“What?” she didn’t see what was ahead.
Tamburro pointed down.
“Do…not…move,” he said. “Doc, we need more light here.”
“Coming.”
McCauley caught up. Alpert remained behind. Tamburro shined his flashlight into what appeared to be a hole large enough to fall through. “Tunnel stops and there’s this drop,” he said.
“Got it,” McCauley acknowledged. To everyone else he added, “Make sure you hold the line, guys. Looks like it’s a good fifteen feet. We’ll need a ladder and more lights.”
“I’ll get the stuff,” Trent said.
“Not alone. Wait. We’ll do this in an organized manner.”
Meanwhile, Chohany examined the tunnel walls short of the hole. Something caught her attention directly above the opening. “Hey Dr. McCauley, check out the chisel marks up there. Native Americans did this. But why?”
McCauley raised his flashlight to a petroglyph on the cave ceiling. It appeared to represent a meandering map with a figure of a tribesman against a deep dark tunnel. It was less crude, more illustrative than most ancient cave drawings, and for that reason intriguing. He took a series of photographs and cursed the fact that Pete DeMeo was away and couldn’t do some basic research back at school.
With a decision point ahead, McCauley ordered everyone out. They’d break for lunch, take stock of their supplies, then explore further if possible, switching out Trent and Jaffe for Rodriguez and Cohen.
During the hour break, Tamburro went online, researching the indigenous tribes and looking at other examples of cave art. Basic styles were similar, but the depictions were different. He couldn’t find anything like it on museum, library, or tribal websites. “Love to get more detail on the petroglyphs, doc,” he said. “It’s not our field, but someone’s going to know how to read them.”
Following lunch, it took twenty minutes for them to return to the point where they’d stopped. Tamburro lowered the ladder down the hole. Rodriguez took care securing it safely.
“Sure you want to go down?” McCauley asked. “I should go first.”
“Nah. Let me get the lay of the land. I’ll be fine.”
Suddenly insurance issues were hitting McCauley. This was beyond the normal scope of the work. He’d make some calls later.
Tamburro slowly descended.
“Clear,” he called reaching the bottom, or the newest bottom. He shined his flashlight ahead. “Looks stable. Come on.”
While the others climbed down the collapsible ladder, Tamburro continued exploring. He spotted another vivid ancient petroglyph. Chohany was standing by his side as he was taking a picture.
“Check this out.”
“Jesus. Weird.”
Now McCauley was with them. The professor took a series of pictures himself. Wide and tight.
“What do you think, doc?” Chohany asked.
“Well, conventional wisdom says these Indian drawings are depicting some legend. But I have no idea what they represent.”
He examined the petroglyph again. Holding the light and looking closer he saw more detail, vibrant colors, and…
“Look.” He adjusted the lamp and stood only inches from the drawing. “Like the others, this just seems to dead end. More of what they’ve explored here, rather than serving as a chronicle of life outside.”
Chohany and Tamburro moved closer. Alpert, Cohen and Rodriguez were also crowding around.
“Says to me they reached the end of their journey. The dark sections probably represent the awareness or presence of death,” Cohen whispered.
“I’m not so sure,” McCauley responded. “The Lakota generally believed that death was a liberating experience, with the spirit lifted to the sky. There’s nothing sky about this.”
“Then any idea what it represents?” Dr. Alpert asked.
McCauley paused as Chohany took more photographs. “It seems like they were doing what Anna is right now.”
The team looked confused.
“Creating their own kind of picture of what they saw.”
Nineteen
“I have to confess, I’m going to miss this, too.” Martin Gruber admitted as he savored a fine Jing, one of the many Brown’s served from the assortment of the world’s finest family-owned tea gardens.
Colin Kavanaugh chuckled, but quietly. Gruber had tutored him about the importance of maintaining the image of a distinguished British editor. Taking proper afternoon tea at Brown’s English Tea Room was Gruber’s favorite part of the job.
Kavanaugh had no such tradition. Perhaps, he thought, he should begin one, though he considered such habitual activities a waste of time.
Gruber sensed what his protégé was thinking. He was dressed for the part in a tailored three-piece black pin-striped suit. But he wore it like a costume.
“Not for you?”
“I don’t know,” Kavanaugh said, surprised he so easily telegraphed his reaction.
“It’s all right. It’s a bit stuffy. But this will be your table. You’ll sit here, maintain a dignified image, meet with writers and even members of Parliament. Smile and relax. You’ll never complain and you will, as a gentleman, never speak of money.”
Kavanaugh had heard it all before but he nonetheless agreed as if it were the first time.
“Fortunately, money will not be a problem for you. Our financial resources extend far beyond the print revenue or online ads. However, you are never to discuss that point with staff. Never. If there is a legal problem of any type, immediately refer it to our counselors.” He smiled an artful smile. “They have special connections.”
Gruber caught himself. “There I go again, getting off topic. I was waxing philosophical on Brown’s tea.”
“It doesn’t interfere with your day?”
“Quite the opposite. It is an essential part of my day. I get work done and often simply sit back and relax. Speaking of relaxing, you’ll have to learn how. That will not be easy for you. You’re eager to jump in and multitask. I suppose that is a quality of your generation. Certainly not mine.”
“Oh, you should see what fifteen-year-olds are doing now,” Kavanaugh told the older man. “They make my head spin with their multi-tasking and second and third screens.”
“Ah, but their attention span suffers because of it. And that is what you must work on. Focus and patience. Time to consider things that have come to pass and things to come. That’s one of the reasons I’m introducing you to tea at Brown’s. In years past there were other establishments in different countries. In each, there were corner tables like this where our predecessors would also sit facing out to meet, observe, calculate, and…relax.” Gruber had given extra emphasis to the last point again. “If you don’t learn to lighten up, the weight that you carry on your shoulders will crush you.”
“That sounds like a mixed metaphor, Mr. Gruber.”
“Alright. You may rewrite it any way you wish. But take the advice.”
“To tell you the truth, it’s not the environment, Mr. Gruber. It’s the tea. I…”
“Let me tell you the difference between tea and your coffee, Colin. You sip tea, you gulp coffee. You take your time with tea, your coffee speeds you up. Tea, like wine, offers something for the ages. Coffee is pedestrian; a bitter gift from the New World. There are tea sommeliers. Your coffee shop has baristas. You drink tea in fine china. You bring your Starbucks to the office in cardboard cups. One is refined. The other, undefined.”
Kavanaugh was tiring of these discussions. Please God, take him now.