The Spirit Well

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Drawn deeper into the gallery, Kit saw that, apart from the creatures on display, there were sections consisting of symbols—spirals and wavy lines, dots and circles of various sizes, shapes that looked like eggs, and many handprints. The handprints were made the way a kindergartner makes a hand by outlining his own digits with a crayon; on the cave wall, however, instead of drawing around the hand and fingers, the pigment had been sprayed somehow over the hand, leaving a shadow print on the surrounding rock, a void where the artist’s hand used to be. Were these the painter’s signatures? Or were they simply a way of announcing a presence—like the “Bill woz’ ere” graffiti one saw scrawled in London subways?

  And then Kit saw something that made his heart beat a little quicker. There on the wall opposite him was a spray of smaller figures. Kit moved in for a closer look at the pattern of swirls and spirals, squiggles and dots—the strange characters of a deranged alphabet. Despite the crude tools used to make them, each was precisely rendered, and each unique. Bending near, he peered at them in the dimly flickering light and knew he had seen these queer pictograms before: on the Skin Map.

  Mind reeling with amazement, Kit gaped at the devious signs. How could this be? How was it possible? He drew a deep breath and forced himself to rein in his racing thoughts. Okay, think! What does it mean? The first thing that came to mind was that either Arthur Flinders-Petrie had been here, or someone who had access to his map—because, on closer inspection, Kit noticed that the technique of the artist was very different from that displayed in the surrounding paintings. Each pictogram was precise and cleanly drawn, with no false starts or smudged lines. Obviously, the person who painted the symbols on the wall knew exactly what he was doing.

  Standing there in the quivering darkness of the cave, Kit heard again the words of Sir Henry Fayth: No coincidence under heaven.

  “No such thing as coincidence,” whispered Kit, brushing the stone with a trembling fingertip. It was true.

  The light shifted abruptly, and Kit glanced around to see that the clansmen were moving on. “Wait!” he called instinctively, his voice ringing hollow along the gallery walls. The last clansman looked back but did not stop, and Kit was soon enveloped in darkness. With a groan of frustration, Kit abandoned the Skin Map symbols and hurried after the light, determined to return as soon as possible to study the symbols some more and try to commit them to memory.

  Dardok led them by winding turns deeper and ever deeper into the cavern until at last they came to a stretch of wall where there were few paintings. Placing his skull lamp on a flat rock, Big Hunter busied himself with something in the shadows; Kit edged closer and saw that Dardok was kindling several more lamps, lighting them from the single flame of his own. As soon as they were lit, he handed them out, giving one to Kit as well.

  Besides the lanterns, there was a supply of shells from river clams, twigs, and clumps of earth. Taking up smooth river rocks obtained from a little heap beside the place where Dardok was lighting lamps, the clansmen began pounding the dirt clods. At first this activity appeared meaningless to Kit; but as he watched, the men took up some of the clamshells, also obtained from the river, heaped some of the pounded earth into the shells, and then added water from a dripping stalactite to make a thin mud.

  It’s a workshop, Kit realised. They’re making paint.

  This mud was mixed on the half shell with a grubby forefinger, each artist making his own. When the paint was ready, Dardok produced hazel twigs. These were handed around and promptly popped into their mouths. The clansmen chomped away for a while, gnawing on the sticks, fraying the ends to form rudimentary paintbrushes. Every now and then they removed them for examination before chewing again. When all was ready, there followed a lengthy consultation that Kit could follow only in part. He sensed the buzz of thoughts flitting among the group—he could always tell when they were discussing something—but the impressions did not settle and crystallise as when En-Ul addressed him directly. Moments later the huddle broke and the clansmen took up places along the wall, singly or in pairs, and began to work.

  Kit found a comfortable perch on a low rock and settled back to watch as the hunters-turned-artists sketched their designs. Each artist, following contours of the rock only he could see, roughed out a basic body shape—an ox, a deer, or a bear—and began filling in the body, dabbing the paint with their crude brushes. They worked quickly, adding shade and colour to the shapes they created. Kit gradually became aware of an odd sound—a low droning hum almost below the threshold of hearing. Rising and falling like waves washing on a distant shore, the sound waxed and waned: the clansmen were humming while they worked—not vocalising exactly, something more like purring. The sound seemed to come not from their throats, but from their chests; and once it started, it went on and on and on.

  Kit watched the progress of the painting, and it occurred to him that if he made some paint he might imitate Arthur Flinders-Petrie and copy the glyphs onto himself; he could become his own Skin Map, and thereby carry them out of the cave for further study. Taking one of the clamshells, he filled it with some of the pounded earth, mixed in some water, and then started back to the main channel of the cave. Passing Dardok, he paused and whispered, “I need a drink.” He held the image of a man cupping water to his mouth. Dardok glanced around at him and gave a grunt of assent before resuming his work.

  Message delivered and received, Kit took his lamp and walked back along the tunnel leading to the main passage and the gallery of animals where he had seen the Skin Map pictograms. He followed the twisting, turning corridor of stone and came to a divide and paused. He had not remembered that junction, but then coming from the other side he would not have seen it; he took the larger path and continued on. After a few steps, his decision was rewarded by the sound of water dripping into a pool—a solid, almost metallic clink echoing along the stone corridor from somewhere just ahead.

  Kit resumed his slow progress along the passage. The plinking sound, however, seemed to move with him, remaining just a little ahead of him. Sometimes it seemed to be closer, and other times farther away, but curiously, the sound seemed to remain just a little way ahead. Against all reason, he picked up his pace—as if he might overtake the sound somehow. He felt a breath of air on his face—the merest touch of flowing air, nothing more than a sigh against his cheek. But it halted him once more. The tiny breeze ceased. Must have imagined it, thought Kit, moving on. He had taken four or five steps when he felt it again—a feathery light touch of warm on his skin.

  He pushed on. The single-flame lamp gave off little light, but drawing closer to the metallic clinking sound Kit imagined he saw a movement in the darkness just out of reach of his puny lamp—a low, sinuous motion close to the floor. It was there—just a flicker of shadow in the deeper gloom—then it was gone again. Yet the metallic clinking sound continued, a little louder than it was before.

  Now air flowed over and around him—fresh and clean, not the stale, still stuff that filled the cave. At this, Kit felt the first flutter of worry: had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? Kit stood for a moment, frozen by indecision. Should he go back and try to find where he had gone wrong, or continue on? He felt the air on his face and decided to go forward. If nothing else, he reasoned, following the fresh air would eventually lead him out of the cave. He lurched ahead. He heard the plinking sound again and sensed a rush of movement just ahead of him. He glanced up to see a dark shape moving against the deeper darkness. In the same instant, his foot snagged something loose on the floor. He felt a jerk, lost his balance, and went down. The clamshell fell from his hand and clattered against the stone floor. The skull lamp’s fragile flame snuffed out.

  Absolute darkness—intense, complete, and impenetrable—descended on Kit. It felt as if the weight of the earth had collapsed upon him. The darkness was so oppressive that for a moment he felt as if he might suffocate.

  Relax, he told himself. Take a breath. Your light’s gone out, that’s all. It is only darkness—you w
on’t smother.

  With these and other thoughts he comforted himself as he lay on his side trying to decide if he was injured or merely unnerved. Other than utter blindness, he seemed to be intact. His best, if not his only, option was simply to keep following the fresh air until he came out of the cave and then wait at the entrance for Dardok and the others, who would eventually emerge to discover him. Rolling over onto all fours, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and heard the clinking sound echoing off the rocks some distance away. Turning his head towards the sound, he glimpsed a faint glow of pale light ahead—a ghostly gleam so weak it might have been imagined. Kit closed his eyes and counted to ten, then opened them again. The light remained. He looked away. Looked back. The pale cast of radiance persisted— along with that maddening rattling clink.

  Kit pushed himself along with one hand on the wall beside him, stumbling towards the distant glint of light. After a few dozen steps the light seemed to grow brighter, showing grey-white from an unknown distance ahead. The sound was moving that way too, it seemed. Then again, perhaps the source of the plink-clink emanated from there. Given the reverberating nature of the cave, there was no way to tell. He shuffled forward, holding the glow in the centre of his vision. The shimmering radiance grew accordingly larger and brighter until Kit realised he was looking at sunlight reflected off the stone sidewall of the passage ahead.

  A few more steps carried him to the place where the tunnel twisted sharply to the right. Kit rounded the corner, and the light grew brighter. He worked his way along the uneven floor, scrambling over rocks and loose rubble. Up ahead, the passage turned again. The plink-clink sound stopped.

  As he rounded the corner, he saw the cave mouth. Brilliant white streamed in through the irregular opening. To Kit’s light-deprived eyes it was like looking into a blazing furnace or a miniature sun. He squeezed his eyes shut; then, putting his hands over his face, he allowed the light in a little at a time until his pupils had time to adjust. He looked again. The opening was still there, still ablaze with radiance, and sitting in that warm sunlight was the unmistakeable, larger-than-life form of another cave lion; looking more than anything like a grossly oversized housecat, it sat on its haunches, licking a forepaw the size of a soup bowl.

  Kit was already in midstep and could not stop himself in time. His foot came down on a loose bit of rock, which tipped and skidded under his weight. The resulting clatter startled the beast, and it turned its head towards him. Seen entirely in silhouette, the animal appeared smaller than the one the hunters had killed earlier in the day—a young one, perhaps—but still big enough to fatally maul Kit with a single swipe of its rapier claws. Kit could not see the creature’s eyes, but it was looking right at him. He held himself perfectly still in the hope of being downwind, of being invisible in the darkness. The cave cat simply watched him for a moment, then rose.

  Slowly, slowly, Kit bent down and felt on the floor for a rock. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his neck. His sweaty hand closed on a ragged stone, and he gripped it tightly. At least he would not go down without a fight.

  He straightened again.

  The cave lion took a step towards him, and Kit drew a breath and shouted. He ran forward, screaming like a crazy man. The big cat halted, turned tail, and fled. As it leapt from the cave opening, Kit glimpsed something in its flash of movement that almost made his heart stop: the cave cat was wearing an iron chain. As the beast bounded away, the chain swung out. Standing in the cave mouth, Kit saw the trailing links clearly in the light. The end of the chain struck the rocks—clink-plink, clink-plink.

  Time telescoped. How long had he been with River City Clan? How long since he had seen a fully evolved human being, conversed in a modern language, worn real clothes? His mind reeled as he tried to place himself in an altered perspective, for Kit knew this cat; he knew it from another time and another place, another reality. This cave cat was the property of the thugs known as the Burley Men. This cat had a name: Baby. And the last time he had seen Baby, that chain had been in the hands of a Burley Man named Mal.

  Stunned, Kit hurried to the cave entrance and looked out. The gorge was gone, the snow vanished, and winter with it. Instead, he gazed out on a scrubby green hillside. The slope fell away steeply, and at the bottom far below, he saw the cave cat streaking for the wide silver arc of a river and, just beyond the river, a two-lane blacktop highway.

  CHAPTER 13

  In Which an Assault Is Launched

  Sunrise was Cassandra’s favourite time of day in Sedona. The air was fresh and cool from the previous night and the sky pale pink, the rising sun still hidden from view behind the rim of towering red rock stacks that formed the horizon in every direction. Cassandra put the key into the ignition of one of the small white utility vans, started the engine, and eased out of the parking lot of the King’s Arms motel. There were few cars on the road, and she made the familiar drive out to the dig site in good time. She pulled into the site staging area and parked behind the mound of rubble bags so the van would be less visible from the highway.

  Taking her hat, sunglasses, and camera, she tucked the keys under the vehicle’s rubber floor mat, cracked the windows, and left the van in the little shade provided by a small canvas awning attached to the sorting shed. She shouldered her day pack and wove her way through the excavation potholes and trenches, moving towards the escarpment shielding the deep arroyo known as Secret Canyon. She breathed in the morning air, heavy with the scent of sagebrush, and fell into an easy rhythmic stride, enjoying the crunch of scree beneath her thick-soled boots. Cass had come dressed for action, wearing her good, well-worn hiking boots and thick socks, her long-sleeved chambray shirt, her lightweight cargo trousers, and the oversized cotton scarf she used as a sun shield. In her day pack she carried two litres of water; a margarine tub full of raisins, peanuts, M&M’S, and dried cranberries; a tube of factor 100+ sunscreen; a folding knife; her emergency first-aid kit with snakebite accessories; and lightweight travel binoculars—everything she needed for a desert assault. If what happened today was at all similar to what had happened the evening before, she would be ready. In any event, she wanted to take some pictures and write some notes, to begin documenting the phenomenon. When her father arrived later in the day, they could sit down together and design a more thoroughgoing investigation. First, however, she intended to test her theory that the phenomenon that Friday called the Coyote Bridge was actually a spacetime anomaly connected to or embedded in the physical landscape of the earth.

  After speaking to her father, Cass had gone to bed, but was way too keyed up to sleep, so she spent the night online researching such things as shamanistic flight, soul travel, and astral projection. Most of what she read as she sat in bed hunched over her laptop was incoherent blather—a mixture of New Age tripe and bizzaro fantasy—but she found enough level-headed material to convince her that what she had experienced the day before was not a dream, vision, or mental aberration such as a hallucination or some kind of hysteria. The violent storm, sudden and short-lived; the weird vertigo; the abrupt arrival in a foreign place—these were, apparently, more or less common features of the phenomenon, attested to in many cultures and times. Some writers ascribed mystical significance to the experience and others were quite workaday in their appraisal.

  Moreover, while many outlandish claims and explanations were offered, and there was very little agreement among people with startlingly divergent orientations to life—some exhibiting an extremely loose grip on reality—Cass was able to tease out a few common threads: a belief that travel to other dimensions or parallel realities was shared by many different cultures in many different ages, and that such travel was not only possible, it was a practise that could be taught, learned, and mastered. The author of one intriguing article— a woman with waist-length white hair who went by the name of Star Eagle—offered the observation that not only were specific locations on the landscape important for Shamanic Flight, but the specified locations were time sensiti
ve; that is, the would-be flyer would be most likely to achieve success if he or she embarked at sunrise or sunset. Dawn and twilight were the best times to fly, she said.

  Hardheaded scientist that she was, Cass would have written off all this as so much malarkey and mumbo jumbo. If not for her own firsthand experience the day before, she would have consigned astral travel to the loony bin along with rainbow worship, crop circles, and almond-eyed aliens. Yet something had happened and, whatever it was, she could not ignore it. Like a good open-minded researcher, she had come prepared to test and document her discovery, however unsettling; plus, she wanted to have something tangible—a few photographs, at least—to show her father.

  She walked easily through the desert, enjoying the stroll among the cacti and creosote bushes with the almost giddy sensation of a little girl on Christmas Eve, that flutter in the stomach and a feverish anticipation. When she reached the arroyo she paused for a moment to take a few snaps of the Secret Canyon entrance, still deep in shadow. She could feel the night-cooled air issuing from the mouth of the gorge, wafting over her and dissipating. The darkened opening yawned like a cave and seemed somehow forbidding. Cass hesitated, taking a few more pictures. Finally, as the rising sun cleared the ragged hill line to the east, spilling light across the valley, she drew a breath and whispered a simple prayer: “God, don’t let me break my neck.” She put her arm through the dangling strap of her pack and stepped into the canyon, adding, “Also, please, oh please, don’t let me get lost.”

  The walls closed around her. She walked slowly, placing her footsteps with exaggerated care as if measuring distance, alert to whatever sensations she might feel. Aside from the sound of her own footsteps pinging off the high sandstone walls, there was nothing. She had reached the straight track and was a fair way into the gorge when it occurred to her that when she had been here the first time she had been chasing Friday, trying to catch him. So she picked up her pace. A cool breeze gusted down from the stony heights of the undulating walls. She stepped up her pace still more.