by Paul Capon
“You still have three quarters of an hour to go,” said Jane, glancing at the watch. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
“No, I feel quite rested,” said Charles, scrambling out of the sleeping bag. “Where are the boys?”
“They’re doing a little exploring.”
“I see. Well, give them a shout, Ruth, and we’ll be on our way.”
In a little pile of supplies he found an alpenstock and a coil of cord, which he slung over his shoulder. Tom and Boyd came running in answer to Ruth’s call, and the news they brought was encouraging.
“It’s a piece of cake,” said Tom. “This sandy stuff doesn’t go very far, and beyond it we have solid rock to walk on, as smooth as pavement.”
“That’s right,” agreed Boyd. “Why, I wouldn’t mind running all the way!”
A few minutes later the expedition set out with Charles in the lead carrying one lantern and Tom bringing up the rear with the other. The sacks of provisions were light enough to be tied to their belts, leaving their hands free.
For a little way the going was heavy. At each step they sank up to their ankles in the silt, but, as Tom and Boyd had promised, this soon came to an end, and they were walking up a broad and seemingly endless stretch of rock worn to the smoothness of glass by thousands of years of periodic flooding. Through the center ran the little stream, and on both sides towered walls of basalt that sloped inward and eventually met overhead.
The journey was uneventful, but it was long and arduous. Even so, the little party halted only three times for rest and refreshment. When they had been climbing steadily for what seemed like nine hours, the surrounding rock began to change. In the matter of a few feet the hard, black basalt gave way to sandstone, orange in color and comparatively soft; Charles observed that this was a sure sign they were near the surface.
“Good!” muttered Ruth. “I’m certainly tired of walking uphill. I’ve forgot what it’s like to walk on level ground.”
“The slope isn’t quite so steep as it was,” observed Boyd. “What’s more, the stream’s wider and doesn’t run so fast.”
They followed the watercourse around a shallow bend, then quite suddenly they were at the place described by Dirk Witte — the place where the stream disappeared under a rock.
Jane gasped. “Do we have to crawl under there?”
Her dismay was understandable. The space under the rock was thirty or forty feet wide. The stream occupied less than five feet, but at the highest point there was hardly a foot of clearance. There was no way of telling how great a distance they would have to crawl. Charles and Tom lay flat and shone the flashlights into the space, but all they could say was that it seemed to go on forever.
“Still, if a wine cask could get through, we can,” said Charles. “We’ll have to leave our food sacks behind, so I think it would be a good idea if we all ate some chocolate and crackers first.”
No one mentioned the thought that was uppermost in their minds — that the space might prove impossible to negotiate. It was unlikely that its roof would get lower, since there were times when the space had to accommodate an entire river, but they might be beaten solely by distance. What if it was ten miles long? Or even five? Could anyone crawl like a snake for five miles while not even knowing that it would be five miles? Yet, what was the alternative? It would be suicide to struggle back to Sutterranea. But what future could there be in drifting down the lower river in the other direction?
No, the space under the rock was their only chance, and they knew they had to crawl through or die in the attempt.
“Ready?” asked Charles, eating the last of his crackers.
“I guess so,” said Boyd. “You going first?”
“Yes.”
Charles chose a place and lay down. He pushed the lantern ahead of him, then wriggled after it, using elbows, knees and toes. The others followed, and in this manner they crawled slowly forward for what seemed an eternity. The floor was hard sand and at one point Charles had to scoop it away before he could squeeze under a ridge of rock jutting down from the roof.
For nearly half an hour they wriggled forward, then Charles announced some good news. “The roof’s getting higher,” he said, the beam of his flashlight sweeping through the darkness ahead. “Another few yards and we can go on our hands and knees.”
“No sign of daylight?” asked Ruth.
“None, but I think we’re past the worst. Yes, from here on the roof slopes up quite rapidly.”
He was right. About fifty yards farther they were able to get to their feet. They had to bend almost double but at least they could walk, and that made a wonderful change from crawling.
Suddenly Charles stopped. “What have we here?” he exclaimed. The quartet crowded around him and saw their way blocked by a metal filter that extended across the watercourse.
“Anyway, it’s man-made!” cried Ruth excitedly. “Probably people live near here. Shall we try shouting?”
The purpose of the filter was plain. It was to prevent debris from jamming under the rock and causing a flood. On the other side there must be a way leading to it for the men who cleaned it and kept it in repair.
Charles shone the lantern through the filter.
“Steps!” he cried. “A flight of steps in the sandstone, leading up to a sort of ledge! Kids, we’re practically home!”
Boyd was shaking the filter. “Know what?” he said. “I think we can knock this thing out of the way. It’s built to withstand pressure from the other side.”
“Let’s try,” said Charles.
The filter was built in narrow sections wired together, and with concerted efforts they threw their weight against each section in turn. They couldn’t make any impression on the first two, but the third was less stable and, as they hurled themselves against it for perhaps the twentieth time, the wire suddenly snapped, and they forced it out of the way.
“Made it!” yelled Ruth. She was the first to squeeze through the gap.
All of them were nearly delirious with relief, and for the time being their weariness left them. They scrambled up the short flight of steps to the ledge and found that it led into a narrow passage, clearly man-made.
“I know it’s absurd,” Charles said, “but I keep thinking I’ve been here before.”
“I often have that feeling,” Ruth told him, “but it never means anything. Have you ever explored any French caves?”
“Never. In fact, I’ve been to France only once in my life, and then only for five days.”
The passage turned and twisted, then brought them to another obstacle — an iron gate opening into another passage. However, at its top there was a space just wide enough to climb through.
Charles helped the girls over first, then handed his lantern through the bars.
Ruth flashed it around while Boyd was clambering over and announced that on her side of the gate there was a notice in French. “What does défense mean?” she asked.
“ ‘Forbidden,’ probably,” Tom told her.
“Well, then, the notice says, ‘Forbidden to the public. Danger.’ ”
“And it can say that again,” muttered Boyd as he jumped down. “In fact, danger’s too mild a word.”
Charles and Tom climbed over the gate, and the five were faced with the question of whether to go to the left or right. This passage was exactly like the one they had just left, except that its floor was more trampled.
Jane said, “Here’s an arrow marked Sortie. Does that mean anything?”
“Only ‘way out,’ ” said Charles, laughing. “Come on!”
They had not gone far before they came to another notice, painted in huge letters just above their heads, which Tom translated as saying, “You are now entering the Citadel of the Dead!”
“What the heck?” exclaimed Boyd, mystified.
Then Charles understood. “Why, we’re in the Paris Catacombs!” he cried. “No wonder that passage seemed familiar to me. I came here with a school party on my one
and only visit to France. You know! ‘See Paris in Five Days. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Sacré Coeur and the Catacombs!’ ”
“But what are they?” asked Jane.
“You’ll soon see,” said Charles. “Press on.”
They passed under the notice and immediately were in a passage stacked on both sides with human bones, all neatly arranged in patterns with the skulls facing outward.
“I’m afraid there’s miles of this,” said Charles, “so I suggest we hurry through as quickly as we can.”
At first the children were awed into silence. Skulls grinned from every wall, and in the next hour Charles and the children must have passed the skeletons of millions of people.
“Where did they all come from?” asked Boyd.
“From the cemeteries,” explained Charles. “When Paris was reconstructed about a hundred years ago, the new boulevards ran through various cemeteries, and the bones that were disinterred were put down here.”
“This on top of everything else!” grumbled Ruth.
They were all relieved when at last the grim vistas tailed off and they were confronted by a spiral staircase cut from the sandstone.
“The last lap,” Charles said encouragingly, but more than five minutes passed before they came to the top of the stairs and a flimsy wooden door. Charles, Tom and Boyd hurled themselves against it, breaking the lock, and at last they were in the open air.
It was night; they were in a little yard with double doors standing open to a quiet street. For some seconds they simply stood there, breathing the fresh air and feeling overwhelmed by thankfulness.
As usual, Ruth was the first to turn her mind to practical considerations. “The money!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me we left it with the dinghies!”
Charles laughed. “No,” he said, patting his tunic. “I have it. Well, let’s go.”
They followed him into the Rue Hallé, and somewhere a clock struck the hour. It was three o’clock in the morning.
They found a taxi, and Charles told the driver to take them to the Hotel Edouard Sept. The driver was an old man, and he gave no sign that he was the least bit curious about his fares’ appearance or attire. He had had a lifetime’s experience of driving mad Englishmen and crazy Americans, and if they chose to go about in funny clothes and looking as if they had just crawled out of a hole in the ground, well, it was no business of his.
Even though it was three o’clock in the morning, the lounge of the Edouard Sept was crowded, and, as Charles and the foursome came through the revolving doors, a great shout went up. Everywhere men jumped to their feet and crowded around the dazed and disheveled group. Some grabbed cameras, others tape recorders, and in the next moment the blinding glare of flash bulbs was added to the confusion of noise and jostling.
Everyone was shouting at once. “Mr. Owen, would you please make a statement for . . .” “I represent the London Messenger . . .” “You Boyd Wheatley? Swell. I’m from the Los Angeles . . .” “Just a moment, please . . .” “International Press Agency. My name’s . . .” “Please, a few words for the Independent . . .” “Could you look this . . .”
Cameras clicked, flash bulbs flashed, press cards were waved in their faces, microphones thrust under their noses, and then at last the quartet caught sight of Mrs. Risdon and Mr. Wheatley forcing their way through the scrimmage.
“Mummy!” shouted Ruth and rushed toward her, whizzing through the crowd of pressmen and photographers like a torpedo. She threw her arms round her mother, and both were grabbed by Tom. The next moment Jane and Boyd managed to get to Mr. Wheatley.
“Hi, Pop,” said Boyd. “Sorry we got lost.”
“Oh, Pop, it’s so good to see you!” Jane exclaimed, blinking her eyes furiously to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks.
Mr. Wheatley, an arm across the shoulders of each of his children, could manage only, “Hello, twins . . .”
Dr. Risdon, summoned from the room where he had been trying to induce the Lady Marcia to get some sleep, arrived in the hotel lobby and pushed his way through the throng to his family. “Well, children. Well . . . it’s good to have you with us!” he said. After a minute or two of greeting and rather incoherent explanation from the group, he asked, “Where is Mr. Owen? I rather think he will want to go to the Lady Marcia.”
Charles had already found Marcia, however, and, when the Risdons and the Wheatleys joined them, an air of contentment and happiness surrounded the young couple.
Stowbridge station was crowded with the friends of the Wheatleys, who were leaving for Southampton to board a ship for their return to America. Dr. and Mrs. Risdon, Charles and Marcia, Mrs. Wheatley — the twins’ grandmother — and Mr. Wheatley were standing to one side talking quietly to the well-wishers who had come to say good-by to the Americans.
The four young people had slipped away from the crowd so they could talk to one another for a while without interruption.
“I’m glad so many people have offered to give help to the freed slaves,” Jane remarked. “I wondered how they would take care of themselves in a world they know nothing about.”
“Yes, Janie, that bothered me too,” Ruth said. “But what I’m wondering about now is, what will become of the Cornelians? They will have to stand trial, of course.”
“I just guess we’ll have to be patient and wait for the courts to decide,” said Boyd. “Tom, do you suppose the investigators will find our watches?”
“They may,” Tom replied. “I’m hoping that, when the official investigation is finished and the geologists and archaeologists go in, my school’s archaeology society will be allowed to help. I know Charles wants to help with the scientific investigation, and I imagine he’ll be asked.”
“I should think so!” exclaimed the fiery Ruth. “By then he and the Lady Marcia will most likely be married, but I don’t suppose they will want to spend their honeymoon in Sutterranea!”
“No, I guess not,” Boyd agreed, shaking his head at the idea of a honeymoon in such a gloomy place. “But I know I want to come back next vacation and go underground again. Maybe, if your school society does help the scientists, I can go with you, Tom.”
“That’s a good idea. We’ll see if it will work.”
The Wheatleys, American branch, calling their good-bys to their friends and, shouting promises to write, boarded the train.
On the train, the twins and their father already were planning to return the next summer, and Mr. Wheatley said, “Well, you’ve really had a busy vacation, haven’t you?”
The twins, grinning, nodded.
On the Risdons’ veranda, Dr. Risdon said to his children, “Well, you’ve really had a well-filled holiday, haven’t you?”
And Ruth and Tom, nodding, grinned.
THE END
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