by Jeff Mills
“Well, somebody’s been here and that’s a fact.” The inspector shone his torch around the cave, even though the workers had installed battery LED lights. He went over to the cauldron and touched it. “You’re right; it is warm. Someone’s definitely been up to no good in here. Right, clear everything out ASAP. We don’t want anybody else messing about in here. By the looks of it, it could collapse at any time.”
“What about all these bottles and jars?” asked one of the labourers, pushing his hard hat onto the back of his head.
“The lot,” the inspector stressed but then, looking around he added, “Leave the broken ones. I’m sure the museum will have enough to do without having to piece together all that junk. Right, let’s get out of here.”
An hour later, the last of the workers exited the tunnel, looking very hot and sweaty. They strapped the boxes of bottles and jars between the coffins and placed the cauldron upside down on the back of the truck. With a toot of the horn, they drove off.
“Okay, fellows, drop it!” The foreman of the workers looked at the inspector who gave him a thumbs up and he in turn gave the driver of a tipper lorry loaded with large stones the thumbs up. The engine of the truck sounded with a belch of black diesel fumes from its exhaust. Slowly the back of the lorry began to lift. Small stones started to fall down the cliff, followed by more and more as the truck lifted its tailgate. Suddenly, a whole avalanche of stone and rocks poured down the short slope until the truck was empty. As the cloud of dust cleared, the entrance to the tunnel was no more.
“Let anyone try and get through that lot.” The inspector smirked and turned to leave.
He was just getting into the car when one of the workers, hard hat in hand, came up to him and thrust a piece of black cloth at him. “Do you need this?”
“What is it?” asked the inspector holding the item between his fingertips and spreading it out.
“Looks like some sort of old cloak,” replied the worker.
“You may be right. Where did you find it?”
“Oh, it was in that cave by the cooking pot.”
The inspector held it up and turned it, then, rolling it up, gave it back to the workman and said, “Sling it with the rest of the junk. I’m sure that the museum can sort it out.”
He buckled his seat belt and then told his sergeant to drive on. He was closely followed by the empty tipper lorry whose smoking exhaust fumes could still be seen hanging in the air long after it had disappeared down the road.
* * *
Peace returned to the cliff. The only noise that could be heard was the sound of the waves crashing and rolling the pebbles on the beach, getting slowly closer to the dust- covered rocks that sealed the cave, forever.
High above, a single seagull screeched as it soared in the thermals and from behind its head peered two small eyes. The seagull wheeled round and flew off, leaving just the sound of the waves and the rustle of the grass in the light breeze.
Chapter 52
The Survivor
The old cave was pitch black. The remains of the fire under where the old cauldron had hung had long since burnt its last, and the cinders were cold. The only sign of any activity was the constant drip, drip, drip of water from the roof into the puddles on the floor, which only seemed to add to the overpowering gloom now pervading the space.
The police and the forensic team had worked tirelessly over the past three days, examining and sifting through everything they could, taking away much of what was left in the cave for forensic examination. They had even taken the heavy cauldron to examine the remains of its contents, though this did cause problems when the two workmen delegated to remove it both slipped and fell over when they tried to pick it up. The only items that were left were piles of old, seemingly worthless, papers and empty and broken glass bottles and jars.
Even the press had lost interest. Immediately after finding the cave the whole area was bombarded by reporters and TV crews from far and wide. It had even appeared on national television in connection with the missing young reporter but it was now ‘yesterday’s news’ and the world had moved on.
* * *
From deep within the cave came a rustle, then another. Very faintly at first but growing in intensity and coming from near where the bench had stood but which now resided in the police storage facility, gathering yet even more dust that it had when in the cave. A clink of glass as two jars were pushed together followed by a weak moan.
There was silence again for several minutes and then a small frail voice came from within the darkness.
“Hello? Hosper, Binko, Barguff…anybody? Help me… please.”
Again, some more rustling of paper and clinking of jars that came from beneath a large pile of rubbish, swept off the table by Putricia as she prepared her potion. This area had been ignored by those charged with emptying the cave, but from its depths emerged the small figure of Orleg, the pitiful little female gnome who had been force-fed one of the witch’s potions and left for dead.
Orleg called again, a little louder this time but still in subdued tones, so that if the witch was around she did not want to alert her. Nothing was heard except the incessant dripping of the water.
The small creature stood and tried to look around but could see nothing, not even her hand in front of her face, in the inky darkness. She stood silently for several minutes, listening for anything that might give her a clue as to where she was. She felt sure that she was still in the cave but what part and where, she had no idea.
The potion that she had been given still made her feel weak, sleepy and disorientated. She also suddenly became aware that she was incredibly thirsty. With further rustling of papers and crashing of glass, she moved on her hands and knees towards where she could hear the water dripping. Several times she put her hands in something slimy and one hand was cut when she leant on a broken piece of glass.
At last, she could feel the floor under her hands becoming wet and this was confirmed when a large drop of water splashed down onto the back of her neck. Moving forward a little, she felt the cool water in a puddle beneath her hands. She moved her hands backward and forwards to check the depth and spread of the pool and, when she had confirmed that it was not deep enough to present any danger, she thrust her hands into its depths and splashed its contents over her face.
The coldness of the water made her jump but it felt good and her head slowly began to stop swimming. She put her face down into the puddle and sucked up several mouthfuls. The cool liquid felt like honey as it slid down her dry, parched throat. For several minutes she knelt there, bathing her face and her injured hand and slurping more water, until she felt like her normal self.
Feeling refreshed, she looked around in the darkness to see anything that might indicate a way out. Her eyes were becoming familiar with the dark, and she strained to see if she could make out anything, anything at all. She looked in every direction, even squinting to see if it made anything better but the blackness was total. Realising that she was alone, she shouted at the top of her small voice.
“Hello! Hello! Can anyone hear me?” Other than the echo of her voice, no answer was returned. Again she shouted but again silence. She could feel her heart pounding as she began to panic but she hit herself on her wrist, which made her cut hand smart with pain,
“Come on Orleg,” she said out loud to herself. “We can get out of here. What would Barguff do if he was in the same situation?”
She sat back down on the floor but rapidly stood up again, as she had not realised the extent of the puddle that she had been drinking from and had sat down in the deepest part. Her red-spotted pantaloons were now soaking wet. She was about to cry in frustration when out of the corner of her eye she noticed a faint blue iridescent glow a few metres away. She looked more closely and there, a little way from that spot, was another and a little further on, another.
‘Right’, she said
to herself, ‘I don’t know where those spots lead but I must get out of here and this may be my best chance, so here we go.’
Slowly but surely, on hands and knees to prevent her bumping into anything, or anyone, she started her journey to what she hoped was freedom.
The End?
