Robyn Hogan

“It’s hopeless really! Quite gross! We have no idea what we are looking for. A hole. A scratch. An open doorway. In the floor. The wall. Maybe we have to fly up through a chimney in the roof!’

I was sucking on a juice pack and the anger and horror I felt, when I stopped think, was becoming unbearable. It was now close to noon; we had been searching for four, going on five, hours for an exit. Ignoring Jacques, but going on the hunch his instincts might have taken him to the likeliest area for a doline, we had searched all round him. Heads down, like sheep trailing across a paddock in the midday heat, we checked the base of each and every boulder. Tentatively, we pushed at each one in case something loosened. We hone our light on every side of every blasted one, seeking a fissure, a rift. But they sat there, like teddy bears at a picnic, silent, docile, smug.

My finger tips, ragged and raw from shuffling stones, could hardly hold the juice pack and I was hungry, tired and shaking with anger and frustration. As I leant against a rock the fringe of lamplight caught the sparkle of the flowstone. It glistened, as dazzlingly bright as the snows of Narnia in the time of the White Witch, beckoning.

“Maybe we’re searching the wrong side.” I waved a hand towards the white wall. “If that is actually flowing it must be coming from somewhere,” I said crossly.

“Yeah. But it looks too slippery to scale. And it’s more an ooze than a flow.”

Nevertheless, we dragged out weary feet across the cavern and stood where we had the evening before, doing nothing but gaze in wonder. Time floated by as we searched the lines and patterns with our eyes. Stalactites beckoned and winked, some curving at mischievous angles, others hanging straight and stylish. The light caught those hanging metres behind. Fine as cobwebs, thick as thighs, tangled as trees, the forest stretched back.

There were stalagmites too, though far fewer, thicker, conical rather than needles and spears like the stalactites. And columns formed where the more delicate stalactites matched up, joined onto, fused into, the bulkier deposits rising from the floor. One would-be column was not quite complete. I pointed it out to Fox.

“How long do you think it will take to join up? A month? A year?’

“Probably centuries.”

“Then we must be careful not to damage any. How awful to take so long to grow and be so fragile.”

“Get back! Lay low! Here they come!’

We whirled round. Our light showed Jacques jumping up and down on a block of stone, waving his arms. He had discarded his helmet and his boots and his hair flung wildly with his movements. His eyes, staring, caught in the light like a possum, seemed to glow red. To our left earth slid and spilt and the smell of dust made me sneeze. The wall began to rumble, stones to roll.

“Noise does it.” I could barely force the words out, I was so scared that, this time, we would be buried.

Fox sped across the cavern. “Shut it,” he ordered.

“They’re after you too, you know. You won’t escape them either.”

Stones rattled and more wall sighed as it fell.

“Quiet,” I hissed.

“Hush, man. Hush Jacques. Softly now Jacques.” Fox changed tactics, spoke as if he was approaching a trapped animal. “Soft, Jacques. Jacques.”

It worked. The lanky man’s arms stilled then, pressing his hands to the sides of his neck, he slowly, silently, stretched them above his head. Up and down, quietly, in the lamplight. His body gradually loosened and, sinking to a sitting position, he folded himself up, hands clasped round knees, chin resting on them.

The breath I was holding eased out in a long sigh.

“Do you think he’s eaten at all? We left him the cake but, maybe, he hasn’t touched it. I haven’t noticed him eating – or drinking.” I spoke softly, searching my memory. “That could send him a bit crazy. If he hasn’t eaten, I mean.”

“Yeah. But he’s got bigger problems than that.”

“Meanwhile,” I said as I turned towards our supplies, “speaking of which, we haven’t eaten much either.” I checked my watch. “Three o’clock! Fox, we’ve just spent three hours looking at that wall. Doing nothing. Not even thinking. That’s haunting!’

“Yeah.” He shuddered, ducked down and picked up the pack of lamb chops. I took one and, with the first bite, I realised how ravenous I was. I had sprinkled the meat liberally with pepper and salt at cooking and the strong savoury flavour was exactly what my body craved.

“It’s not long ’til dark again,” Fox spoke between bites. “We’ll finish these, have a swig of water and concentrate on finding a way out past the decorations.”

I nodded, gnawing round the bone, slipping my tongue in for the marrow. “Maybe we can get round, you know, behind, and not do any damage. We haven’t looked at the far side corner at all.”

“Come to think of it, Ame, we’re being quite stupid. We should have checked the whole area out first, not just start in on one spot expecting success first up.” Disgust thickened his words. “What’s got into us? We don’t usually attack a problem without proper thought.”

“Maybe the white wall has cast a spell on us.”

It was the wrong time to be flippant. Fox glared at me, and, between clenched teeth, snarled, “Cut that fantasy junk.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, head down. It was the very worst place and time for we two to quarrel and I felt guilty. But we were both getting awfully nervy. He, too, must have felt some shame. When next he spoke it was in his jaunty manner, though a little force.

“Let’s get on with a proper check out now.”

“Sure,” I replied, bent over, looking closely at Alex.

He was asleep or unconscious but his breathing was not as rapid, his colour a bit brighter. And he had eaten and drunk. I shifted fresh supplies near him. He really was tough. Looking after himself. No complaining, no whining.

“We’ll get us out,” I whispered, as much to reassure myself as City Boy.

His eyes opened. “Isn’t there some way I can help?’

“You’re helping just fine. Looking after yourself as you are.” I was getting soft but, somehow, I felt a nicer person. “We’re going to make a systematic, thorough search for a way out. Beginning now.”

“How about,” he hesitated slightly, ” how about I hold the ball of string?’

Of course! The string! I grinned relief and admiration. At least Alex was paying proper attention to our entrapment. I scuttled for the string, tied an end through my belt and handed the tightly wound ball to him.

“Just run it out free,” he directed, “and, if there’s slack at any time, I’ll wind it back.”

“Well, if you feel strong enough. I mean, you might want to sleep. Or something.”

“And you might get tangled up if we don’t keep the line direct.”

“Sure.” I was grateful and it suddenly occurred to me that Alex was more resourceful than either Fox or I had given him credit for.

We approached the wall of sculpture warily, not saying anything, avoiding any chance of verbal conflict. But determined not to be sucked in again by its intriguing beauty. Directing light past it we noted the decorations thinning out. Smaller, slighter formations. The thickest stalagmite here was no more than about 10 millimetres across and scarcely a handspan high. Its surface was jagged, dry looking except for a moist, shining rosette a little to left of centre. Above, with a gap of close to two metres, hung a stalactite, a sparkling little nose winking on its jagged, chalky downface. There was something different about these two formations, something deadish. But I pushed speculation aside. We had to get on with our task, not drift in dreams.

Beyond, a wide passage opened to our lamp.

“Beauty,” Fox whistled, grinning. And I knew I wore a wide, silly smile in agreement. My heart thumped with excitement.

We skirted the formations and trotted confidently along keeping to the far wall, allowing the string, as Alex had suggested, to run free.

It was easy walking. An adult would have had to bend but not us. So, when my breath became hard and heavy I stopped, puzzled. A straining pain filled my chest. Then balls of fire erupted in my head and hammers thundered behind my eyes. I reeled, feeling sick, hot, sweaty.

Stumbling backwards, the pain eased a little and I leant against the wall, retching. It seemed an eternity before my breathing ceased to hurt and the ache in my head settled to a dark, throbbing blue. With sticky, trembling fingers I wiped the sweat from beneath my eyes, out of the runnels round my nose and adjusted the lamp.

Fox was crouched over, near my feet, his breath rasping like a blunt saw gnawing through hardwood.

I touched his shoulder. “Back,” I croaked, forcing the word along a raw feeling throat.

We stumbled half blind, nausea curling over us in great yellow swirls, out of the passageway and staggered over to Alex. We sank down, eyes closing, minds passing off into exhaustion.

In my last flicker of consciousness I heard Jacques speak. In his sane, rich, capable voice.

“Met up with a foul air barrier, did you?’