The Lost Ark (19 page)

“Good enough,” I said. “We’ll follow you, professor. And if we get lost, we eat you first.”

Caesar moved forward, and I followed; Wally took up the rear. For the time being, the tunnel led in only one direction, which eliminated the decision-making process.

* * *

Ten minutes later, we came to our first decision: a fork in the tunnel. One tunnel led off to the left, and the other continued to the right. After consulting the map, Caesar confidently pointed to the right and Wally and I followed without question like lambs to the slaughter.

Perhaps an hour later, we came to yet another fork in the road, but to my dismay, Caesar frowned at the map, shaking his head.

I said, “You’re shaking your head, professor, because you can’t believe how remarkably easy this is to decide which tunnel to take.”

Caesar turned the map over and upside down, which I took as a bad sign. He rubbed his jaw. “I’m beginning to think,” he said, “that I don’t know how to read this.”

“We can save time and eat you now,” I said. “After all, we haven’t had breakfast.”

Caesar ignored me. “There’s supposed to be three choices here, not two.”

I handed the torch to Wally, who held it out for Caesar, as I stepped forward to examine the two tunnel entrances. Both stretched as far as the light would reach. I knelt down and studied the floor.

“What are you looking for?” asked Wally.

“I’m looking for some indication as to which tunnel to choose. Perhaps an ancient scuffmark from an ancient pair of leather boots. Something, anything.”

I didn’t find a scuffmark, but I did come across something unusual. What first appeared to be a shadow from a rock protrusion, was actually something entirely—

Caesar suddenly yelled, “Wally, the map!”

I closed my eyes, praying Caesar hadn’t just said:
“Wally, the map!”

I turned, my worst fears realized. The flame had burned a hole in the map. Caesar blew gently as ashes drifted down in the torchlight. The map looked as if a fiery cannonball had been shot through it from a pirate ship.

Wally dropped the torch and stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”

I moved quickly, retrieving the torch before the flame winked out. Caesar closed his eyes. The older man seemed to be fighting an urge to cry. Instead, he said simply, “The map is quite useless.”

“I’m sorry,” said Wally again. “I was just trying to help.”

The professor took a deep breath, face crimson with anger, contrasting with his silver beard. But then, in a heartbeat, the anger was gone and the familiar old grin returned. His eyes sparkled as if lit by torches of their own. He reached up on tip-toes and mussed the kid’s hair. “You’ve always had two left feet, Wally. Now, I suppose, you have two left hands.”

Wally grinned, perhaps relieved that the professor hadn’t given him a noogie instead.

I studied what was left of the map. The hole was nine inches across, spanning the interior route within the mountain, from the entrance to the final picture of a little ark that Caesar had drawn. The drawing looked more like a row boat than the vessel that had preserved life as we know it.

“Well,” I said and walked over to the shadow along the wall and pushed aside a cobwebbed veil. “The good news is that I’ve found the third tunnel.”

* * *

“The bad news,” I said, “is that we don’t know which tunnel to take.” I waved the torch at all three. “The left, middle, or right?”

The professor said quickly, “The middle tunnel.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Sure enough to risk our lives?”

He started to nod, but then paused in mid-nod. His thick eyebrows scrunched together in a hairy shelf above his orbital ridges. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Suddenly, I’m not so sure, Sam.”

Wally stepped forward, speaking confidently. “I propose we go right.”

“Why?”

“Because the main tunnel seems to naturally progress to the right.”

“A valid point,” said Caesar. “But the wind seems to be coming from the left tunnel, which might indicate a way out.”

“But, professor, you just said the middle tunnel,” I pointed out, exasperated.

“I was caught-up in the heat of the moment, Sam. Plus, I’ve been known to frequently change my mind. It’s a character flaw. To be honest, I wouldn’t bet a wooden nickel on the middle tunnel.”

I chewed my lip thoughtfully, or maybe hungrily. Finally, I said, “We will each follow a tunnel, and report back here in ten minutes. Do we all have watches?”

They nodded.

“Good,” I said. “Wally, you go right. Professor, you check the left. And I’ll follow the middle. Remember, spend five minutes moving into the tunnel, and five minutes coming back. No one gets lost. We meet back here in ten minutes and report on our findings.”

“But what do we do for torches?” asked Wally, wetting his lips nervously with his tongue. I decided that Wally
always
looked nervous. Hell, he was making me feel nervous.

I removed the pistol from behind my back and the pocketknife from my hip. I placed the handle of the torch against a suitable rock, then used the butt of the pistol to hammer the pocketknife into the wood. A half dozen whacks later and I had split the torch into three torchettes. I handed one each to Caesar and Wally, keeping the third for myself.

“Ten minutes,” I said, and stepped into the middle tunnel.

* * *

In the middle tunnel, as I contorted my body like a belly dancer on steroids around protrusions and limestone stalagmites (once I was even forced to limbo), I was beginning to think that I had gotten the short end of the proverbial stick. The tunnel was difficult to traverse at best.

But shortly, as the light from the torchette crawled over the wall like liquid fire, I came upon a small pile of neatly stacked stones in the shape of a finger. Or a phallic. Either way, I was sure it was another marker (and one that would intrigue any Freudian psychologist). I grinned and looked at my watch. Time to go back.

And that’s when Wally’s high-pitched scream echoed down the undulating tunnel.

Chapter Forty-one

I backtracked through the convoluted tunnel system, banging my head and shins more times than I cared to admit, meeting the professor in the main tributary. The professor was huffing and puffing and holding his chest.

I need to sharpen my CPR skills
, I thought.

“Wally,” he gasped, pointing to the right tunnel.

When the professor had caught his breath, we stepped into the right tunnel, which was wide enough to drive a Volkswagen Beetle through. So what had happened to the kid? Had he stubbed his toe and fallen?

Holding the torches before us, as shadows scuttled over the uneven floor like fleeing mice, I noticed the tunnel was noticeably cooler than the others, as a small wind meandered over our skin, groping us with phantom hands.

The wind blew louder, howling and I instinctively slowed the pace. It was a good thing, because the stone floor suddenly disappeared into total blackness. One moment it was there, the next it was gone, a straight drop to an unknown depth. I was able to stop in time, teetering on the ledge. A small pebble, kicked by my boot, plummeted over the edge, and I never heard it drop. Maybe it was still falling. The professor, however, bumped into me. I grabbed hold of the old man, and held on. When we untangled ourselves, Caesar moved cautiously forward and held his light near the edge of the pit. “My, God. It’s almost invisible. As if it’s man-made.”

“No time for conspiracy theories, professor.”

I leaned out over the pit, careful of the loose rock around the lip—and breathed a sigh of relief. The kid was down there, sprawled on a narrow rock shelf, which had saved him from falling farther into the pit. His torch lay next to him, extinguished. Although I couldn’t tell if Wally was breathing or not, at least his neck didn’t appear broken.

“He’s down there,” I said, “but it doesn’t look good.”

Caesar called down to the boy, a note of hysteria in his voice, but there was no response. I quickly removed my jacket and flannel shirt, tying the sleeves together. I told Caesar to do the same. The nylon jackets were thin, designed exclusively to repel wind and rain. Still, the material should be strong enough to hold a man. And the flannel shirts were well-made and thick, and time would only tell if they would hold up.

I glanced down into the pit. We needed another five feet of material, at least. I removed my boots, then pants. Working in my long underwear, I put the boots back on, knowing I looked ridiculous as hell, but also knowing that I would need the boots for traction.

There was an amused sparkle in the professor’s eyes. “Cute,” he said.

“You’re next, professor. Come on, hand them over.”

With our pants tied together, we had enough material. I studied the great hole in the floor, which stretched from wall to wall. There was no way around the pit, from one side to the other, unless there was a vine hanging from above and I was Tarzan of the Apes. Near the side wall, however, there was an upthrust of rock that could be used for leverage.

“How are you with heights, professor?” I asked.

“Better, if I wasn’t half naked.”

* * *

Braced against the rock, the tow of clothing wrapped around my back in a classic single rope belay, I eased Caesar over the lip and down into the pit. The material was tied between his legs and around his waist, in a sort of harness.

“All you have to do is sit there and hold the torch,” I said. “And pray.”

The edge of the pit was worn smooth, preventing any friction. I eased the professor down a foot or so at a time, grunting with the effort as my quads burned like hell, for they were in fact doing most of the work. I did this until Caesar hollered up that he was down. Indeed, the weight suddenly slackened, and I stopped myself from shooting back into the wall behind me.

I caught my breath, stretched my aching fingers. Silence surrounded me. Occasionally I could hear Caesar grunting in the pit as he worked to secure the limp form of Wally. I wondered how long until the silence behind me turned into insane Kurds with machine guns.

The line of clothing jerked in my hands, Caesar’s way of telling me the kid was ready.

The knots, interspersed from sleeve to sleeve and pant leg to pant leg, provided perfect handholds. Like catching a marlin, I leaned forward, gripped the material, and leaned back as far as I could. I repeated the process until my legs quivered, as if made of rubber. Clenching my jaw, I wondered if my teeth would shatter in my mouth.

And then I saw Wally’s inert form appear above the pit. I leaned forward and gripped the kid under an armpit and pulled. He spilled over the rim in a heap of elbows and knees and other sharp body parts.

I spent a minute catching my breath, alternately slapping Wally in the face. I wasn’t sure how effective slapping Wally in the face was, but it sure seemed to make me feel a hell of a lot better. The kid didn’t respond, but he appeared to be breathing fine. Finally, I dragged him off to the side, away from the pit, giving me room to haul up the professor.

My only solace was that the professor wasn’t dead weight. He would help when he could, although the walls were sheer and smooth, like a frozen waterfall, and impossible to climb solo.

I tossed the clothing down to the professor, who had been waiting patiently in the pit. He caught hold of the material and spent some time tying it between his legs and around his waist, holding his torch in his mouth, the flames inches from his gray beard. Finally, he gave me the thumbs up sign.

I grabbed the first knot and pulled hard. My arms shook like powerlines in a storm. I had the sensation that I was reliving the same nightmare. Nevertheless, I pulled with relentless doggedness, pausing only to catch my breath. The chain of clothing piled slowly around me. Too slowly.

I paused again, but it was a long pause, my chin resting against my chest as the weight of one man hung from my fingertips. Sweat poured from my brow, burning my eyes, wetting my lips.

Just a few more pulls—

And then Wally appeared behind me, shaking his head as if kick-starting his brain. He gripped the line of clothing. He braced his huge feet against an out-cropping of rock, and leaned back. He could have been pulling an oar for his college row team. Together, we worked until Caesar’s pale hand appeared over the ledge. And when the old man scrambled over the side, I lay back exhausted in a pool of my own sweat.

Chapter Forty-two

We untied the clothing and got dressed. Wally had a purple goose egg on his forehead, rising rapidly, ready to hatch. When the kid finally stood, he swayed on his feet as if he were on board a sinking ship.

To see if he was still playing with a full deck, I asked him his name, and he said
Waldorf Krispin.
The kid didn’t look like a Waldorf, although
Wally
seemed to fit nicely. I asked for his mother’s maiden name.
Richmond
.

I turned to the professor. “Is this true?” I asked him.

Caesar shrugged. “I suggest you stick with answers you can verify.”

“Good point.” I turned to Wally. “What color are your eyes?”

“Hazel.”

I thought they were green, and told him so. Wally became indignant and said he should know the color of his own eyes. I suggested that he had hit his head harder than he thought. Caesar stepped forward and arbitrated. “Wally’s eyes could appear hazel when wearing green or blue, but other than that, they’re green. So you’re both right.”

Next, I told the others about the erect pile of stones found in the center tunnel. They agreed the stones could be a clue; either that, or evidence of primitive man’s obsession with his own penis.

* * *

As Caesar had had the foresight to bring up Wally’s torch, the three of us each carried a light as I led the way back through the middle tunnel, once again contorting my body around the many rock protrusions. Unfortunately, as the professor’s body hadn’t contorted in many decades, he needed a helping hand. Wally, however, was a natural at picking his way through the tunnel, knees and elbows casting sharp shadows along the walls and ceiling. He looked like a preying mantis.