The Plug at the Bottom of the Sea (3 page)

Suddenly they both stopped short.

The stared at the strangest footprint they had ever seen.

‘Which is the front, Craig?'

‘Don't know, could be both.'

‘Well, I hope we don't meet it, whatever it is. It must be bigger than an elephant.'

‘Much bigger, an elephant's foot is only like this—' Craig held his arms out in a circle.

‘Come on. We'd better hurry, Craig. These prints look fresh and we should start along the rope before it gets back and finds we've taken its things.'

They walked over the shells and pebbles around the cliffs till they reached the place where the rope hung down below them, way down and over the cliffs. They followed the rope and soon reached a level place before the steep cliffs. This flat ledge was muddy. The seagull tried to walk on top of the rope, but it was still wet and slimy, so he flew up to Cindy's head.

‘Craig, let's call him Windmill.'

‘Who?' Craig asked, not listening but studying the rope.

‘The seagull. Oh, you're not listening. You must listen.'

The mud here was very soft and their footprints filled up again a moment after they had passed. Soon they reached the cliff edge and saw that the rope was too muddy to slide down just yet.

‘Let's have something to eat before we start,' said Craig,
laying the bundle down and starting to sit, having already decided.

‘No, back by that rock.' It frightened Cindy when Craig dangled his legs over the side of the cliff.

She marched back to the rock. Craig laughed and came over to where she had opened the package of cheese. He broke the wet bread and put it on the rocks to dry.

‘Cindy,' Craig asked alarmed, ‘did you find my special knife?'

Cindy, between munches, pulled out a rusted pile of metal pieces. ‘I meant to tell you. It's all in bits.'

Craig picked up the different parts which yesterday had been a beautiful knife with thirteen blades including scissors, He squeezed the scissors which closed with a scraping squeak. Craig shook his head sadly, and undid the army cartridge belt his uncle had given him. He felt over the sandy-coloured bulging pockets. The belt's buckle gleamed in Cindy's eyes and she laughed for she remembered this belt was full of nasty old rubbish.

Craig gave her a stab with his eyes. He undid the snap on each pocket and laid the contents down on the rock. The pile was unhappily small and contained nothing edible or useful as far as Cindy could see. Out of the pockets came rubber bands, elastoplast, aspirin, a tiny book of morse code and sign language, a reflecting mirror with a clear cross in the centre, a compass with a bent needle that made north curve around, and a map of the world. Craig opened the last pocket proudly, but his face dropped when he pulled out a few soggy cigarettes.

‘You know you're not allowed to …'

‘Be quiet, Spook. They're no good anyway.'

Craig suddenly remembered something and pulled out two large marbles. He looked quite smug as he put the round, clinking coils of colour into Cindy's hands.

‘Marbles, that's the silliest thing I …'

Craig quickly took them from her hands.

‘Why do you waste your time on your junky collections?
Map collection; tools, stamps, coin collections, and all those boxes of old stuff back home. Just junk!' Cindy munched her cheese.

Craig smiled in a superior way, not minding her as he took one of the marbles and twisted it until it unscrewed in half. Inside was a pile of tiny matches.

‘Dry,' said Craig, handing them to Cindy, who with her mouth full, had stopped chewing. She would have laughed again at these tiny matches, but this was perhaps the only useful thing they had.

‘Craig, where do you think the rope will lead?'

‘To the plug, I hope.'

‘No, not that.' Cindy shook her head. ‘I mean what about the strange windmill and the plug, it's like a mystery.'

‘I don't know, Cindy, we might never get back, or we might get sucked down in the mud or fall into a hole.'

‘Don't be so mean, Craig. Where do you think, really?'

‘Cindy, I wish I knew. I'm sorry I got you into this trouble! It's my fault, honestly!' Craig really was sorry. They both looked out over the wide, muddy land, munching their cheese.

‘We have some cream crackers,' Cindy said, as she turned to get them from the bundle, only to find Windmill pecking at the crumbs. ‘Well, we
had
some.'

The rope was drying so quickly that they could see it turn from a dark brown to a light grey almost before their eyes. Windmill was already standing on the rope looking over the edge, as if leading them on.

‘Let's go,' called Craig, tying his bundle on his back with some string. ‘You'd better tie your bundle round your waist. You'll need both hands to hold on to the rope. I'll go first, so watch me. It's just like a fireman's pole—like this,' and he slipped over the edge. ‘You wrap your legs round the rope and your arms, and don't look down. Just look at the wall so you won't get scared. There are some ledges you can rest on when you're tired.'

But Cindy didn't move. The lacy gold patterns of the streams
in the valley wobbled before her eyes. ‘It'll hold. It's as thick as your arms stretched around. I bet your arms can't even reach around.'

Cindy tied her bundle round her waist as if in a dream. The mud on the rope felt cold and it was only dry on the surface. She closed her eyes, but could still feel the mud ooze between her fingers, as she held on tight and ever so slowly lowered herself over the edge. She felt the slime covering her clothes and a piece of mud fell on her face. The rope swayed.

It was an age till she finally opened her eyes. The cliffs high above were grey and green where seaweed trees hung over.

‘That seaweed up there looks like tired horses,' called Cindy. Craig laughed.

‘Can they talk?'

Cindy had dropped so much mud on Craig's hair that it was not light any more but green-brown and stringy.

‘You look like a water rat, Craig.'

Craig strained his neck to look up. ‘And you're a mouse.'

‘My fingers hurt and they're getting all red.'

‘I know, mine too. But we have to get to the bottom.'

‘I know. I just wanted you to know it's very hard.'

The rope was green-tinted and smelled. It became very slippery with strings of seaweed tangled around it. Cindy stretched her feet to the rock wall to stand on crevices and cracks and ledges, to keep from sliding too fast. It was fun swinging from one rock to another.

‘Cindy, don't do that swinging. We might fall.'

‘I'm sorry,' Cindy called down to her brother. ‘I didn't think about that. But it's very hard for me to hold on.'

But she obeyed her older brother and stopped standing on the ledges and kicking off from each step.

Soon her hands began to hurt terribly and the rope burnt her legs. Mud slid freely between her fingers, and suddenly she felt her hands slip down over little pieces of seaweed. She lost her grip.

She slid slowly at first till her hands burned horribly, and she could not hang on at all.

‘Craig!' she shouted. But it was too late. She felt herself fall on top of him and the bundle tied around her waist came loose and clattered down the cliff until it ‘smacked' far below.

Craig had smoothed the mud before Cindy began to slide, since he was below her, so she was going very fast when she fell on top of him. She fell so hard, Craig slipped as well, for he had not heard her shout. He had been thinking of the bird whose little feet were in his hair tickling him, when suddenly
thump
he was falling. He held on tight, ever so tight, but they were both sliding.

Faster, then faster.

‘Quick,' cried Craig. ‘Tighten your hands.'

‘I can't.'

‘Try, Cindy. I can't hold on much longer. Tighten your hands and kick out for the ledge.'

They both kicked and their feet hit the rocks, but they were going too fast to stop. Craig saw the mud below slide in a blur as he fell. Then:
wham!

The landscape stopped. All was clear. They were much lower.

Craig crouched on a ledge with Cindy on his shoulders, piggyback. His legs ached terribly from the fall. Windmill fluttered round them with a few feathers floating to the mud.

‘Cindy, are you all right?'

‘Yes,' answered Cindy very weakly, as he bent to let her off.

On the ledge there were two inches of mud and when they sat up they were covered in it. Windmill was so heavy with mud he fell to the ledge unable to fly, his legs out of sight. Flapping his wings furiously he rose an inch, splattering mud all over them. They were all a funny sight and Cindy laughed despite her aches.

It was some time later, after they had continued down the rope with no mishaps that they began to swing as they neared the bottom. Windmill had to fly zigzag to keep up with them.

Craig saw that at the bottom the rope disappeared into a few seaweed trees. ‘We'll have to land in those trees.' Finally he stepped onto a seaweed branch at the top of a tree.

‘It feels more springy than a real—I mean—an earth tree.'

‘Careful, Craig, you'll fall off.'

They climbed down through the branches, dripping soft moss. Under the trees the soft mud was like soup. Craig held on to the bottom branch and jumped. He sank up to his waist under the shadowy leaves and wet branches.

‘O.K. now, Cindy. It's safe.'

Cindy took two big steps on the branch and jumped.

Up to their waists in blackness, except for patches of light beyond them, they waded under the tunnel of seaweed hanging like fins of jelly, and plastic-like flowers.

They had been wading in the dark for what seemed like hours when Craig realized it was getting darker not lighter. He reached in his cartridge belt in the last pocket and pulled out a marble and unscrewed it. The match scratched and flared; the bright crystal of coral leaves and oily vines gleamed in the dark. Craig lowered the match to the mud surface in front of him and suddenly it burst into flame; blue green exploded before him.

‘Craig! Craig! What have you done?'

They both began running, the mud almost up to their waists. They could not go fast. Craig looked behind and saw the flames following him.
Oil,
he thought. It must be floating on the mud.

They ran, or waded, till they were exhausted. But they became separated in the dark. When Craig looked back and saw the tiny flames looking harmless in the distance, he called out, ‘Cindy?' He could see a sunny clearing ahead, between the jelly leaves. ‘This way, Cindy. Don't get lost.'

He had waded into the centre of the wide opening between the seaweed trees where the mud looked bumpy. Too late he felt his legs begin to sink. He gave each leg a hard yank but no matter how hard he strained, if one leg came out, the other would sink further in.

Now Craig had read of quicksand and quicksilver but this
was quickmud. He hardly expected it on the bed of the sea. He thought about calling to Cindy, but what good could she do? She couldn't get near him and she wasn't strong enough to pull him out. She'd just cry. But why didn't she come? He'd called to tell her the way.

He must think of something. He must stay calm and not struggle. The black mud was smooth for five feet all around him. He tested it. Could he make it to those lumps of rocks or sticks? There was nothing else. But his struggle to swim only made the cold mud around his chest and back seem more frightening. The lumps were nearer now. Just at that moment he realized the lumps had the dull reflection of smooth shells and the cage of grey-yellow sticks was the skeleton of a giant fish. He was in the midst of an ocean graveyard.

Craig was frightened for the first time he could ever remember, or admit. Keep thinking, keep thinking, but stay calm. What good were his special instruction in yoga and codes, or even his belt now?

The belt, that's it! Into the mud went his hands, and a long second later, a dripping black thing emerged from the mud. He took a deep breath and whipped the buckle end towards the fish skeleton. It bounced off with a sharp crack as one bone broke and fell into the mud. It disappeared. Again he threw out the belt—lightly—but the buckle did not catch. Craig was desperate. Cindy came out of the trees calling, ‘Craig, what are you doing in the mud? Stop playing.'

‘Cindy,' Craig said steadily. ‘This is quickmud.'

‘You look so silly. You don't expect me to believe you?'

Craig bit his lip. He wouldn't cry out. He would just disappear. No, what was he saying? If he survived he would be good, he would even stop teasing Cindy. Yes, even that, really he would.

He held the two ends of the soggy belt in either hand above his head and, stretching out his arms, he ever so gently flicked the buckle towards the crack between the top thinnest bones of the skeleton.

‘Craig, stop pretending!' Cindy was getting worried. Craig seemed lower in the mud but if she showed she was worried, he would just tease her, when he came out after his trick. No, she would not notice him. She turned her back. This was a trick. Craig was just waiting to burst out laughing. She could tell. But all the same she sneaked a look.

Craig flipped the buckle again, this time as lightly as a playing card. It slipped between the bones without a sound. He was breathing heavily despite the orders he had given himself. Would it hold? Would the bones break this time? They must be old. Ever so slowly he twisted the thick cartridge belt around like a rolled towel dripping mud, but the buckle stayed flat. It would not move. The mud smelled.

He kept turning the buckle, which finally began to turn until it was straight up in the air. As he pulled, it caught between the two bones and held when he pulled harder. The cage of bones began to rise up out of the mud as he pulled. Would it hold? Craig remembered thinking this was a graveyard without stones. This was how animals and fishes die, not floating on the surface as he had always thought, but here on the bottom.