Alexander C. Irvine (4 page)

The light from
Stephen Bishop’s oil lamp seemed to fade as soon as it left the flame, swallowed by the domed ceiling, the pit that yawned at his feet, and his own black skin. He knew that it dimmed only because there was less surface reflection when he held it over the Pit, but it was always a good effect for visitors to the cave. The elderly Englishman behind him took a stealthy step back, his breath quickening into a shallow pant.

“Bottomless Pit,” Mr. Tattersfield said to himself. He leaned forward, resting a hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and peered into the depths. “How deep is it?”

“Never been to the bottom,” Stephen said. He pulled the light back and turned to face Tattersfield, aware of the emptiness that fell away just a step or two behind his booted heels. “Just from dropping rocks, I’d guess two hundred feet. Maybe more.” He knew it was an inch shy of two hundred twelve feet on the opposite side, in the right; he had plumbed it himself the week before. But it wouldn’t do for that to get out. Dr. Croghan was not as forgiving of unplanned excursions by his slaves as Mr. Gorin, the previous Owner of the Mammoth Cave and of Stephen himself. Gorin had recognized that while people came from all over the world to see the cave, many of them specifically came to be escorted through by Stephen Bishop. And one of the biggest attractions to being escorted by Stephen was the chance of coming upon virgin cave; dozens of rocks and rooms and stifling crawls already bore the names of visitors from the past two or three years. So Gorin had let Stephen explore when the tours were finished and the money made, let him seek out the next place that a tourist would make famous.

Dr. Croghan, on the other hand, demanded that he be informed of every discovery as soon as it was made, and if there was any significance to it, he’d have signs put up all along the road to Louisville and Bowling Green. This brought people to the cave, but Dr. Croghan was slowly stripping the sense of mystery away from it: improving the hotel, hiring an orchestra, building a new road. Stephen shook his head; half the reward of experiencing the cave was that it was difficult to get to the truly magnificent places. Soon Croghan would want to blast entrances straight to anything he thought people would pay money to see.

“How do you figure the depth by dropping rocks? I wouldn’t have guessed that a Negro boy in Kentucky would have had much of a chance to read physics.” Tattersfield was looking past Stephen and over his head, leaning his liver-spotted hands on the guideposts Mr. Gorin had sunk after someone nearly fell in the pit in 1839.

Biting back a hasty reply, Stephen calmed himself by thinking of what the bewhiskered Englishman would be seeing: the wide passage curving ahead of them to the left, its floor fallen away into the sepulchral black of Bottomless Pit, the shadows growing and twitching on the walls as the lamplight reached its outermost limit, the grooved limestone roof barely visible in the glow of the overmatched flame.

“Mr. Tattersfield,” he said evenly, “my name is Stephen. It is not ‘boy’; boys tend to get lost in caves this deep.”
If you take my meaning,
he added to himself.

He knew he’d spoken too harshly. Croghan might hear of it when they returned to the hotel, but the only consequence would be a verbal reprimand and slight loss of goodwill. Stephen knew he was too valuable to whip, and—to give Croghan his due—he wasn’t inclined that way in any case.

Tattersfield blinked, clearly affronted, and looked Stephen squarely in the eye for a moment. But his gaze fell to the dust and mud on his shoes as Stephen looked calmly back at him. The doctor cleared his throat and stood up straighter, brushing at his herringbone trousers, and Stephen felt himself relax; the man was a kindred
s
pirit, after all. Not many sixty-eight-year-old academics cared
enough
about their studies to hike and crawl more than a mile underground for an observation.

“I read rhe physics in Mr. Gorin’s library, up in Glasgow Junction,” Stephen said. The silence had gone on long enough, and he had gotten what he wanted.

Beckoning Tattersfield to follow, he walked out onto the bridge he’d helped build across the neck of the Pit. “He owned the cave up until three years ago. I picked up some Latin and a bit of Greek there, too, but you don’t need to tell anyone that.” He caught Tattersfield’s eye and winked. “Mr. Gorin’s a good man.”

Seeing Tattersfield was still uncomfortable, Stephen stopped. “They say that wishing on a coin you chunk into the pit is good luck,” he said. It wasn’t true, but it sounded good, and he had something in mind. He turned out his jacket pocket and shrugged. “Want ro make a wish?”

A sheepish smile broke across the old professor’s face, the expression of a man caught in a guilty pleasure who secretly can’t bring himself to feel guilty. He drew a gold coin from his vest pocket.

“Turn your back on the pit and toss it over your left shoulder,” Stephen instructed. “Whoa—make your wish first.”

Tattersfield closed his eyes and thought a moment, then flipped the coin over his shoulder. Both men imagined they could hear it spinning through the darkness, then came a sharp
ping.
After another few seconds, a series of more distant
pings
echoed off the walls and roof.

“May your wish be granted,” Stephen said grandly.

“There it lies until someone finds the bottom,” Tattersfield said, still wearing the embarrassed smile. “I do hope my wish is granted first.”

Turning back, they skirted the edge of Sidesaddle Pit, climbing and walking in silence until they reached the narrow crack behind the leaning rectangular stone known as Giant’s Coffin. Stephen paused to adjust his satchel before slipping through.

“Stephen,” Tattersfield began, “let me—”

Stephen waved the apology away. “No, never mind,” he said. “I’m snappish today.” He dug in his hip pocket and pulled out a pint flask that still held a few swallows of refreshment. Even in the near-darkness, Stephen could see that Tattersfield could use a rest; he was shuffling and using his hands more, and his breathing had taken on a forced slowness as he tried not to pant. “Nip of good cheer,” Stephen said, uncorking the bottle, “and all’s forgotten.”

Tattersfield accepted the flask, sniffed it, took a drink. His face screwed into a puckered grimace and he shook his head, sputtering violently. “Whew!” he gasped. “God, what is that?”

Stephen drained the rest of the pint in a long open-throated swallow. “Mmm, white lightning,” he said, grinning. “Grandma’s special.” He stoppered the flask and tucked it away as Tattersfield wiped tears from his eyes. “You take the light and go on through. I can do it blind.”

Croghan was there
to greet them as they walked under the out-thrust slab of limestone that overhung the cave’s entrance. He fell into step with them as they trudged up the broad path to the Mammoth Cave Hotel.

“Professor Tattersfield!” he said expansively, vigorously shaking the academic’s hand as they walked. “I trust Stephen did not lead you astray or play any of the pranks he is known for.” Stephen walked a step behind the two, casually eavesdropping; here was where he would find out if Tattersfield was easily offended.

“Not at all,” Tattersfield replied. He threw Stephen a wink over his shoulder, and Stephen’s opinion of him went up a peg; if he wasn’t taking the stage for Louisville the next day, Stephen determined to take him back to the Snowball Room. He and Nick Bransford had discovered it just a few days ago, and they hadn’t told Croghan about it. Tattersfield could take news of a new discovery back with him to England.

“I found the excursion marvelously informative,” Tattersfield continued. “The cave is extraordinary and Stephen himself deserves every accolade.” He stopped in the middle of the trail. “I believe I’ll stay another day or so, have a look at that River Styx if I may. After breakfast?” Stephen nodded, thinking he would have to make sure Nick and his brother Mat had brought the boat back from the far beach on Lake Lethe.

“Splendid.” Tattersfield touched the brim of his crumpled hat, nodded to Croghan, and went on up to the hotel.

“Well done, Stephen, although I hardly need to tell you that, do I?” Croghan dropped a fatherly hand over Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen tried not to stiffen. His stature—four inches over five feet—and wiry build were perfect for navigating tight seams and turns in the cave, but the drawback to his size was that it seemed to encourage Croghan to treat him like a boy—or like a gifted and loyal dog.

“Are you done for the day?” Croghan said. “Any more tours?”

“I thought I might head back to Gorin’s Dome,” Stephen said. “I saw a little hole on the way I’d like to look into.”

“Think it goes to the bottom, do you? Well, if it does, you take Professor Tattersfield there tomorrow, show him somerhing he can tell his friends in England about.”

You
know you don’t have to tell me that. At least you should.
“Yes, sir.”

“Well then, all right, get another lamp and have a look around. Come and tell me what you’ve found in the morning.” Croghan
slapped
Stephen on the back and strode on up the path.

I
do
think
it goes to the bottom,
Stephen thought as he stood in River Hall, about on a level with where he imagined the bottom of Bottomless Pit to be. A narrow L-shaped seam opened in front of him, at the base of the wall across from the pool called Lake Lethe. He’d noticed the crack weeks before, but this was the first chance he’d had to look into it.

But he didn’t think it meandered its way to the bottom of Gorin’s Dome, and if for some reason Croghan went looking for him there, Stephen would have to pretend he’d gotten lost. The crack in front of him, if his hunch was right, backtracked and snaked right to the floor of Bottomless Pit. Gorin’s Dome could wait; tonight Stephen was after bigger game.

He shifted the scuffed leather satchel on his shoulder and, out of habit, tapped the flask in his hip pocket. The trip was likely to be strenuous, and he’d replenished his supplies before reentering the cave. Apples and cheese, water and a nip of good cheer; that was food for exploring.

Stephen stood still for a moment, listening to the workings of his own mind and the bately audible echoes of the ghosts. The cave was full of them, thoughts and impressions left behind by every man and woman who had ever died there. Mat and Nick heard them too sometimes, but the voices scared the Bransford boys. Stephen found them reassuring, knowing that the ghosts trusted him, that they felt as he did. The cave was awesome and magnificent because of its vastness and its age; it had seen people come and go since long before old Farmer Houchins had chased a bear into it fifty years before, an there were parts of it, Stephenwas sure, that no man would ever see.

Croghan was deaf to the ghosts. All he saw in the cave was prestige and money. He admired it while he sucked out its marrow, blasting new entrances, bankrolling schemes like the tuberculosis sanatorium that took up part of the main hall. The man did nothing for the love of it, and his grand plans were turning the cave into just another sideshow attraction.

Stephen listened to the ghosts chuckle and plead. Then he
s
hook off the reverie and squatted in front of the crooked crevice, pushing the satchel in ahead of him.

Just as he’d thought, it turned around a bit before rising gently away from River Hall. He belly-crawled for the first hundred feet or so, pushing the satchel ahead, careful not to knock the lamp against the knobby walls as he pulled himself forward. Then the passage opened enough that he could bearwalk, clambering ahead on his hands and the balls of his feet, ducking his head to avoid spines and ledges projecting from the ceiling. He scanned the walls and ceiling of the tunnel as he moved, seeing no smudges of soot, no charred bits of reed torch that would indicate that someone had been there before him. Most of the cave Stephen had been given
cred
it for discovering had been traveled centuries before by barefoot Indians with cane torches; but there were no footprints here, no seeds, no bits of clay. Nothing but water-smoothed limestone and the occasional outcropping of calcite, gleaming milky in the lamplight.
Virgin cave,
he thought, his pulse quickening.

The passage broadened even more, to the point where Stephen could stand upright, then ended abruptly in a ledge thrust out into a huge dome. A breakdown slide sloped from his right down to his left, fading beyond the range of his finger-ring lamp.

Climbing breakdown was tricky work. Until you found a good path, it slipped a lot, and a long tumble was always a possibility. Stephen had already led two long tours since dawn, and now he at least knew that the branch from River Hall came out in a big dome. Why wasn’t that enough to take back for one day?

Because,
he answered himself,
you know it goes. You know it drops to the floor of Bottomless Pit, just like you knew what was on the other side of Giant’s Coffin when you dug it out two summers ago.

Stephen shut his eyes. That was the ghosts talking. He thought of the Allegory of the Cave, one of the first Greek things he’d read, when he was a boy overwhelmed by the dark musty promise of Franklin Gorin’s library. People chained in darkness, seeing only shadows of what was outside and thinking that what they saw was all there was; it was an idea he’d never been able to get out of his head. But down this far, the shadows had substance. There was no outside, and when they spoke, that was all there was.

He opened his eyes and looked out into the dome again. From here, it sure looked like Bottomless Pit.

“Dammit,” he said aloud. He tried to figure how far he’d come. More than a quarter-mile, less than a half. That would put him right in the neighborhood of the pit.

“Too close not to find out,” he said, and swung his legs out into the dome.

The light from the handheld lamp was only good for twenty feet or so, and Stephen kept track of how far he’d come by counting twenty feet when the ceiling of the shaft faded beyond range of the light and marking a discoloration on the wall at his level. When the stain was swallowed by darkness, he added another twenty feet, and so on. After four marks, he could see open ground below him, but it seemed like he’d climbed down farther than he should have. Had he found something else, another pit that dropped parallel to Bottomless? If this passage didn’t connect—

He pushed the thought away. It did connect. He knew it and the ghosts knew it, they were loud in his head, some begging him to find them and others jeering at him, muttering that he’d taken the wrong way. He had to be close; they had never been this loud before.

But close to what?

He finished the climb down, dropping off a ledge formed by a fallen rock the size of one of the rooms in Croghan’s hotel. His knees nearly buckled when he landed, and Stephen realized he didn’t have much caving left in him today. But there was nearly level ground under his feet, and walls winding around him in a rough kidney shape and rising unbroken out of sight. His heart beating fast, Stephen raised the lamp and turned a complete circle.

Something clinked on the floor. Lowering the lamp, he saw Dr. Tattersfield’s gold piece winking up at him, not three inches from his right foot.

Bottomless Pit has a bottom,
Stephen thought.
And I found it.

He sat on the floor and basked in the glow of new discovery for a few minutes, digging an apple and a wedge of cheese out of the satchel and chasing them down with a long drink of water. Then the flask came out: he stood, holding it up like a communion cup, and toasted the ghosts.

“Always something new to discover.”

And may I always be the one to do it,
he added to himself, taking a long swallow and reveling in the liquor’s clear burn.

Putting the flask away, Stephen held his watch up to the lamp. It was just after nine o’clock. He’d spent nights in the cave before, but it was not something he enjoyed; besides, Tattersfield would be ready to go at the crack of dawn. Just a quick look around, Stephen thought, and then I can head back before it gets too late.

He walked around the floor of the pit, poking his light into crevices to see if there were any other ways out of the pit. When he got to the narrow end, directly across from the River Hall branch and below the place where the lip of the pit above faded back into the wall, the smoothly grooved walls gave way to a jumble of rocks and gravel. It looked as if part of the ceiling had collapsed sometime after the pit was hollowed out. At the bottom of the deadfall, two huge oblong stones had fallen against each other, leaving a triangular opening between them easily big enough to crawl into. Squatting in front of it, Stephen shone the lamp in. The ghosts, who had been muted since he came out of the chimney, began shrieking and gibbering again, their noise nearly loud enough to drown his thoughts.

It goes,
he thought.
I
know it goes.