by Todd Shryock
Could it be possible in this incredible place that his parents were here, too? Some how alive and well and waiting for him? He turned toward them and watched the landscape speed by and focused everything on them. As he got closer, he could make out his mother’s hair, and his father’s hand waved in greeting. He could see their smiles. A wash of joy raced through his heart.
Then everything was gone. The air was stale, and blackness was surrounding him. His hopes faded as he felt the lingering pain in his limbs return. He could feel himself breathing. Wherever he had been, that place was gone now. He took a deep breath and took inventory of his aches and pains. The memory of the beating came back to him and he winced at the thought. But things were better now. His eyes were still tender, but he could tell they weren’t swollen shut anymore. He opened them, but saw nothing. He could feel the coolness of stone under his cheek and arms and he knew he was lying face down on a floor somewhere. He tried to raise his head to get a better look at his surroundings, but his head hit stone before he had barely moved. In fact, it was so low, he couldn’t turn his head to look the other way.
The boy momentarily panicked. He quickly flailed about with both hands grasping for openness, but they only confirmed what he had first feared. He was in a stone space barely tall enough for him to fit into. His hands and legs couldn’t find any defined edges, but wherever he was, he was wedged in pretty good.
The boy’s heart raced. Was he entombed? Had the two boys left him here to die? He forced himself to take deep breaths and relax. He felt around with his fingers and carefully dragged himself to his right to try to find some way out. The stone was cool and slightly damp, so he figured he was underground. After a few feet, his hand found a wall. His fingers danced across it. He could feel the mortar lines among the stones. He was in something manmade, so maybe it was a tomb. The boy worked his way along the wall until he found another wall a few feet further on. A few minutes of further exploration revealed he was in a space about two body lengths square with no apparent doors or other openings.
Despair sunk in. He was trapped. Entombed to die a slow, miserable death. His hands searched for solace in the cool stone beneath him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear as it rested on the rock. Slow and steady it beat. But for how long? He knew that about three days was all you could survive without water. So he had three days to wait. And after that, he hoped that he could return to the place that he saw in his dreams and find that plain with the two figures once more.
The boy found himself dragging his body over to one of the walls once more. He began pushing and pulling on any stone he could feel, hoping to find a weak spot. He worked his way around the entire chamber but could find no escape. Worn out and already starting to get a little thirsty, he gave up. He laughed at his own folly. What if the chamber were buried in the earth? Knocking a hole in the wall would only reveal a mountain of dirt to be moved. The darkness and tightness of the space were disorienting and he was already getting confused as to which way was up. He might knock out the wall and only end up digging deeper.
Couldn’t this just end now? Why did he have to wait through three long days of suffering? A wave of sadness rocked his young, battered body. Sobs came from his throat, but he stopped them. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry since the day his mother didn’t show up, and he wasn’t going to start now. He would wait out his time, and he hoped, rejoin her on the other side. He calmed himself by taking a few deep breaths and drifted off to sleep.
No dreams came. No majestic plains; no fantastic creatures; no visions of beauty. He came out of his slumber and wished he could go right back in. His face hurt from lying on the stone and the skin was rubbed raw from the coarseness of the rock. His neck ached from being in the same position and he was finding it harder to breathe as his ribs hurt from the continued weight of his body pressing down on them. He had no idea whether it was day or night, for his black tomb gave no clues. His ragged clothes weren’t providing much warmth and the cool underground air was beginning to give him a chill. Thirst burned in his throat and his mouth was dry. Hunger began to gnaw at his stomach. Quinton knew that he might crack up mentally long before his body gave up physically. There was nothing to do in his hole except think about his predicament, and that led to a deep melancholy that kept begging the question, why me?
As the time slowly passed, he became acutely aware of every ache and pain in his body: the coldness of his fingers, the dull pain in his cheek, the sharp throbbing of his elbow, the aching of his head. Every smell had been identified and catalogued in his mind. The cool rock smelled of damp earth and sand. Small bits of what must be some sort of underground moss or mold gave off an odor that unfortunately reminded him of bread.
As he laid there perfectly still, his finger occasionally tracing the mortar line around a stone to his right, his left leg sensed what felt like slightly warmer air. He concentrated on that ever-so-slight sensation, trying to determine if it was real or imagined. It wasn’t much of a difference, but he believed it was real. He pulled himself around to face the other wall, and began carefully feeling along the stone for its source. He held his hand just in front of the wall, trying to sense any change in temperature. As he neared the corner, he felt it. A slight change in temperature and even a hint of air movement. He touched the wall with his right hand and felt around the rough stone, searching for its source. His fingers traced every mortar line and his palm glided across every stone. Finally he found it. In between two smaller rocks were two round holes. Not natural openings, for they were perfectly round – these were manmade and had been put there on purpose. He took his finger and stuck it in first one hole, then the other. They were small tubes through the stone. How long they were, he couldn’t tell, for they were longer than his finger was. The boy slipped his hand under his head to try to ease the pain in his cheek. His head pressed against the ceiling as he pondered what the significance of the holes was.
They were put there on purpose, and the only purpose he could think of was to provide air to his tiny chamber. Maybe the boys hadn’t left him to die. Maybe this wasn’t a tomb after all, but a prison. At first the boy was excited, but then realized that his stay in the chamber might now be for more than just a few days. It might be for years. Perhaps gruel and water would be poured down those holes to nourish him. He tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t eat it, but the growing pangs of his empty stomach told him otherwise. And he’d do just about anything for a sip of water right now. He decided to lie with his head close to the holes in case food or water came out of them. He wouldn’t want to miss his chance if it ever came.
Quinton waited in the timeless darkness of his prison. He tried to entertain himself by flicking a small piece of rock across the floor with his finger. He made up two team names and saw which one could flick it further or closest to the wall. He counted stones on the wall. He counted his heartbeats. He tried to sing a song, but his voice was raspy and his throat dry. He tapped on the rock with his fingers and saw how far away from his body he could move it before he could no longer hear it. He thought about the baker’s cart and the delicious soft bread, but that seemed to make his stomach angry, so he thought about the albino rat he had seen several times near where he slept in his pile of leaves and rags on the street. It always looked at him funny as if it were trying to figure out what he was doing there. The boy wished he knew the answer to that question, too. Why had he been turned out on the streets? Why did his mother and father have to die? Why did he have to be put in this place? All he did was take a little bread to eat, and this is what he got as punishment? He closed his eyes to replace one darkness with another and tried to adjust his body as best he could to get comfortable. He drifted off to sleep once more.
His dreams were troubled. People were chasing him through the streets. Boys were beating him. Disease and starvation wracked his body. He ran to his sleeping spot on the street to escape, but the white rat was in it. It stood up on its hind legs and looked at him. You don’t b
elong here, it said without speaking, its whiskered nose twitching. In the strange realm of dreams, the boy understood that the white rat walked alone. Its own kind wouldn’t associate with it. The white rat wanted to run away, but there was no place to run to. You have choices to make, it said in his mind. Choose carefully, or you will be like me. The rat turned and disappeared into the pile of leaves and rags next to the building the boy once considered home. He didn’t understand what the rat was talking about, and before he could think about it any more, the scene changed to the old lady’s house where he had worked before being turned out on the streets. The man that told him to leave and never come back was there with her, and he glared at the boy. He was angry he was in the house again. He turned to leave, but there was no door. Have some tea, the woman said. She had never given him tea before. Have some tea with me. The boy found himself moving toward the kitchen. The teakettle was boiling over an open fire next to an open door. Through the doorway was a grassy plain that stretched forever. The boy had the teapot in his hand and was pouring two cups as he looked out on the plain. Nothing was out there. Nothing moved. Come, boy, she said. Let us have our tea now. The boy turned from the door with the tea in his hand. The dream faded and was gone.
He awoke with a start, but nothing in his tiny world had changed. He could still see nothing, and the only sound was that of his heart in his ears. His stomach had become a constant gnawing pain in his gut and his arm and leg muscles were starting to cramp on a regular basis, causing him great discomfort. His calf muscle would suddenly become so tense that he had to constantly massage it best he could to relieve the pain. That would go away, only to be replaced by his bicep locking up so hard that he thought the muscle would burst. His body was turning into a symphony of agony, with one pain trumping the next. The barrage of pain left him little time to think about his predicament, for things were falling apart fast. He had no idea how long he had been in the prison but guessed it to be days. The entire front of his body was numb from lying in the same position for so much time. He had drifted into and out of sleep, most of it dark restless sleep devoid of dreams, every few hours or so, but couldn’t sleep for what seemed like any decent amount of time. The constant napping skewed his sense of time and he had lost all track of it long ago.
But regardless of what time or day it was in the outside world, he knew his time was rapidly running out. The craving for water was starting to drive him mad. He began to have thoughts that at first seemed unreasonable but then became plausible as time went on. He laughed to himself. Yes, it might work.
The boy began scraping at the mortar lines of the stones along the wall. He hoped to wear them down enough to knock a stone free and then use the opening and the loose stone to knock the next rocks out until there was an opening to escape out of. His hands dragged along the rough mortar, the jagged edges and coarse stone tearing back at his flesh. He kept scraping, to no avail, his arm hurting from holding his hand out and his body straining under the effort. He had little energy left. He furiously began to tear at the mortar and rock, tearing at it in a mad effort to remove the object blocking his survival. His hand moved faster and faster until it was being torn and shredded by the rock. His nails were dragging on the stone; something had to work. He no longer felt pain in his hand as he continued the attack, scraping, scraping, scraping.
His frustration grew as he could feel no progress being made. He shouted out in a raspy cry of defiance as his hand made one last mighty effort, but the rock wouldn’t budge and his body gave out. His arm collapsed from the exhaustive effort and he lie in the cool darkness trying to catch his breath. He moved his hand closer to his face. He could feel the pain from his wounded hand, but it was distant, as if it were in a dream. He felt moisture on his fingers and pushed them into his mouth. The rusty taste of blood was strong, but it was moisture for his parched mouth and he took it willingly.
After the last drop of blood was gone, he lay there alone, knowing the end was near. His anger built. He took deeper and deeper breaths as the rage started to take hold of him. He moved both his hands up by his shoulders and place them palm down on the stone. He started to push up, with his back pressed to the ceiling. If he couldn’t claw his way out, he would summon some inhuman strength from within and lift the rocks off of him. With a mighty yell, he pushed with every bit of energy he had left. It was boy versus rock, and he was determined to win. He visualized himself pushing off his rock coffin as if it were nothing more than a bulky winter cloak. His muscles strained under the effort and he felt his arms shaking. He started to black out from the strain. He let out another yell.
As he felt the ceiling starting to give way, joy flooded his body and gave him renewed strength. The rock lifted up, and he felt it slide off his back, and warm, fresh air rushed in and sunlight spilled into his hole. He stood up and heard the rocks crumble behind him into a pile. He stood triumphant on a grassy plain, sunshine warming his face.
“I’m free,” he tried to shout, but his voice was raspy and hardly any sound came out. He looked at his hand and it was uninjured, with not a sign of blood. His face was numb, and when he tried to massage it with his hand, he couldn’t feel anything. He took a deep breath and only could smell dank stone.
A startled breath brought him back. He had not moved the ceiling at all. He was still in his prison; the effort of trying to move the rock above him had pushed him beyond his limit and expended the last of his energy. He was too exhausted to move his arms and massage the calf muscle that was now cramping again. He was too tired to lick from his hand the blood that was seeping out again. He was too tired to try to reposition his head to get it off the small, sharp pebble it was now lying on. He was too tired to go on.
He began to wonder if the dark reality he lived in was real and that everything else in his life was nothing but a dream. He couldn’t feel any of his body anymore and he was a detached consciousness floating in a never-ending sea of darkness. Perhaps this was who he was, a lost soul in the void. All else – parents, friends, enemies – were just things he dreamed of while sleeping. Maybe he had created that reality from his nothingness. There was no family. There was no home. There was no world, only this emptiness that surrounded him. He wanted to go back to the dream world again. Please take me out of this, he pleaded with himself. Who else was there to plead to? There were no gods here. He was the only being, and he seemed powerless to do anything about it.
He waited, but nothing happened. Even his mind started to fade, as if he were watching himself walk away. His thoughts became dimmer until they, too, faded away into the darkness. All that was left was the simple awareness of self-being. Time, or what seemed like time in the void, passed. Even the self-awareness began to fade. Only darkness remained.
Slowly, his thoughts returned to him. There was something bringing him back. A noise; a steady tapping of rock. He tried to reorient himself, but his thoughts were jumbled in his head. He was in the void, darkness around him, with no sense of reality except the tapping sound.
Tap, tap, tap. Then something broke and crumbled. Reality came back in another small dose. He began to smell the rock again. He knew he should be able to feel it, too, but could feel nothing. His mind wanted to see, but the darkness prevailed, and he couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or shut.
Tap, tap, tap. Voices came to him. He felt a force tugging on him, but he couldn’t move and was afraid of what the source would be. An odd glow lit the void but revealed nothing of detail, only a pinkish color that obscured the nothingness. The air changed. It became slightly warmer and fresher. There was another crumbling sound and the voices came again, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though he knew he should be able to. The tapping stopped. A force grabbed him and pulled him the way a river pulls a twig down its course. He wanted to resist but couldn’t. He felt himself floating up into the warm air, drifting off into nothingness as the voices chattered on around him. He bobbed and weaved in the currents of the void for a while, th
en the force set him down. Cast aside, he saw a bright light that began to warm his face. He felt a presence, and something pressed up against his head. The boy imagined cool water soaking through his parched mouth and he thanked the presence for the gift, but then suddenly his breath was gone. The water was choking him and he began to cough.
His senses returned. He choked out the last of the water and opened his eyes. He was in a tiny room with a small window that cast sunlight onto his face. He was lying on a small cot and there were two men, one kneeling next to him with a ladle of water and the other standing near the small door.
“Thought you were gone there for a minute,” the man kneeling over him said. “Take another sip of water.” He tipped the ladle up to the boy’s lips.
The boy greedily gulped the water and tried to take the ladle, but the man pulled it away.
“You must take it slow or you’ll make it worse. Men have drowned on land drinking water after they’ve been dry for too long.”
The boy took as much water as the man would allow him to have, then laid his head back on the cot. He looked at the man with the ladle. He was older, his face creased with deep wrinkles. His hair was thin and gray and combed straight back. He was a rough-looking character, but not threatening in his manner. His deep brown eyes showed a toughness in the man, and his large, strong hands belied physical strength, as well. Quinton had heard the man’s voice before, but wasn’t sure where.
