John Bowman's Cave

by Erron Adams

  “I don't need that, honestly, it’s just my name, you see...”

  “Names are never just names, John Bowman. If you don't know that now, you will. And if you take a name, you must earn it.”

  She was already drawing. In one sweep of the charcoal she had the arc of a bow, bent in a near half circle. She added neither string nor arrow, but a hill slope with trees appeared at the bottom of the page, and in the top half, she quickly cris-crossed a few rough stars, so that the weapon hung in the night sky like a sliver moon.

  “The Kasina say there is a great meaning in this. They say there is a great secret of the world in this drawing. I say they stole the idea from the Rory; we've always known how to circle the moon.”

  He was about to ask who the Kasina were, and what it meant to circle the moon, when a polite shuffle sounded just beyond the doorway.

  “John Bowman?” It was Oyen.

  Caylen leapt to her feet. Her eyes flashed to the door and back to Bowman's face.

  “I wanted to say welcome,” she whispered and before he could react, her arms were about his head: standing on tip-toe she kissed him, a moth's wing dusting of a child’s kiss on his unready lips.

  Then she was on her way through the door and he heard her say, “Go in Oyen, we're all family here”, and he wondered if she was laughing again.

  ***

  Oyen had also brought a gift. He set the small vial down on Bowman's desk and produced two cups.

  He filled both and gave one to Bowman. “Journey Herb” he announced. “Drink! One swallow. Drink!” He tossed the cup back. When his chin was pointing down again he held a single finger before his pained face and gasped “Just one, John Bowman. It must be gone in one.” Oyen’s head shook in the beginning of a wave that rolled down his body.

  Bowman held the drink down near his waist and cocked an eye. “What is it? Wine? Liquor?”

  “Wine? Noooh!” Oyen replied scornfully, his voice returning. “This is much better. It’s Journey Herb, a customary welcome among the Rory. Or as a toast before setting out on a journey. Drink!”

  Bowman thought of the damn fool times he'd been similarly offered strange substances as a young man and been damn fool enough to accept. Swept along on the seemingly irreversible tide of youth, he'd fallen on more handfuls of something or other than he cared to remember.

  What harm then, inside a dream? Looking back up to Oyen's face, he saw the translucent sphere again, hovering close by the wall behind. He smiled and brought his own cup level with Oyen's head. Held out in front, equidistant between them it measured the separation of man and mirage.

  “To us.” He said.

  “Yes, us, and the Journey!”

  He took the toast in a single swill.

  It invaded his mouth and throat like lava, vaporizing what it touched and scorching what it didn't. It made his stomach a sun and the rest of him vanished in numbness. Then, as the initial heat subsided, everything he'd ever felt entered consciousness. It was overwhelming: his body, heart and mind fused in the incandescence and he tried to speak but sensed his tongue hanging loose somewhere, useless as a rope swinging back and forth in a gentle breeze. He looked at Oyen with pleading eyes.

  Oyen observed him like a parrot, putting his head on one side and then the other, trying to make sense of the strange creature swaying before him. At last, satisfied with the effect of his gift, he beamed.

  “Yeah, knew you'd like it! C’mon, we’ll go wash. These yours?” He pointed to the clothes Caylen had brought. Bowman boggle-eyed the indicated objects, nodded yes.

  “Good, let’s go!”

  They went to another cave and bathed in a pool of black icy water, then dressed.

  Bowman noted with relief the good fit of the clothes Caylen had chosen. They were simple garments. A red hide shirt that slipped on over the head, there being only a few eyelets at the top, with a loose lace of leather thonging which he elected to leave untied, not being sure how it should be done.

  The pants, of the same material as the tunic, lacked pockets. Nor was there provision for a belt. Instead, the upper waist from one side extended beyond the other and ran on in a thin strip for several feet. He soon worked out that this wrapped around the waist, but had to observe Oyen's swift knotting of the extension before he attempted a rough cinch of his own.

  It worked well enough, and if he couldn't see the effect too well from above, at least the fit was comfortable. Oyen, after a cursory appraisal, grunted something Bowman took to be approval.

  Last came a sort of boot, or moccasin, with soles of thick leather and sueded uppers split at the front, fringed behind, continuing up the calves. He stepped into them and the upper flaps fell loose around his feet. Now he was lost. Oyen noticed, motioned to him to sit and watch.

  The Rory sat and slipped one on his foot, hands quickly flipping the uppers over one another. He worked the lace thonging back and forth, ascending the uppers as the laces wrapped around his leg several times, weaving them through the fringing at the back as he went. Some minor adjustment at the top was all that was required to effect a snug fit; a knot at the outer side of the leg left the long ends dangling.

  It was such a pleasing look Bowman hurried into his own footwear, fumbling with the laces, but again succeeding in an effective, if not entirely pretty job.

  He strutted about the shore of the bathing cave, the crunch of his feet softened at each step by the swish of fringing. He strode to a small rock, put a boot on it, one hand on his hip, the other held above him in dramatic gesture.

  “I ride to the imprisoned damsel’s rescue!”

  His voice echoed about the cave and down a thousand passages.

  Oyen surveyed him for a minute, a worried look on his face. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Bowman laughed and bent to pick up his old clothes, tucked them under one arm. He fanned the fingers of his free hand up and down his front. “Nice clothes.”

  Oyen looked from Bowman's face to his clothes, back to his face. All in one motion he pursed his lips, turned down a corner of his mouth, tipped his head on one side, and shrugged. “Clothes,” he conceded, and headed out.

  The passage they took was indistinguishable from the others Bowman had seen. “Where are we going?” he asked Oyen.

  “The Feasting Hall.”

  “To eat?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What will I do with these?” he indicated his old clothes.

  “Here, give them over.” Stepping to one of the curved walls, Oyen reached up to where rock had fallen away, leaving a small ledge. He threw the clothes to the back of it and continued walking. Bowman looked at the ledge in disbelief.

  “Dammit Oyen, they're my clothes!”

  Oyen turned around, still walking.

  “No, there’s your clothes.” He pointed at Bowman's chest. Then he pointed to the ledge. “There’s your past.”

  ***

  “We’re early. Good,” said Oyen.

  Bowman peered around the Rory’s broad back, relieved to see the Feasting Hall almost empty of people. He eyed the centre of the room where a few musicians were unpacking and readying instruments. Then he took in the Hall itself.

  The whole space was concentrically arranged: a continuous bench seat had been carved into the chamber’s walls, and further in, heavy wooden tables encircled the musicians. Around the tables ran a ring of high-backed chairs.

  The walls gave off light here in the same mysterious manner as in other caverns. They’d been sculpted into totemic deities lower down, and above that, gave way abruptly to the limestone bluffs that perimetered every large space in the cave world Bowman had tumbled into. The main difference with this particular cave concerned the number and placement of entrances. There was one for almost every table; passageways led off into the labyrinth so that the chamber must radiate tunnels like sunrays.

  “Ah, there we go,” Oyen said, and grabbing Bowman’s arm, plunged in the direction of a small group engaged in animated conversat
ion. One by one, the faces at the table broke from talk to look up at the pair bearing down on them at Oyen speed.

  A woman in the centre of the group spoke. “Oyen! At last. I see you brought the Outlander. Make room there, Rain Dog.”

  Bowman eyed her. Evidently a Rory by dress, a leader by tone. The one called Rain Dog scrambled to another chair.

  “Sit here, beside me.” she stood and indicated the chair Rain Dog had vacated. “Oyen, sit this side of me, I understand you talk to him, you can interpret.” Someone scuttled from the chair on her other side as she dropped back onto hers.

  “Oh, he knows our speech well, Yalnita!”

  “Really?” She arched an eyebrow at Bowman. “How very unusual.” Oyen meanwhile scampered around the table to the seat she had commanded he take, crushing toes as he went.

  “Ah gods, Oyen, careful!”

  “Watch out! The Bear’s loose again!”

  “Sorry Rain Dog, sorry Challa.” Finally arriving in the chair next to Yalnita, Oyen leant towards her ear. “He’s been talking to the Gatekeeper, he met him!”

  She jerked her head at Oyen, who hurried on. “He called the Gatekeeper Argilan. ”

  “Argilan!” Yalnita said thoughtfully. She turned slowly back to Bowman. “Really. You’ve seen the Gatekeeper? How very interesting indeed. That perhaps explains your arrival here in the cave of the Soul Gate. And not malformed, I see; a most unusual Outlander.”

  “I wouldn't know about that. It’s not as though choice had anything to do with my coming here.” Bowman said. “It was a matter of this place or oblivion!”

  “Of course. That is the way with Outlanders. Challa, bring us wine.”

  Others were arriving by now; the room began to echo with quiet conversation as they flowed in small groups through the entrances and drifted to near tables.

  Challa returned with a pitcher and two stone goblets. He set them in front of Yalnita and hurried back to his place.

  “You’ve made quite an impression on Caylen,” she said, pouring them both a drink.

  Bowman shrugged. “I owe her. She could have left me where she found me, really. She chose not to. She quite possibly saved my life.” Why the hell am I playing along with this ridiculous dream, he wondered.

  “Of course, I understand. But as you said, sometimes choice eludes us.” Her hand rested on his, and when he looked up into her dark eyes she was smiling.

  “What long fingers you have, John Bowman. These hands are meant for fine work.” She was stroking the back of them as she spoke, but her eyes stayed with his face.

  He looked to her hand, noting the fine, dark down that completely covered its back from the first knuckles and continued up her arm. Most of her face was similarly shaded. She must be completely covered in hair! he thought. Though it sat well with her - the furry look intimating a darkly animal nature - he was angry at his embarrassment, which by her broad smile he could tell she was enjoying. He retaliated.

  “Your body seems to be covered in hair, Yalnita. Is that a racial characteristic?”

  A small laugh. “I'm not sure what you want to know.” she cooed. “Certainly there is hair on most of my body, some places more than others. But none that would bother you, surely….”

  He swallowed drily, managing to keep his mouth shut as he did. He looked away to the centre of the room, only to find the view blocked by Caylen. She stood on the other side of the table with her arms folded, glaring at their hands. He pulled his out from under Yalnita’s but she snatched it back.

  Bowman looked back to the girl. Rage seemed to be changing her: she looked older, verging on womanhood.

  “Why, little sister, we were just talking about you.”

  “I am not your sister, Yalnita. Nor am I so little. John Bowman, if you can free yourself for a time I would introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  As she emphasized the word, Yalnita’s hand slid from Bowman’s like a snake caught sunning itself on a rock. It slithered into one of the cracks her folding arms made.

  “I was only keeping him warm for you, my little one. Of course, I won't detain him.”

  “Good. Come, Outlander.”

  Bowman eagerly grasped the proffered hand and she led him towards the centre of the room. Music had started: a flute and a stringed instrument, quietly threading through the cadences of the room’s now substantial noise. People were dancing too.

  “We'll dance, John Bowman!”

  “No! No, I wouldn't know how.” In answer to her uncomprehending face he continued “Well… I don't know how it’s done here. And I'm not much of a dancer!”

  She smiled. “You are strange. Don't be fearful, I'll show you.” and she dragged him into the swirling wheel between the tables and musicians.

  The process proved uncomplicated. Small groups of dancers began by holding hands, moving forward around the musicians, walking, swinging arms like small children going into school. Then, as the ring grew solid with new arrivals, momentum built and the participants broke into a crazed bolt, leaping, skipping, running or whatever their mood and the variable wave of dancers at their back dictated. The scenery swirling past them was a carousel’s view of demented beings, banging on tables and yelling incoherent encouragement.

  Bowman had never known a party to start so fast. In one barely perceptible minute the entire room had descended into Bacchanalian madness. Just like a dream…

  For their part, the other dancers seemed tireless, even when their cavorting threw fine sprays of sweat and their faces cramped with effort; they kept on as if none could bear to be the first to stop, to break the spell.

  Bowman, though, had begun to steer Caylen to the outer rim of the ring. As they approached the safe harbour of the tables, the pace of the dancers, being furthest from the centre, increased. He slipped through one of the momentary breaks in the ring, dragging Caylen with him.

  As he stopped and turned back to the dancers his face ran with sweat and his mouth hung wide, sucking at air faster than it could be found. After one glazed look at the spinning throng he came around to Caylen’s face.

  She was completely composed. Only the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest showed her breathing to be slightly deeper than normal. She smiled expectantly up at him.

  “Oh god, how old did they say you were, Caylen?” His words stumbled under the force of exhalation.

  She laughed. “Are you tired? Do you want to sit down? I don't think they taught you to dance very well in your world!”

  “Yes, let's sit.” He turned and found two chairs. “I want to talk.”

  Her eyebrows lifted “Yes?”

  “You know I want to go back to my world.”

  “Yes.” she waited a few moments. “Is that all?”

  “I... I think I discovered a way back - earlier today. I was in my room…”

  “No, no John Bowman!” She had the sleeves of his shirt in her hands. “The only reason you can have found the Gate is because you haven’t healed, yet. It takes time to grow into this world. And you won't have a Gatekeeper to assist you at the other end when you go through. There is no other end to Soul Gate. You will die! Do you understand? It’s over if you go: you'll die!”

  He gently picked her hands from his shirt and held them in his. Looking down, she went on quietly. “You must stay here and heal. Then, slowly, you can learn how to make a life from what’s left.” She looked up at him “You can never go back, now. Never!”

  Her passion almost had him, but in the end, it was all too easy for Bowman to believe it was a spectre’s ploy to keep him in this brilliant hallucination called Animarl. To hold him captive till the web of routine, familiarity and a thousand small fondnesses entrapped him. To, indeed, never leave.

  “All right, I'll remember that. Now, weren't you going to introduce me to your friends?”

  Her brows furrowed as she comprehended his lie. “Forget it,” she said and led him back to Yalnita’s table.

  ***

  After three cups of wine Bo
wman was so relaxed parts of him were venturing beyond the edge of his chair. It was, he told himself, a nice enough drop, though due to potency most of the taste had been lost after the first few mouthfuls.

  Food had arrived during the dancing. Platters of meat jostled with small bowls of roasted vegetables. Despite his hunger, Bowman avoided the unusual, which pretty much left him to bread and berries.

  Oyen balanced Bowman's reticence by attacking anything within his ample reach. Food seemed to cower as his eyes came to rest on it. He pounced on morsels like a Mousehawk. Eats like he walks, mused Bowman.

  When the Rory finished he wiped hands absentmindedly on his stained shirt and belched. Then he gathered cups with one hand, checking to see if they were clean. With the other hand he withdrew a vial of Herb from his shirt.

  “More Herb?”

  The question was perfunctory, since he’d already set one cup before Bowman. As his search for a second failed repeatedly, desperation bettered him: finding one with a few dregs of wine in it, he tossed the contents over his shoulder. It hit the porous rock and ran down in a small, red, fizzing sheet.

  Bowman spoke. “This Argilan mentioned something called the Soul Gate. What do you know about that, Oyen?”

  Oyen stopped chewing. Slowly he turned to Bowman.

  “What you mean, mentioned?”

  Bowman bit the bullet. “He said I was dead, that only my soul was here, that it had to go on. Through Soul Gate.”

  “And you’d let him do that, send you through? Damned Gatekeeper! Do it and we all go! Like lancing a wineskin.” Oyen thought a moment, and Bowman saw the effort in the Rory’s face: thinking wasn’t Oyen’s forte. He grabbed Bowman’s arm and rose, pulling the smaller man with him. “Let me show you what he wants.” They left by the nearest entrance.

  After they had gone a short distance beyond the inner tunnels that encircled the dining hall, they came into the labyrinth proper. A cool dampness hit Bowman like water thrown in his face. Oyen lurched ahead, Bowman following more through fear of being left alone than confidence in the man’s leadership.

  “Where are we going?”

  The Rory didn’t answer.