Going Where It's Dark (15 page)

B
uck:
all night and nobody came

David:
figures

Buck:
going in the hole again next week there will always b a reason not to go so i won't wait 4 the perfect time

David:
yeah if ur mom finds out tho that's the end of it. where do u say u've been all day?

Buck:
remember nat waleski? i hang out with him sometimes i say i'm with him

David:
u won't tell him about the hole will u?

Buck:
u crazy?

David:
just don't get urself stuck tho. U don't have me 2 pull your butt out when u get in those tight squeezes

Buck:
i'm careful so what do u do all day when u don't have me 2 entertain u?

David:
i joined a canoeing club

Buck:
u?

David:
something wrong with that?

Buck:
canoe didn't sink or anything?

The minute Buck thumbed the last response, he wished he hadn't. Knew he shouldn't have, when David didn't answer. The thing about texting was that you couldn't slap someone on the back or make a funny face or squeak out “just kidding” in a Mickey Mouse voice or anything. He tried, though.

Buck:
kidding! kidding!

Finally, an answer from David:

David:
actually i'm pretty good at it. i'll paddle all the way down the shenandoah someday and say hello

Buck started to say, “Yeah, right!” but thought better of it.

Buck:
sure wish u could

David:
me 2

B
uck's chance in the Hole came sooner than he thought.

It hadn't rained for at least a week and there was no talk of more timber cutting soon. Logs from the last cut were still piled on the two-ton truck; Gramps and Dad hadn't had time to run them through the saw yet, since summer was also a season for remodeling, and both Dad and Joel were hired occasionally for carpentry work in town. Gramps told them to keep an eye out for any job using his plywood, but it wasn't likely that any person stealing from Anderson's Mill would want Dad or Joel on the job.

On one of his days home, Uncle Mel had taken Buck to a baseball game to watch their local team get creamed. And Buck and Nat had gone to a few matinees at the Palace, so no one got alarmed, it seemed, when Buck wasn't around at lunchtime.

His pack was ready. He kept it that way now. It was a cheap, flimsy backpack that held Mel's old overalls, cut to a shorter length, extra flashlight batteries and electrical tape for sticking on rock walls to mark his route. Also duct tape, peanut butter crackers, water, Band-Aids, mini boxes of raisins, and a box of Skittles. Shin guards, jacket, knee guards, and a clean T-shirt.

On this particular morning, Dad and Joel were working at the sawmill with Gramps, Mom was at Holly's, and Mel was on a truck run. Buck had risen early, hoed one long row of peas, and picked another of lima beans. Then he had come inside, finished a bowl of cereal and a banana, and had just slipped his backpack over his shoulders when he heard Katie's voice saying, “Everyone's got somewhere to go but me.”

He turned to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, blond hair uncombed and dangling in her face. He tried to sound casual:

“Where's C…C…Colby these days?”

“Working for his stepdad. And Amy's in Iowa visiting her grandparents.” Katie plopped down on a chair and pushed back the stray lock from her eyes. “So where are
you
going?”

“Just l…looking for some good b…bike trails for me and Nat,” Buck said, which was about four percent true.

“I like to ride too, you know,” Katie said.

“Well, if I f…find any new ones, you c…can go with us sometime,” Buck said. He gave her a quick grin and was out the door, climbing on his bike, the pack on his back shifting slightly as he rode.

He hated lying to Katie. Hated to see the look of disappointment on her face when he went off without her. She was still in her pajamas, though, and hadn't had breakfast. She couldn't have expected him to hang around waiting.

He'd only been riding ten minutes when the first obstacle came to mind. Though he knew a back route to the Wilmer property, he would be coming in from an entirely different angle. He wasn't at all sure he could find the same field, the same woods and fence posts to get his bearings and locate the Hole.

He
had
to take the old route, and would have to rely on luck that Ethan and his dad—or any of the other boys—would not be on that same road at the same time, to see him get off his bike and head out through the tall grass. The sun was already hot on the back of his neck, and this made him all the more eager to slide down into the cool damp darkness of underground.

Buck was dismayed when he rounded a bend after forty minutes to see a maintenance crew working about a mile from the old Wilmer place. A large slab of concrete seemed to have buckled along one edge of the roadway and separated from the rest. He slowed when he came to a flag man.

“What happened?” Buck called.

“Sink hole,” the man answered, and waved him on around.

And once again, the thought came to mind that someday Buck might bike all the way out here to find that the shallow dip in the earth he had encountered close to the Hole had become a wide crater, and that all the secrets of its underground passageways were open for everyone to see. Not likely. But still….He
had
to be the
first.

There was no more construction, no more workers, and Buck rode around the last bend to see the long curving ribbon of roadway ahead of him. He counted the number of fence posts and slowed as a dump truck went past, finally disappearing around the far bend. Then all was quiet, and the road was empty.

Buck quickly dismounted, then pulled his bike down into the gulley and into a thicket that covered it completely. He crept unseen to where the line of trees began, the tall, jagged outline of Eagles Cliff beyond them, and made his way to the Hole.

Yes, here was the shallow recess in the earth, and Buck checked that he was no longer visible from either the road or the faraway windows of the abandoned farmhouse. And here was the little pile of fox bones—what was left of them anyway.

He reached the third outcropping of rock and stopped, taking off his backpack. He put on his old brown jacket, then stepped into Mel's overalls, and probably could have fit in them twice. The shin guards he strapped to his forearms protected both his skin and the jacket. He put the knee pads on top of the overalls and used duct tape to bind the legs of the overalls and his jeans snugly around each ankle. Next, the pair of gloves he'd worn all last winter, the ones with the fake leather palms. And finally, the bicycle helmet still on his head, flashlight in hand, Buck lowered himself into the Hole.

For the first fifteen minutes he was in familiar territory as he crawled or slithered along on his knees or belly, pushing his backpack ahead of him. Unfortunately, of course, it blocked out much of his light. There were times he thought he'd known the passage's contours better than he did and lifted his head a little too high, too quickly, and felt not just a gentle tap of rock above, but a sharp
whang
against his helmet that resounded in his ears.

It was difficult to gauge how far he had traveled or how fast he was moving. A foot in ten seconds? Fifteen? The rocks beneath him were sharp in places, and at times he struggled to find room for a knee, an elbow, and wondered when he would get to the place in the passageway—if it was a passage—where it turned. Other times he wondered if he was making much progress, or just rearranging himself in the same small space.

But finally, there it was, the turn. He took a minute to rest, pointing his flashlight in all directions. Mostly he saw only rock and mud and fungus. Crickets with no eyes scurried to get out of the flashlight's beam. But then, something else he had not noticed before. Behind the boulder on his left, what at first glance was a shadow, was actually an opening, so that he had a choice of going to his left, up over rock, or to his right, which slanted downward.

His heart thumped so hard with excitement it almost hurt. So which would it be? If he chose left and started to climb, he imagined that he would be entering the wooded hillside next to Wilmer's pasture, the narrow sliver of Blue Ridge Mountains that crossed the county.

If he went right and started downward, he might well come to water. And possibly the end of the passage.

Decision time. He figured he had about four hours and twenty minutes before he had to head for home. The passage on the left was larger—here at least—the opening on the right, a little smaller. He decided to save the mud for another day, and see where he got by going up. He could wear his backpack now, at least for a while, instead of pushing it.

So with one final look at the faint glimpse of daylight coming far back from the Hole, he maneuvered his body into a sitting position and took out the bright yellow electrical tape. Tearing off each piece he would need, he made two arrows on the rock—the upper arrow to show the way he had chosen to go forward, the lower arrow to show the way back to the Hole.

And then, after slipping his arms through the straps of the backpack, he started crawling left up the rock. It was difficult, because he had the use of only one hand, his other holding the flashlight. On all sides, there were holes and cracks and crevices that made him aware of how important it was not to drop the flashlight. All the more reason he needed a headlamp.

The rock beneath him was slippery, and he chose to crawl rather than crouch, even when the passage widened and he had more room. He needed the added traction of his knee pads. Each time he stopped to reconnoiter, he checked to see if there were any rocks that looked as though they might be ready to fall, any drop-off ahead, any opening too small to even try to get through. He had read enough caving manuals to know that you never made the next move until you knew exactly where each foot, each hand, was going.

Now and then his heart gave an extra thump in the knowledge that he
should not be here,
attempting this alone. No excuses. He should NOT. He had written the note he'd promised David he would write and leave on his pillow:
Mom and Dad, if I don't come back, call David. He'll know where I am.

He had given David the most specific directions he could. But he had placed the note on the far slope of his pillow. You wouldn't see it just by glancing in his room. You'd have to go in and start searching the covers before you'd find it. Which, David explained, would be after the police had been called and were searching his room for clues.

The ceiling above him suddenly expanded, and he found he could actually stand up, relieve his aching back muscles. Ahead of him, however, was a jumble of rocks he'd have to climb over to go forward. When he rested a minute or two, he slowly began hoisting himself up, rock by rock, checking each one to see if it moved at all, wanting to take no chance that the whole pile would give way under him. If only he'd get a sign that this was the right way to go—the draft of air getting stronger, for example. Maybe a far-off pinpoint of light.

All he got was this rock slide he couldn't see over. Man, he really needed a light on his helmet—a stronger beam that would light up everything around him. Already the beam in his flashlight seemed to be getting weaker. He might have to change batteries. He'd found headlamps advertised on the Internet for as little as nineteen dollars, plus shipping, but he wanted a really good one. And how was he supposed to talk Mom or Dad into ordering one for him without a zillion questions?

He turned the flashlight off when he could to save the battery, but each time he did, the blackness was so total, so complete, that it took his breath away. And when it took his breath away, there was no sound at all, not even the gentle
whuff
of his own breathing.

Once over the rock slide, the surface under his feet turned to clay again. The ceiling got lower and lower, until he was on his belly as before, and again, he took off his backpack and pushed it ahead of him as he crawled. Thirty more minutes and he had to start back. He realized that all it would take was another rock slide, or even one big rock to roll out of place, blocking his path back, and…Buck took a shaky breath and went on.

He moved as fast as he could, the shin guards on his arms making soft grating sounds as he set one arm down, then the next, followed by the soft scrape of each leg as it dragged along after. He ached from his cramped position and his neck had a crick in it that wouldn't go away. He tried lying down on his side so he could raise his chin off his chest, and reached out his left arm. His fingers closed around something loose, something light. He tried to make out what it was—smooth, with a ridge, and…

Carefully Buck positioned his flashlight so that he could turn it on.

“Oh!” he said aloud, and dropped the skull in his hand.

For a moment he remained perfectly still, staring at it. Not a human skull, but that of an animal he couldn't quite make out. A possum, he decided finally. A lamb falling into the Hole would never make it back this far, and most certainly would never find its way out again. The very thought sent pinpricks down his spine. Buck may have been the first human to explore this place, but animals had been here, and journeyed to…where? He gently pushed the skull to one side and kept going.

It was tedious work and Buck would allow himself only one real rest stop. He ate a small box of raisins and half a box of Skittles and drank some water. That gave him a new burst of energy. He felt like some kind of insect, scrambling along, up and down and over the bumpy path, sometimes on his feet and hands, butt in the air, conscious always of whether he would get confused finding his way back, and taking time to mark the rock wall with taped arrows, pointing the way he should go.