The Ming and I

by Tamar Myers

  I let out a scream that would have scared the horns off the devil had he been lurking anywhere nearby. Of course it was pointless. With no one to hear me but myself, it was almost like that proverbial tree falling in an empty forest. Almost. The tree, however, can’t hear itself, and consequently can’t be frightened by its own noise.

  Ask any psychologist; fear and anger are reverse sides of the same coin. While both emotions can be debilitating, both have their value as well. My fear was obviously not getting me anyplace, so it was time to give anger a try. This was not a conscious decision, mind you, but something instinctual. At any rate my coin flipped, and I was suddenly as mad as hell.

  “Damn you!” I screamed to whoever was responsible for my circumstances.

  Abigail the timid had become little Abby with the flailing broom again. Nor more flight for this bird. From now on I was ninety-eight pounds of pure fight.

  My transformation was not only amazing; it was complete. I didn’t have a shred of fear left in my soul. If the devil himself—now rendered hornless—tapped me on the shoulder, I would slap him silly. And it wasn’t bravery, mind you, because bravery can only exist in conjunction with fear; it was pure primordial adrenaline.

  I fumbled crazily for the skull, and when I found it I flung it as far as I could. I heard it shatter against a hard surface, perhaps a distant wall, and was elated.

  “Take that, you anorexic Yankee!” I shouted.

  My shaking hands located more of Maynard’s remains: ribs, spinal vertebrae, an ulna, or was it a radius? It mattered not. As much of Maynard as I could find was sent flying in the darkness.

  It became a game that was almost fun. “Hipbone connected to the leg bone, connected to the foot bone,” I chanted.

  Maynard, if that’s indeed who he was, had remained remarkably undisturbed since the onset of decay. He was still dressed, in fact, but his wool uniform had not fared so well. Some buttons and a few handkerchief-size fragments here and there that fell apart in my hands were all I could account for. His bones, on the other hand, all seemed to be there, and lined up in the correct order as far as I could tell.

  I was surprised, therefore—but not scared—when my groping fingers grasped another skull. I turned it over slowly in my hands. It was smoother than Maynard’s skull, and smaller. Perhaps it was a child’s skull, or that of a small woman. Uma?

  Turning it over again I discovered a flat plane about four inches across. The skull tapered on the opposite side, forming a small neck. There were no eyeholes or nostrils. No sign of teeth.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said aloud. “It’s a ceramic vase. So, Maynard, you were a Yankee looter, were you?”

  Maynard, Yankee that he was, didn’t have the courtesy to answer. It was time to insult him back. Still holding the vase, I groped for another bone to fling, but instead of encountering a metatarsal, or perhaps one of his phalanges, I stubbed my fingers on what felt like yet another vase.

  “Greedy bastard!”

  I set the first vase down and felt for the second. It wasn’t a vase after all, but a small ceramic bowl about the size of the one I eat my Cheerios out of every morning. It was upside-down, and I wondered if my harsh treatment had overturned it or whether it had been intentionally placed that way. At any rate I was beginning to feel like a bull—albeit a small one—in a china shop. Who knew what else lay in the blackness just beyond my reach? Had either of the ceramic pieces been broken, I might have cut myself. Bleeding to death in the dark was not how I had ever imagined my demise. It was a far cry from dying in Greg’s arms at age ninety-six, with the second slice of chocolate cheesecake only half eaten beside my bed.

  “Be careful,” I admonished myself, huffing and puffing. “Walk your hands across the ground like giant spiders.” Of course I spoke aloud. When one is alone with a hundred-and-fifty-year-old corpse, talking aloud is a sign of good mental health.

  It was good advice, and fortunately I took it. My pair of giant spiders danced lightly across the grit, and within seconds each had discovered another piece of ceramic. Then another, and another. I counted nine pieces in all. Some were vases, some bowls, but one was a small ceramic box with a lid. And they were all bunched together in a space barely more than a yard square. Who knew what lay in the nether reaches of my black space?

  “Jeepers, creepers, Maynard,” I gasped, “planning to set up your own store back in Boston?”

  Maynard refused to answer again. As soon as I caught my breath, I would search out a big bone, maybe a nice fat femur, to fling at the darkness.

  My breath! I inhaled deeply. Was it just my imagination, or was the air staler than before? Was my ragged breathing a result of exertion, or a real lack of oxygen?

  I realized with a start that I had been taking my oxygen supply for granted. It is not, after all, a topic that comes up with any frequency. But I was now in a space that was entirely devoid of light, which meant it was tightly sealed, making it impossible for fresh air to enter as well. Or did it?

  It had been as black as Buford’s heart in the Lost Sea Caverns, but we had still been able to breathe. The same long winding cave that had led us deep into the bowels of the earth, away from the light, had also admitted air. Perhaps there was a tunnel connecting this space with the outside; or perhaps I was doomed, trapped in a pit more tightly sealed than Mama’s lips when it comes to giving out compliments.

  One thing was certainly clear, however. Unless I stopped being reactive and started using the noggin the good Lord gave me, there were going to be two skeletons and nine pieces of ceramic for the next visitor to count.

  24

  There is nothing heroic about struggling to save one’s own life, therefore I shall spare you the litany of the agonies I endured over the next several hours, or at least what seemed to be that length of time. My advice to anyone so foolish as to ignore C.J.’s sage advice concerning haunted houses is to at least wear a watch with an illuminated dial.

  At any rate I was eventually able to determine that I was in a man-made (surely God would have been more concerned with symmetry and quality of materials) pit or cellar. The space measured approximately eight by ten feet, although it could have been much larger. Frankly I am terrible at estimating the size of anything, and believed Buford’s ten-inch lie for years.

  My pit, as I now thought of it, had apparently been dug into the hard clay subsoil. Two of the walls were unfaced clay, while the other two were covered with fieldstone. As far as I could tell, the stones were simply stacked, not mortared.

  The floor was clay, and the grit I had been feeling was undoubtedly its dried, crystallized surface. It was nowhere near level. When I tipped a ceramic bowl on its side, it rolled away out of my reach, and I didn’t find it again until I almost sat on it.

  I didn’t expect the ceiling to be so low. I could touch it everywhere I tried, without having to stand on tiptoes. I had expected to feel voluminous swags of cobwebs, but there was only the feel of roughhewn wooden beams and chinks of crystallized clay.

  My most interesting discovery, however, was that my pit was a veritable treasure chest. In addition to the nine ceramic pieces, I found four metal pitchers, three large, heavy candelabras, two metal tea sets, a wooden chest brimming over with flatware, and a smaller wooden box containing sundries, several of which felt as if they might be pocket watches. I am not a kleptomaniac, but when Maynard failed to protest, I pocketed one of the small, round objects. It would be a small down payment on the damages I hoped to collect from the Upstate Preservation Foundation.

  “Well,” I said aloud, “that’s not so bad now, is it? At least you’re not in Hell with a capital ‘H,’ and Maynard here isn’t about to try anything fresh. Are you, dear?”

  Maynard was mum.

  “Typical man,” I said. “Just lying around, while I, who have put in a hard day already, am expected to wait on you hand and foot. Oops—better make that hand or foot. I just stepped on something and it cracked. What’s that? Did you say somethi
ng, dear?”

  Maynard remained mute.

  “Okay, so I’ll figure this one out on my own. Just don’t expect any help from me when I do. And believe me, dear, you’re going to need help. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men aren’t—” I clapped a gritty hand over my mouth. Just to be on the safe side, perhaps it was better not to remind Maynard of what I had done to him.

  “Let’s see,” I said to divert his attention, “there has got to be an entrance to this joint somewhere. I may be small, but I wasn’t shoved down between the beams.”

  Or was I? Not between the cracks, of course, but what if there was an overhead opening of some kind? A trapdoor, maybe.

  “Think, Abigail, think!”

  If there was a trapdoor, it was likely located above the spot where I had regained consciousness. Much simpler to throw a body down a hole than to carry it down a ladder. Maynard, I bet, had not ventured far from where he was dumped, and I surely hadn’t moved much while I was out of it. It was a fine theory if one didn’t take into account the treasure trove. Clearly it had not just been dumped from the floor above.

  I did my best to relocate my first position. It would have been a lot easier, I grant you, if poor Maynard had been allowed to rest in peace in one piece. Nonetheless my spider fingers did a thorough search of the ceiling, and just as I was about to succumb to the mother of all neck cramps, my nails found a crack that ran crosswise along several beams, a crack too straight to be coincidental.

  “Eureka!” I screamed. “Maynard, old boy, I think we’ve found it!”

  Although Maynard was not effusive with his enthusiasm, I’m sure he shared it. It would have been helpful if he’d gone a step further, gotten off the floor, and helped me push the damn thing open. The trapdoor—for that’s what it was—was stuck, and there was nothing I could do to force it open.

  The flatware knives I inserted in the cracks and used as wedges all bent or snapped blade from handle. It was a wonder none of the flying blades hit me in the eye, not that I could have been made any blinder. I considered using one of Maynard’s larger bones as a battering tool, but discarded that idea in shame a moment later. Maynard and I had become buddies. True, I had treated him shabbily, but he would no doubt have forgiven me had he been in the position to do so. After all he was in far greater need of bonding than I.

  “Think, stupid!” I berated myself. “There has got to be something else you can use.”

  Indeed there was, but until I had a chance to appraise them, I was loath to use one of the heavy candelabras, or even one of the metal pitchers. It was only an educated guess, and my fingers have been wrong before—just ask Buford—but the items in question felt like silver.

  “Try one of the stones, silly,” Maynard muttered.

  “What?” I spun around, dropping the mangled knife I was holding.

  Either Maynard was the tight-lipped son of a bitch I’d been accusing him of being all along, or it had been my imagination. He said nothing more.

  Still, it was a good idea. I willed my legs to function, and as soon as they started taking orders, I directed them over to the nearest stone wall. When I bent over to begin the arduous task of prying loose a stone, I first felt the fresh air. It was barely more than a suggestion at that point, like a fluffy bit of down brushed along a callus. It was so slight, in fact, that I all but ignored it at first. Like Maynard’s muttering it was probably just a figment of my imagination.

  “Come to Mama,” I said, and tried to pry loose a stone about the size and shape of a homemade loaf of bread.

  It wouldn’t budge. I tried another, which was as stubborn as the first, but that’s when I felt the whisper of air for the second time. I dug my nails in around the stone next to the one I’d been working on, and tugged. It was as loose as a six-year-old’s tooth, and I fell backward, clutching the rock to my chest.

  I was surprised but unhurt, and was back on knees in less time than it takes my son, Charlie, to quaff a quart of cola. That it took so long was only because a stream of decidedly fresh air was pouring over my body, filling my nostrils with its heady scent and my lungs with its revitalizing power.

  There were four loose stones in all, and the dimensions of the space left by them was approximately eighteen by twelve inches. I felt around inside with one of my exploratory spiders. The depth appeared to go on forever.

  “It’s a tunnel,” I explained to Maynard. “A very narrow tunnel for a very small person. I don’t think it’s how I got here, but it’s how I’m leaving.”

  “What if the tunnel leads to nowhere?” Maynard asked me—in my imagination, of course. I might have been missing a marble or two, but not the entire collection. “What if you get lost?”

  “So what if I get lost? What’s the worst that could happen? If I stay here I’m guaranteed to go on your crash diet, and no offense, dear, but it’s a little extreme.”

  “What if the tunnel collapses?” Maynard was a sensible guy.

  I stuck my head and arms back into the tunnel and felt the sides, roof, and floor again. They were composed of the same heavy wooden beams that supported the roof of the pit.

  “I’ll take my chances, dear.”

  Poor Maynard. We had been so close, shared so much during our brief time together—indeed, there were parts of him with which I had made an acquaintance that I wasn’t even sure Buford had. Like a backbone, for instance. Now it was time to leave my good buddy behind.

  “So long, Maynard,” I said solemnly.

  With my arms out in front of me to function as feelers, I began wiggling my way to freedom.

  Unless you are fond of spiders, roaches, and the biggest centipede north of the Amazon, you won’t want to hear about the next stage of my great escape. What you need to know is that it was extremely painful scooting along on my stomach. Not only did I have Dmitri’s scratches, and a myriad of bruises to contend with, but the tunnel floor was a minefield of splinters. Even Mr. Bowling, my seventh grade math teacher, should be spared an ordeal that painful.

  It was also extremely tiring, and I stopped to rest several times. At least one of those times I drifted off to sleep. My guess is that I was asleep only a few minutes when the giant rat began sniffing at my fingers.

  Under normal circumstances rodents and I do not cohabit peacefully. Suffice it to say I was the last mother in my neighborhood to take her kids to Walt Disney World. A kingdom presided over by a giant mouse does not meet my definition of magical.

  To my knowledge, there had been no rats in the pit. Therefore, a rat this size in front of me could only mean one thing—the tunnel did lead somewhere.

  “Go away, nice rat,” I groaned, and scrabbled my fingers at him.

  The rat was every bit as friendly as Mickey, and didn’t budge. In fact, he began to lick my fingers.

  “Shoo, you hairy son of a Dumpster!”

  “Meow.”

  “Dmitri?” I bumped my head on the tunnel roof in my excitement.

  “Meow.”

  “Dmitri!” I affectionately scratched my feline friend under the chin. All was forgiven.

  Dmitri forgave me as well. As usual, he purred like a well-tuned engine. In that confined space, however, he sounded like a lawn mower without a muffler.

  A few minutes later, our bond reestablished, it was time to move on. Alas, poor Dmitri did not get the picture. He would have been content to have his chin scratched until one or both of us resembled the hapless Maynard. Animal lovers will have to forgive me if I confess that I had to pinch him in order to get him to budge, and even then he only reluctantly turned around and heroically led me to freedom.

  The tunnel, I was soon to learn, exited under the wooden floor of the old kitchen. There was a crawl space there, approximately three feet high, and I was able to sit up for the first time in what must have been hours. I can’t describe what a relief that was. Now it was my turn to procrastinate, but Dmitri wouldn’t have it. If I wasn’t going to scratch his chin, I at least had to feed him. To
convey his message, he nipped my ankles several times.

  “Okay, boy, let’s go,” I said.

  Frankly I didn’t have much hope that Dmitri knew where he was any more than I did. Any animal that chases his own tail has got to be spatially challenged.

  Dmitri led me to a hole in the floor that was barely cat size. From its rough edges I surmised that Dmitri had done a little remodeling of his own. It still needed to be improved on, and while Dmitri nipped impatiently at my ankles, I worked at expanding the hole. Unfortunately at this end of the tunnel there were no loose rocks, candelabras, or human bones to aid me. I did manage to find a small stone about the size of my fist, and I used it as best I could.

  Several fingernails later I was a free woman, except for the minor inconvenience of being trapped in the plantation’s old kitchen. The door was securely locked from the outside, the windows painted shut. Fortunately my assailant had no appreciation for the tenacity of a Timberlake—even one by marriage. They would have to pay for the broken window, not me.

  They were going to pay for something else as well. It is one thing to throw a middle-aged busybody into a pitch-black pit to let her die of starvation, if not fright. Perhaps, in some small way, I deserved it. But to starve a helpless cat was unconscionable. One thing I knew for sure—Dmitri had not come willingly. Hopefully his tormentor had experienced a little torment as well.

  At any rate it was dark when we got outside, and I assumed that it was no longer the night of our arrival. It seemed probable that it was the next night, but it may have been several nights later, for all I knew.

  My car was missing. I had expected that. My assailant had misjudged my will to survive, but he or she was no idiot.

  The mansion was, as I expected, locked. There was however, an outdoor garden spigot by the back door, and Dmitri and I made that our first stop. I gulped, he lapped, and vice versa. It was the longest drink on record. You would have thought we were a pair of small, misshapen camels, fresh in from a six-month trek across the Sahara.