by Ellis Knox
The professor had out his chronometer, compass, thermometer, and other devices, along with pencil and notebook. I took his cue and retrieved my own notebook and pencil, which Cosmas was able to pull from his magic bag without the least bit of fumbling.
“Time?” said the professor.
“A quarter after one, or after thirteen according to this.”
“A twenty-four clock is better suited to our purposes,” Professor Queller said. “You may note that we have traveled a distance of seventeen and a quarter miles.”
“How do we know that?” I asked.
“One thousand seven hundred and sixty yards in a mile. Cosmas’s stride is just slightly longer than a yard, and over uneven ground it is shortened. Today he took thirty thousand three hundred and sixty steps.”
“He counted?” I exclaimed.
“You sound astonished.”
“Because I am.”
“It is a skill he has. Do all ogres have this skill, Cosmas?”
The ogre shrugged. “I do not know all ogres, professor.”
The professor glared at him.
“Many of the ones I do know have the skill,” Cosmas said after a moment. “Save for very young ones.”
“He can keep count even while doing other things,” Queller said. “Even while talking. Well, Miss Lauten, have you recorded distance?”
I did so, hastily, then added our direction, which I’d neglected.
“Cosmas, kindly retrieve the Vidi barometer.”
The barometer was of a style I did not recognize. It looked like nothing so much as a large pocket watch.
“This is an anaeroid barometer.” He spelled it for me. “Quite new. This one comes from the workshop of Herr Bohne in Berlin, though it was invented by Lucien Vidi. It will give us accurate measurements of our depth regardless of how far we descend.”
He examined it a moment, gave a reading, then announced that we had descended about seven hundred feet.
“Seven hundred below the surface,” I said. It was our first measurement of depth.
“Wait,” Queller said, “don’t write that. We have descended seven hundred feet, but we are still above the surface.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Please do not. Do you not recall that we climbed well up into the Alps to reach the opening of the cave?”
“I doubt I shall ever forget it,” I said.
“We shall have to go down another two thousand feet and more before we are below sea level, which is the only practical definition of ‘the surface’ we have. And now for temperature.”
He opened a small wooden case. Inside the case, a thread of mercury ran up a glass tube, with degrees written on either side—one for Fahrenheit, the other side using the Réamur scale, this thermometer being of French make.
“Sixty-four Fahrenheit,” he announced. “Sixty-four. You see?” Professor Queller was oddly triumphant.
I was learning that the professor loved to use this approach in order to make some point, so I dutifully asked him to explain.
“According to current scientific knowledge,” he managed to sneer the phrase, “the temperature of the earth rises one degree Fahrenheit for every seventy feet of depth. We have, by these calculations, descended ten times that vertical distance. Given the temperature at the surface was a pleasant sixty-five, here we are one degree cooler. Explain that!” He peered around at all of us, exactly like a professor surveying his class.
“Well,” I said uncertainly, “we are inside the mountains, as you said, above sea level, so maybe the scientific formula does not yet apply.”
Professor Queller continued to read off figures from his measuring devices, then had me read back what I’d written, to “ensure against error,” he said, though I think it was merely to ensure against my own errors. That Professor Queller might make a mistake was quite beyond possibility, at least in his own estimation.
This became the rhythm of the next few mornings. Somehow, the ogre and the dwarf always woke up before the rest of us. We humans rose, recorded our observations and had a bite to eat along with a single cup of water; Beso told his ancestors where we were headed, and then we packed up. This first morning underground, though, there was an additional item on the agenda.
When we were all ready, Beso stood before us and cleared his throat. We all stopped to regard him. He had changed his clothes and was dressed in gray wool—pants, shirt, cap. The outfit reminded me of some mountain shepherd who’d lost his flock.
“Do any of you want to go home?”
I thought the question laughable, so I laughed.
“Our first full day in the cave and he’s already offering to turn around?”
The others appeared to take the question more seriously. Both Nik and Professor Queller solemnly replied in the negative. No one even asked Cosmas.
“You have only tasted the cave,” Bessarion said, pressing his point. “Think about how you felt in the darkness. Examine your fears. They will only get worse, but only now, only today, am I willing to return you to the surface. After this moment, we go forward only.”
“We came here to find Monsieur Fournier,” I declared, “and we’ve not even begun to look. Lead on.”
I hoped I sounded brave and rakish, but this “last chance” speech unsettled me a bit. Even more than the last sight of sunlight—which I had completely missed—this bland statement about no turning back drove home to me the very real danger of the expedition. Still, no one around seemed hesitant, and I was not going to show myself any less resolved. Beso nodded once, and off we went.
Our route on the second day led through a series of jumbles, fissures, and tunnels, in infinite variety. We passed by limestone formations that caught the light from the lanterns and fairly glowed in exotic hues. One cavern held a pool of clear, bitingly cold water that dripped from stalactites variously white or pale yellow. The sound of the dripping echoed against far walls.
In some of the caverns, the exit was clear, but in two of them there were multiple openings. At these, Bessarion did not hesitate but plunged ahead, even when in one we had to wade through water shin deep. This time, thankfully, I only had to remove my shoes and stockings and did not have to be carried like luggage that had to be kept dry.
After the fourth or fifth division, I asked the dwarf how he knew which way to go. He proceeded farther along the tunnel before answering.
“We follow the Gaul,” he said.
“You mean Monsieur Fournier,” I said. “Very well then, how do you know which way he went?”
Again an interval of silence before he replied.
“Temur leads them. He knows the way.”
I dropped back to ask Niklot, who at least would be more talkative. I repeated my question.
“And who is Temur,” I added.
“A dwarf,” Niklot replied, “but not just any dwarf. Beso told me they were childhood friends, though they’ve had a falling out recently. But when they were younger, they explored these caves thoroughly, the way boys will.”
“I wonder how far they got.” I forbore to point out that girls, too, sometimes explored.
“I wonder that myself. Beso’s been ambiguous about that. At some point, probably soon, we’ll reach the limit of where they’ve been.”
“Why soon?”
“They were boys. They couldn’t have got more than a couple of days into the cave without having to turn back. Two days in means two more days back out.”
That made sense, which was welcome. Professor Queller said nonsensical things with alarming frequency. Bessarion’s statements were cryptic, and the ogre was more or less opaque. I could at least talk with Niklot.
“After that, we’re without any direction at all, then?”
“Not exactly,” Nik said. “Beso’s a Firster. Temur, too, from what Beso says. Careful there.”
We were passing through a tunnel. For some reason, when I heard the word tunnel I pictured something like a hallway of stone. I confess I rarely pic
tured much of anything to do with tunnels, but I know it had to have been with a flat floor. Littered with stones and stalagmites, but level. This tunnel, though, was more like a tube, curved on all sides. Moreover, it was damp, and every step was treacherous.
I slipped. Niklot caught me. Hence the admonishment to be careful.
“Cosmas, ho there,” Niklot called out. Our party stopped. “Fetch out an Alpenstock for Miss Lauten, won’t you?”
“I said before I don’t want one. They’re cumbersome.”
“You also said you wanted to bear your own pack. Indulge me,” Niklot said. He took the Alpenstock from Cosmas and handed it to me.
“Very well, I’ll take it, but you must tell me about Firsters,” I said.
“Sure. Now, put the ’stock to your downward side. You’re right-handed, so walk over here on the left. You don’t need to lean on it; you don’t need to use it to propel yourself. It’s just for balance here.”
I obliged with a show of reluctance. Petty perhaps, but I was feeling petty and put upon, being instructed by my betters. I told myself I’d put the Alpenstock away at the end of the day and not ask for it again.
We went forward again, four of us now tapping our way along. I gradually got used to the Alpenstock, even though it was taller than I was. It did indeed offer me a sense of greater balance and security.
“Firsters?” I prompted.
“The Old Reverence they call it,” Niklot said. He walked ahead of me, Cosmas behind. Farther ahead was Professor Queller, with Bessarion leading the way. I noticed the dwarf had lost the long orange feather from his hat.
“All dwarves revere their ancestors,” Niklot continued.
“It’s their religion, right?”
“Not exactly. Dwarves don’t have gods, so they don’t worship. With no church, no priest, no theology, it’s hard to say they have a religion the way we’d understand it.”
“A bit like elves, then,” I said.
“Nothing like elves,” came Beso’s voice from well up ahead.
Niklot grinned. “Anyway, they have elaborate and complex rituals that reach from the hearth of an individual family outward to clan and canton. They keep wonderful genealogies that stretch back many generations, and there’s a ceremony for each.”
“That’s rather nice,” I said.
“Not all the genealogies are accurate,” Professor Queller declared.
“It’s debated among scholars,” Niklot added hastily. “But that’s not the point. Firsters—followers of the Old Reverence—are deeply conservative traditionalists. They claim to trace a lineage right back to the First Dwarves. Hence the name. Reverence of the First Ancestors they hold to be the deepest reverence, the most important. They have a whole catalog of legends …”
“Not legends!”
“All right, Beso. They’re traditions. Histories, the Firsters contend.”
“The Long Dig.” This from Professor Queller.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that one,” I said. “The dwarves dug their way from some other world into ours. That’s how they got here.”
“Yep.”
An unwelcome realization flooded through me. I whispered.
“Beso thinks he’s going to follow the Long Dig?”
“No need to whisper,” Niklot said in normal tones. “Dwarf ears reach for days, according to the old saw. Yes, that’s our map.”
“But you just said it’s a legend!”
“The word legend,” said Professor Queller, “is not a synonym for falsehood.”
“I’ve heard it used as the antonym for truth,” I responded. This was no time to play games with words.
“Only by people who do not understand legends,” returned Queller. “They are very old truths, possibly the oldest we have, preserved in oral tradition long before the invention of writing. I have solid scientific evidence that the stories of the Old Reverence in fact preserve historical truth. The reality is layered with metaphor, folded over with hidden meanings, but it’s there. I would not have risked our lives on anything less sure.”
Again my companions were talking about dying. Of course I knew perfectly well that others had died in these very caves and that we were going in search of a man who ought to have returned weeks ago. But fear of death is one of those things that remains abstract until it is thrown directly in one’s face. I much preferred to ignore the possibility.
I said nothing for a while, trying to come to terms with this information about our guide. Bessarion belonged to a minor cult eschewed by most dwarves as being old-fashioned if not outright false, and we had placed our lives into his hands. Yet, Niklot seemed undismayed by this, Professor Queller was still downright ebullient, and Cosmas was … I suppose stoic would be the right word. We could all be falling to our death and his mien would not change. Very well. I would go along as if all this were perfectly reasonable. After all, what other choice was there?
Our tunnel ran on for two days. Other tunnels appeared now and again. These were more obviously side tunnels, leading like tributaries into the main one. Bessarion advised us to stay out of them, for none went anywhere. They only looped around back into the main tunnel.
Not long after setting out on the third day after, Professor Queller uttered an exclamation and stopped.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“My pencil. It ought to be here in my pocket. I must have left it at the camp. You wait here; I won’t be a moment.”
“You cannot go back,” Beso said.
“Why ever not?”
“You will die.”
“Nonsense,” Queller said impatiently. “Stay out of the side tunnels and it’s a straight shot, not half an hour back.” He turned and began to work his way past Niklot.
“Stop!”
“Hold up, Uncle. What is it, Beso?”
“Traps,” the dwarf said.
“Where?” the professor demanded. “We saw none.”
“As designed. Come down the passage this way and nothing happens. Go back that way, if you do not know how to disarm the trap, the floor opens and you plunge to your death.”
Queller had continued to try to free himself from Niklot’s grasp, but this stopped him.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Has this trap ever been sprung?”
“It has no doubt been sprung many times,” Beso said.
“But how can that be? Do you have maintenance men who come into the caverns to reset sprung traps?”
The dwarf frowned at me, but I held my ground.
“The trap resets by itself. It is a water device. I could explain it, if you wish to take an hour or two.”
I frowned back at him.
“Miss Lauten has a point, Bessarion,” Professor Queller said. “I can envision how you might use water coming down from the snows up on the mountain tops, but any resetting would be slow. Hours, if not days. That’s hardly a protection against an invasion, is it?”
“This is why we have many traps,” Beso said. “You have walked through ten since yesterday. Do not wander.”
Professor Queller turned around and resumed his place in the line of march. Rather meekly, I thought.
The tunnel ran on unchanging. I studied the walls, trying to decide if this was a lava tube or the product of dwarf work. By the time we stopped for a meal and sleep, I concluded that it was both. The shaft itself had once been filled with molten lava, but the dwarves had shaped it and added their defense points to it. I was not yet ready to believe in the Long Dig, for it could just as well have been that the dwarves had worked from the surface downward, seeking to stop up the advance of trolls.
I still believed it was possible the tunnel would lead under the Austrian Alps to emerge, after days or weeks of walking, in some verdant Styrian valley. There we would find Fournier and his entire company enjoying wine in some isolated village. It would not make for much of a story for the Zeitung, but it was the most pleasant of all the possible outcomes, so I chose to believe in that one for the present.
By the fifth day caverns became rarer, and we were in unrelenting tunnel. As Nik pointed out, a long tunnel like this would have the effect of channeling an enemy, stringing out his forces, where traps could disrupt them piecemeal.
More indicators of dwarf work were to be seen, including murder holes. Beso said they were spring loaded but did not elaborate. Privately, I suspected that phlogiston was somehow involved, but Bessarion insisted on calling it dwarf craft. We passed through larger caves but twice, one obviously carved out with tools, the second more naturally formed.
Or so it seemed.
This second cave was more of an enormous crack in the Earth, whose top and bottom I could not see. The walls drew away and our tunnel became a path, comfortably wide and reassuringly level. Several feet to one side, though, it dropped away into unfathomable darkness. The chasm was not wide, just deep.
Niklot nodded to one side as we passed.
I looked where Nik indicated and saw a shelf that held seven large, brilliant gems, lit up as the light from the lantern fell upon each. They were arranged in an arc like a rainbow and ran from a ruby on the left to an amethyst on the right. Each was the size of my fist, and each glowed as if it held a fire.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. I leaned forward slightly, mesmerized. “So close.”
“Careful now,” Nik said. “Take one, but let me hold onto you first. I’ll grab onto your belt.”
That annoyed me. The gap in the floor was hardly more than two feet, and the far wall was within easy reach. He was surely using the ancient dodge of aiding the helpless female as an excuse to lay hands on me. The touch of his hand at my waist was more intimate than I desired, but his tone seemed guileless. I permitted it without comment.
My first attempt came up short, my hand waving futilely in the air. I extended my reach and leaned further, but the emerald remained just beyond my fingertips.
“Steady,” Nik said. “Your life hangs by this belt.”
I stopped. The wall was right there. I put out my other hand, to prop myself. I tipped forward but did not reach the wall. My heart jumped as I realized I was too far out. The gap was wider than I’d thought.