The Seventh Scroll tes-2

by Wilbur Smith

  carved stone niches for support.

  He had forgotten how gloomy and cold and lonely it was here in the

  bottom of the chasm.

  After a long delay he craned his head backwards and watched Royan come

  into sight around the bulge of the overhang, dangling in the sling seat

  and revolving slowly at the end of the nylon rope. She looked down and

  waved at him cheerfully.

  "Full marks to that girl," he grinned. "Not much puts the wind up her."

  He wanted to shout encouragement, but he knew it was futile because the

  thunder of the falls smothered all other sound. So he contented himself

  with returning her wave.

  Halfway down he saw her tugging frantically on the signal rope. Aly had

  been warned to expect this, and her i4 descent was hatted immediately..

  Then she leaned back in the sling, hanging on with only her left hand,

  as she groped for Nicholas's binoculars which hung from their strap on

  to her chest. She was twisted at an awkward angle as she held the

  glasses to her eyes and tried to manipulate the focus wheel with one

  hand. He saw that she was obviously having difficulty picking up the

  round mark on the wall and keeping it in the field of the lens, for the

  sling was swinging from side to side and at the same time revolving

  slowly.

  She struggled at the end of the rope for what seemed to Nicholas a very

  long time, but probably was no more than a few minutes. Then abruptly

  she dropped the binoculars on to her chest, threw back her head and let

  out a scream that, despite the roar of falling water, carried clearly to

  Nicholas a hundred feet beneath her. She was kicking her legs joyfully

  and waving her free hand at him, wild with excitement, as Aly began

  paying out the rope once more. Still screaming incoherently, she was

  looking down at him with a face that seemed to light up the cathedral

  gloom of the gorge.

  "I can't hear you," he yelled back, but the falls defeated both their

  efforts to communicate.

  Royan was wriggling about in her seat, shouting and gesticulating

  wildly, and now she let go the harness with her other hand and leaned

  further out to keep him in sight as the sling revolved. She was still

  twenty feet above the water when she almost lost her balance entirely,

  and very nearly toppled backwards out of the sling.

  "Careful there," he yelled up at her. "Those glasses are Zeiss. Two

  thousand quid at the Zurich duty-free!'

  IC

  This time his vo' must have carried, for she stuck her tongue out at

  him in a schoolgirlish gesture. But her movements became more

  circumspect. When her feet were almost touching the water she signalled

  on the rope to stop her descent and hung there, fifty feet across the

  pool from him.

  "What did you find?" he shouted across.

  "You were right, you wonderful man!'

  "Is it man-made? Is it an inscription? Could you read it?, "Yes, yes and

  yes to all three of your questions! She grinned triumphantly as she

  teased him.

  "Don't be infuriating. Tell me."

  "Taita's ego got the better of him once again. He couldn't resist

  signing his work." She laughed. "He has left us his autograph - the hawk

  with a broken wing!'

  "Marvellous! Plain bloody marvelous!the exalted.

  "Proof that Taita was here, Nicky. To carve that cartouche, he must have

  been standing on a scaffolding.

  Our first guess was right. That niche you are holding on to is part of

  his ladder to the bottom of the gorge."

  "Yes, but why, Royan?" he yelled back at her. "Why was Taita down here?

  There is no evidence of any excavation or building work."

  They both looked around the gloomy cavern. Apart from the tiny rows of

  niches, the walls were unbroken, smooth and inscrutable until they

  plunged into the dark water.

  Under the falls?" she shouted across. "Is there a cutback in the rock?

  Can you get across there?"

  He pushed off from the cliff, and swam towards the thundering chute of

  water. Halfway across, the current caught him and he had to swim with

  all his strength to make any headway against it. Thrashing the water

  with flailing arms and kicking out strongly, he managed to reach a spur

  of polished, algae-stick rock at the nearest end of the falls.

  The water crashed over his head, but he edged his way along under the

  rock step into the heart of the cascade.

  Halfway across, the water overwhelmed him. It tore him off his

  precarious perch, hurled him back into the basin below and swirled him

  end over end. He surfaced in the middle of the pool, and once again had

  to Swim with all his strength to break free of the grip of the current

  and to reach the slack water below the wall again. He clung to his

  handhold in the stone niche, and panted like a bellows.

  "Nothing?" she called.

  He shook his head, unable to answer until he had finally regained his

  breath. Finally he managed: "Nothing.

  It's a solid rock wall behind the falls." He gasped another breath, and

  then invited sarcastically, "Next bright idea, madam?"

  She was silent and he was glad of the respite. Then she called again,

  "Nicky, how far do those niches go down?"

  "You can see," he told her, "right to the one I am holding on to."

  "What about below the surface?"

  "Don't be silly, woman." He was getting cold and irritable. "How the

  hell could there be cuttings below the surface?"

  "Try!" she yelled almost as iff itably. He shook his head pityingly, and

  drew a deep breath. Still clinging to his handhold, he extended his

  limbs and body to their full stretch. Then his head went under the dark

  surface as he groped down as far as he could reach with his toes.

  Suddenly he shot back, snorting for air with a startled look on his

  face. "By Jove!" he shouted. "You are right!

  There is another niche down there!'

  "I hate to say I told you so." Even at that range he could see the smug

  expression on her face.

  "What are you? Some kind of witch?" Then he broke off and rolled his

  eyes heavenward in despair. "I know what you are going to ask me to do

  next."

  "How far do the niches go down?" she called in honeyed tones. "Will you

  dive down for me, dear Nicky?"

  "That's it," he said. "I knew it. I am going to speak to my shop

  steward. This is slave labour. From now onwards I am on strike."

  "Please, Nicky!'

  He hung in the water'pumping air in and out of his lungs,

  hyperventilating, flushing his . bloodstream with oxygen to increase his

  underwater endurance to its limits.

  In the end he expelled the contents of his lungs completely, squeezing

  out the last breath until his chest ached with the effort, and then he

  sucked in again, filling his lungs to their capacity with fresh air.

  Finally, with his chest fully expanded, he duck-dived, standing on his

  head with his legs high out of the water and letting their weight drive

  him under.

  Sliding head-first down the submerged wall, he reached down, groping for

  the next niche below the surface. He found it, and used it
to accelerate

  his dive, pulling himself on downwards.

  He found the second niche below that, and pulled himself on downwards.

  The niches were about six feet apart - a nautical fathom. Using them as

  a measure, he was able to calculate his progress accurately.

  Swimming on downwards, he found another niche, then another. Four rows

  of niches, twenty-four feet below the surface. His ears were popping and

  squeaking as the pressure squeezed the air out of his Eustachian tubes.

  He kept on downwards and found the fifth row of niches. Now the air in

  his lungs was compressing to almost half its surface volume, and as his

  buoyancy decreased so his descent became easier and more rapid.

  His eyes were wide open, but the waters below him were dark and turbid.

  He could make out only the surface of the wall directly in front of his

  face. He saw the sixth niche appear ahead of him and he grasped it, then

  hesitated.

  "Thirty-six feet of depth already, and no sign yet of bottom he

  thought. There had been a time, when he was spearfishing competitively

  with the army team, that he could free-dive to sixty feet and stay at

  that depth for a full minute. But he had been younger then and in peak

  physical condition.

  "Just one more niche," he promised himself, "and then back up to the

  surface." His chest was beginning to throb and burn with the need to

  breathe, but he pulled hard on his handhold and shot down. He saw the

  vague shape of the seventh niche appear out of the murk below him'

  "They go right to the bottom," he realized with amazeMent. "How on'earth

  did Taita do it? They had no diving equipment." He grasped the niche and

  hovered there for a moment, undecided if he should risk going further.

  He knew he was almost at his physical limit. Already he was hunting for

  air, his chest beginning to convulse involuntarily.

  "What about one more for the hell of it!" He was beginning to feel

  light-headed, and a strange glow of euphoria came over him. He

  recognized the danger signs, and looked down at his own body. Through

  the murk he saw that his skin was wrinkled and folded by the pressure of

  water. There were over two atmospheres'weight bearing down upon him,

  crushing in his chest. His brain was becoming starved of oxygen, and he

  felt reckless and invulnerable.

  "Once more into the breach, dear friends," he thought drunkenly, and

  went on down.

  "Number eight, and the doctor's at the gate." He felt the eighth niche

  under his fingers. He was thinking in gibberish now: "Number eight, and

  I'll have her on a plate." He turned to go up again, and his feet

  touched bottom. -Fifty feet deep," he realized even through his fuddled

  state.

  "I have left it too late. Got to get back. Got to breathe." He was

  bracing himself to push off from the bottom when something grabbed his

  legs and dragged him hard against the rock wall.

  ctopus!" he thought, remembering the line from Taita's stele, "Her

  vagina is an octopus that has swallowed up a king."

  He tried to kick out, but his legs were bound as if by the arms of a sea

  monster; some cold, insidious embrace held him captive. "Taita's

  octopus. My oath! He meant it literally. It's got me."

  He was pinned against the wall, crushed, helpless.

  Terror seized him, and the rush of it through his blood flushed away the

  hallucinations of his oxygen-impoverished brain. He realized what had

  happened to him.

  "No octopus. This is water pressure." He had experienced the same

  phenomenon once before. On an army training exercise, while diving near

  the inlet to the turbines of the generators in Loch Arran, his buddy

  diver who was roped to him had drifted into their terrible suction. His

  companion had been sucked against the grille of the intake and his body

  had been crushed so that the splinters of his ribs had been driven

  through the flesh of his chest and had come out through the black

  neoprene rubber of his suit like daggers.

  Nicholas had narrowly escaped the same fate. The fact that he was a few

  feet to one side of his buddy had meant that he escaped the full brunt

  of the rush of water into the turbine intake. Nevertheless, one of his

  legs was broken, and it had taken the strength of two other army divers

  to prise him out of the grip of the current.

  This time he was at the limit of his air, and there was no other diver

  to assist him. He was being sucked into a narrow opening in the rock,

  the mouth of an underwater tunnel, a subaqueous shaft that bored into

  the rock wall.

  His upper body was free of the baleful influence of the rushing flood,

  but his legs were being drawn inexorably into it. He was aware that the

  surrounds of the opening were sharply demarcated, as straight and as

  square as a lintel hewn by a mason. He was being dragged over and around

  this lintel. Spreading out his arms, he resisted with all his strength,

  but his hooked fingers slid over the polished, slimy surface of the

  rock.

  "This is the big one," he thought. "This is the one punch that you can't

  duck." He hooked his fingers, and felt his nails tear and break as they

  rasped against the rock.

  Then suddenly they locked into the last niche in the wall above the

  sink-hole which was sucking him under.

  Now at least he had an anchor point. With both hands he clung to the

  niche, and fought the pull of the water. He fought it with all his

  remaining strength and all his heart, but he was near the end of his

  store of both. He strained until he felt the muscles in both arms

  popping, until the sinews in his neck stood out in steely cords and he

  felt something in his head must burst. But he had halted the insidious

  slide of his body into the sink-hole.

  "One more," he thought. "Just one more try." And he knew that was all he

  had left within him. His air was all used up, and so were his courage

  and his resolve. His mind swirled, and dark shapes clouded his vision.

  From somewhere deep inside himself he drew out the last reserves, and

  pulled until the darkness in his head exploded in sheets of bright

  colours, shooting stars and Catherine wheels that dazzled him. But he

  kept on pulling.

  He felt his legs coming out of it, the grip of the waters weakening, and

  he pulled once more with strength that he had never realized he

  possessed.

  Then suddenly he was free and shooting towards the surface, but it was

  too late. The darkness filled his head and in his ears was a sound like

  the roaring of the waterfall in the abyss. He was drowning. He was all

  used up. He had no knowledge of where he was, how much further he had to

  go to the surface, but he knew only that he was not going to make it. He

  was finished.

  When he came out through the surface, he did not know that he had done

  so, and he did not have enough strength left to lift his face out of the

  water and to breathe.

  He wallowed the're like a waterlogged carcass, face down and dying. Then

  he felt Royan's fingers lock into the hair in the back of his head, and

  the cold ai
r on his face as she lifted it clear.

  "Nicky!" she screamed at him. "Breathe, "Nicky, breathe!'

  He opened his mouth and let out a spray of water and saliva and stale

  air, and then gagged and gasped.

  "You're still alive! Oh, thank God. You were down for so long. I thought

  you had drowned."

  As he coughed and fought for air and his senses returned, he realized in

  a vague way that she must have dropped out of the sting seat and come to

  his aid.

  "You were under for so long. I could not believe it." She held his head

  up, clinging with her free hand to the niche in the wall. "You are going

  to be all right now. I have got you. just take it easy for a while. It's

  going to be all right." It was amazing how much her voice encouraged

  him.

  The air tasted good and sweet and he felt his strength slowly returning.

  "We have to get you up," she told him. "A few minutes more to get

  yourself together, and then I will help you into the sling."

  She swam with him across to the dangling sling and signalled to the men

  at the top of the cliff to lower it into the water. Then she held the

  folds of canvas open so that he could slip his legs into them.

  "Are you all right, Nicky?" she demanded anxiously.

  "Hang on until you get to the top." She placed his hands on the side

  ropes of the harness. "Hold tight!'

  "Can't leave you down here," he blurted groggily.

  "I'll be fine," she assured him. "Just have Aly send the seat down again

  for me."

  When he was halfway up he looked down and saw her head bobbing in the

  dark waters. She looked very small and lonely, and her face pate and

  pathetic.

  "Guts!" His voice was so weak and hoarse that he did not recognize it.

  "You've got real guts." But already he was too high for the words to

  carry down to her.

  When they had got Royan safely up out of the ravine, Nicholas ordered

  Aly to dismantle the gantry and hide the sections in the thorn scrub.

  From the helicopter it would be highly visible and he did not wish to

  stir Jake Helm's curiosity.

  He was in no shape to give the men a hand, but lay in the shade of one

  of the Thorn trees with Royan tending to him. He was dismayed to find

  how much his near-drowning had taken out of him. He had a blinding

  headache, caused by oxygen starvation. His chest was very painful and

  stabbed him every time he breathed: in his struggles he must have torn