Robyn Hogan

“We’ve got to think this out carefully,” I said as we stood by the separated formation, the snapped column.

“If bushrangers were here before us, I mean, like in 1820 or 1830, they probably couldn’t write. Instead, they’d leave markers. And, at a guess, the markers would be pieces of broken flowstone.”

“Yeah.” Fox lit a match. It burned brightly. We moved past, our eyes searching the floor, neither of us knowing what broken flowstone might look like.

A couple of metres in and Fox lit another match. Still okay. The floor had the look of set mud, a little orangey in colour, and rose slightly away from us into what seemed to be a narrow passage. A narrow, winding passage as we soon found out. Every dozen or so steps Fox lit a match. At first we didn’t realise they were burning brighter, that, as each one went out, it took our eyes longer to adjust. Until it was too late. Fox’s lamp, our only lamp, faded completely.

“AT least there’s been only one passage so far. No forks, no divides. We’ll have to go back for the torch. But we shouldn’t get lost.

It was eerie, stumbling along in the horrid blackness, even though we knew it was safe enough. It seemed far more curving than I remembered and we kept colliding with the walls. For ages and ages we bumped our way along. Until a faint glow of light beckoned.

Alex was awake, his lamp on. That was a relief. Jacques had discarded his light, and his helmet, long ago. And we certainly hadn’t had time to look for it as well as everything else we had to do. Jacques seemed to meander around the chamber in the dark. If Alex hadn’t been awake I don’t know what would have happened to us. It didn’t bear thinking about. And the power in his lamp must be getting low too.

Time was definitely running out. For all of us.

After a brief word to Alex – his throat was so sore he could barely speak – we set off again, trailing the string. His cheeks were scarlet, burning, but he understood the plan. This time we tied the string’s end round his wrist, taking the ball with us. He really didn’t have the strength to help us more.

“When we get out we’ll give some good jerks on the line. Then you”ll know rescue is on its way.”

He forced his swollen lips apart in a brave smile before whispering, “Good luck.”

“thanks,” we replied brightly but, under my breath, I muttered, “we’ll need it.”

As we passed near its previous resting place I pulled the bracelet from my pocket and, curling it neatly, placed it in the rocky niche, patting it a gentle farewell. It somehow seemed a good luck thing to do.

We moved quickly, confidently, at first then decided we had better begin the foul air checks again. We couldn’t tell how far we’d come before. And we still didn’t know what sort of guide signs we were looking for.

The passage widened, the ceiling dropped and we were in a small cave. The torchlight beamed into three openings running off it; four including the one we entered by.

“Okay. Now’s the test.” Fox was jaunty. He lit a match. It flared brightly. There was no sign on walls or floor that pointed a direction. None that we recognised as a pointer anyway. “We’ll try left to right.”

I was about to crawl into the left hand passage when Fox stopped me. Lucky me. The match would not light. The head broke off the first one while he was trying but, when the second stayed dead too, we decided to scrap that opening and try the next. Matches flared into life in it and in the third entrance too.

“Well, two possibles.”

“Yeah. But which?”

“The bushrangers, or whoever, must have left some indication of the route.”

“We’re missing something, Ame. Something bloody obvious, I bet.” When next he spoke it was almost a whine. “What is it, Ame? You think things out better than me. You must find the clue.”

I didn’t answer but a warm glow brightened me briefly. We crouched, in the dark, Fox tapping the matchbox gently on the torch case. Cardboard on plastic. Not much louder than flowstone forming.

“Of course!” I jumped up. “The way we’ve come — that has to be marked. Or they would never have found their way back in.”

“Yeah!” The torch flashed on and we screened the passage exit in minute detail. Nothing.

“Wait a minute,” I said, exasperation honing my wits. “A bushranger. Hiding. He wouldn’t exactly leave EMOH RUO over the door.” Together we ducked back into the passage. “and he was probably a metre six or eight tall”

“Plus arm length.” Fox shone the torch above our heads. A dull white knob protruded out of the wall, too high for us to touch but within a man’s reach. Its shadow flaked across the opening and now, when we looked, there were grains, crumbs, of whitish chalk lying on the hard floor to the side.

We whirled round. Another piece of flowstone jutted out high above the further passage. We were on our way!

The pass was mercifully short and we were in another cave, longish, with quite a high ceiling. Tree roots flowed across, tendrils trailing into space. And, to the right of our heads, just before we were able to stand straight again, a knob of white jutted in the light.

But no other guiding mark cast a shadow.

“The path doesn’t have to be straight ahead.” I tried to keep hope in my voice. The area was strewn with boulders and great blocks of rock. Unless we could find the mark it would be another horrid long search. I was conscious of being frightfully tires. Hungry and thirsty too. And sick of the whole rotten business.

Fox strobed the area systematically, the torch beam riding up and down. I strolled around the rocks, only gradually becoming aware of a change in atmosphere.

“It smells different here. And,” I paused in disbelief, “it’s not as cold. Or, rather, not that seeping cold.”

“Is that it?”

The marker was almost hidden behind a tree root, a broad, snaking bulge turning the light back, protecting the clue. Perhaps the root had been but a lazy thread when the flowstone piece had been jammed into the wall.

We dashed towards it, hands outstretched, but there was no obvious break in the earthy, pebble-studded surface.

“Water. I can small water.”

“Well, dampness anyway.”

“We have to believe the next opening is here, in a straight line below the peg. Otherwise, why put the peg there?”

I ran my hand along the floor in the dark. Fox was streaking the torchlight above, tracing the tree root.

“It’s wet. Water! Fox, please, shine the light down here!”

I was yelling, laughing, almost crying. My mind knew even before the fact was proved. We were as close as dammit to the outside world.

I scooped and scraped at the mushy leaves and, before Fox had the wretched torch focussed accurately, I could see light, glorious, natural light. And air, sweet smelling, rain laden air, wafted through the crevice.

Fox was down beside me. We were digging like wombats. Leaves, pebbles, soil, even a gecko lizard, were tossed out behind us until the opening was wide enough.

I flattened, put an arm through, then one shoulder, and, not caring about grazing my face, I forced my body under. And out! Onto a damp, smooth, grey boulder. The very one we had scrambled over the first time we’d come seeking Jacques. I rolled aside, giving Fox room.

I have never seen him so filthy nor his teeth and eyes so bright. He grinned. “Made it!”

I tugged hard, several times, on the string before setting the now slight, misshapen ball down.