Those Who Went Remain There Still (12 page)

He sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe I ever knew your sister, Meshack.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference. If there’s a woman here,
and if she’s a ghost or if she’s turned into something worse…that’s surely her.”

“Something worse?” he repeated after me. “What on earth do you mean by that?” There was real worry written on his face, and again I got that awful suspicion that he knew something I didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

Everyone else was packed up and almost ready to head on forward, into the Pit. I tugged at Uncle John’s arm and helped him shoulder a loaded-up pack. It wasn’t too heavy, because we didn’t intend to be down there for a week or anything. All of us were carrying extra oil, a few caving supplies like pick-axes and little shovels, a canteen, and some candles just in case.

“You sure?” he asked me.

“I’m not sure of anything,” I admitted, and it was the truth. “Except for this bad feeling,” I added. “I’ve got a real bad hurt in my stomach about this whole thing, and I don’t like it—not any of it. Not at all.”

And that was all I could confess. It was all I was willing to share, and anyway, the other fellows were waiting for us to hurry up.

Uncle John gave me a look, and for a second I couldn’t figure out whether he wanted to give me a hug, or whether he wanted me to give
him
one. It made me uncomfortable, but I was almost grateful for it. I’d rather be embarrassed, than be scared so bad that I could hardly hold a pickaxe without it shaking.

“Let’s go,” I changed the subject. “They’re waiting on us.”

He nodded, and followed behind me. And one by one, in just about the same order we rode out, we filed into the Witch’s Pit.

XII

The Dead in the Pit

I don’t know what I expected from the cave. I’d never been inside one before, and until that day I’d never seen a spirit before, either; but the cave surprised me more than the ghosts, I think. I’d expected darkness, and I’d expected the echoes of our voices and footsteps to patter back and forth across the walls. I’d anticipated the dampness, too.

But nothing could have prepared me for the sheer
stink
of the place.

From the outside we could detect it faintly, and to look at the ground around the entrance you’d think that nothing healthful could be emanating from within. To see all the dead grass and the swath of plants that had expired rather than grow in such proximity to the terrible smell…well…it made me worry for our lungs. Even if the air was not the strictest poison, it certainly could do us no good to breathe it for any duration.

***

Years ago, back when I was still there in the valley, a large raccoon somehow trapped itself in the outhouse hole and drowned in the sewage one summer. After two or three days of stewing in its fecal broth, the decaying raccoon’s stench could have roughly compared to the rank air within the cave.

To put it in the mildest of all possible terms, it was
revolting
.

I didn’t care what my fellow cavers thought of me. I retrieved my handkerchief and held it up to my nose, for all the slim assistance it provided. For a mere moment, I whiffed a faint memory of the lavender I kept in my drawers at home. The scent was overwhelmed almost before I could identify it.

I stuffed the square of fabric back into my pocket, which would have been tantamount to surrender if my efforts had not been so soundly and fairly defeated.

***

In places, the ceiling was quite low—and all across its expanse, as far as the lanterns could project, it was dripping with formations. Some were sharp and long, and they dangled down as delicate-looking as candle wax spilling away from a wick; but some were knobby and round, stone bubbles that glimmered wetly in the firelight.

We all held our heads low, and held our lights as high as we could.

Once we were inside, a great grumbling of swears broke the claustrophobic silence. Partly, the swearers were appalled by the odor, and partly they felt a nervous need to make some noise.

It was crushing, knowing the weight of a whole hill was held up by this dank, uneven ceiling—and we were walking beneath it. I could feel the heft of it, bearing down above me. And as silence fell between us once again, we held still and listened hard. I don’t know what we were listening for; there was nothing to hear except for ourselves, and the occasional flicker and pop of a small flame bucking against a wick.

We could hear ourselves quite clearly, when we listened. Our breaths were low and measured, as if we all believed that there wasn’t enough to breathe. Our hands tightened on our lights and our equipment, and the leather straps or metal holds creaked against our palms.

I cannot speak for the rest of them, but I could hear my own heart, too—pounding in my chest, bashing itself back and forth between my spine and my sternum. I could hear it madly pumping blood up through my temples.

And just when I thought it might make me crazy to stand there still, hearing my own body object to the surroundings, Titus said, “You think Boone ever came into this cave?”

He said it softly, but it was as loud as fireworks in the tiny black cathedral.

“I reckon he must’ve,” Jacob answered. “Otherwise, why would he leave his mark beside it?”

General murmurs of agreement went all along the line.

***

Since the oppressiveness and fear was working on us all, Meshack kept us all moving. He suggested, “Let’s spread out, just a little bit. I don’t mean we should split up, but this room’s pretty big, once you get looking at it. Let’s make sure there’s not some other passage out. Jacob, you said the room divides up.”

“Yes, it does. Right here.” He pointed at a wall that hung like a curtain made of melted rock. He indicated the left side of the curtain. “If you go that way, it dead-ends right quick. If you go the other way, it keeps on going. But now that all these lights are in here, I can see the place is bigger than I thought it was. There might be some other way—some other tunnel or something, leading someplace else.”

“It’s hard to tell, what with all the shadows,” his son said. Nicodemus took a step away from the line and moved his torch, trying to see farther.

“Yeah, it is,” Meshack agreed. “But we’ve got to look.”

“We should look for signs of other men,” I said. “If someone came to deliver a will or a deed, then he must’ve left tracks. Perhaps he left markings for us to follow.”

“What kind of markings?” Carlson asked, but he sounded interested and not dismissive.

I shrugged and turned my shoulder to adjust the strap on my pack. “Chalk marks. Candle stubs. Letters or arrows written on the ceiling with smoke. Anything at all that says we’re not the first to pass this way.”

Titus added, “There might even be some sign left that Boone came here. Might find another mark of his, or something he might’ve dropped. There’s no telling.”

And with that added incentive, the men began to disperse.

We didn’t stray far from one another, not more than a few yards. No one wanted to leave the sight of the group, and no one in the group wanted any one else to sneak away. It was a self-regulating system that kept us close.

***

We found it difficult to take our eyes off the floor in front of us, for it was terrifically uneven and difficult to navigate if we weren’t paying the strictest attention. But we watched the ceiling and the walls, too, and at one point Nicodemus held up his lantern and said, “Look. Is that ours?”

On the ceiling, at a bare spot that was smoother than the rest of its surroundings, someone had smoked a straight line with a pointed end.

“It’s an arrow,” he added.

“It certainly looks like it,” I nodded. “And since it indicates the direction we suspect to be deepest, we might assume that it’s a message. People who explore caves mark their passage this way. Or it might have been left by whoever Heaster paid to deposit his will.”

Meshack frowned. “I don’t like it. I don’t think Heaster would’ve left us any hints. He wasn’t that kind.”

No one argued, but Titus said, “Heaster wouldn’t, sure. But I bet you a dollar he didn’t come in here himself. Whoever he sent might’ve felt the need to be helpful. Or it might be the mark of somebody from years and years ago. Has anyone found any other way past this first split-up room?”

But we hadn’t seen anything to indicate another passage.

“Then that’s the way we have to go,” Meshack said. He didn’t sound happy about it.

***

There, again. At the edge of my vision, there he was.

A quivering shadow with light around the edges, there in the darkness. He was a silhouette with a face. And he was gone.

Then he stood in front of me, holding a candle.

No one else made any remark about him. The rest of the men were steeling themselves against the inevitable chore that would take us deeper and—unless we were mistaken—into the way where the atrocious stench was even greater. We were tracking it down, and we were creeping in closer to its source.

The ghost’s candle was battered, a cut stump from a home-dipped wick. Its yellowish wax dribbled over his knuckles. His face was illuminated perfectly, almost brilliantly.

How was it that no one else could see him?

He was looking at me. Into the lines of his face was carved a hard determination. He was urging me on, urging
us
on. Whether or not he was the man who first smoked the pointing signal, he wished for us to follow it.

His mouth moved, and I heard a whisper that fluttered with disapproval, or unwillingness, or displeasure. I couldn’t tell what.

You’re not prepared, but you’ve got to try
.

“Uncle John?”

I jumped. “Yes?”

Meshack was cloaked in darkness; his face was perfectly black because the bulk of the light was behind him and his own lantern was held in the direction of the passageway.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, and it was true. The ghost was gone.

“You look awful,” he said. He was trying to be quiet.

“I feel all right,” I lied.

“Is something wrong?”

I wanted to tell him, but the room was too close and I would be overheard. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not accustomed to this, that’s all. This close space, this darkness. It’s unfamiliar. I’ll adjust,” I assured him.

He stared at me for a few seconds, probably guessing more than I’d told him, and then he said, “All right. Well, come on, then.”

As we pushed ourselves forward in a small, disgruntled pack, the outside twilight of the cave entrance behind us was perfectly and briefly snuffed.

Then it blinked back into place.

I whirled around, and since I was following the rest of the men I had the best view of the white-gray portal. And the slit remained unbroken, if inadequate to give us any real illumination.

It was as if it were a window, and something had swiftly walked past.

I shoved my lantern forward, holding it out and wielding it like a weapon.

I saw nothing except for the empty cavern with its stone finger columns and posts, and its oozing, shining walls. But for an instant the smell was stronger. It blew past me in a gust that made my throat seize—and I couldn’t stifle a tiny retch.

“Uncle John,” Meshack said, and this time it wasn’t a question. He could smell it too, so it wasn’t a matter of my imagination or spirit intervention. Meshack had turned around, and placed his arm on my shoulder. “Come on, now. You don’t want to get left behind in here.”

In fact, I most certainly did
not
wish to be left behind. On the other hand, I did not wish to proceed even one inch deeper into the cave.

But I’d made my choice. I’d come this far. And I’d go as far as it was necessary to see this thing out.

I took another look around and saw no ghosts, nor any explanation for the stench. I followed after my nephew, whose hunched shoulders were stooping to pass beneath a low-hanging arch. The arch was a great marvel of nature; it was elaborately fanged with stalactites, the longest of which would have tapped against my elbow if I had not dodged it.

As I passed it, I reached out a hand and touched the thing. It was cold and slick. Even though I knew that only water coated it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d pressed my hand against something more gruesome.

I wiped my fingers against my pants.

***

Up front, Carlson held out an arm and said, “Wait a second. I think I found something.”

It was too much to hope that he’d found the will, lying out and ready for us.

“What is it?” Jacob asked. He shoved his way forward and followed Carlson’s light. “I don’t see anything.”

“That don’t look like a handprint to you?”

“Where?” Jacob still wasn’t seeing it.

Nicodemus came up with his light too, and yes, there it was—very faint. “I get it. Yeah, it sure looks like a handprint, made in mud or something.”

“Mud,” Meshack repeated, and an echo said it for him, a third time. “That don’t look like mud to me,” he said. He brought his face in close, then jerked back as if he’d been bitten. “I’ve never in all my life smelled mud like that. It smells like shit.”

“Sure enough it smells like shit,” Carlson affirmed, but I think he only meant the vernacular sense.

“No, I mean it smells like
shit
. Like a chicken coop on a hot day, except worse.”

And while they hashed out the finer points of the terrible-smelling mud, a different noise reached my ears—bouncing from some wet wall or past another stone curtain. I heard it plain as day, and it was a clicking, sliding noise.

“Stop it!” I yelped, too fast and too loud to do anything but startle them into silence. When they were all quiet and looking at me, I said, “Don’t you hear that?
Listen
.”

“Hush up, you old lunatic,” Nicodemus spit at the nearest column.

Carlson joined in. “It’s not enough, you seeing things what ain’t there. Now you’re hearing things, too?”

I couldn’t decide if I should be vindicated or terrified when the noise came again.

Slip, slip, scrape
.

“There, you all heard—“

Meshack cut me off with a wave of his hand and a hasty
shhh
. Yes, he heard it. They all heard it.