Indiana Jones and the Dance of the Giants

by Rob MacGregor

  It was early afternoon when they hooked cord around the last pegs, which were in the deepest corner of the cave. From here, the entrance was a barely visible aperture of light. Above his head a torch was propped in a holder on the wall, illuminating the floor of the cave. "That about does it." Indy stood up, looking over their work.

  "Time for a break, don't you think?" Deirdre moved closer to him.

  He thought he glimpsed something in her eye that had nothing to do with the cave or archaeology or Merlin. Indy's gloves dropped to the floor of the cave as Deirdre removed her scarf. She shook her head, and her hair fell loose. She looked dazzling in the torchlight. He reached out and pushed back an unruly strand which had fallen across her cheek.

  The cave was like a cocoon. It shut out the rest of the world, and all the considerations of propriety fell away. There was no need for words; their consent was mutual. His hands slipped around her slender waist. Deirdre lifted her head, her lips parted. He bent forward; his lips brushed against hers.

  Then Deirdre pulled back. "What about Richard and Carl?"

  He grinned. "They left for lunch fifteen minutes ago."

  Her fingers traced Indy's brow, cheekbones, jaw. They felt his broad shoulders, his chest. "Indy, I've wanted this to happen. I wasn't sure you did, not until last night at the pub."

  He ran his hands lightly along her sides, his thumbs grazing lightly over the swell of her small breasts. "Your heart's pounding," he whispered.

  Deirdre's tongue darted into his mouth. She seemed to suck the breath from his lungs. His fingers threaded through her hair, and ran down her back. He pulled her to him, feeling her thighs pressed against his. They moved against each other, and suddenly, the world exploded; the earth shuddered.

  It moved; it really did.

  For an instant, the rumble and vibrating under their feet seemed natural, a part of them, self-created by the sudden fury and hunger of their passion. Then a concussion hurtled them to the ground and a sound like a thousand claps of thunder pounded their eardrums. Dust filled the cave. He heard Deirdre coughing from somewhere nearby.

  "What happened?" she gasped, and she crawled into his view.

  An earthquake, a cave-in, an explosion. "I don't know. You okay?"

  "You bit my tongue."

  "Sorry. Let's get out of here."

  Indy helped her to her feet. They'd taken three or four steps when another shockwave rocked the cave. They dropped to the floor, and covered their heads as dirt rained over them.

  Deirdre coughed. "I can hardly breathe. What's going on?"

  Slowly, he lifted his head; he smelled the answer. "Gunpowder. Someone dynamited the entrance."

  12

  Bad Air

  Dust clogged Indy's throat as he dug through the rubble. He'd lost his gloves, and his fingertips were scraped raw after fifteen minutes. A dull, throbbing ache in his temples sapped his strength. Deirdre, her face smeared with dirt, worked beside him, clearing away stone after stone.

  "This will take days at this rate," he said.

  "The villagers will come for us. They won't leave us here." She uttered this with such certainty that he found himself believing it. But he kept digging, grabbing one rock after another and tossing them aside.

  Deirdre was about to pick up another rock when she sat down and rubbed the side of her head. "I feel dizzy. My head hurts."

  "Maybe we should put out the torch. I'm starting to worry about the air."

  Deirdre frowned and looked around. "There's got to be air coming in somewhere."

  Indy sniffed. "I smell something."

  "What?" She sounded frantic.

  "Fumes. That's why we've got headaches. There's gas coming in." He grabbed the nearest torch and buried its head in the dirt, killing the flame. He did the same with another.

  "Leave one of them," Deirdre said, "or we won't be able to see anything."

  "Smart thinking." He took Deirdre by the arm, and they moved toward the rear of the cave. "Stay down low. Take slow, shallow breaths." His forehead was gritty and wet with perspiration, but his headache eased somewhat as they moved to the recesses of the cavern. He stumbled over one of the picks, stopped, and turned it over in his hand. He planted the torch, then stabbed the ground with the pick.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Maybe the gas is lighter than the air. If we dig a couple of holes, we should be able to survive longer by breathing the air below the floor level."

  Dirt spewed in all directions as he hammered the ground. Even if it was lighter than air, he knew they couldn't last very long before the effects of the gas would reach them. He wondered where Richard and Carl were. What if they had returned and run into trouble with whoever was out there? Nobody else would look for them for hours. Maybe days.

  He dug a second hole for Deirdre, then dropped onto his stomach and put his face in his hole. Deirdre did the same.

  "This is a hell of a way to die, Indy."

  "I know. So let's not."

  He raised up and scooped loose dirt out of the hole, enlarging it. He rubbed his fingers together, and held his hand close to the torch.

  "What is it?" Deirdre asked.

  "Ash. This was a hearth."

  "Indy, this is no time for archaeology."

  He looked up toward the ceiling of the cave, which he knew was about twelve feet over his head. "No, but it's time to find an escape route."

  A hearth in the rear of a cave meant that there must be a chimney. He stood up and asked Deirdre to hold the torch. At first, all he could see was a rough surface with no opening. Then he realized there was an indention almost directly overhead. The chimney was covered, but how thick was it?

  Deirdre followed his gaze. "A chimney?"

  "That's right."

  "But how can we get up there?"

  Indy picked up a mallet, and a couple of the leftover metal stakes. "Climb."

  He had to work fast. He pounded stakes in the wall every couple of feet and, holding the torch in one hand, quickly scaled the wall. Now he could see the chimney better. The indention at the base of it was about three feet across. It quickly narrowed and closed. Maybe he could wedge himself in the opening, and work from there. The problem though was that the indention began about five feet from the wall.

  He climbed back down. "It won't work."

  "I could've told you that." Deirdre sounded even more frantic now, and he didn't blame her. She looked toward the entrance of the cave. "Maybe we could uncover the wood the carpenters brought into the cave, and build a ladder."

  He shook his head. "Too dangerous. The gas would get us before we reached the first two-by-four. I've got a better idea."

  He anchored the torch in one of the holders in the wall, then picked up the remaining stakes, and moved over to the wall across from where he'd inserted the other ones. He quickly pounded them into the wall at about the same levels. Then he grabbed a new spool of cord and started unraveling it. He wrapped one end around the bottom peg, then crossed to the opposite wall. There was plenty of cord so instead of cutting it, he moved up to the next stake, wrapped it and crossed back. He continued going back and forth, climbing the stakes as he went, until he'd created a webbing that reached the ceiling.

  "Indy, we've got to hurry. I can smell the gas again. It's getting stronger."

  Indy's head pounded again. "I know."

  He grabbed a pick from the floor, and placed the handle in his mouth. Carefully, he stepped onto the bottom cord. His weight stretched it nearly to the floor, but it didn't snap. He lifted his foot, reaching for the second step, then the third. But his foot slipped off the cord and he caught it with his knee. The cord he was holding with his hand stretched. Suddenly, one of the stakes pulled out from the wall, and he toppled over onto Deirdre, knocking her to the ground.

  He pulled the pick from his mouth. One prong had torn his shirt, scratching his chest. He felt a trickle of blood oozing over his stomach. He rolled over on his side. "Are you all right?" he asked.
r />   "I'm okay. What about you?"

  "Fine, just fine," he said and went right back to work. He found the loose stake and this time pounded it all the way into the wall. He did the same with the others on both walls, then moved beneath the chimney again. "Don't stand right below me this time."

  Deirdre coughed. "Please, hurry."

  Despite her plea, Indy took his time, cautiously scaling the web of cord until his head was finally even with the chimney.

  "Damn it. I forgot the pick."

  "I'll throw it up to you," Deirdre said.

  Indy saw himself lunging for the pick, and the entire web collapsing. Either that or she'd stick it in his back, he thought. He had another plan. "No, just hang on to it for now."

  He worked his way higher, turned, and managed to press his shoulder blades against one side of the chimney. He held his breath as he slowly lifted his right leg, and stretched it toward the opposite side. If the cord snapped now, he'd fall twelve feet and land on his back. His toes touched the wall, then his foot. With a quick move, he pulled up his other leg. He wriggled his shoulders until his back was flat against the wall.

  Relieved, more confident now, he touched his whip, which was still coiled on his hip, and loosened it. "Tie the pick on the end," he said, letting the whip uncoil.

  As he waited, he reached to the top of the chimney, and felt three rocks the size of basketballs covering the hole. Dirt, accumulated over years, filled the spaces between the rocks. This wasn't going to be easy.

  He pulled up the pick, returned the whip to his belt and started chipping at one of the rocks. His position allowed him only about six inches of movement with his hand. Clots of dirt dropped onto his chest and face; dust brought tears to his eyes.

  After a couple of dozen blows, he stopped. The rocks were still firmly in place. Even if he did loosen one of the rocks, it could fall right on top of him and knock him off his perch. He was feeling desperate when a clump of dirt fell out of a crevice between two of the rocks and a ray of light filtered through a gap. The light gave him hope and he resolutely resumed his attack on the rocks. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he was covered with dirt but had made little progress.

  "Indy, I've got it," Deirdre called up to him.

  "What?"

  "Can you pound a couple more stakes in up there, inside the chimney?"

  "I guess so. Why?"

  "If you put them beside your hips, it'll give you a grip. Then you can work the rocks out with your feet."

  He thought of several reasons it might not work. The stakes could pull out. His angle might be too sharp to allow him the leverage he needed. It would take too long. But he wasn't getting anywhere now. "It might work," he conceded.

  He unfurled the whip again, and Deirdre tied two stakes and the mallet to the end of it. It was awkward hammering the stakes into the same wall his back was pressed against. He couldn't see what he was doing, and struck his fingers several times. But, finally, after far too many blows, they were both in place. He tested their strength by gripping the stakes and letting his legs drop down.

  When he was confident they'd hold, he walked up the opposite wall until he was curled into a ball with his feet at the top. His knees pressed against his chest. Now he was ready. He attacked one of the rocks, pounding it repeatedly with the heels and soles of his boots. It held stubbornly in place. He struck the rock with a flurry of blows. Dirt rained down on him. His mouth was dry and gritty; his eyes watered.

  And the rock didn't budge.

  He stopped to catch his breath. "Deirdre?"

  No answer.

  He dropped his legs, looked down. He couldn't see her.

  "Deirdre!" He yelled this time.

  "Professor Jones? Where are you?"

  Indy looked around, confused. It was a man's voice, not Deirdre's. It was muffled, and couldn't tell where it was coming from. Then he heard it again.

  He looked up. "I'm here."

  "Where?"

  He pulled the pick from his belt and banged the rocks.

  "Carl, I found them. Over here."

  God, the carpenters. "I'm right here," he yelled again.

  Suddenly, more dirt was spilling down on him. One of the rocks was moving. He pushed at it with his legs, and felt it rolling out of the hole. Light poured in, blinding him. He dropped his legs back down into the cave, and looked down. He couldn't see anything now.

  "Deirdre, can you hear me?"

  He lowered himself so he was hanging from the two stakes, his arms fully extended. The smell of gas was stronger now. His head pounded; he felt dizzy. Then he saw her sprawled on the floor. Above him, fresh air seeped in through the hole. He pulled himself up, took a deep breath, held it, then extended his arms again. He dangled a moment about six feet above the ground, then let go. He couldn't see the webbing any longer, and his right foot caught on one of the lower cords. He crashed hard onto his side.

  He winced, cursed, then crawled over to Deirdre. He turned her over, bent close to her mouth. Her breathing was shallow. She wouldn't last much longer and neither would he. Even though he was holding his breath, he smelled the gas. He pulled out a knife and quickly cut three of the cords, twined them together and tied one end under Deirdre's arms, and held the other end between his teeth. He considered moving her directly under the hole, but thought better of it.

  He squinted up toward the chimney. His eyes were adjusting to the light, and he could see hands rolling back another rock. He unhitched his whip, snapped his wrist, and wrapped the tip of it several times around one of the stakes in the chimney. He slowly let out his breath as he pulled himself up. He tried to use what remained of the webbing, but his feet slipped off.

  He was halfway between the floor of the cave and the chimney when he heard a creaking sound. He looked up just in time to see one of the rocks breaking loose. The men grabbed for it, clung to it for several seconds, then both rocks slipped, falling at the same time. One narrowly missed his left side, the other just grazed his right elbow.

  But he had no time to think about his good fortune. The stake his whip was lashed onto was pulling out from the wall. He was about to tumble back-first onto the floor when one of the men grabbed the whip.

  The faces of the two carpenters appeared above him and they pulled at the whip until one of them grabbed Indy's wrist. A moment later, he was lifted through the hole, and into the brisk fresh air. He jerked the twisted cords from his mouth. "Pull her up, fast. Gas."

  He tried to sit up and help them, but he slumped back onto a bed of heather. Exhausted, he drank great gulps of the best air he'd ever tasted.

  The next thing he knew Deirdre was lying a few feet away from him, and the two men were hovering above her. "We'd best get her straight away to the doc," one of them said.

  "I don't know if she's going to make it, Richard. She's barely breathing."

  13

  Visitors

  Deirdre opened her eyes, not sure what had awakened her. She felt a mattress, sheets, a down pillow, a wool blanket. She didn't know how she had gotten here, or how long she had been here, or even where here was.

  A knock,

  "Who is it?"

  "Me, Deirdre."

  "Indy?"

  "Who?"

  That voice, that smooth syrupy voice. Not Indy. A cold terror crept through her as the door opened; she couldn't move. A wedge of chalky light filtered into the room and a figure appeared in the center of it. She couldn't see clearly, but she knew it was Adrian. She could smell him. That expensive French after-shave he used, his skin, his smile. Yes, even his smile had a particular odor.

  "What are you doing here?" She tried to sound as though she were in control, but her voice betrayed her. It cracked. She knew he heard it.

  "I heard what happened." He stood at the bedside now. His smile flashed, deepening the cleft in his chin. His wavy hair was as perfect as always. He looked exactly as he had in the pictures she'd seen recently in the newspapers. "I wanted to make sure you wer
e okay."

  "I know you did it." She drew the sheets up around her, willing him away, but he didn't leave. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from the lapel of his stylish suit.

  "Not me, dear."

  "You always get others to do your dirty work, don't you?"

  He chuckled. "Ah, Deirdre. You should know that if I wanted to have you killed, you would dead by now."

  He moved closer. His presence chilled the room and she rubbed her hands over her arms. She could see the oil on his hair, holding the waves in place, and the flash of his smile again. He nauseated her.

  "I told you I don't want anything to do with you. Just leave me alone."

  "But that's not possible now. Arachne knows too much."

  "What?"

  He laughed then, a full, throaty laugh, and stepped back from the bed.

  "Leave me alone!" she shouted.

  He laughed again and then he just started to fade. She could see right through him—the outline of the doorjamb, the wall. His laughter seemed to linger in the air as she sat straight up, rubbing her eyes. She saw peach-colored walls, a portrait of a family who looked vaguely familiar, a painting of a castle, and another of a benevolent Jesus, his heart flaming red against his chest.

  She fell back up on her elbows; she felt dizzy and weak. Her throat and lungs burned. She saw her suitcase next to the bed, but she still didn't know where she was. It wasn't the room where she'd been staying. Yet, it was familiar. She looked through the opening in the curtains, and saw a ridge of smoky blue hills in the distance. She knew immediately they were the Machars, and she recognized the view. She was in her old room. The walls had been painted, and the pictures were not hers, but it was her room in the house where she had grown up.

  The door creaked open; Marlis, the matronly wife of the mayor, was in the hall. Of course. The mayor's family had bought the house after Deirdre and her parents had moved to London.

  "Deirdre, are you all right?" Marlis's pale moon face poked through the door. "I heard you yell something."