by David Gilman
So intense was Max’s concentration that!Koga thought he was about to step into the abyss. He whispered Max’s name. Max turned and faced him. “Follow me. I think I know what we have to do,” he said grimly.
Both boys now squatted at the other side of the crater, watching the rays shine down into the hole. Even if anyone in the fort was on lookout-and there was no reason to suppose they were-there would be little chance of being spotted. Not at that distance, and not with the glare of the sun directly in the watcher’s eyes. Max pointed. About sixty meters down was another hole which looked like the entrance to a cave, almost unnoticeable. It was no more than five meters across and as high again. Around it were about a dozen smaller holes, each no more than a meter wide, punched into the rock face. “I think that’s the underground passage,” Max said, pointing to the cavelike entrance.
“You cannot know that. You cannot be certain.”
“No, but look at this.” Max opened the hydrology chart. The thin, almost inconsequential line that wriggled across the plan from the Devil’s Breath to the fort could be nothing but the conduit they were now looking at. At least that’s what Max told himself. “I reckon the water gushes up, and it’s so powerful it forces itself into that hole-that’s like a channel, and I bet it’d be strong enough to power a turbine or something closer to the fort.”
!Koga looked doubtful.
Max scratched his head, his fingernails scraping away some of the caked dirt in his scalp. “At least I think that’s how it works. Something to do with ventricular power, whatever that is. I should have paid more attention in science class.”
“And those other holes?”
“Er … yeah. Not sure. Probably some kind of natural venting system. Y’see, I think it’s so powerful that when the water surges, it wallops down that big hole and either blows back pressure through the smaller ones, or …” Stuck again. What else? He looked at!Koga, who now, for the first time, smiled.
“You don’t know.”
“Not a hundred percent. I reckon it has something to do with releasing pressure from the main surge.” He hesitated and said almost to himself, “My dad would know.”
They sat quietly for some time.
Max finally spoke. “It doesn’t seem as though this thing is going to erupt again. Next one’s probably at the end of the day. Yeah, that makes sense, maybe. Twice a day. Morning and night.” It sounded as though he was trying to convince himself.
“We go? Down there?”
Max shook his head. He had already made his decision. “I’m going. On my own.”
!Koga stood up quickly. “No! I am not afraid!”
“No one said you were. I know I am, but I’ve been scared more times these last couple of weeks than I’ve ever been, so I can probably manage it once more.”
“I will not let you go alone. My place is with you.”
“But I can’t risk us both getting hurt or captured-not now,!Koga, not after all this bloody effort.”
!Koga went quiet and shook his head slowly. He would be held responsible if Max did not survive.
“You cannot stop me from following you, Max. You will not know I am there. I will be the hunter tracking your shadow.”
Max touched his shoulder. “!Koga, you will always be with me. I’ll carry your friendship with me. But I need you to do something else.” Max took out his father’s Ordnance Survey map. “You remember the place where the earth bleeds? And the marks my father made on his map. You know this is where Bushmen died. And all those other marks, in different places, these are places my father found. This is what he was going to report. Now, this isn’t enough evidence, I know that, but it’s all we have right now. My father had been in all these places because of this….” He showed the hydrology map. “He found what was killing your people. And maybe there’s a lot more we don’t know about. And I know he must have other evidence hidden somewhere, real evidence, something really concrete that can’t be disputed, but I have to find him first and you have to go.” He gazed down at the vertical drop. “I reckon I can free-climb down to that entrance, then in a few hours I’ll be under the fort.!Koga, don’t give me a hard time on this, I need you to take Dad’s map to the police.”
“Police?”
“You said there was a police post, a few days from here. Get to them, don’t give them the map, give them this.” Max undid his watch strap. The old stainless-steel chronograph was his dad’s when he’d climbed Everest, twenty years ago, and he’d given it to Max for his twelfth birthday when he enrolled at Dartmoor High. Engraved on the back plate were the words To Max. Nothing is impossible. Love, Dad.
He fastened the watch around!Koga’s wrist. “Give the cops this watch, it’ll prove you’ve been with me. Tell them you know where the son of the missing white man is. But don’t tell them where I am. You have to get them to contact Kallie van Reenen. Give her the map. You tell her what we’ve discovered. She’ll know what to do. You have to do this,!Koga-to save us all.”
Max was well aware that this was almost a replay of what his father had done with!Koga’s father. He had sent the Bushman on a mission to van Reenen’s farm, knowing that he had to get his field notes out while he went on searching. Fate had twisted events like a noose around a sack-Max,!Koga and Kallie van Reenen: drawn together, trapped in the same danger.
But Max felt strong. He was getting closer to his father now-he knew it-and that would drive him on. “I’ll make a start when the sun shifts a bit, that’ll give me some shade down there. I reckon it’s going to be a bit of a climb.” A bit? It was going to take everything he had, by the look of it. He would have to choose his route with all his skill.
They agreed that!Koga would wait until nightfall, then he could travel faster, with virtually no chance of detection. But the night was not the time Bushmen felt comfortable. Their lives centered around the fire. This was where they cooked and ate, danced and told stories of great hunts and of gods who were animals and stars that were lovers. The warmth and comfort of the fire was as much a part of their life as the sun rising and the moon taking it away. Alone,!Koga would have to travel across predators’ natural habitats. Memory maps were all he had to guide him, but the night sky would show him the way, and moonlight would warn him of shadows that moved. He would do this thing so that Max Gordon, the boy from the ancient cave drawings, could help save his people.
And because the white boy was his friend.
Max began his descent a couple of hours later, as!Koga sat nestled in the low boulders around the rim. He could watch Max’s progress from there, and when he finally crawled into the cave he would return to the low plateau where they had slept the previous night. There was shade there and he would rest, before beginning his own journey into darkness.
Max was already twenty meters down, his right hand jammed into a narrow crevice above his head as he tried to find a toehold below. His weight stretched ligaments and tendons in his shoulder, but he reached out with his left hand, clawed his fingers against the uneven surface and shifted his body slightly. A sliver of rock took his weight as he swung precariously half a meter to his left; his fingers slipped as his right hand came free and the sudden, sickening drop churned his stomach as he plunged down.
“Max!”!Koga couldn’t help crying out.
Max had scraped his knees and the inside of his arm when he fell, but the drop was barely the distance from his ankle to his knee-it just felt a lot more scary than it was. Without looking back, he managed a reassuring shout to!Koga. “OK! I’m all right!”
Controlling his breathing, he muttered encouragement to himself. “It’s fine. It happens. Nothing to worry about. Just a little slip. Nothing to get het up about. Clumsy sod.”
As often happens on a climb-or, in this case, a descent-a rhythm developed, and now Max found a steady pace. The rock face was kind to him for the next ten meters as he gripped, swung, twisted and wedged his way down. The scrapes and cuts were stinging, but adrenaline pushed the pain to the back of his mi
nd. Now he was feeling good, he could see his way down; spurs of rock as wicked as razor blades shafted downwards, but their edges were sufficiently ragged to allow purchase. And behind each sheet of rock, the moss and lichen offered a small comfort zone for his back and shoulders as he wedged himself in to support the next downwards movement. A wet sheen covered everything, reminding him of home. Clambering down quarry walls in Devon or practicing for the bigger climbs in Scotland usually meant the rock surfaces were wet, but when he did that, he reminded himself, he was attached to a safety line. A lifeline is really important when you’re climbing in a rock-strewn quarry. Nothing too serious to worry about here then, he kidded himself. If he fell, he’d only fall a few hundred meters into the water, though that’d be like landing on a concrete floor. The shock of falling that far would probably kill him anyway. Don’t think about it. Just imagine the lifeline is attached; that was the best thing. There, he’d already made another five meters and hadn’t even thought about it.
Time condensed into seconds, that was what his attention span demanded-attention focused on every centimeter of the way-but a small voice in his head told him that he must have been on the rock face for an hour, probably more. The sun had shifted and was almost overhead now, and he still had another thirty meters to go. He jammed his hand into a letter-box slit in the rock and rested. With his free hand he wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes.
The bow and arrows were proving difficult, getting in the way when he tried to wedge his back into the crevices. He swore. He should have left them with!Koga. No matter. Another hour-tops-at this rate, and he’d be able to swing into that entrance. But now he was stuck. He couldn’t turn from his back to his front, allowing a swing across the rock to grab another hold. The bow, jutting above his shoulder, was snagging. He had to get rid of it. His wrist burned as the skin was forced to tolerate more torsion with him twisting around so that he faced the rock wall. His cheekbone pressed hard against the stone; he gulped air, his free arm reached over his shoulder, grabbed the slender bow and eased it, like a contortionist, over his head and shoulder.
A small triumph, and much as he cherished the handmade weapon, he reached out into space to let it drop. As his weight shifted slightly, the crevice that held his hand crumbled. Loose, wet, shinglelike stone gave way and he fell.
He had barely time to shout. Reflexes shot into high gear and a zillion mental calculations made his arm shoot out to slam his hand, which held the bow, against the rocks. The bow string hooked over a rock and stopped his fall.
He hung, suspended from the wall, crunching his back against the boulders. Pain shafted through him and for a moment he thought he was going to fall again. The sinew on the bow flexed and the shaft bent, the supple wild raisin wood allowing a lot of give. He had to trust that the bow would hold his weight for a few more seconds. Grabbing it with both hands, he pulled himself in to the rock face. He’d definitely pulled a muscle, or maybe even bruised or cracked a rib; the pain knifed into him and took his breath away. Hanging on as best he could, he gave one last pull on the bow to help gain a foothold, and as the bow finally yielded and snapped, he managed to hold on. He could feel his nerve slipping away as quickly as the bow falling into the silent void. He clung desperately, eyes tightly shut, willing himself to carry on. No flippant humor now; no kidding with the terrified voice in his mind. This felt like the end of the world and he was frozen. Rigid.
The fall had taken him to within ten meters of the tunnel entrance. A battle raged in his head, demanding that he think. He must have dropped about five meters, no, probably more, but he had suffered no serious injuries-plenty of pain, but he was alive. Hold on. Almost there. Take encouragement and keep going. Keep your eyes open. Open them!
Someone was calling, a distant whisper that his ears refused to hear. Concentrate on the voice. Listen to the voice. The voice. Whose?!Koga’s. His dimming consciousness was like a dark cloud settling over him. If he blacked out now, he was finished. He was in shadow, and cool air momentarily helped keep him awake. What was!Koga shouting? Why was he stamping the ground so hard?
!Koga, he shouted, but no sound came out of his mouth.
!Koga, who had watched him fall almost out of sight into the black shadows, screamed his name. A slow-motion acrobat act showed Max twisting and turning, grabbing for support, falling further and further, whipping an arm out, the bow string catching, the sudden jolt, the snap of the bow, and Max hugging his grazed and bleeding body to the rock face. But!Koga’s screams went unheard. And it was not Max’s struggle to stay conscious that was the cause, it was the quaking tremble of the ground and the roar of air coming up from the devil’s lair.
!Koga peered over the edge, down into the face of evil. A malignant stench and the first spray of water and vapor barreled upwards, concealing the huge tide of water charging behind it.
The mist billowed towards him; a few more seconds and the fog would envelop Max and the water would swallow him. Panic blinded!Koga to his own danger. His friend was hurt; in a moment he would die, and he couldn’t help him. He screamed Max’s name, but his cry was swallowed up in the roar from below; the cloud was almost on him.
In horror he saw Max’s hands slip off the wet rock, saw him tumble backwards into space, arms wide, spread-eagled, looking up, straight into!Koga’s eyes.
And then Max vanished into the storm below.
17
For a moment, Max was floating, suspended on a cushion of air. He watched!Koga vanish, felt rather than heard the water pressure roaring below him, and then he plummeted into a gray soup of spume and fog. Darker and darker the funnel grew as a bizarre jumble of thoughts and panic confused his mind.
They had gone to the big swimming baths in town and the fifteen-meter board was a test of nerve. There were a couple of boys who could dive from up there, but most found an excuse to not even climb the three-story platform. Except that Max could not turn away from a dare, particularly when it came from Baskins and Hoggart. It was sheer bravado, and he swore he wasn’t ever going to do it again. If they did it, he’d do it, he had responded to Hoggart’s challenge.
As it was, Baskins was nursing a bruised shoulder from a rugby game, which let him off the hook. So Max and Hoggart had made their way up to the top. Max was surprised when he got up there to find just how high fifteen meters was. It didn’t look that bad from poolside, but now that he stood on the two-meter-wide board, gripping the handrail-God, it was a long way down. A hell of a long drop. Further than he’d imagined. His knees felt a bit wonky and his knuckles whitened. He could see that Hoggart was probably more scared than he was, because his jaw had slackened and his eyes were screwed up, as if trying to shut out the distance. Thankfully Max had kept his fear under control.
These two senior boys were always going to give him a hard time, it was in their nature, so by taking this leap of faith, literally, Max reasoned he would get them off his back once and for all.
He let go of the rail and turned to Hoggart. He remembered saying, “Last one down’s a sissy!” And without allowing himself to think any more about it, he stepped into space.
His arms flailed, his feet pedaled, and he kept falling and falling, his stomach lurching over and over again until he hit….
The water sucked him under. The Devil’s Breath was now a seething turmoil. He fell through the surface and kept going down. He remembered seeing the entrance to the tunnel and even more rock face below that, so he must have fallen twenty meters or more, but his descent was stopped by the upwards surge.
Instinctively he had held his breath the moment he sensed the fingers of water reaching at him, but the sucking water seemed to go in different directions and the pressure was crushing him.
Fragments of light from above splattered across his vision as he was tossed this way and that, as if by a giant washing machine; after a few seconds his brain told him that there was no way he could fight this kind of underwater turmoil. He had to let the water take him. He had to stop fighting.
The more he struggled, the less his chance of survival.
What survival? Already his lungs were bursting, his ears hurt like hell from the pressure and he was being tossed around like a rat savaged by a terrier. He curled up in a ball, hoping that might reduce the thrashing from the water, but it only made matters worse; by trying to hug his knees he squeezed his chest and there was precious little air left in his lungs. Clamping his jaws even tighter, he tried to swallow, simulating a breath, but that was a momentary distraction from the pain in his chest. This was the end now. He could swim the length of an Olympic-sized pool underwater by taking time to build up the amount of air in his lungs and then taking a strong dive for momentum. That was right on the edge of his endurance. This was like being smashed, time and again, by a tidal wave. The pounding water was pulling him this way and that. His legs felt as though they were being wrenched out of their sockets and his arms were stretched like a contortionist’s.
Blackness. His mind or the pit? He didn’t know. His last fragments of consciousness called on God, his mother, his father, and settled finally on a desperate internal cry for help to anyone who was listening-as long as they helped him. And behind it all was the glimmer of thought that tried to make him fly. As he had before. If he could just burst through the surface and fly, he would be free. He could breathe again.
But the power was not there.
He had to open his mouth and suck in the water. He would choke and vomit, and he would die but he had no choice, his burning lungs were going to explode anyway.
The sensation altered. There were flecks of foam close to his face-that meant there was air. It was almost completely dark, but now there was some gray light above his face and he reached out through the frothy water. He was sure he felt cold air. Kicking and twisting, he arched his back, forcing his head upwards. His head broke the surface, his ears thundered with the sound of something like a waterfall, and he was barreling along, but his face was clear of the water. He gulped, the pain in his ribs eased, but his lungs felt raw. Time and time again, he kept gulping.