The entire world was shaking around him, worse than any earthquake he’d ever been in, worse than any earthquake on any movie he’d ever seen. His teeth were chattering and his fingers wouldn’t take hold of the bindings, and he jammed his back harder against the cliff wall. Suddenly two enormous boulders of snow exploded over the cliff edge and came rocketing toward the earth below.
The earth behind him moved and Tor moved with it, shoving himself backward as though he was trying to dig into the cliff. Then, just as he realized what he was feeling wasn’t rock but wood, the wood gave a cracking sound and fell away. Tor fell backward into blackness, his snowboard following him, and landed hard on his back inside an opening in the cliff.
Stars and sparks shot across his vision again and this time he heaved for breath, without doing much good. The breath had been completely knocked out of him, and for a moment or two all he could do was try to get his lungs to work again. He was still trying to get some air when the rest of the avalanche came roaring over the cliff. Avalanche snow wasn’t powdery and smooth. It was hard and full of trees and rocks. The remnant of a pine tree smashed down right in front of Tor. It was destroyed, split into shredded bark and broken branches. Abruptly it was swept away by more snow.
Tor scrambled backward, digging his board into the floor, as more and more snow shook the earth and thundered down, right where Tor had been standing before he fell. Another pine tree fell into the opening in front of him. Suddenly a massive downpour of snow crushed it. Tor could hear the cracking of the trunk and the splintering of the branches, as though the snow was eating the pine tree alive. It would have been him, if he’d still been standing against the cliff. A juicy smell burst from the tree as it gave up all its sap, and Tor threw his arms over his face as splinters shot into the cave entrance and pelted him. His helmeted head hit the floor with a smack and everything went away for a while.
A long time later Tor sat up. The tree was gone and there was nothing in the entrance but white that was rapidly turning to a dark gray. He felt a stinging on his forehead and reached up. A splinter was stuck straight into his head and Tor thought crazily for a second that he’d been impaled. The splinter fell out of his forehead as he touched it and he realized it had just scratched him. There was a sticky wetness on his face but there wasn’t much of it. He gave a shaky laugh and then stopped, because he didn’t like the sound.
His fingers finally stopped trembling, and he managed to unclip his snowboard. He stood up carefully and stepped toward the gray oval that was the cave entrance. He touched the snow with his gloved fingers. It felt as hard as iron. It was more ice than snow. Tor remembered the enormous pine tree that had been crushed into pine-tree jelly right in front of him, and felt a shiver that he stopped at once. If he was going to get out of here, he couldn’t start panicking now.
He leaned his board against the cave wall and realized he was terribly thirsty. Scooping snow from his board, he held it in his mouth until it melted. There were granola bars in his pockets, he remembered.
And also Raine’s flashlight. With a burst of relief he slapped his pockets and felt the reassuring roundness of her light. In a moment he had it out of his pocket and turned it on.
The darkness lit up around him, and Tor stood staring in wonder. He wasn’t standing in a cave. He was standing in a tunnel, with sturdy timbers bracing the walls and a hard-packed floor underneath him.
“This is a mine,” Tor said to himself, and heard his voice echo behind him. He turned and looked down the tunnel. The light disappeared into inky blackness. This could only be one thing. This was the Borsh mine. Raine’s great-great-great-grandfather’s mine. Tor remembered how no one went on Borsh land, because there were too many dangerous mine shafts. Mr. Ewald had fallen into one, and a hiker had lost his life. The flashlight trembled in Tor’s hands as he looked down the blackness of the mine tunnel.
He turned back to the oval entrance and wondered if anyone knew he was there. Had Jeff and Max told anyone? Would they call rescuers and try to dig him out? Or were they high-fiving each other right now, knowing their problem was solved?
Tor felt his jaw muscles clench. He touched his jacket and felt the outline of the blood bag receipt, safe in its latex glove. There was no way he was going to let them win. He picked up his snowboard and turned his flashlight so that it shone deeper into the tunnel. The floor looked level and clean, almost as though it had been swept, and the timbers that supported the walls seemed thick and well braced.
“Okay, Mr. Borsh, I’m counting on you,” Tor said, and heard his voice go ahead of him into the darkness. He followed.
He found the first intersection a long time later. He had no idea how deep into Borsh Mountain he’d gone, or even if he was going straight into it. The air was as still as a held breath. He contemplated the inky blackness that waited in four directions. He sat down for a bit and ate a granola bar and scooped some more snow from his snowboard. He’d started forward again when he remembered that he had to mark his trail. He tore the empty granola bar wrapper in half and set it in the middle of the tunnel that led back. He found a small rock to hold it down. The tunnel was so clean and neat he had trouble finding even a small rock, and the thought of round Mr. Borsh sweeping his tunnel with a broom was so funny Tor laughed again. This laugh sounded stronger, more sure.
He decided to take the right turn, just because it sounded good. He walked down the tunnel and noticed his flashlight beam was getting a bit yellow. He tried to keep the panic down, but it nibbled at him like rats with sharp teeth. He could die in here, he knew that. There was no point in dwelling on it. After the third intersection of passageways, he started tearing his granola bar wrapper into small shreds so he’d have enough pieces of paper.
There was nothing in the mine but clean-swept floors, timbers, and dirt. Tor was running out of granola bar wrapper when he realized there was something ahead of him. The yellowing beam of the flashlight didn’t quite reach whatever it was, and Tor stopped, uneasy. There was something on the floor of the mine ahead of him and it felt familiar. Strangely familiar.
He stepped closer, gripping his snowboard hard in one mitten and holding the flashlight hard in the other. The thing on the floor of the mine didn’t move as he approached it.
Then he was in front of it, and his flashlight fell out of his suddenly boneless fingers and thumped dully on the thick softness of a woven blanket. Tor crouched down on one knee, and then he was sitting on the floor, his snowboard on his lap.
After a long time, he found his voice.
“Hello, Grandma,” he whispered.
Leaping Water was perfectly preserved in the dry tunnel. She sat cross-legged, her beautiful deerskin dress faded to a vanilla yellow in the fading glow of the flashlight, her head bent down as though in thought. Tor couldn’t see her face. Her white hair was braided the same way Raine liked to do, lying long and thick down her shoulders. She was seated on a soft woven blanket, and she had on deerskin moccasins that were covered with beads that glinted deep red, purple, and green in the glimmering light.
Tor didn’t feel frightened at all. This was no corpse from a zombie movie. Leaping Water looked as peaceful and serene as though she’d just gone to sleep a little while ago. Next to her was a small scrap of paper that held within it the remains of what looked like bread and perhaps some kind of fruit. All that was left were dry withered twists. On the other side was a lantern.
Tor stared at this for several minutes before his brain figured out what he was looking at. He leaned forward. Could it still have fuel in it? After all these years?
“Grandma, can I use this?” he asked politely. She didn’t object, so Tor reached forward and picked up the lantern. It sloshed, sounding full, and Tor sighed happily as he saw a package of matches tucked in the wire that held the lantern glass. He took it out and read out loud: “Borsh’s General Store.”
The matchbook held one match. Tor was careful with the lantern, taking the globe off and removing the small
brass cap that covered the wick. The sharp smell of kerosene filled the tunnel. Tor struck the match and when the wick caught fire, he felt a burst of happiness. He sat back and turned off the flashlight and then adjusted the wick so the lantern gave off a steady light.
Then he took out a granola bar. It didn’t seem odd to offer Grandma a bar, though she had no interest in it.
“We found the otters,” Tor told her. He took a bite of his granola bar. “Your people. I’m so glad you didn’t sell the land. That you kept it for the river people. We watched them. Did you know they like to play in the snow?”
Of course, Grandma replied in amusement. I watched them for years.
“Yeah, I know. I bet they’re even better in the summertime, to watch I mean. I bet they play all day.”
All day, Grandma said. They love to play.
“So I’m the doctor’s son,” Tor said finally, scooping a last bit of snow from his snowboard and putting it in his mouth. “I guess you knew that. Is that why I’m here?”
That is why you’re here, Grandson, Grandma said. Yes. That is why you’re here.
“Well, okay,” Tor said. “What do you want me to do?”
But Grandma was silent on this. She looked down in her lap, as she had done for the past fifty years or so, and finally Tor realized she was trying to tell him something.
Her hands rested on something in her lap.
The something was an envelope, and Tor knew what it was.
“That’s the deed, isn’t it?” he asked.
Yes, it is, Grandma said. You may take it.
“Okay,” Tor said. He felt nervous about touching Leaping Water, but only because he didn’t want to disturb her. The envelope was thick and yellow, and as Tor pulled gently at the corner he touched her and she jingled musically. There were bells sewn into her hair braids and her deerskin dress.
“I bet you were great to know,” Tor said. He tasted salt and realized his cheeks were wet. “Your great-granddaughter is terrific, too. Your whole family, actually.”
You missed a few greats in there, I think, Grandma said. But yes, I know.
Tor looked inside the envelope and saw the thick parchment. Mining Deed of Trust, he read, and felt a light bloom inside him that was stronger than the kerosene lamp.
“Thanks,” he said. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
The envelope went into his jacket pocket, where it rested next to the blood bag receipt. Tor remembered a high-wire act he’d once seen, where the artist carried a long pole. On one side was a tea tray complete with a steaming teapot and on the other was a small poodle dog dressed like a clown. The burden was just too ridiculous to be believed. Tor touched his jacket and remembered how the artist crossed the wire with small, careful steps.
“One step at a time,” Tor muttered to himself, and he set off down the passageway in the direction he’d been going when he’d met Grandma. This had to be the way out. The envelope crackled in his pocket, and the lantern was warm and lit up the whole passageway.
But the tunnel ended in a blank wall.
Tor stood for a long time, wondering what was going on. He had the deed, Grandma Leaping Water had shown him where to go—where was the door?
He put down his snowboard and pushed and prodded at the wall. Maybe there was a secret door there? A secret exit? The wall was rough and seemed to be made up of hardened dirt, not stone. Tor pushed harder at the dirt, but it acted just like dirt and nothing happened.
Tor finally turned around and sat down, thumping his back against the wall. He’d been so sure! Exhaustion suddenly rose up in him. His eyes were sore, his head hurt, his throat was raw, and he was thirsty again. He’d ridden the White Gates, he’d fallen off a cliff, he’d escaped an avalanche and found Leaping Water and her deed, and after all of that he was going to die here. For nothing. He put his head down on his knees and clutched his helmeted head with both hands, and he put every ounce of will into not crying.
Eventually Tor got up and walked back down the passageway. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. After a few minutes Grandma appeared in the lantern light, waiting, eternally serene. Tor sat down next to her and leaned against the wall. He set his board down and turned his head to look at her.
“Well, unless you have any other ideas,” he said, “I’m fresh out.”
Grandma remained silent.
Tor let his head rest against the wall. It was cold in there, but not freezing. His snowboarding gear kept him comfortable. He let his eyes close, just for a moment, to try to collect his thoughts.
When he opened them, he couldn’t figure out where he was. His head ached, his body hurt everywhere, and his mouth was dry and sticky. Everything was blurry. He moved, groaned, and finally sat up.
He’d been resting on the edge of Grandma Leaping Water’s blanket. For a moment Tor remembered with perfect clarity that he’d been dreaming of the otters. Grandma had been an otter, so full of life and fun that she splashed like liquid sunlight as she romped in and out of the river, and he’d been running after her on his four clever feet, his tail bumping and his whiskers twitching, making a yipping sound of happiness before he plunged into the cool stream water….
Then the dream was gone like smoke because the lantern was guttering. He’d been asleep and he’d left the lantern on. He had no more matches and the flashlight was just about dead. The lantern, his only light, was about to go out and leave him forever in the dark.
TOR LEAPED TO his feet, his heart kicking in his chest like an animal trying to tear its way out of a cage. He snatched up the lamp and it was so hot he nearly lost his grip and dropped it. He clutched the handle in his hands and bit back a whimper. How long had he been asleep?
Grandma Leaping Water still sat, as she always would, peaceful and quiet in her nest of blankets. Just looking at her steadied Tor. There had to be more than one entrance and exit to the mine tunnels. He’d just have to find another way.
The flame guttered in the lamp as if it was mocking him, and he willed it to keep burning. It guttered again, the flame almost torn from the wick in the breeze coming down the passageway.
Tor blinked, and realized what he was seeing. The wick was streaming back because there was a breeze. Somewhere there was fresh air blowing into the mine. He turned without taking his eyes from the wick and tried to see where the breeze was coming from.
It was coming down the same tunnel he’d gone down hours before, the one that ended in a blank wall. He must have missed something, some side tunnel perhaps. He set the lamp down and picked up his snowboard, and then he turned to Leaping Water.
“Is this the right way?”
The amused, young-sounding voice that he’d heard in his head hours ago didn’t come back. Maybe he’d imagined the whole conversation. Tor tapped his finger at his chest and felt the crackle of parchment. He hadn’t imagined the envelope. He picked up the lantern by the wire handle and walked down the tunnel, lamp held high, snowboard gripped in his other hand.
There were no side tunnels. The lamp took him to the same dirt wall. The lamplight glowed across it and showed Tor nothing but brown stuff that smelled bitter and dank. He stared at the lamp, willing it to show him where the breeze was coming from, but it guttered a final time, the flame was torn from the wick, and the light was drowned by darkness.
Tor stood for what seemed like a long time, stupidly willing the lamp to relight, but it hung from his hand silently. It was now nothing but a cooling lump of metal. He shook it and heard no sloshing sound. He set the lamp carefully on the ground. He put down his snowboard, resting it against one wall, and it was only then as he made sure it wasn’t going to fall over that he realized that he could see his snowboard. And he had seen the lamp when he put it down.
Tor looked around wildly. There was light coming from somewhere. It was coming from the dirt wall in front of him. There was a crack, thin as a silver wire. Tor got to his hands and knees, and a cold breeze blew on his face as he tried to see what
was beyond the crack. He couldn’t see anything, but he could tell the crack led to something and there was light in there. It had to be a way out.
He sat down on the tunnel floor and kicked at the crack with all his might. The impact jarred him to the top of his aching head and he groaned. He kicked again, this time lying on his back and scooting close to the wall so he could kick with all his strength. After the third kick, when he knew he couldn’t do it anymore, he felt something give way.
There was a sound like a branch snapping, and his boot was suddenly calf-deep in the wall. Tor pulled his foot away carefully and got up to look through the hole he’d made. There was nothing but dazzling whiteness. Tor couldn’t see trees or snow, and somehow it didn’t look like open air. Whatever it was, there was light in there. He sat down again and kicked at the edge of the hole. This time an entire section broke free and Tor scrambled backward as dirt and white rock came thudding down. Choking gray dust filled the air, and Tor coughed and moved backward down the tunnel, waiting for the air to clear.
When it did, Tor nearly whooped out loud with joy. There was a boy-sized opening in the wall. Light and fresh cold air poured through the hole. Tor carefully scrambled through and pulled his snowboard after him. He stood up and looked around. He had no idea where he was.
He was standing in a small room. There was a wall in front of him, a wall that looked like it was made of grayish-white clouds. There was a silver ladder bolted to the wall.
Tor contemplated this for a while. Finally he stepped forward carefully and looked to make sure the ladder didn’t lead downward, too. Then he looked up. He didn’t know what he was going to see, and he was more than a little afraid.
The White Gates Page 14