by CJ Lyons
Cozy, but dry. She was certain if the lights were on this wouldn't intimidate her at all, but when she shone the light down the passage she could see no end in sight.
"Alli, alli, oxen free," she called down. Her voice echoed pleasantly. The air was cool but not musty, obviously well circulated. There was no chance of getting lost--not with the rope right there.
This had better be worth it. She entered the tunnel and began to duck walk through the cramped space. Soon she came to a slightly larger passage, barely enough room for her to stretch to her full five-six without hitting the roof. There was a grille dividing the chamber. Plaques on the wall described the small space beyond the grill as the tomb of Concolin, King of the Westerlands at the time of the Roman invasions two thousand years ago. Grace aimed her light between the bars that separated her from the ancient tomb and gasped.
Intricate carvings, some of them only shadows on the rock, others highlighted by some sort of metallic pigment ground into the stone, flashed back at her. In the darkness they seemed to float, come alive, proclaiming to all the wondrous feats of the King buried there. She placed her hand flat against the rock wall and felt the same vibrations she'd felt upstairs at the altar stone. It was just the rain, but it still thrilled through her body as if a promise of something glorious about to happen. The air was charged with electricity and possibilities.
Grace spent several minutes entranced by the tomb, finding new fascinating details with each flick of her light. She turned and saw that the tunnel continued further into the mountainside. It was a little chillier now. Glad for her jacket that enabled her to easily slip over the stones, she half-crawled, half-walked through the narrow passage. It spiraled through the mountain. She stopped to admire several more burial sites and areas of well-preserved rock art.
At the last cavern, the deepest and oldest site, the plaque proclaimed that archeologists were still hoping to find more sites, including the rumored burial ground of Maeve, the pagan queen who unified the island during the dark times, more than a thousand years before Christ was born.
Grace thought the tour ended there but as she was turning to leave, her light found another tunnel. She crouched down to examine it. It was a little more narrow than the rest and there was no helpful rope guide, but there was no barrier across the entrance. The only sign she could find was a hand painted arrow pointing down into the tunnel.
Must be a new addition, she thought, easing her way through it. The roof sloped down a bit, and her legs were cramped from duck-walking, so she rolled onto her belly and crawled head first. The air was if anything more fresh and she could feel a stir of a breeze.
The Maglite gleamed off a polished golden disk about six feet in front of her. It seemed to float in the darkness. She pushed forward. And found herself falling through empty air.
Momentum and the slick raincoat kept her moving. Her arms flailing before her, she flew into space, dropping a short distance before landing on her side.
"Shit!" She shouted the epithet from her position on the muddy floor of the cavern. Other than having the breath knocked out of her and being scared silly, she found no obvious injuries. Except to her pride. Had to go on, keep exploring--couldn't have turned back when there was one more thing to see, could she?
Brother Leo always said her stubborn pride would get her into trouble. Guess he was right.
Grace caught her breath. The fall had knocked the flashlight from her hand. It wasn't completely dark though, she could make out hazy shadows coming from several angles far overhead. She remembered the other hillside burial grounds she and Linda had visited. Often the oldest and most revered sites were deep in the center, the remainder of the mountain built around them. The creators of these intricate tombs would cut vent holes and clever air shafts designed to allow fresh air in while protecting the burial site from the weather.
Grace felt around her for her own light, squishing in the mud as she did. A cold stream of water ran up her jacket and she shivered. Then the stream became a current, pushing at her.
She climbed to her feet and realized the mud and water which had broken her fall now swirled above her hiking boots. As water gushed in to chill her toes, she wondered at that. The tombs were designed to be dry.
She splashed around until her fingers closed on her light. Still worked, thank God for Maglite. Grace swung the light around and gasped. Brilliantly worked inlays of colored stones and bits of metal formed a mosaic on the wall opposite the tunnel. Intricate Celtic runes and knots were woven into the headdress and garment of the statuesque woman the mosaic portrayed. Was this Maeve's tomb?
Water bubbled up out of the ground, rising fast, now almost to her knees. Slabs of mud, rock and clay slipped from the outer walls, splashing and allowing more water to drain inside.
This was an island, Grace thought with panic. It's not just ground water seeping in, it's the whole bay! The more that came, the more the very foundation of this man-made hill was being eroded.
Now she understood the strange vibrations that haunted the rocks around here. It was water, busy devouring the island from the inside out.
Grace spun around, searching for an escape route. The air vents were too high. If they were like the other cairns she'd visited, they most likely opened onto the hillside, concealed by well-placed rocks, sheltered, but where anyone could stroll past them.
The tunnel's mouth grinned like a grey on grey jack-o-lantern several feet over her head. Grace began calling out at the top of her lungs even as she searched for hand holds to scale the granite wall leading back into the tunnel.
She quickly ran out of breath and fell back, gasping for air. The wall was smooth, polished by long dead craftsman. The water lapped at her thighs and the bottom of the chamber was filling with debris. Screaming never did anyone any good, just a waste of energy, she chided herself. So instead she began to sing, lifting her voice in all the Latin hymns she'd been taught as a child, the only female voice among a host of men.
As she sang, her spirits lifted. With renewed energy she began to search for a tool, something to cut handholds into the wall below the tunnel opening. She carefully raked her fingers through the debris below the mosaic. There she found several lengths of plastic carefully weighted over a recent excavation on a ledge cut into the wall. The water was not quite as high as this ledge, not yet at least, so Grace pulled the plastic from its anchors and climbed in.
And came face to face with a skull, brown with age. She felt a crack under her knee and realized that she'd broken one of the delicate bones of the person buried in the wall of the cairn.
Sorry, she muttered, ceasing her singing for a moment to get over the shock. Grave robbing and now desecrating the dead. If she got out of here in one piece, she'd be lucky if she didn't end up in jail. The light from her flashlight began to dim as she used it to examine the body. Bits of fabric adhered to the bones, giving the ghoulish appearance of a mummy. The skeleton's hands clasped a semicircle of metal. It resembled the ules she'd seen Inuits use when she'd visited Alaska. A rounded knife with a handle forged from the same metal across the diameter of the half circle.
Just what she needed. Grace sent a little prayer to whatever gods guarded this ancient tomb and pried the blade from the brittle bones that clung to it. It wasn't as heavy as she expected, ridged with tracings carved into it. Two more broken bones fell into her hand and she shoved them into her pocket, focusing on the knife. She struck it against the rock wall of the tomb and a spark flew. Too strong to be bronze, too old to be steel, and it wasn't heavy enough to be iron.
She'd pay the fines for grave robbing and let the archeologists argue about it after she escaped. Her light died just as the water began to lap over the ledge.
After hastily protecting the corpse in the plastic sheet once more, Grace half waded, half swam across the cavern back to the wall where her escape tunnel beckoned to her.
She began to stab the blade into the cavern wall, cursing as it slid off without doing much damag
e against the worn rock. "Damnittohell!" she bellowed, venting her anger and frustration. "Would you just cut me a break here?"
A blaze of light filled the top part of the cavern far overhead and thunder shook the entire structure, loosening more mudslides.
"Sorry!" Grace cried out, covering her head as the ledge around the tomb buckled and the rocks supporting it cascaded around her.
The ground at her feet shifted in treacherous patterns, threatening to pull her down into the frigid water. Grace shivered and realized hypothermia would get her long before drowning. The mouth of the tunnel mocked her, so close yet so far.
Just another foot or two, she thought, stretching her arm as far overhead as she could. She slid the knife into her pocket and began to feel around for rocks large enough for her to stand on.
She would make her own cairn. And climb out on it. The work was hard and she slipped underwater several times but was soon rewarded with a wobbly pile of small boulders.
Gingerly she crawled to the top of it, then balanced herself against the wall, sliding her arm up, up, reaching for the edge of the tunnel. No good, she was still too short. She swept around searching for handholds, finger holds, anything she could use to free climb the wall, and found one small crevice excruciatingly to the side and over her head.
She shifted all her weight, reached for the finger hold and leapt for it. Her feet dangling over the water, she grimly held on as her other hand and her toes scoured the rock, searched for additional holds. She focused everything on the five fingers keeping her suspended, ignoring the chills shaking her body or the pain in her muscles.
Nothing, there was nothing she could grab on to. The realization came just as her strength gave way and she plummeted into the water. The frigid blackness pulled her down, sucking her breath away. She flailed, hopelessly lost, searching for the surface.
CHAPTER 8
From the Mouths of Babes
"That's enough for now," Grace whispered, gently moving Alex's head from her arm. He was snoring, soft corduroy rasps that echoed through the room.
"What happens to Grace?" the girls asked, swirling around her as she escorted them from the room and closed the door behind them. "I'll bet she and Jimmy live happily ever after."
Jimmy smiled at that and blew Grace a kiss before vanishing. Grace rubbed her wedding ring, still warm from his hand. "Maybe," she said, trying hard not to allow sorrow enter her voice.
"Would you like to come to our tea party?" one of the girls asked.
"Brittany, no grownups allowed."
Brittany grabbed Grace's hand. "Grace isn't grown up. She's just like us, aren't you, Grace?"
"We want to hear more. Please?" The girls pulled and tugged until Grace found herself seated at the miniature table in the playroom, her knees bumping as she perched in a child-sized chair.
"I'm Tiffany," said the girl who had originally protested Grace's invitation. Obviously the leader. "This is Brittany," she pointed to the ebony skinned girl. "And Heather." The last girl, the one who rarely spoke, nodded shyly at Grace.
"I'm Grace."
The girls giggled in unison. "We know, silly."
Grace blinked, then remembered Brittany using her name earlier. How had they known who she was?
"What happened?" Tiffany asked as she poured pretend-tea for them all. "Were you scared? Down there in the dark, all alone--"
"Except for moldy old Maeve," Brittany put in. "I'll bet it was kind of fun. What happened next was totally up to you--"
"But it wasn't," Heather finished in her quiet voice. The rest nodded their agreement. Grace was surprised at their understanding. They were only eight or nine years old at most. But she guessed if they were here receiving intensive chemo, then they probably did have some idea of what it felt like to face mortality.
Free and yet terribly bound to fate at the same time.
Tell them, Jimmy urged from his position leaning against the glass wall. A nurse looked in, through Jimmy's transparent image, and Tiffany smiled at her.
Or was she smiling at Jimmy? Grace wondered with a chill, facing these three bald, young but much-too-old girls.
"Go ahead," Tiffany said, delicately sipping at her tea, her pinky extended. "Tell us what happened next."
Of course she couldn't tell them everything that happened after she discovered Maeve's tomb--the blood, the pain, the terror.
But she could tell them the happy parts--and they had been happy, hadn't they? Jimmy smiled at her and nodded his encouragement. Grace took a deep breath before beginning, trying to bottle up all the emotions that talking about their first meeting stirred up. She felt ancient now. Yet back then, only a few short years ago, she had felt hopelessly young, anxious to face life on her terms and prove herself.
Fool. She remembered falling, careening off the sheer wall. This time she had bounced off several rocks and into the water. She came up shrieking for air, retching against the volume of water she'd inadvertently swallowed. The water was now high enough that the only way to keep her head above it was to tread vigorously. But at least it had stopped rising.
"Jesus Christ!" she screamed in fury as she swung her limbs, trying to find solid ground to stand on. Her small cairn had tumbled down.
She was cold, wet and tiring fast. Grace tilted her head back, the better to breathe, and saw a bright light dancing over the mosaic on the other side of the cavern. She wasn't dead yet, she cursed the brilliant light, not realizing she'd shouted the words until their echo rained back down on her.
"Not dead yet!" she shouted again, liking the sound of the words.
"So I see," came a voice from above. "Would you be wanting some help, then?"
Grace gaped as the voice was joined by a man's grinning face, disembodied as it hung over the edge of the tunnel. The light glowed off his fair skin and shimmered over red hair laced with shadows that made him appear to be the devil incarnate.
The last thing she saw before he disappeared was a set of perfect, gleaming white teeth. Then there was a loud splash and a light shone on a length of rope thrown down to her. "Tie it around yer waist and wait for my signal."
With numb hands Grace did what she was told, looping the rope between her legs before cinching it at her waist in what she hoped was a secure knot.
"Ready?"
Grace moved to brace herself. Her feet had no purchase against the floor of the cavern so she leaned back, planting them against the vertical wall. "Ready," she called back, surprised at how cheery her voice sounded.
The rope went taunt. Her rescuer's grunt of effort echoed through the cavern. Grace pulled herself hand over hand, walking up the vertical wall. When she collapsed onto the tunnel floor, she was amazed at how wonderful dry, non-moving rock could feel under a person. Who needed mattresses? She could fall asleep right here.
"You all right, now?" Rough hands ran over her arms and torso, checking for injuries. "Ain't hurt anywhere?"
"I'm fine," she mumbled, wishing he'd leave her to her slumber.
"Then what the bloody hell were ya doing in my tomb!" His shout shook her awake like an earthquake of modest proportions. The light moved away as he crawled up the tunnel.
"Bloody Yanks, don't have the sense God gave a turnip. Couldn't you read the signs that said no entrance?" he shot over his shoulder, shining the light at her.
Grace hadn't moved.
"You're not expecting me to carry you out, now are ya?" he said, scorn evident in his voice. When she didn't respond, he continued, "Not just a Yank, a bloody female Yank. Can't think for herself much less get herself out."
"Shut up already," Grace found the energy to snap back. "I'm coming." She began the weary task of hauling herself back through the tunnel, propelled by his sarcasm and her own anger.
What signs? she thought, ignoring the pain cramping every muscle as she clawed her way into the cavern where she'd found the arrow directing her to the cavern that had almost been her final resting place.
"Where are those war
ning signs you were crowing about?" she asked, using the opportunity to sit on the rock floor and catch her breath. Her rescuer was climbing into the next tunnel, oblivious to her fatigue, when he turned and shined his light over the walls of the cavern.
"Right there--" he said, then his voice faltered as the light hit the oh-so-helpful arrow. "Ah, there's where they should be. Paddy promised me--"
Grace sighed and got to her feet, ignoring him as he continued to swirl the light around, searching for non-existent warning signs. She climbed into the next tunnel, knowing the sooner she got out of this hell hole, the sooner she'd be warm and dry. "You coming or not?"
"Next time I see Paddy O'Dwyer, he's a dead man," he muttered as he climbed into the tunnel behind her. He continued his tirade as they slowly made their way to the base of the stairs leading up to the monastery.
Grace looked up at the seemingly endless circular steps and slid down the wall to sit on her heels. She shook her head, wrapped her arms around her wet body, unable to control her shivering.
"I don't know your name, but thank you," she said after she caught her breath.
"Jimmy. Jimmy Moran. And you're welcome." His voice was sheepish now. "I'm sorry 'bout the warning signs. I didn't know--"
She waved off the rest of what he was saying. "How'd you come to find me, anyway? I thought I was going to become a permanent resident."
"You would've been in good company, I can tell you that." He paused. "We've been worried that with all the rain this year, a big storm could weaken the foundation of the cairn. I came over to check on things when I ran into your mates."
"Linda and TJ? Are they all right?"
"A little wet is all. I sent them back to the mainland. That TJ needs ta learn how to listen to a weather forecast. He should've known better than to bring you girls out here with a storm brewing."