A River Runs Through It

by Lydia M Sheridan

  Kate leaned against the wall, weak with relief. Then she realized she’d missed what might have been her best chance at catching a counterfeiter. She shook her head in disgust at her own fear. Was she, or was she not an extraordinarily successful highwayman, respected and, yes, feared throughout the parish? For pity’s sake, she was a disgrace to the name Thoreau.

  Plastering herself against flat against the damp stone wall, she edged a few steps forward. Her hand reached out, touching cold stone, then nothing. Pulling her cloak close, she bent low and slipped around the left corner. The hard-packed earth floor gave way to loose gravel which crunched and gave under every step.

  Never had black been murkier than in the thick heaviness of the cavern. It was a risk, but she opened the lantern door the merest sliver and found herself standing on a natural balcony formed of rock, which loomed over a gaping black emptiness. Far below, the underground river which fed into the River Inswith gurgled musically. The sounds echoed over and over in the enormous, though unseen, chamber, building to a rushing roar which hurt her ears.

  Kate held the lantern high as she cautiously edged farther out along the balcony. The light didn’t even begin to make a dent in the inky gloom, but she was positive down below was the spit of land jutting into the river. After pausing to listen for footsteps, she eased the lantern completely open. Light spilled out across the huge nothingness. Sure enough, far below and across the river was the peninsula.

  Fiddle. She was precisely across the river from where she meant to go.

  Kate considered her options. At one time there had been a rope ladder which some of the boys had used to cross the lake. If she could only find it now, she could swing over to the other side, catch the counterfeiters, and claim that reward by tomorrow.

  Kate normally considered herself most fortunate that she was, in fact, a Thoreau, and therefore had great courage and fortitude, but even so a little voice of reason kept screaming "No!” in the back of her mind. But she found, rather to her dismay, that her fear of heights was not quite as great as her fear of the counterfeiter prowling the tunnels, probably very willing to kill her to protect himself..

  Five thousand pounds, she reminded herself. The fate of England, she reiterated.

  Slowly, so slowly, Kate crept farther out along the balcony, keeping her hand against the damp stone wall. As she gazed into the rushing waters below, tiny ripples on the surface barely shimmered in the light of her lantern.

  Carefully, she swung the lantern from side to side in search of the old rope. It then occurred to her that she made an excellent target, flinging the lantern about, to any who might be watching her from down below. But the idea of retracing her steps, possibly getting lost, was more frightening than getting shot. The very idea of what she was about to do made her shake. Over and over again her eyes drew again to the rushing waters of death below. Unaccustomed tears sprang into her eyes. Her throat went dry and her head spun. Finally, on the far side of the balcony, Kate spotted a length of rope tied round a rock. She edged back the way she came for several feet, still keeping her hand to the wall.

  One step, then another. One more and she’d be there. She took a gingerly step, but a loose bit of gravel rolled under her boot and she fell. Swallowing a shriek, she twisted, clutching desperately for the rope as she skidded toward the precipice. Her fingers caught hold of the rough hemp. For a moment it held, but before she could brace herself, the rotted fibers gave way and the momentum of her fall propelled her forward. With a suppressed scream, she fell hard on a small boulder and grabbed for it. Helplessly, she watched as the lantern, its flame flickering wildly over the rock walls, rolled to the balcony’s edge and plunged over. There was a pause, then a splash, as an thick, utter blackness descended upon the Great Cavern.

  Paralyzed with fear, Kate lay where she’d fallen, arms wrapped about the boulder. Mindlessly, she whispered a curse, then every other curse she’d ever heard her father, grandfather, and stable hands use. Some she didn’t even understand, but the full-bodied flavor of the consonants rolled off her tongue in a satisfying way which gave her courage.

  Then she realized she’d have to get up and walk from the balcony, out the small entry hole, down the path to the grotto door--or was it up the path? Right or left? Which was which? I write with my left hand, she analyzed. I turned right to get in here, so turn left. Right. No, left then right at the path fork. Her barely-banked fear came back full bore. Kate tried cursing again, but the magic had worn off, no match against the blackness and sheer drop into a black river of certain death.

  Deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, Kate stayed on all fours, unwilling to take the chance to stand, only to lose her bearings in the darkness and plunge headlong over the cliff. Such was not the way she’d planned to meet her maker.

  On hands and knees, her skirts and cloak tangling in her legs, Kate inched her way backward till she touched the wall with her shoe tips. With great care, she sat up, then stood, pressing her back against the wall. Some of her blind fear drained away now she had her back to the wall--no one could come up behind and push her over the edge.

  Now safe, her common sense, flimsy though it was, told her that to confront desperate criminals with no light was a trifle foolhardy, even for her. With no thought in her mind save that of getting safely out of the underground maze of tunnels, she felt along the wall until her fingers found the opening to the tunnel. Anxious to get out of there, she turned to flee, only to bang smack into clammy stone.

  Kate pressed her hand to her cheek. “Bloody hell!”

  Her heart almost leaped out of her chest when a disembodied voice whispered in her ear.

  “'Tis better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.’”

  The words bounced off the stone, echoing eerily in the immense chamber. Kate’s skin crawled, the hackles rising on her neck like a dog’s. She wondered who was screaming and realized it was herself. Blending with the noise from the river, a cacophony of sound echoed wildly, until it seemed as though all the devils of hell were in the cavern with her, in front, behind, to the side. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide. Hot tears of fright stung her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she braced herself to die.

  Footsteps came faster, nearer, louder. In the pitch blackness, she felt rather than saw a shape whip around the corner. Without hesitation, she stuck her foot out and the figure fell sprawling to the ground. Automatically, she reached for the pistol in her waistband, forgetting she wasn’t wearing her Cavalier ensemble. She fumbled in the pocket of her cloak, but lost precious seconds and never saw the vicious punch which sent her crashing backwards into the stone wall.

  Her head cracked against solid rock. For a split second, she was conscious, willing herself the strength to fight, but the pain crashed over her in waves. The pistol rolled uselessly from her grasp and she slid down the wall into a heap on the balcony floor.

  ***

  By the time Edmund fought his way through the underbrush to a clearing just below the castle’s massive keep, he was battered, bruised, scratched, torn, and covered with what he strongly suspected was poison oak.

  Thankfully, the information he’d entranced out of the local misses at the assembly that evening proved extraordinarily precise, even in the black autumn night. What these young girls were doing with that sort of information would curl his liver if he was their brother or father. He made a mental note to keep any future daughter of his own locked up and burdened with an omnipresent duenna, those proper ladies so dreaded by randy soldiers in Spain.

  Treading carefully, he eased down the overgrown path, rounded the corner by the disused fountain and nearly shouted. Right in his path stood a glowing ghost of a woman with leaves growing out of her hair and hands. Behind her was a man, also white, reaching toward the maiden with both arms outstretched. Whew. Edmund mopped his brow. Daphne and Apollo. He’d found the grotto.

  His instructions had been less clear on whether it was the second o
r third bunch of grapes--or was it the fourth apple? But in any case, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive that the door was standing open.

  Edmund pulled his pistol out of his pocket and held it down at his side. War was a terrible business. Blood, fear, the stench of death, but it was something he understood and was experienced in, fighting alongside soldiers trained as he was. With Lady Katherine, he pretty much believed she’d get overly dramatic and shoot on sight. And he’d be damned if he’d allow her to get the better of him this time.

  He listened at the door, then stepped inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He walked slowly, hand to the wall, no idea where he was going. Unwilling to tip his hand, he’d not allowed himself to question too specifically about the underground passages themselves, lest it raise undue suspicion.

  So he continued. At the fork he hesitated. He turned left, but the path stopped no more than a few yards ahead. Huge stones and rubble filled the tunnel with an impassable cave-in. Edmund turned and took the right fork. Each step was small and slow as he felt his way, his eyes no more accustomed to the dark than before. Several times he stumbled on the uneven path. He paused, and when he heard no sound, felt in his pocket for his phosphorous box. It was either risk the small light being seen or breaking his neck. Dipping a match into the phosphorous, he flicked it against the cork. With a hiss and sputter, the match flamed into life. Edmund lit a candle and followed the path, shielding the small flame from unexpected drafts. Finally, he heard the sound of water where the pathway ended in a T. As he debated turning left or right, he smelled the coppery stench of blood.

  Carefully, he dripped wax onto the floor and stood the candle in it. He pulled the pistol out of his waistband and inched forward, bent nearly double in the short passage. Again he paused. Barely, below the sound of rushing water, he could make out the faint sound of breathing. He paused again to listen. His soldier’s instinct, honed sharp in the terrible war, told him no assailant waited. Still he paused. The sound of the water was louder now. Whoever breathed did so without the tense gasps from the fear of assault. With a yell, he charged into the chamber, wisely keeping his back to the stone wall.

  No enemy answered his call to battle. Edmund paused, barely daring to breathe. He forced himself to wait, ears on the stretch; his knees bent slightly to run or absorb a blow. When none came, he took the chance to reach around the corner and grab the candle. Though no one surged forward to strike, it was clear someone already had, for in the corner near a huge rock was the sickening outline of two bodies, one on top of the other.

  A man on top lay face up, eyes open sightlessly. Edmund bent closer, but he was beyond help. There was a gaping wound in his chest, wet with blood. Edmund touched the corpse’ face lightly. Still warm. He had probably died only within the last hour or thereabouts.

  Swallowing his bile, Edmund focused on the sound of breathing coming from underneath the body.

  Devil a bit! Edmund grabbed the corpse under the arms and dragged him away. Returning to help the man underneath, his jaw dropped as he realized it was Kate. She was coughing, her eyes unfocused in the candlelight. Then she saw the body. Her eyes widened in panicked revulsion. Before he could stop her she screamed.

  Even as the sound bounced and echoed the rushing water below, she came to her senses, clapping a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Whoever had killed had heard, and was running down the tunnel in their direction.

  Edmund stood, holding up a hand up as he strained to hear. Footsteps, ever closer, but only one set. Not a woman’s stride, definitely a man. Quickly he handed Kate the candle. With a grim set to his jaw, he positioned himself fully in the center of the balcony, right at the entrance to tunnel and braced himself.

  The footsteps grew louder as the murderer rounded the corner. His either saw or sensed Edmund and tried to stop, but his momentum carried him forward and the two men went down with a whacking great thud.

  Edmund damned his skin-tight jacket even as he struggled with his captive. Wildly, each man grappled to get a punch at the other. They rolled from side to side, bumping off the walls of the tunnel. Edmund heard Kate gasp. He reached out with his hand and felt nothing but air. With every ounce of strength he had, Edmund heaved himself away from the cliff edge. The faint, flickering light of the candle was little help, but finally, Edmund jabbed his knee into the man’s stomach. His assailant gagged for breath. Drawing back his fist, Edmund reached for the man’s collar, but with a desperate burst of strength, the man bashed his head into Edmund’s neck. Staggering, choking, Edmund fell sprawling to the stone floor. As he fought to his feet, he heard the man’s heavy breathing recede and footsteps echoing down the passageway. Edmund raced after him. In the dark, he stretched out his arm, put on a burst of speed. With a grunt, he grabbed the man’s jacket, jerked him back, and landed a wicked punch to the kidneys. The man howled and fell to his knees. Edmund braced himself against the damp stone wall and wrenched off his cravat. Panting, he turned back to tie the man up, only to feel the felt the cold barrel of a pistol at his neck.

  Instinctively, he grabbed the man’s arm and brought it down hard over his knee. Bones cracked sickeningly. The man screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Edmund scrabbled for the gun. Whimpering, the man hauled himself to his knees. A sudden glow of light illuminated the passage.

  “Kate, get away,” Edmund yelled.

  “By your foot,” she screamed back

  There was a pause, then both men spotted the gun. As if one, they lunged for it. Edmund’s hand stretched for it, but his assailant jerked it away. Sweat dripping down his face, Edmund kicked out, the blow hitting his attacker in the shin. The man grunted in pain and fell to his knees, and pointed the gun at Edmund’s chest.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Edmund turned and raced back toward Kate. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her around the corner, back onto the balcony, stumbling over the corpse as they ran.

  “Is there any way out but the passage?”

  She shook her head. "No. There was rope swing, but it’s rotted away.”

  There was no time to hesitate. Even now the gun might be pointed at them. Even under the cover of darkness, a bullet might hit its mark.

  “Where does the river go?”

  “It joins the Inswith, by the village. Why?”

  “How far down?”

  She pulled away. “Are you mad?”

  “How far?” He shook her when she didn’t respond. “How far?”

  Kate struggled against his hold. “I don’t know! Twenty feet. Fifty. We’d be killed.”

  There was the sound of a trigger being cocked.

  “It’s either that or be shot.”

  "Then I’ll be shot!”

  Edmund pulled her, struggling, to the edge of the balcony. “One, two, three--jump!” Her hand held his in a grip so tight he had to pry her fingers from his. He pulled her to him to break her grip, then pushed her out and over, trying to fling her as far from the wall of the cliff as possible. Her scream echoed weirdly about the cavern. Edmund waited to hear Kate hit the water, but it was a second too long. A split-second before he jumped, there was a flare of orange flame to his left and the white hot pain of a bullet seared through his body. He jumped.

  ***

  Kate hit the water feet first, but the impact still knocked the wind out of her. Her skirts floated up over her head, wrapping about her arms as she descended to the depths of the river. She gasped and choked on the icy water, instinctively clawing upward, even as momentum continued carrying her further below the surface. Her clothing grew instantly heavy. Water filled her mouth. Her lungs hurt with lack of air. The pressure built, but she kicked and struggled, finally breaking the surface. It was so cold her lungs seemed paralyzed, but finally they worked and she took huge, gasping breaths.

  She tried to look about for Mr. Dalrymple but it was impossible to see anything. The swift current of the river carried her away from the Great Cavern. Kate didn’t know whet
her it was minutes or hours that she kicked with her arms and legs to keep afloat. Her sodden clothes and shoes were lead-heavy with water. Finally, when she thought she could struggle no more, she saw a hint of lighter black which changed to grey. Her head hit the top of the river’s tunnel. She held what breath she had and dived, staying below the water as long as she could though her lungs were bursting. Finally, she kicked to the surface, arms raised for protection. But her hands felt no rock ceiling and she lifted her head, choking for air.

  The air was fresh and cold, with no dankness of the cavern about it. With great relief, Kate looked about for shore, panting, arms ready to go limp with fatigue. In the glow of the moon she could just make out the great pile of crumbling stone which was the castle on the hill. With a sob of relief, she kicked hard for the riverbank. Finally, just when she thought her strength was spent, her flailing feet touched bottom. It took every ounce of will she possessed, but she waded to shore and collapsed on the ground.

  Her muscles trembled weakly. Her head whirled. Her stomach roiled and she retched. Wiping her mouth, she forced herself to her feet and scanned the river for Mr. Dalrymple. On the far bank, she saw a figure pull himself up. For a moment she froze, the immediate memory of her assailant in the Cavern flooding back, but she recognized the tall length of her nemesis and relaxed.

  She glanced about, but no one seemed to lurk in the shadows, so she waved to Mr. Dalrymple. He must have seen her, for he raised a hand in acknowledgment and began wading across. He pulled himself up on the bank and leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. They stood there for a moment, each savoring the joy of simply being alive. Now that she was out of the freezing water, Kate’s skin burned hot from the inside, almost as though she were on fire. In the scant inches which separated them, she could feel an answering heat from Mr. Dalrymple.