2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  “You’ve saved my life!” the old-timer replied.

  The mayor pushed the nugget back across the table.

  The old-timer returned the gold to the pouch and more spirits were brought to the table, and after a while he shared a curious tale that later some attributed either to drink or delirium—although his somber expression and stony delivery made Aaron wonder if the embellishment contained elements of truth.

  He said he was a prospector who had traveled far and wide in search of treasure, though rarely discovering enough to pay for more than a few weeks’ lodging.

  Producing a wrinkled piece of parchment paper, he explained it was a map to a cavern with passages inside that an ancient race had mined, though it had long since been abandoned. For a small price, he’d bought it, he said, from a dying man.

  The villagers snatched the paper and passed it between them, shaking their heads. The ink had long since faded. Someone cussed softly.

  The prospector insisted it had once been legible. It had brought him to this village. Eventually he’d discovered a cavern. He added that he’d stayed in the village a fortnight—less than a month ago.

  A few of the men laughed.

  One said: “Stranger, how is it that you were ’ere—in our little parish—a month ago and not one of us ’ere remembers ye?”

  The stranger’s weary gaze circled the onlookers. Face flushed, he poured himself more drink and imbibed. Breathing heavily, he said, “For me a month has passed. I marked the days off on me calendar. But I spent twenty days in that hole. When I walked in I was a young man twenty-two years old. And now you see me—I must look seventy if I look a day.”

  A man in the back cleared his throat and spat.

  The prospector continued, “When I was here, thirty days ago, I sat at this very table with Agnes and Samuel Heathe and a man named Jurgens.”

  “Liar,” said another, lunging and grabbing the prospector by the throat. Reflexively, Aaron pulled off the attacker and got elbowed in the nose.

  Then there was chaos, swearing and shouting. Drinking goblets were hurled and men wrestled on the floor.

  In his foggy memory, he can’t remember seeing the prospector again. He’s unsure if anybody saw him leave. He does remember one more occurrence that evening, standing outside in the rain with an old woman. She recalled a handsome young man fifty years earlier, a prospector who stayed there a fortnight. That’s what she said.

  • • •

  Several years later on a springtime noon-hour, Kaleb—now a short and sandy-haired boy of six—and Aaron sat on bluff two miles from the village and picnicked.

  In nearby trees birds squawked and a brook gurgled from a rocky outcropping. Smells of grass and blossoming trees sweetened the air. Wildflowers were abuzz with bees. Kaleb was devouring a peach, his face smeared with juicy pulp, his eyes giddy with the innocence of youth. A few farmhouses dotted the valley below, and a clay road divided a grassy field—a pair of squiggly lines twisting through golden-green. Crossing the valley, a group of stick figures walked slowly beside a wooden cart drawn by three goats. The Hawthorne clan. The daughter, Anna, a raven-haired lass a year younger than Kaleb, was skipping and swinging her arms, little puffs of dust rising in her wake.

  “They’re tiny as toys,” Kaleb said, his voice a cheerful squeak.

  “Yes,” said Aaron. “This is quite the vantage point.”

  “If we had wings we could fly down to them in seconds.”

  “Perhaps,” Aaron replied. “Maybe someday you can build something that will have the same effect.”

  “You could do it at home, Papa. All you need is wood, rope, and paper.”

  Aaron beamed. “I haven’t the skill.”

  “You do, Papa!”

  “I can imagine it, Kaleb, but I don’t think I’d be successful.”

  “You can! You can do anything, if you try.…” His eyes were wide. “Will you just try?”

  A breeze blew against them, more invigorating than unpleasant.

  “I have a better idea,” Aaron said. “Tomorrow, we’ll build a kite. Would you like that? Would you like to fly a kite?”

  “Not just a kite, Papa. A real flying machine. Please, Papa! Please!”

  “Let’s rinse our hands in the stream,” Aaron said, changing the subject, “and then explore this area a bit. Maybe we can find a bird’s nest.”

  A few minutes later they discovered the cave’s mouth—a crack the width of a man’s body, an almost unnoticeable hollow in the moss-covered rock, camouflaged by ferns and flying insects, and a small waterfall cut with sunlight producing a colorful mist.

  “Look at that!” the boy shrieked. “A rainbow.”

  • • •

  Aaron awoke, startled. A trail of phlegm was dripping from his mouth to the cave’s floor. Shivering, he spat and wiped his hand across his lips and beard.

  Somewhere far off was a repetitious beat.

  Footsteps.

  He hauled himself to his feet.

  In the dark void a light flickered, no larger than the glow of a firefly, swirling and bobbing in the blackness. After a while, the glow waxed and a flame illuminated the approaching torchbearer, a lanky figure hunched over to fit the narrow confines of the passage.

  “Is it you?” Aaron cried. “Kaleb?”

  “Whom were you expecting?” came the reply. “The devil?”

  The torchbearer’s voice was deep, unrecognizable. A moment later, a tall youth stood before him, the face gaunt but familiar.

  “This is the passage,” the youth said. “From everything you’ve told me… this is… the way.”

  Aaron reached up and grabbed the other’s shoulders.

  “My my, Kaleb, it is you!”

  “Yes, Father. We must make haste.” Smoke from the torch was staining the limestone ceiling, blackening it. Kaleb stooped to one knee. “I saw daylight.”

  “How far?”

  “Together—maybe two or three hours.”

  Aaron groaned.

  “This is our only option,” Kaleb insisted.

  “Okay,” Aaron said. “Okay.”

  “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “What is that? Near your eye?”

  Aaron stroked his face and touched a small round growth. He felt a similar pustule on his cheek.

  “A boil or abscess of some type. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Then let us go now.”

  Hunched over, they marched through the shoulder-high, nearly cylindrical passage which was the color and texture of bronzed marble—glistening and dripping in places, like a giant’s throat, wet with saliva.

  For a good while they traveled like this, following the tunnel as it gradually ascended, and by and by, the air was warmer, the cave less damp, and the ceiling high. They no longer needed to hunch and they swung their arms freely.

  The slope leveled. Now the walking was even easier, and Aaron thought: He has grown fine and strong. I am proud. Glad for him. Proud to have him. Proud to know him. But this—this is all we have. As good as it gets. Maybe he doesn’t know this yet, maybe he does. Surely things can only grow worse. If by some miracle we get out, the cave will attempt to draw us back. That’s its nature. Or perhaps my faculties are diminishing? Maybe forces in this cave have possessed me and made me a part of their sickness?

  Trying to guide his thoughts to a pleasanter tableau, he whistled a tune he’d heard in childhood. His breath was weak but the whistling was amplified by the limestone walls—any being within a few hundred feet would hear it—and he believed this category only included bats or albino salamanders: they’d found very few living things. Once, at the bottom of a cliff, they’d found a human skeleton, some bones broken but mostly intact. They’d also stumbled upon scattered staffs of straight timber, sometimes in bundles, that they had used to replace the torches when they were burning low. Kaleb had found artifacts of stone, arrowheads or spear tips, perhaps from some ancient race. Whether other living beings still inhabited
this cavern, larger animals or humans, he was undecided, but there were times when a gust of air or unidentifiable sound from far off would make the hairs on his neck rise, and he’d feel sweat trickling down his back.

  They arrived at a chamber, twenty feet in diameter, with a dark ruddy hue.

  Four passages snaked off from the center, like the lines of the letter “X.” The passage opposite them appeared to be as level as the one that brought them here. The third passage, to the right, ascended gradually, while the fourth passage, to the immediate left, led downward, and from this, a cold draft emanated.

  “This looks familiar,” Aaron said, trying to remember as he removed his knapsack. “I suppose you know the way?”

  “I only explored the tunnel opposite,” replied Kaleb. “I would have tried the other routes if I’d had more time.”

  The older man drank from his bota bag, just enough to wet his throat, and held it out to his son, who declined.

  The chamber appeared empty but Aaron sensed the area had been occupied by others recently.

  “Is it your opinion,” said Aaron as he inserted the water bag into his knapsack, “that the other avenues at this junction do not need to be explored?”

  “The path I took,” Kaleb said, pointing with the torch, “leads to daylight… eventually.”

  “Might it make sense—and I am simply asking, not telling you, for, Kaleb, you’ve grown up quickly, nay, far quicker than my ability to understand, and I trust your judgment as much as I trust my own—therefore I ask if it makes sense to spend any time, even just a moment or two to see if the other passages may yield a less strenuous or quicker avenue toward our salvation than the one you know to be true?”

  “Father, I do not know. I only know how hard it has been to find a way out, and I know the way I scouted will lead us out. I have never been more sure.”

  Aaron leaned uncomfortably against a rock standing between the passage they had come from and the one that descended. Cold air from below blew against his perspiring hairline. He felt a chill.

  “I understand,” he said. “I just need another moment.”

  “To rest?”

  “No… I sense there’s something important I’m forgetting. I do not want to leave in haste.”

  “Of course.”

  From somewhere far off, Aaron thought he heard rushing water and the light tinkling of a bell.

  “Kaleb, how difficult is this next part of the journey?”

  His son sighed. “It is difficult, Father. I think we can do it in two hours. But I have never felt stronger—and though you seem.…”

  “I seem how?”

  “Perhaps less fit than the man who used to carry me on his shoulders.”

  “Ha!”

  “I still feel confident.”

  “But this brings us back to my idea—what if there are several exits? If we investigate the other routes, we should be able to quickly ascertain whether they can also lead us out, and if they’re less difficult, that’s to our benefit. On the other hand, if they appear to bear no fruit, we’ll simply take the option you have discovered.”

  Kaleb turned away from his father. “We’ve no time for such a diversion.”

  “What if we split up? You take the upper trail; I’ll take the downward. We’ll go for a length.…” His words trailed off as his son stooped at the edge of the chamber to examine something. There was a small stack of timber, maybe five or six pieces of wood no longer than a man’s arm. With the torch, Kaleb lit one of the logs and handed it to his father.

  “As you wish, Father. Let us go no farther than a hundred paces or longer than a quarter hour and meet back here.”

  “Now you sound like me.” He glanced at the passage before him and then back at Kaleb, who was already traversing the upward passage. “Go in God’s name. If you see the devil, tell him I quit.”

  His son’s torchlight receded and Aaron turned and entered the passage. Suddenly, he held slim hopes for the endeavor, and now, away from his son’s presence, he felt a foreboding gloom. Shadows clawed at him, poking at his face and eyes, as each step took him downward. (That’s what they were: steps. Crude but functional. Possibly carved centuries ago, for they were worn and bore no footprints.) He began to curse, his voice barely a whisper, and he berated himself for convincing his son that this dangerous tangent was worthwhile.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Kaleb was right. This stratagem would bear no fruit. Kaleb had grown quickly; his mind was sharp. Now, as a father, Aaron was no longer so quick or strong. He tried not to think about what lay ahead at the bottom of these steps, or if there was a bottom. Instead, he thought: Do we age faster when we’re apart, or only when we sleep? What will we be to each other next time we meet? He traipsed on. A cold draft blew against him and he could feel it finding his bones, penetrating his body as if he were a cold sponge. The steps turned back on themselves in a cylindrical corkscrew; he knew this descent would be easier than going back.

  Down… down… down.

  A few icicles hung from the ceiling.

  He stopped and removed his knapsack. As he drew out a leather glove, a thunderous rumbling shook the stairway and an ice-shard crashed near his feet. He clutched the rock and held the torch Kaleb had provided—a branch with enough fire for a half-hour.

  When stillness and quiet returned, he took another step.

  He would continue with the charade.

  Into the bowels, he thought.

  Step. Step. Step. Before he realized the steps were iced over, his feet slid out from under him, landing him painfully on his side. Groaning, he wondered if he had broken a rib. Two minutes passed before he was able to stand. With the pain somewhat lessened, he gingerly descended the next few steps. The staircase ended.

  Stretching into the distance was a narrow arch, a bridge bordered by two hollows. Chasms. If Kaleb were here, they would drop stones into the gorges to gauge the depths. To hell with that. To venture farther alone across an icy bridge would be crazy. This was certainly not the route to take. But it felt familiar, as if he had crossed the bridge in the past. About waist high there was a rock with a flat surface on which an arrow had been scribbled—an arrow pointing to the bridge with sloppy lettering above it that said NO WAY OUT. It looked like the lettering a small boy might make, and then he wondered if Kaleb had done it long ago and they had forgotten, and he began to get scared, not from the surroundings but for fear he was losing his mind.

  Several minutes later, he found himself back in the chamber with the four trails. Kaleb was there waiting.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were lost,” Kaleb said, hopping from one foot to the other, looking alarmed. “I told you no more than fifteen minutes. You were gone much longer.”

  “I fell on the ice.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. But there’s nothing down there. Was there anything your way?”

  “It’s caved in after thirty paces.”

  “Well,” Aaron said, wincing at the pain in his rib, “I should’ve listened.”

  “Ready to go on?”

  “Onward.”

  “We’ll rest soon,” Kaleb said, entering the passage. “There’s a wonderful spot up ahead. Fifteen minutes.”

  “Amen.”

  After ten paces, the tunnel constricted. A crevice confronted them.

  “It’s good we’re skinny,” Kaleb said.

  Dangling the knapsacks at their sides, they squeezed into the slot, stepping sideways, Kaleb in the lead. The old man’s torch had expired. He tossed it and winced, and let Kaleb get farther ahead, out of earshot of his groans.

  The crack narrowed and the wet walls pressed against him. The tip of his nose and back of his head brushed rock. His ribs scraped against stone; he thought his chest might collapse. And then he was stuck. Torso, legs, and boots wedged. Trying to shake free, he slammed his head. Everything slowed. From an odd angle, he spied a dreamy, almost frozen imag
e, the back of a woman’s head—long straight hair. She’s alone. Empty chairs. A crackling fire spitting orange sparks above the blaze.

  The image faded. Nuzzling his lips was wet rock, soaking his beard.

  He struggled to breathe. Tilting his head slightly, he inhaled as deep as he could and, with the knapsack hanging precariously from his fingertips, he exhaled and dug his fingernails into the limestone and push! push! lifted his legs and rammed his knee into the other wall and pointed the toes of his worn boots sideways and push! push! lifted himself into a wider slot of darkness. A moment later, the cave was ten feet wide and he was stumbling, his heart pounding.

  Kaleb held the torch close. “Father? How’re you holding up?”

  He breathed harder, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fine,” he croaked.

  They continued. The ground was shiny; water puddled here and there.

  “I hear a brook.”

  “Yes,” Kaleb said. “There’s a nice place ahead.”

  “Rest is what I need—”

  “But only briefly.” He stared at his father. “We can’t have the daylight outside waning—we may not be able to see the opening.”

  “Understood.”

  “Unless we wait for the sun to come back up.”

  “No need to repeat yourself.” He paused and tilted his head. “Stop. Shine that fire over here.”

  The young man directed the torch and illuminated a tiny pool on a limestone ledge, fed by a tongue-sized ripple. Each took turns holding the torch while the other drank deeply and then they rinsed their faces and hair. Stalactites ivory and amber dripped onto stalagmites which fed into smooth interstices. Beyond the pool were other pools, and the water cascaded from one pool to the next in a sweet melody, while the walls of the cave appeared bathed in a faint iridescence.