The firey rope went out. He squatted on the floor, leaned against the wall, pressing his hands palm down against the coldness of stone.
Releasing his ankles was almost as hard. His hands hurt terribly. His fingers were numb and useless against Fisher’s knots. But he persevered and, after several agonizing moments stood up, a free man.
He went to Stanley.
“No,” said Stanley, shaking his head. “You get yourself outa here and go for help.”
Jim ignored him and started in on the man’s bound wrists.
“It’ll take too long,” said Stanley. “Fisher could be back any minute.” He smelled horrible and he was shivering badly. Up close Jim could feel how feverish he was.
Jim worked with a passion. Worked with rage. He needed Stanley.
“Look,” said Stanley, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The way he left just now is the way he brought me here. It was treacherous — past a deep pit, along a ledge down a cut so narrow and low I thought he was walking me into my own grave. But that isn’t how he brought you here.”
Jim looked up at him, alert.
“He carried you in over his shoulder. There was no way he could have done that the way he brought me. Besides, look around you. This car seat, the cable spool — this stuff didn’t get here the way I did. You can bet on it.”
At that moment Jim pulled the rope free from Stanley’s wrists. Sick and weary as the man was, he immediately bent to the task of undoing the rest of his ropes while Jim sat back on the cavern floor cradling his burned hands in his shirt, rocking back and forth as if his hands were a baby. He was trying not to faint from the pain.
“Hurry,” said Stanley. “Take the lantern. Go! This here stope has another way in, I’m sure of it. Ten to one it’s an easier way.”
“But—”
“No buts. Wave to me with the lantern when you find it. I don’t need eyes to tug on these ropes. Just move. I’ll catch you up. You’re our only hope.”
Jim clambered to his feet. Behind him the lantern on the crate started to flicker. They both looked towards it. Raising the wick had used up fuel far too quickly.
“Get out of here,” said Stanley.
The light flickered lower still and Jim didn’t wait. He lowered the chimney back into place, then quickly trimmed the wick to preserve what fuel there was left.
“Git!” shouted Stanley.
Grabbing the lantern, Jim set out. He found a tunnel soon enough. He hesitated on the threshold. There might be any number of exits. The ceiling was low — what if it petered out altogether? The thought terrified him. But he gathered together his courage, waved the lantern shakily at the dim figure of Stanley, who waved back, and entered the tunnel.
He hurried along now, taking encouragement from the fact that the floor seemed to be heading upwards. The way grew steeper and steeper. He slipped more than once.
Then, suddenly, he saw a break in the darkness ahead and, simultaneously, he smelled a change in the air.
Autumn. He smelled autumn! Earth and rotting leaves. It was the most excruciatingly beautiful aroma he had ever experienced. And the darkness — it was speckled with stars, dimly glowing with moonlight. He turned to go and get Stanley — it wasn’t far, now that he knew the way. But even as he turned, the lamp flickered and died.
26
The last bit was the hardest. There seemed to have been some kind of a cave-in at the mouth of the tunnel. It was overgrown but the footing was still treacherous, the rock fragments giving way as Jim slipped again and again. On his third attempt he lost the lamp, which clattered down the scree and rolled into the cave below. It was only then that he wondered why he had been holding on to it at all. With two hands free, he was better able to make the climb. It was almost straight up.
Finally, scratched and bleeding, he dragged himself over a threshold of thorns onto the forest floor. He lay there, his cheek pressed against the mossy ground. How sweet it felt, how beautiful was the stirring of the fir trees. He curled up like a baby, holding his burned hands close, holding himself together. He wasn’t sure he would ever move again.
Then he thought of Stanley down there in the dark and he climbed shakily to his knees. On all fours he craned his neck, all his senses straining, a cautious animal. He must not get caught again. Adrenaline might get him home, but he had no energy left to face Fisher.
He saw nothing, heard nothing. Nothing human. A whippoorwill. An owl. He stood up.
Where was he?
There was moonlight but the moon itself was nowhere to be seen. It was in its second quarter now — almost full. He scanned the sky. It seemed brightest along the top of the ridge. It had risen in the east, so he must be on the western side, the home side of the ridge. Good. Jim started south, keeping the ridge on his left.
The wind had settled. A fog came down, whisper thin, wet on his face, soaking up the forest before him, soaking up sound. Everywhere was silence. The woods were thick with it. He resisted the urge to run, remembering his fall.
He passed muddy test pits, signs of another dilapidated shed, an overgrown slag heap with the fog settling on it like a huge slow eiderdown.
And then suddenly he was walking through waist-high sumac. In the moonlight refracted through the drifting fog it stretched before him like a placid river through the trees. He knew where he was now.
He made his way as slowly as the fog, wading through the undergrowth that opened before him and closed after him with scarcely a sound. On his left he saw the dim outline of the ridge etched by eerie moon-glow. Wraiths of fog rose from the dark wall of rock like ghostly smoke from a fire that had gone out years ago.
Jim ducked below the surface of the sumac to collect his wits. Fisher could be anywhere.
He listened. Nothing. No, something. A distant train? Cars on the highway? He sat up tall. He heard the sound again. It was definitely coming from the south. Fisher leaving in the four-by-four? He tried to follow the direction of the noise, and that’s when he saw the light that was not the moon’s. It was low in the trees, lighting up the underside of the canopy, scattered by the fog into an unnatural glimmering. The light was rising, coming his way.
Jim held his breath. A car’s engine. He heard the motor whining, watched the dim light grow, reach out into the darkness. It was someone climbing the road that led up to the plateau. It could be Fisher returning from somewhere. But, no. It wasn’t just one vehicle. The noise was growing nearer all the time, reverberating up the wooded hillside, loud enough to drown out any noise he might make.
Jim started to push through the sumac at a faster pace, stumbling on the rails, grabbing the slender limbs of the trees to keep himself aloft, frightened that whoever was coming might turn around and go before he could reach them. He could see the shadowy shapes of the cavalcade, twin beams of headlights, and on the lead car, a cherry, spinning round and round. The police!
They were drawing up onto the plateau, and Jim found himself once again at the dried-up stream bed. The four-by-four was still parked, swaddled in a bright gauze of mist. He couldn’t tell if Fisher was in it, but he was too wild with excitement to care. He pitched himself down the embankment, falling, slithering on his backside, running, landing in a heap at the bottom.
Meanwhile, the police vehicles had pulled into a semi-circle on the plateau. There were three of them already — more coming. Their headlights were all aimed up at the ridge.
Jim was blinded; he didn’t care. He heard doors opening and slamming shut. Shadowy figures emerged and trained spotlights up at the bush. He heard voices.