A Boy Called Duct Tape

by Christopher Cloud

  As we continued on, the chamber narrowed to form a towering canyon. A small stream ran down its middle. The stream grew in size and strength—nourished by the numerous wall drippings—until it found a resting place we recognized as the next spot on the map, Lake With Dam.

  We were pleased that we had found the site so quickly.

  The Lake With Dam was a small body of water no more than 60 feet across. At the far end rose a dam of sorts, constructed over thousands of years, Monroe explained, from the calcite in the water. Water from the small lake spilled over the dam and cascaded into the darkness down a series of gentle waterfalls.

  Pia found a small flat stone on the cave floor and skipped it across the underground pond.

  We left the Lake With Dam and followed the smooth cave trail that ran parallel to the string of whispering falls.

  Monroe stopped a few yards short of a place in the trail that angled downward. His headlamp lit up a dark, ugly vein that ran along the cave wall. He took his knife, cut a small chunk from the black streak, and put it to his nose.

  “Lead,” he said. “A magnificent vein of lead.” His light followed the vein along the wall. “That’s why we must keep this place a secret.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, my light outlining the vein of ore.

  “If a mining company knew there was lead down here they’d rip the old lady’s guts out,” Monroe said. “Strip her naked.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone,” Pia said, her brow wrinkled with stubbornness. “I promise, Mr. Huff.”

  “Good, Pia,” Monroe said with a big smile.

  “I hadn’t planned on taking out an ad on Google’s homepage,” Kiki said.

  “The secret is safe,” I said. “But I want to know if you can really smell lead, Monroe? C’mon, that’s not possible.”

  Monroe Huff threw back his head and laughed. The shriek of laughter returned as an echo. “Children, I can smell cooked cabbage from a hundred miles, the first rose of spring from across the county, a woman’s sweet breath from another room.”

  Kiki and I rolled our eyes and shared a “Yeah, right!” look.

  We hiked deeper and deeper into the network of passages, and soon entered the largest chamber yet. The ceiling was dotted with dozens of straw-like formations glittering in our headlamp beams. Monroe identified them as the first stages of stalactites.

  “A few centuries ago some people thought these baby stalactites were alive,” Monroe said.

  “Really?” Pia asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. A French botanist—can’t recall his name—believed that stalactites could not possibly come from dripping water. He believed the rock formations were living vegetation that grew from seeds.”

  “In the dark?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they understood photosynthesis,” Monroe said.

  Pia asked what photosynthesis was—after mangling another word—and Kiki explained it.

  We entered a chamber that we recognized as the next place on the map—Church Organ. There was no mistaking it, and we stood in awe of the giant formation. The organ’s longer “pipes” were in the middle—ten feet tall—and tapered in length toward either end. There were 13 formations like that.

  There are also 13 stars on a $20 gold piece, I thought.

  “Awesome!” Pia squealed. “A rock organ!”

  Pia counted the columns of stone out loud, and then took Monroe’s rock hammer and tapped lightly on one of the longer columns. It made a high-pitched plunking sound. She tapped the next column—the pitch was lower. In a few minutes, dashing from stone chime to stone chime, she was rapping out a rough version of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.”

  Once again, my mood grew more hopeful—Thirteen is a lucky number—and I was now so certain we would find the Jesse James treasure that I had decided how I would spend my portion of the money. The first thing on the list was the repair of Pia’s leg. Also high on the list was a house for Mom, Pia, and me. It didn’t even have to be fancy—something with a front porch. Mom always talked about living in a house with a front porch. If there was any money left, I’d use it to get Mom a new car.

  We left the Church Organ and struck out toward the next designation on the map.

  “Room of Ghosts,” Kiki said anxiously, her headlamp lighting the darkness ahead. “Isn’t that our next stop, Pablo?”

  I fished the map out of my coverall pocket and studied it as we strode down another tunnel. “Yeah,” I replied in a jittery voice.

  Pia pressed close to me. “I don’t think I want to go to the Room of Ghosts,” she said.

  “What?” I folded the map, then stuffed it back into my pocket.

  “I don’t want to go,” Pia said. “I want to wait here.” She stopped walking.

  Everyone else came to a halt.

  “I don’t want to see ghosts,” Pia said, her words so lifeless that it was creepy.

  “No such thing as ghosts, Pia,” I said.

  “I still don’t want to go.”

  I sighed. “You sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you want to wait here while we make sure the coast is clear?” I said. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Uh-huh.” Pia began chewing on the knuckle of her thumb.

  I thought about it. “It’s okay by me if it’s okay by Monroe.”

  “Find a comfortable place to sit,” Monroe said in a fatherly tone of voice. “Pablo will come back for you after we’ve determined there are no ghosts.”

  “How far is it?” Pia asked, lighting my face.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know that either, Pia.”

  And then, dim and distant, a muffled shriek floated down the wide tunnel to where we stood. The scream hanging stubbornly in the air, we all turned and peered into the dark shadows we had hiked through seconds earlier. The shriek seemed to go on forever, and beneath my wool shirt goosebumps dimpled my arms, then my legs. In a few seconds the spine-chilling scream fell away to nothing. It had to be one of the Blood brothers, but why was he screaming?

  “What was that, Pablo?” Pia asked in a soft voice.

  “Don’t know,” I said.

  “A human scream,” Monroe said.

  “The Blood brothers?” Kiki guessed.

  “Uh-huh, maybe,” Monroe said.

  “You don’t seem too worried,” I said, my light on Monroe.

  “I’ll worry when the time is right.”

  Pia looked back over her shoulder, her headlamp fading into the murk of darkness.

  “Like Monroe said, Pia,” I said, “find someplace to sit and rest, and we’ll come back—”

  “No, never mind,” Pia interrupted, brushing at her eyes. “I’ll go.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll go.”

  “Make up your mind,” I challenged. “Are you going with us or not?”

  “I’ll go.”

  “Pia, there is no such thing as ghosts,” Kiki said. She didn’t sound that convincing.

  “Are you sure?” Pia asked, lighting Kiki’s face.

  Kiki nodded. “Uh-huh, pretty sure.”

  “I’ll go.”

  Everyone began walking again. Pia looped an arm around mine.

  Monroe was still leading when the tunnel made a sharp 90-degree turn to the right and flowed into a small cavern. Monroe rounded the corner, then leaped back and forced his back against the wall. “Stop!” he whispered.

  “What …?” I asked, almost gagging on the word.

  Monroe put his finger to his lips and shook his head. He mouthed the words “Don’t talk.”

  Pia and Kiki came together in a frightened embrace.

  “I saw … something,” Monroe whispered.

  “Some … thing?” I asked, my heart banging in my chest.

  “Some … one,” Monroe said quietly. “But I can’t be certain. No more than a glimpse.”

  Clinging to Kiki, Pia gasped.

 
“Some … one?” I pressed, alarm bells ringing in my head.

  Monroe turned off his headlamp and eased to the corner of the tunnel. He poked his head around the corner, and then withdrew it.

  Pia choked back a sob.

  My knees growing weak, I placed one hand flat against the wall for support. Every horror movie I’d ever seen was playing out inside my head. A Nightmare on Elm Street was the first that came to mind.

  “Is this another of your tricks, Monroe?” Kiki whispered, her voice quivering.

  “No.”

  Monroe’s face was clouded, and I could tell from the tone in his voice that it wasn’t a trick.

  Monroe stuck his head around the corner a second time, flashed on his headlamp for an instant, then jumped back again. He let out a big sigh.

  “What?” I croaked, a softball-sized lump in my throat.

  In a normal voice, Monroe said, “It’s a painting I saw.”

  “A painting?” I asked, some of the panic draining from my head.

  “Yeah.” Monroe stepped around the corner and walked into the cavern.

  Everyone followed cautiously. The cavern was about the size of a two-car garage.

  “This must be the place,” Monroe said, his headlamp playing over the pictures on one wall. “Room of Ghosts.”

  Pia, Kiki, and I stood gazing at the images on the wall.

  “Ghosts,” Pia said in a whisper, framing the figures with her light. Her headlamp made a complete 180 to the right, then a 180 to the left. She left no corner unseen.

  “Those are very, very scary,” Kiki observed.

  Painted onto the cave wall before us were eight life-size images of ghosts. Armless and legless, they resembled Halloween costumes, head and bodies hidden beneath a shroud. The images also had large dark eyes, two small nostrils, and open mouths that stretched not horizontally like a human’s mouth, but vertically like a ghost’s mouth.

  Although it was just paintings, a painful tickle rippled through my stomach.

  We stood viewing the figures when Pia’s head jerked around and she looked back over her shoulder. “Pablo, did you just hear something?” She grabbed my hand.

  “Easy, Pia. I didn’t hear anything,” I said, my heart banging in my ears again.

  “I’ll bet people live down here,” Pia whispered.

  “Quit saying that, Pia!” I growled. Pia was making me more nervous than I was already was.

  “Appears this beautiful cave was once home to Native Americans,” Monroe said, breaking the eerie spell.

  “Why would they draw something so, uh, so weird?” Kiki asked, her light trained on the spine-chilling images.

  Monroe chucked. “What’s weird to you and me was probably uplifting to them.”

  The artist had signed his work with a handprint outlined in orange. A small curtain of colorful flowstone had accumulated over part of the handprint.

  “Monroe, how long did it take this flowstone to form?” Kiki asked.

  Monroe studied it for a few moments. “About 20,000 years, maybe longer.”

  “If it took 20,000 years to make this flowstone,” Kiki reasoned, “then the drawing beneath it has to be older.” She looked at Monroe. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what?” Pia asked.

  Monroe’s light traced the ghostlike figures and the signature handprint. “Early man wasn’t supposed to inhabit North America until much later,” he explained. “If this handprint was made more than 20,000 years ago, archaeologists will need to change their calculations.” He trained his light on each of us. “Most archaeologists believe early man didn’t inhabit North America until about 10,000 B.C.”

  “But how did he make that impression of his hand?” Pia asked, staring at the ancient handprint.

  “Or her hand?” Kiki said.

  Feeling a bit more relaxed, Pia grinned. “Or her hand?”

  “The hand was placed against the wall like so,” Monroe said, placing his big hand flat against a blank space on the wall. “A tube of some sort was used to blow pigment over it. The pigment was probably made from roots and leaves.”

  “Cool!” Pia chimed.

  “And what’s this?” Monroe said, picking up something off the cave floor. He held it up and lit it with his headlamp. It was a miniature woodcarving. The carving was about six inches tall and, according to Monroe, resembled the totems once popular with Alaskan Eskimos, one sharp-beaked face of a bird resting on another. He said it probably had some religious importance.

  Pia searched the cave floor with her headlamp. “I wished I could find one.”

  “Not to worry, Pia. You can have this one. I’ll name it Little Pia.” He cracked a big grin.

  Pia giggled. “Little Pia. I like that.”

  “I’ll save it for you,” Monroe said, stuffing Little Pia into his backpack.

  “This is all great material for your story, Kiki,” I noted.

  “You can say that again,” Kiki said, some of the daring back in her voice.

  “Great material for your story,” Pia chimed.

  The three of us laughed. It helped relieve some of the tension.

  Our spirits high, we pushed on, the slope of the tunnel taking us deeper inside Bear Mountain.

  When we stopped for a short water break at noon, I pulled out my map and checked the next stop on our route to the Cathedral.

  “Graveyard,” I muttered, studying the old chart.

  That can mean only one thing.

  20

  It happened in the blink of an eye.

  We were hiking beside the stream that had originated earlier at the Lake With Dam when Monroe turned and looked back up the wide corridor.

  “What is it?” I asked, seeing the alarm on Monroe’s face.

  “Shhh!” Monroe said, tilting his head and listening, a flash of panic in his eyes.

  I didn’t hear a thing.

  Monroe’s face twisted into a faint smile, and he said in a calm voice, “Awww, damnit!”

  “What did you—?”

  I never got all the words out because Monroe shouted, “Follow me!” He scooped up Pia. “Flood!” He bolted down the tunnel.

  A dim roar filled the rocky hallway, and grew louder each second.

  I turned and directed my headlamp up the tunnel. What I saw sent a spear of horror through me. A ferocious wall of water was rushing toward us.

  “Pablo … !” Kiki wailed, her headlamp lighting the fast-moving wave.

  “Run!” Monroe screamed over his shoulder. “Run!”

  Slipping and sliding on the moist cave floor, Kiki and I turned and ran, scampering to keep up.

  Monroe threw another shout over his shoulder. “Hurry!”

  The wall of water was only seconds away from gobbling us up when the corridor funneled into a tiny chamber not much larger than a coat closet. A narrow balcony overlooked the small hollow from a height of three feet or so, and we scrambled onto the ledge at the very moment the deafening rush of water poured into the cave. The torrent filled the chamber within seconds, surging in and out of the tiny dugout at an incredible speed.

  “Big rain up top!” Monroe shouted above the roar.

  “So much for your weather forecast!” I yelled.

  In the next few seconds the churn of the flashflood subsided, the foaming whitecaps settled down, and the water flowed through the chamber as smooth and gentle as James Creek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Huff,” Pia said through teary eyes.

  “My pleasure, Pia,” Monroe said, setting her down on the ledge next to me.

  Pia turned toward me. “Pablo, I can feel my heart—”.

  “Me, too, Pia,” I interrupted.

  “Is it over?” Kiki asked, her light on Monroe.

  Before Monroe could answer, another roar filled our ears, and a second rush of water lurched violently into the chamber.

  “Hold on!” Monroe warned, the level of the underground flood lapping at the ledge where we stood.

&nb
sp; We made a human chain with our hands.

  “If worse comes to worst, use your backpacks as lifejackets!” Monroe yelled. “They’re waterproof and they float!”

  I had a sick feeling. I hoped worse didn’t come to worst. Pia could master swimming in Harper’s Hole, but she was no match for a raging flood. And I didn’t know if Kiki was a good swimmer or not. I decided she probably was.

  “And keep your heads raised!” Monroe shouted. “Don’t get your headlamps wet!”

  Following Monroe’s example, we removed our backpacks, slipped our arms through the straps, and then held the packs at our chests as the swell of water swept over the ledge to the tops of our ankles. The dirty-brown water was icy cold.

  “Stay close to me, Pia!” I shouted.

  In the next moment the swirling water was at our knees, its undercurrent pulling at us with a thousand sticky hands. When Pia’s spindly body started to slip away, I grabbed her in an awkward hug.

  A gummy mass of tree limbs and weeds floated pass.

  I glanced at Monroe, the non-swimmer. There was something in Monroe’s eyes that I had not seen before—a muddled mix of fear and doubt.

  The fury of the flood intensified and a third angry wall of water poured into the cave, sweeping over us like a giant tsunami. Pia shrieked as the raging blast of water snatched her from my grip and into the powerful current. I lunged for my sister in the spotty darkness, throwing myself into the flood, but the explosion of water separated us like fragile sticks of driftwood.

  Choking on a mouthful of foul-tasting water, I screamed Pia’s name. When there was no reply, I screamed it again. No answer.

  The frigid onrush had snatched the lamp and knit cap from my head and turned me onto my back. I fumbled with my backpack in the darkness, searching for my flashlight. I found it and flipped it on, holding it above the surface of the cold, fast-moving water, my backpack at my chest.

  I tried to turn myself in the direction I’d last seen Pia, but the water’s muscle was too strong, and I was swept down the tunnel backward, my flashlight aimed uselessly at the ceiling.

  “Pia!”

  Nothing for several long seconds, then Pia’s desperate cry. “Pablo, help me!”