Going Where It's Dark

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  On one of his days home, Uncle Mel had taken Buck to a baseball game to watch their local team get creamed. And Buck and Nat had gone to a few matinees at the Palace, so no one got alarmed, it seemed, when Buck wasn’t around at lunchtime.

  His pack was ready. He kept it that way now. It was a cheap, flimsy backpack that held Mel’s old overalls, cut to a shorter length, extra flashlight batteries and electrical tape for sticking on rock walls to mark his route. Also duct tape, peanut butter crackers, water, Band-Aids, mini boxes of raisins, and a box of Skittles. Shin guards, jacket, knee guards, and a clean T-shirt.

  On this particular morning, Dad and Joel were working at the sawmill with Gramps, Mom was at Holly’s, and Mel was on a truck run. Buck had risen early, hoed one long row of peas, and picked another of lima beans. Then he had come inside, finished a bowl of cereal and a banana, and had just slipped his backpack over his shoulders when he heard Katie’s voice saying, “Everyone’s got somewhere to go but me.”

  He turned to see her standing in the kitchen doorway, blond hair uncombed and dangling in her face. He tried to sound casual:

  “Where’s C…C…Colby these days?”

  “Working for his stepdad. And Amy’s in Iowa visiting her grandparents.” Katie plopped down on a chair and pushed back the stray lock from her eyes. “So where are you going?”

  “Just l…looking for some good b…bike trails for me and Nat,” Buck said, which was about four percent true.

  “I like to ride too, you know,” Katie said.

  “Well, if I f…find any new ones, you c…can go with us sometime,” Buck said. He gave her a quick grin and was out the door, climbing on his bike, the pack on his back shifting slightly as he rode.

  He hated lying to Katie. Hated to see the look of disappointment on her face when he went off without her. She was still in her pajamas, though, and hadn’t had breakfast. She couldn’t have expected him to hang around waiting.

  •••

  He’d only been riding ten minutes when the first obstacle came to mind. Though he knew a back route to the Wilmer property, he would be coming in from an entirely different angle. He wasn’t at all sure he could find the same field, the same woods and fence posts to get his bearings and locate the Hole.

  He had to take the old route, and would have to rely on luck that Ethan and his dad—or any of the other boys—would not be on that same road at the same time, to see him get off his bike and head out through the tall grass. The sun was already hot on the back of his neck, and this made him all the more eager to slide down into the cool damp darkness of underground.

  Buck was dismayed when he rounded a bend after forty minutes to see a maintenance crew working about a mile from the old Wilmer place. A large slab of concrete seemed to have buckled along one edge of the roadway and separated from the rest. He slowed when he came to a flag man.

  “What happened?” Buck called.

  “Sink hole,” the man answered, and waved him on around.

  And once again, the thought came to mind that someday Buck might bike all the way out here to find that the shallow dip in the earth he had encountered close to the Hole had become a wide crater, and that all the secrets of its underground passageways were open for everyone to see. Not likely. But still….He had to be the first.

  There was no more construction, no more workers, and Buck rode around the last bend to see the long curving ribbon of roadway ahead of him. He counted the number of fence posts and slowed as a dump truck went past, finally disappearing around the far bend. Then all was quiet, and the road was empty.

  Buck quickly dismounted, then pulled his bike down into the gulley and into a thicket that covered it completely. He crept unseen to where the line of trees began, the tall, jagged outline of Eagles Cliff beyond them, and made his way to the Hole.

  Yes, here was the shallow recess in the earth, and Buck checked that he was no longer visible from either the road or the faraway windows of the abandoned farmhouse. And here was the little pile of fox bones—what was left of them anyway.

  He reached the third outcropping of rock and stopped, taking off his backpack. He put on his old brown jacket, then stepped into Mel’s overalls, and probably could have fit in them twice. The shin guards he strapped to his forearms protected both his skin and the jacket. He put the knee pads on top of the overalls and used duct tape to bind the legs of the overalls and his jeans snugly around each ankle. Next, the pair of gloves he’d worn all last winter, the ones with the fake leather palms. And finally, the bicycle helmet still on his head, flashlight in hand, Buck lowered himself into the Hole.

  For the first fifteen minutes he was in familiar territory as he crawled or slithered along on his knees or belly, pushing his backpack ahead of him. Unfortunately, of course, it blocked out much of his light. There were times he thought he’d known the passage’s contours better than he did and lifted his head a little too high, too quickly, and felt not just a gentle tap of rock above, but a sharp whang against his helmet that resounded in his ears.

  It was difficult to gauge how far he had traveled or how fast he was moving. A foot in ten seconds? Fifteen? The rocks beneath him were sharp in places, and at times he struggled to find room for a knee, an elbow, and wondered when he would get to the place in the passageway—if it was a passage—where it turned. Other times he wondered if he was making much progress, or just rearranging himself in the same small space.

  But finally, there it was, the turn. He took a minute to rest, pointing his flashlight in all directions. Mostly he saw only rock and mud and fungus. Crickets with no eyes scurried to get out of the flashlight’s beam. But then, something else he had not noticed before. Behind the boulder on his left, what at first glance was a shadow, was actually an opening, so that he had a choice of going to his left, up over rock, or to his right, which slanted downward.

  His heart thumped so hard with excitement it almost hurt. So which would it be? If he chose left and started to climb, he imagined that he would be entering the wooded hillside next to Wilmer’s pasture, the narrow sliver of Blue Ridge Mountains that crossed the county.

  If he went right and started downward, he might well come to water. And possibly the end of the passage.

  Decision time. He figured he had about four hours and twenty minutes before he had to head for home. The passage on the left was larger—here at least—the opening on the right, a little smaller. He decided to save the mud for another day, and see where he got by going up. He could wear his backpack now, at least for a while, instead of pushing it.

  So with one final look at the faint glimpse of daylight coming far back from the Hole, he maneuvered his body into a sitting position and took out the bright yellow electrical tape. Tearing off each piece he would need, he made two arrows on the rock—the upper arrow to show the way he had chosen to go forward, the lower arrow to show the way back to the Hole.

  And then, after slipping his arms through the straps of the backpack, he started crawling left up the rock. It was difficult, because he had the use of only one hand, his other holding the flashlight. On all sides, there were holes and cracks and crevices that made him aware of how important it was not to drop the flashlight. All the more reason he needed a headlamp.

  The rock beneath him was slippery, and he chose to crawl rather than crouch, even when the passage widened and he had more room. He needed the added traction of his knee pads. Each time he stopped to reconnoiter, he checked to see if there were any rocks that looked as though they might be ready to fall, any drop-off ahead, any opening too small to even try to get through. He had read enough caving manuals to know that you never made the next move until you knew exactly where each foot, each hand, was going.

  Now and then his heart gave an extra thump in the knowledge that he should not be here, attempting this alone. No excuses. He should NOT. He had written the note he’d promised David he would write and leave on his pillow: Mom and Dad, if I don’t come back, call David. He’ll know where I am
.

  He had given David the most specific directions he could. But he had placed the note on the far slope of his pillow. You wouldn’t see it just by glancing in his room. You’d have to go in and start searching the covers before you’d find it. Which, David explained, would be after the police had been called and were searching his room for clues.

  The ceiling above him suddenly expanded, and he found he could actually stand up, relieve his aching back muscles. Ahead of him, however, was a jumble of rocks he’d have to climb over to go forward. When he rested a minute or two, he slowly began hoisting himself up, rock by rock, checking each one to see if it moved at all, wanting to take no chance that the whole pile would give way under him. If only he’d get a sign that this was the right way to go—the draft of air getting stronger, for example. Maybe a far-off pinpoint of light.

  All he got was this rock slide he couldn’t see over. Man, he really needed a light on his helmet—a stronger beam that would light up everything around him. Already the beam in his flashlight seemed to be getting weaker. He might have to change batteries. He’d found headlamps advertised on the Internet for as little as nineteen dollars, plus shipping, but he wanted a really good one. And how was he supposed to talk Mom or Dad into ordering one for him without a zillion questions?

  He turned the flashlight off when he could to save the battery, but each time he did, the blackness was so total, so complete, that it took his breath away. And when it took his breath away, there was no sound at all, not even the gentle whuff of his own breathing.

  Once over the rock slide, the surface under his feet turned to clay again. The ceiling got lower and lower, until he was on his belly as before, and again, he took off his backpack and pushed it ahead of him as he crawled. Thirty more minutes and he had to start back. He realized that all it would take was another rock slide, or even one big rock to roll out of place, blocking his path back, and…Buck took a shaky breath and went on.

  He moved as fast as he could, the shin guards on his arms making soft grating sounds as he set one arm down, then the next, followed by the soft scrape of each leg as it dragged along after. He ached from his cramped position and his neck had a crick in it that wouldn’t go away. He tried lying down on his side so he could raise his chin off his chest, and reached out his left arm. His fingers closed around something loose, something light. He tried to make out what it was—smooth, with a ridge, and…

  Carefully Buck positioned his flashlight so that he could turn it on.

  “Oh!” he said aloud, and dropped the skull in his hand.

  For a moment he remained perfectly still, staring at it. Not a human skull, but that of an animal he couldn’t quite make out. A possum, he decided finally. A lamb falling into the Hole would never make it back this far, and most certainly would never find its way out again. The very thought sent pinpricks down his spine. Buck may have been the first human to explore this place, but animals had been here, and journeyed to…where? He gently pushed the skull to one side and kept going.

  •••

  It was tedious work and Buck would allow himself only one real rest stop. He ate a small box of raisins and half a box of Skittles and drank some water. That gave him a new burst of energy. He felt like some kind of insect, scrambling along, up and down and over the bumpy path, sometimes on his feet and hands, butt in the air, conscious always of whether he would get confused finding his way back, and taking time to mark the rock wall with taped arrows, pointing the way he should go.

  He struggled to make the next turn, curving his body like a question mark, wriggling and pushing and pulling, and saw in the beam of the flashlight that the channel was narrowing, smaller and smaller still, until it was only as wide as his own body. Inch by inch, he made the turn on his belly. Trying to keep his head up so he could see, his legs completed the maneuver and he scanned the passage ahead.

  There wasn’t any. He was facing solid rock except for a football-size hole between boulders in which a strong draft of air chilled his face. He directed the light into the hole and saw only rock, but it was some distance away, meaning there was a larger cavity somewhere beyond. Buck knew what his aching muscles already told him, however—this was the end of the passage he had chosen, and his bumps and bruises were all for nothing.

  Well, not quite. It was all part of exploring. He’d never know unless he tried, and he’d make notes when he got back home as he mapped out his underground maze.

  And then he faced a second problem. There was no way to turn around.

  He had to concentrate on getting out, but he couldn’t even pull up a knee. No way in the world he could try to sit up and twist himself around so as to get his legs behind him and start the crawl back again.

  Think, he told himself. How far back was that space where he had stood up and climbed over the rock pile? Twenty minutes back? Forty minutes? An hour? How wide was his helmet? Nine inches…ten? Maybe…if he took his helmet off, just for now, he could edge himself sideways….

  Just thinking about it made sweat trickle down his face. This was the way cavers died sometimes, getting wedged between rocks. And this was the worst place of all to be trapped because he was at a dead end. Rescuers, if anyone found his note at home, could only come from one direction—behind him. If he couldn’t even bring a leg up past his body—well, perhaps they could drag him off by his feet, but what if his head got stuck?

  No, he would have to crawl backward, which would probably take twice as long, and he hoped he wouldn’t miss the arrows he had placed along the way.

  His chin scraping the rock beneath him, Buck turned his head in the other direction and, with the hand that was holding the flashlight, took one final look around, as much as he could see beyond his backpack. Definitely a second rock slide here, jamming the passageway in front of him, but he knew for sure that there was more on the other side.

  Now, instead of pulling himself forward on his forearms and elbows, he had no choice but to slowly, awkwardly, dig his arms, his hands, into the rock and clay beneath him and push himself backward, dragging his backpack in one hand, flashlight in the other. And rather than focusing on keeping his head and shoulders down to fit in the space before him, he had to concentrate on keeping his bottom low enough with each push that it wouldn’t scrape the roof of the passage.

  With no light to guide his way back, his blind feet had to kick out at each side to determine which direction the passage was winding, but a heavy boot could not detect each sharp angle of rock, and now and then in the slow progression, Buck felt a stab on his leg, a prick on his arm, a long scrape against his shoulder. What he did not want to do was to kick off a loose rock and block his way out.

  The light was getting dimmer, and he quickly switched off the flashlight. No use studying the way he had come, but he didn’t want to miss any arrows he might have left along the way, either.

  STUPID, STUPID, STUPID, David would tell him. Buck used to jokingly call David Mother sometimes, when he worried too much about safety. David even had one of those cheap survival blankets in his backpack that had been there unused for so long that once, when they were caught in a cold rainstorm, he pulled it out to cover themselves, and it tore along its middle fold. They had each wrapped themselves in half of the Mylar blanket, and Buck had joked that all they needed were a couple of pacifiers.

  David didn’t seem so foolish now, Buck was thinking. If he ever got out of here…His heart pounded again, and he stopped crawling and took several deep breaths. When he got out of here, he would never come back without a headlamp. He had almost nine dollars saved from the money his dad was paying him to hoe, and with the money Jacob was giving him, he could afford one of the best.

  Crawling blind this way, Buck worried he may have missed a turn, and was taking a route he hadn’t seen before. But when he turned the flashlight on again, the faint beam showed that he had just passed a slight indentation that he remembered in the rocky wall—not the little closet-size space he’d been in once before, but
enough, he felt, to turn himself around.

  Carefully, carefully, testing the rock around him to see if there was room enough for his helmet, his shoulders, his butt, his knees…he began the slow twist, inch by inch. And finally, finally…he was facing forward—his head and shoulders where his feet had been. He opened his backpack and took out fresh batteries.

  Another thing he was doing wrong. David would really get on him about it. You should never enter a cave without three different sources of light. Not three batteries for the same flashlight, but three flashlights, in case you dropped one in a crevasse. Or one flashlight, one headlamp, and some glow sticks.

  He changed the battery and put the old one in the bag. Then, after another drink of water, and after devouring the cheese crackers he’d brought along, he put the water bottle back and started off.

  He looked at his watch. Two-forty-six. He still had a little time left.

  When he reached the place the passage divided, the yellow arrows on the wall, he could see the welcoming faint light of the Hole’s entrance far off in the distance. He decided to use the remaining time he had to explore the passage on his right. When the time was up, he promised himself, no matter what he found—even the skeleton of a Stone Age man!—he had to save the rest for another day, and start home.

  He took out his tape and placed an X over the two arrows on the left so he wouldn’t take that route again. And then he started his descent.

  For a while the scrambling, though difficult, at least allowed him to wear his backpack, freeing his hands. But the path was up one rock and down the next, like a marine obstacle course, and he was dismayed at how soon his back ached miserably from being stooped, so that he almost welcomed crawling on his knees again.

  From somewhere in the distance he heard a faint but steady plip, plip…aplop. Plip, plip…aplop. Fascinated, he paused and gave it his full attention. Plip, plip…aplop. Plip, plip…aplop. Maybe there was an underground spring. His mind raced with possibilities. Wherever it was, it was still a long way off. There seemed to be an echo along with it.