture out only when it’s desperate, and can live long on the poorest of suppers. It’s been in the abyss for a long, long time, and must be old now, older than any of us can imagine. Why should that be so hard for you to believe? From what I hear, they’re finding new creatures all the time, animals that nobody could ever have imagined existed living quietly in remote places. Why not here, under the ground?”

  Despite his better judgment, Clements found himself drawn into the debate.

  “I accept that such things can be,” he said, “but why has nobody ever encountered one? Surely such an animal would
be glimpsed, even at a distance. Even the shyest of nocturnal creatures exposes itself to view at some point.”

  “Because it’s not like them,” said the farmer simply. “They’re poor dumb animals. Some may be more cunning than others, but in the end they’re just no match for us. Whatever’s down there knows how to keep hidden. I’d say it’s sensitive to us. It’s learned how to wait.”

  And with that he departed, leaving Molton and Clements to finish their beer alone before tipping a small bow to the landlord and heading to bed.

  Now they were on the brink of the abyss, and the tales of ribald drunks and fearful farmers were almost forgotten. When Clements had completed his work, the two men exchanged roles, each examining the other’s preparations. Upon finding that all was in order, Molton took to the rope and, after pausing for a moment or two upon the lip of the chasm, slipped over the edge. After some time had elapsed, Clements felt a double tug on the rope. He moved to the rim and shouted down.

  “All well?”

  “Splendid,” came the reply.

  Molton was invisible to him, due to the nature of the incline at the entrance to the abyss, although Clements thought he could discern the faintest hint of artificial light.

  “You have to see this, old chap,” continued Molton. “In your own time, of course.”

  Within minutes, Clements had joined his companion on a wide lip of rock that jutted out from the side of the chasm, the twin lights of their lamps hanging in the blackness. Neither man spoke, both overawed by their surroundings.

  They were in a cathedral of stone. The abyss, narrow at its entrance, began to widen at the point where no further sunlight could penetrate, quickly extending to hundreds of feet in circumference. In the light of their lanterns they saw wondrous stalactites hanging like melted wax. Crystals gleamed, surrounded by great frozen waterfalls of stone. It was wonderfully cool, with a hint of moisture to the air.

  “Careful, old man,” said Molton, as his companion drew perilously close to the edge of the shelf. Clements stopped, his heels almost on the very rim of the stone. His eyes shone brightly in the flickering light.

  “My God,” he whispered. “Look.”

  The walls of the cavern were covered in paintings, reaching almost to the cleft in the earth that had enabled them to enter. Clements could see images of men and women, some running, others lying torn and half consumed, their remains shaded in pale yellows and faded reds. The depictions were crude, almost symbolic. There were triangles for faces and blurs for clothing, so that seen from close up the images would have been almost unintelligible. But viewed at some distance, they were more easily understood.

  Molton joined the smaller man, his own lantern lifted. The combined light revealed more of the paintings, confirming the great extent of the work.

  “Who did this?” asked Molton.

  “More to the point: how was it done?” said Clements, as he began walking to his left, attempting to find the limits of the artwork. “These look very old. A man would need scaffolding to paint that rock face, maybe even—”

  He stopped. He was now at the farthest extreme of the outcrop, yet the paintings continued. Despite a sheer drop barely inches from where he stood, the images extended, both vertically and horizontally.

  “Incredible,” he said.

  “What a find!” said Molton. “It’s amazing, simply amazing.”

  Clements didn’t reply. Instead, he lay on his belly, attached a rope to the ring of his lantern, and slowly lowered it down. After another fifty feet, the lantern came to rest upon what they could see was a much larger ledge, which appeared to run around at least half the circumference of the cavern.

  “What do you think, old man?” he asked Molton. “Did you get that smell as we were descending?”

  “Like oil, but worse,” said Molton. “Nasty stuff.”

  “It was fresh, as though it had been poured over the rim recently. Now why do you suppose someone would do that?”

  He hefted his ax in his hand.

  “To discourage us?” Molton suggested.

  “To discourage something,” answered Clements. “Perhaps that’s what was meant by ‘precautions.’ ”

  “It would take us a long time to get back to the village,” said Molton. “Even then, what would we tell them?”

  “Nothing that they don’t already know, I expect,” said Clements.

  “Well, we’re here now,” Molton concluded. “Might as well take the shilling tour as the tuppenny one.”

  Once again, he assumed the lead, puffing slightly as he made his way down the rope. Clements watched his light grow smaller and smaller, like a life force slowly dwindling. He swatted the thought away. Nearly there now, he thought. Another ten feet, another five—

  Suddenly, the rope was wrenched from his hands, almost dragging him over the side with it. Pressing the sole of his boot against a hollow in the base of the rock, he attempted to arrest his progress, the smell of burning leather assailing his nostrils. Somehow Molton must have fallen. Perhaps he had missed the ledge, or they had misjudged its weight-bearing capacity.

  “Hold on!” he shouted. “Hold on, Molton! I’ve got you.”

  But then, almost as soon as it had begun, the rope stopped its movement. Breathing hard, Clements tied it firmly around a stalagmite and scrambled to the edge. He leaned over, the lantern in his hand, and saw Molton’s light on the ledge below. The rope was there too, winding into the shadows where the lantern could not reach.

  “Molton?” he shouted.

  There was no reply.

  He tried again, and thought he detected sounds of scuffling from below.

  “Hello! Molton!”

  The noises ceased.

  Clements thought for a moment. It was clear now that Molton was injured, or worse, although Clements had no idea how the accident had occurred. He would have to descend and tend to his companion as best he could before seeking assistance from the world above. Most of the food was in Molton’s pack, but Clements had the first-aid kit, as well as some of the chicken. He would leave it all with Molton before ascending, he thought, as he checked the rope before making his way down to his friend.

  He carefully descended, wary now of what lay beneath. Three feet from the ledge, he paused. The stone face of the chasm was more uneven here, with hollows and crevasses. The ledge itself, though, was relatively smooth. Molton’s cap rested upon it, beside the remains of his lantern, which had shattered upon impact.

  Clements allowed himself to slide down the remaining feet of rope and touched the rock gingerly with his feet. It felt firm, as he had expected it would. After all, he had heard no sound of collapse when the rope began to burn through his hands. Whatever had occasioned the accident, it was not the ledge giving out beneath Molton’s weight.

  Clements placed his feet firmly on the rock, then tried to find some trace of his friend. He picked up the rope and began to follow it, tracing it across the ledge and behind a rocky outcrop. There it disappeared into what appeared to be a narrow cavern, accessible through a cleft in the rock face.

  Lantern raised, Clements approached the entrance.

  “Molton?” he called.

  Again, he heard sounds of movement. He extended his arm, attempting to illuminate the space within…

  And caught sight of the upper half of Molton’s body, lying flat upon the ground. His face was turned toward Clements, and his eyes were wide open. Blood flowed from the corners of his mouth, but his lips appeared gummed up by a white sticky material. Molton reached out his right hand, and Clements was about to enter the cavern to take it when the older man’s body shuddered and he slid some inches to his right. As Clements raised the lantern, he saw that Molton’s legs had almost entirely disappeared into a hole at the base of the cavern wall, drawn inward by some unseen force. There were more paintings here, but Clements barely registered their presence as he laid down the lamp and gripped his companion beneath the arms. Neither did he take time to examine the bones strew
n upon the floor, the corrosion upon them a testament to the age of those from whom they had come.

  “I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  There came another tug on Molton’s body, this time drawing him forward almost to the level of his waist, where any further progress was arrested by his girth. Whatever was pulling him toward it paused in its efforts, either disturbed by the sound of Clements’s voice or by the fact that it was unable to haul its catch farther into its lair.

  Molton held on tightly to Clements’s arm.

  “It’s not taking you anywhere, old man,” said Clements. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you go.”

  He took a firmer grip on Molton’s chest.

  “On three,” he said. “One. Two.”

  Molton tensed himself as Clements pulled.

  “Three!”

  A warm spray struck Clements’s face and he was momentarily blinded as Molton was freed. The two men stumbled back against the wall, Molton shaking uncontrollably as Clements struggled to clear his vision. Slowly, Clements felt Molton grow still. He looked down and saw the life leave the remains of his companion.

  Whatever was drawing Molton into the hole had proved reluctant to cede its prey, for his lower body was almost entirely missing, apart from a section of his left leg, which already appeared to be rotting on the bone, turning to fluid even as Clements watched.

  Clements scrambled away, trying hard to keep his breakfast down.

  “Christ!” he shouted. “Oh Christ.”

  And in the light of the lantern he glimpsed motion through the hole at the base of the rock. A sprinkling of black eyes gleamed, and Clements saw palps test the air, and venom drip from elongated fangs. A great stink seemed to rise from inside the chamber, and then legs appeared, spiny and jointed, each more than two feet long, as the spider began to force a way through the gap. Clements could see others moving behind it, could hear the dull scraping of their bodies as they brushed against one another. He responded with the best weapon he had to hand. Gripping the lantern, he flung it as hard as he could at the emerging creatures. The lantern shattered instantly, sending flames shooting up the cavern wall and dousing the spiders in burning oil as Clements fled, using the light from the flames to spy the rope dangling before him. He gripped it and began to climb, listening for any sounds coming from below, until he felt the upper ledge beneath his fingers. There he paused, and with his pocketknife he cut the rope that led down before lighting his remaining lantern in preparation for the last ascent back to the world he knew. He stood and gave the dangling rope a single pull. There was a momentary resistance before it fell from above and landed in a heap at his feet.