Читать книгу Butterflies of Bali - Victor Mason - Страница 14
ОглавлениеChapter III
The Burial Chamber
PUNCTUALLY, AT NOON, I presented myself at our rendezvous and found Hector ensconced in the bar. He was accompanied by a most prepossessing lady of imperious aspect, palish-complexioned, with superior cheek-bones and prominent beak, and a massy mane of red hair.
“My sister Hermione,” Hector rose and introduced us; “she arrived only this morning, directly from Gatwick: one of those cheap bucket-shop jobs. I wasn’t expecting her till tomorrow. Do you mind if she joins us?”
“Good God no!” said I, as Hermione flashed the most perfect set of white teeth. “I mean.....delighted to have you with us. I just hope you won’t find it too boring, that’s all.”
“Boring?” interrogated this red-polled enchantress; “what do you mean by boring? Hector tells me you’re a bit of a bird-fancier. Being something of a nature-lover myself, I find that quite fascinating.”
Not knowing what to say, I mumbled some superfluity like “terrific” or “fantastic,” and then, more to the point: “All right, let’s have a drink.” We adjourned to the bar.
Feeling much more relaxed, if more keenly aware of the captivating presence beside me, I believe I managed to hold my own in the ensuing conversation, but I must confess that I am never entirely at ease on first meeting an attractive woman, especially one so undeniably stunning as Hermione. Afflicted, as I am, by an innate shyness, born of a solitary upbringing, I am too readily susceptible and, at the same time, unprepared for proximity.
“Where are we going, and who will lead the way?” demanded Hector, when we had finished munching our sandwiches and sipping our beers. “Since you’re the bird man,” he continued without pause, clapping me on the back, “I suggest we get fell in behind you.”
“Oh I think we might all sally forth together,” said I, bounding down the steps and across the road.
So we proceeded gaily, up the famous steps to the water conduit, scene of the previous evening’s impromptu soaking—“a certain sense of déjà vu,” I remember Hector remarking—then into the terraced paddy-fields. Knowing the area fairly well as a result of my frequent bird-watching sorties, I had mapped out in my mind a rough plan of our itinerary; and I proposed to bring my friends to the great river valley, lying a short distance to the west. Not perhaps the most fruitful region from an ornithological view-point, nevertheless it promised some of the most beautiful tramping country and panoramic views to be found anywhere on earth.
In the fields, a knee-deep green carpet of burgeoning new growth, were herons and bitterns and Java Kingfishers, with resplendent purple and turquoise and chestnut plumes, crowned with scarlet stiletto bills. True to form, Hector continued to astonish me by pointing them all out, usually before I was even aware of them. He seemed to know the local birds as well as I. With an unerring eagle-eye and an almost uncanny competence, and without the aid of binoculars, he was able to distinguish at once the several species of snow-white herons or egrets, a host of which was assembled before us. Hermione also surprised me by spotting a crake, as it shot across the balk separating two rice terraces. Luckily I also saw it and was able to identify it, which, while it may not have impressed her unduly, as least served to elevate me above the level of rank tyro.
It was a calm day, clear but humid, lacking the customary breeze that rustled the palm fronds and sent ripples through the tussocks of rice retreating in ranks on either side. Presently we came to a curtain of greenery and passed through the village nestling in its shade. The inhabitants were not abroad and we spied no one, save one elderly lady striding energetically past us, an enormous bundle of kindling balanced on her head. In the meeting hall of the village ward some men lolled on the platform, chatting idly and ruffling the feathers of their fighting cocks. There was no other sign of activity, and all was strangely silent. Gone were the drone of flying insects and creak of cicadas in the boughs, and even the birds had ceased to sing. There was in the air vague portent of elemental upheaval; that prescient lull which goes before the storm. Some presentiment rang in my inner ear and caused me to stop and turn about. Hector and his sister were peering at the hedgerow a few paces behind, evidently engrossed by one of those skulking nonentities that are the enduring delight of your keen observer. Whatever it was, it was clearly their sole concern. Confounded thrumming: in whose thoughts was I concentrated ten thousand miles away?
Had I but known it then, I might have aborted my planned itinerary and chosen another path. But there was no turning back from the adventure that lay unavoidably in store, like a colossus straddling the dim horizon.
At length we came to the edge of the Great Divide and stood spellbound in an ocean of alang-alang, the coarse sharp-bladed grass that adorns the steep slopes of riverine valleys and, cut and dried, is used for thatching. Far below us the mighty torrent brawled and tumbled in an arc, its bed strewn with boulders the size of houses, before entering a gentler reach that resembled nothing so much as a bar of melted milk chocolate, bright reflexions patchily radiating from each remnant of silver wrapper.
So we descended to the water’s edge and the stretch beyond the rapids, where the flow was more sluggish. Spanning the narrows and suspended under the trunks of trees, which projected at right angles from the rocky shoulders formed at the intervening bend, was an awesome bamboo bridge. This was a miracle of construction, supported by the living limbs and strung together with coat-hanger wire. Directly beneath the bridge on the left bank where we rested, a sparkling spring gushed from a hollow in the cliff-face. Here might Artemis herself, wearied by the chase, have come with her attendant train of heavenly nymphs in order to disport and perform her secretive ablutions.
To this selfsame spot had I often repaired in the course of my regular wanderings, and according to custom, I quickly stripped and leapt into the cooling flow, exhorting my companions to do likewise. Neither Hector nor Hermione needed any second bidding. In a trice they were both naked and jumped in to join me. And in that brief, delirious instant when Hermione revealed her all, I could not help wondering whether the goddess herself was endowed with such perfection of form; and I recalled the terrible story of Actaeon, the hunter, who quite unwittingly surprised the chaste Mistress of the Bow while she was bathing. His one unintended glance so offended her modesty that she caused him to be changed into the object of his pursuit—a stag—and so he was hunted down and torn to pieces by his own hounds. Anyway, I reflected, even though my glimpse of her had hardly been involuntary, Hermione was clearly anything but outraged by it. After all, this was Bali; not ancient Greece, where gods and goddesses were so easily affronted. When Rajapala came upon Soepraba, the divine nymph, washing herself, he not only feasted his eyes on her but also resolved to make her his bride by stealing her selendang or mythical wings, thereby depriving her of the means to return to heaven. I rather fancied myself in the role of Rajapala.
The water, composite flux of countless mountain sources, was several degrees cooler than the surrounding air. It was so invigorating that I could happily have resigned myself to its embrace for the remainder of that afternoon. There were other attractions besides. All things considered, there is no rational explanation for what happened next. A demon had taken hold of me. I dashed out of the river and up the bank, and donned my shorts in a flash, before turning to address the others.
“I will lead you to the realm of Faerie,” I said.
It is a kind of Fairyland or Middle Earth, that region which extends beyond the Great Divide. A place unfrequented by tourists or outsiders, I had made the journey there a mere half dozen times before, returning as the Wedding-Guest after hearing the Ancient Mariner ‘like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn.’ If nothing is predestined, it was a singular chance that took us there this sultry afternoon.
As we picked our way gingerly over the rotting stems of bamboo, carefully watching each step whilst trying not to notice the brown flood swirling below, I wondered aloud if we had chosen the most propitious route. As if to echo my concern, one of the poles disintegrated with a hideous splintering crack directly under Hector, sending him sprawling, one leg dangling through the gap.
“Good grief!” he cried, clinging for dear life to the swaying handrail which looked as if it too was about to explode in a cloud of sawdust, “if this one goes then I’m a goner!” To her considerable credit, Hermione who was already safely across, collapsed on a rock, shaking with laughter.
“God, you’re a clot, Hector!” she blurted out comfortingly: “why is it that you must always draw attention to yourself in every situation?”
“Oh do shut up!” was all Hector could manage by way of strangled reply. “You’ll get yours by and by.”
No one could have foretold then that we were all going to get ours before the day was out.
The way up was much steeper than on the other side, in places precipitous, so that we were obliged to handhold perpendicular steps cut from the living rock. To our amazement, a lone grass-cutter scrambled cheerfully up behind us, then quickly overtook us, on his head a huge basket of grass that must have been his equivalent in weight. At last we got to the top and paused to survey the view which, like the scene that greeted Alice when she had passed through the looking-glass, was much the same as that on the other side, only reversed, with one or two subtle and not so subtle differences, such as the procession of modern and plainly not very Balinese structures that protruded through the curtain of green surmounting the opposing slope. To the south one could clearly see the distant ocean and the white oscillating line of breakers on the reef: to the north the prospect was hazier and the uplands were obscured under a lowering leaden sky. High above us there came the piercing scream of the Serpent Eagle, at once reassuring of survival, yet disquieting in tone. Everything was strangely still.
We strode along a grassy track, past portals of mud-brick and walls of stone. In spacious compounds the tall trees stood motionless. Not a sign of activity anywhere. Not a sound.
This all-pervasive silence was all the more obtrusive and oppressive for its alien existence in a sphere thronged by all manner of stridulating creature and peopled by inhabitants whose very being was predicated on ceremony and commotion. Were there no children here to chatter and clap hands and shriek with merriment; no churls to curse, nor dogs to bark?
The contagion of this malady of noiselessness reached out and sealed our lips; and all attempt at conversation was as futile as contrived.
With atmosphere so charged, it came as barely a surprise and almost a relief when, in a blinding blue flash followed by an instantaneous crash which shook the earth beneath us, Zeus proclaimed an end of elemental truce. We stood stupefied, our ears singing.
“That was a near miss.” Although I had spoken these words, they seemed to have been beamed through the ether from another world. “Perhaps we should try and find some shelter.”
By this time we had progressed beyond the village and were lingering at the edge of a grove of gigantic cotton-trees, associated with the community’s pura dalem, Temple of the Dead. It was not an auspicious spot in which to seek refuge. Skirting the temple, a narrow, muddy track led through an enclosed area of cultivation towards the river valley. Before us lay the open fields. We could either retrace our steps to the nearest habitation or proceed along the way to the gorge, and thus in the general direction of home, finding presently some shed or projection in the rock which would afford protection from the storm, should such prove really necessary. As yet there was no hint of rain: our one immediate concern was to retreat from these trees in the event that lightening should strike again. We determined to press on.
All I cared about was keeping my binoculars dry. Nothing else mattered. We hastened down the track.
The way dipped down between moss-encrusted walls, ever more deeply and darkly, with scant room to admit anyone of above average stature. Emerging on a sudden from this claustrophobic passage, we found ourselves on the brink of an abyss. Below us the river churned and foamed in tumult, passing out of sight beneath our very feet; whilst the limit of its upper reach was shrouded in an impenetrable gray veil of advancing rain. A wooded eminence rose to obscure the southern horizon, our path descending abruptly under the sheer side of the craggy outcrop rearing ahead. There was no sign anywhere of hut or hole in which to hide. If we were to escape a soaking, then our only hope lay in making haste, the while keeping our eyes skinned for a suitable overhang or opening in the rock.
Audible above the constant rush of river, raging in its headlong flight towards the sea, now was heard the ponderous roar of the approaching storm, relentless in its steady march and blotting out all form and movement between earth and sky. The first large spats hissed down like hail and kissed the dust.
To the right of our path, the embankment fell away to, reveal a fault or hollow, forming a shallow valley of partly cultivated terraces. Bound on three sides by a scarp clad in dense vegetation, the lower end debouched at the river’s brink. A narrow ledge led down to the uppermost level, which appeared to terminate in a declivity hard under the overhanging cliff face. Of somewhat sinister aspect, this sunken enclave would not normally have invited closer inspection. I myself had passed it by previously, without giving it a backward glance or second thought. One had the definite feeling that it was a place to be avoided. On the other hand, our present situation was anything but normal, and with the rain now cascading around our ears, in all that rugged and remote terrain, it was the sole and more than likely last resort that seemed to offer some protection.
“Quickly!” I shouted unnecessarily, edging slowly along the slippery, sloping ledge: “follow me, if you want to keep dry.” We were all already soaked. I had stuffed my binoculars in their purse and into my pocket: for the moment they were safe. We dropped down, on to even ground, planted with sweet potatoes. At least we were not alone in visiting this out-of-the-way spot.
We raced over to the shelter of the concave rock, but here the ground fell away sharply at our feet, and the rain draining off the lip of the chasm fell in a cataract before us. Dodging under the stinging curtain, I had at last the satisfaction of finding myself in a space that was relatively dry. Hermione and Hector were right behind me. We stood for an indeterminate time, dripping and gasping.
Behind us the water fell in a luminous sheet. Before us lay only a repellent and impermeable gloom. Gradually our eyes became accustomed to the dimness. A hundred feet below us, at the base of the sheer cliff face, yawned the entrance to a cave. We were perched on a steep slope, obstructed by rubble and the rotting trunks of toppled trees. Here and there naked saplings reached up from the sparse undergrowth toward the light, clinging to plausible life. Though there was no well-defined path, the way ahead was at worst negotiable.
“What do you say?” Caves have ever held a fascination for me. They are there to be explored; and this one, for all its unappealing aspect, refused to be ignored. I turned to Hermione.
“Rather,” she smiled at me, “I’m with you all the way.” Good girl.
Then I noticed, with a start, the ragged bundle of bones and black feathers that had been a chicken, at my feet.
Was this mere mishap, or sacrificial offering to appease the raksasa or demon that lurked within the cave? Hector made some crack about black magic, affecting a mockoccultist tone.
“It is the sacred symbol of the Kabbalah for a ritual invocation,” he concluded. “Whatever you do, don’t step on it, for God’s sake, or rather that of his Satanic Majesty.”
Whether it held some significance or not, and although it was quite plain that Hector was joking, I found myself unable to suppress a shudder. Even Hermione looked a bit grim. We threaded our way over and under and round various obstacles, until we were on a level with the mouth of the cavern.
This was vast, far greater than it appeared when viewed obliquely from above. Roughly rectangular in shape, with apex finely vaulted, it must have been well over twenty feet in height by ten feet wide. And this was strange, the cave was evidently no natural phenomenon, but man-made. The walls and roof bore a pattern of grooves that were chiselled by the hand of man. They reminded one of the immense crayères, or quarries, now utilized as storage in Champagne, which were formerly carved from the calcareous rock by the Christian prisoners of the Roman legions two thousand years ago. Or were they—the walls of this cavern that confronted us—fashioned only by the agency of man? Had not the intervention of a superhuman force caused the sculpting of this rock? Local legend has it that each hermit’s cell and funerary tjandi in the land was originally gouged out and hollowed from the stone by the living fingernails or talons of the giant, Kbo Iwa, who was sent by Indra, Lord of Heaven, to punish mankind for its overweening arrogance, and who terrorized the earth and its inhabitants, killing and consuming them at will. Examining the structural scars and sheer dimensions of this awesome passage, it seemed a not unlikely tale.
Surely no irrigation tunnel could have been constructed on such lines: the proportions were simply too large. Further the edifice was too meticulously sculpted, too exquisitely symmetrical: it exhibited no traces of erosion caused by water flowing through.
To gain the entrance was no easy matter, for the lower portion of the approach became a scree, composed of fragments sheered off the cliff, and inclined at a gradient of two paces in every three or an angle of forty-five degrees. The slope seemed to terminate in a perpendicular drop of several feet; a measure that was hard to calculate precisely in a space so absolutely black. We hesitated on the edge of the void.
Hermione broke the tangible and pregnant hush. “Watch me!” was all she said, as she slid down on her bottom, and disappeared over the side. What a gallant girl she was! Her lovely face beamed on the instant back at us, as she stood head and shoulders above the brink.
“Piece of cake! Come on you wets!” she shouted.
At once shamed and galvanized into action by Hermione’s taunting and salutary example, Hector and I sat down and let go simultaneously, careering down the slope to a soft landing on the cavern’s floor. The drop had been four feet at most. A minor avalanche of shale and soil, dislodged by our passage, rained down on our heads.
“That wasn’t too terrible now, was it?” Hermione admonished. “Look ahead; there is light!”
And indeed, peering into the recesses of that dark corridor, I perceived an area of illumination which appeared to have its source in an opening from above. Which was decidedly as well. I wondered aloud whether any one of us had had the presence of mind to bring along a flash-light. I certainly had not. Nor, it transpired, had the others. Then I remembered that I did have a box of matches in my pocket, although I knew before I attempted to strike one what the result would be. Of course the things were soaked.
In silence we proceeded cautiously toward the light, with each footstep searching the ground for some sign of subsidence. But the going was level and perfectly free of obstruction; and very soon we had arrived at the circle of luminosity.
At the moment of our entering therein, with a violent commotion of wings beating and voices shrilling, a colony of bats erupted into life, milling furiously over our heads and swooping down so closely as to fan our faces. Hermione shrieked and fell on her knees, arms raised to protect her head, in case one of these fleeting creatures should become entangled in her flowing tresses. They were not, it should be pointed out, the little flittermice that are almost indistinguishable from swiftlets as they flutter in the fading light of day. These were monstrous fruit-bats, or flying foxes as they are sometimes called, and I care not to think what would have happened had one been caught in Hermione’s hair. But after a minute or two the flock had dispersed, either shooting through the tunnel behind us, or swirling aloft and exiting through the aperture above.
Looking up with relief at the last of the departing vampires, the light now beamed down into our eyes through a chimney or vertical shaft cut in the rock. This was ten feet square and the width of the cavern, extending upwards a distance of about forty feet, the sides slightly indented here and there, and hung with roots and vines. It provided welcome ventilation as well as light. Rain pattered down through the opening.
Beyond us the passage stretched a distance equal to that traversed, resolving in a further pool of light. Was anyone not in favour of continuing?
“Heavens no!” exclaimed Hermione, now fully recovered from her brush with the bats.
“Lead on Themistocles!” said Hector.
Coming to the half-way mark in the second section of corridor, I noticed the dim outlines of black holes gaping on either side. Evidently we were moving along the main artery of a labyrinth. These secondary tunnels seemed to invite further investigation, but we were ill-equipped to enter where not the least glimmer of light was manifest. I noticed also that the going now was wetter, as we were sloshing through a stream of water ankle-deep. But whether this was the result of normal seepage or increased flow due to the heavy rainfall, was very hard to judge.
As we intruded into the next patch of brightness, there came again the same sensation of scurry and uproar. Once more we cowered under the thrust and flurry of a hundred pairs of membranaceous wings. Gradually the turmoil subsided, and we found ourselves gazing up into a similar, if somewhat deeper, shaft hewn through the rock strata, a steady trickle of water descending to augment the stream flowing underfoot. On the far side of the illumined space, the passage-way became much narrower, whilst the ceiling seemed to retreat: the way must take an unexpected turn, for nothing but an eery darkness was now to be descried.
“I’m not sure if I like the look of this.” The sound of my voice, somehow sepulchral and remote, came as a distinct shock to me. Did I really say that? Surely I could not have been the author of such a statement.
“Come on now chaps!” It was Hector who spoke: that much was unmistakable. “We’ve got this far: we really shouldn’t give up yet, at least not before we’ve seen what happens round the next bend.” He looked closely at Hermione and me in turn, testing our reaction. “I’ll lead the way this time,” he said with an air of emphatic finality. And off he ploughed—the water was up to our knees by now—into the inky blackness.
There was nothing for it but to follow. I took Hermione’s hand in mine, and there was just room enough for the two of us to walk abreast. Apart from the swish of our progress, the silence was oppressive, almost palpable. And as we advanced, I could not help reflecting on the oddity of our situation and the queer fact of its recurrence—soaked and speechless (speak for oneself!) in darkest night—all within the space of rather less than twenty-four hours. Hector was evidently pondering in like manner.
“It looks like history repeats itself,” he remarked with a somewhat contrived chuckle, “only I doubt if we should be able to haul ourselves out of this hole quite so easily; and I’m damned sure we won’t find a splendid dinner awaiting us round the corner.”
What exactly would we find round the next corner, I wondered? And suddenly I was overwhelmed by the thought that I was anything but anxious to know the answer.
“Light!” cried Hector, “let there be light!” We were apparently emerging from an S-shaped curve in the tunnel. And there was light! Indeed there was light! And, by God, it was good!
Passing under a lofty archway, we stepped into a large rectangular chamber, centrally lit from a vertical shaft in the roof, of similar construction to the other formations we had seen, only narrower and deeper. The beam of light struck the surface of an oblong slab of stone, projecting above the water which covered all the floor to a depth of several inches. Let into the walls on either side were niches, framing statues of the elephant-headed Ganesh, God of wisdom and foresight. One was reminded of that famous touristic attraction, the Elephant Cave at Bedaulu, except that the dimensions of the room in which we stood and its statuary were far more impressive. In the rear wall facing us were excavated coves, three in number, ranged evenly, in each a rock-cut tjandi or representation of a cremational tower. Clearly this was the burial chamber of some great personage, whether spiritual leader or warrior king.
We had made an astonishing discovery. In the current century, a fair number of ancient monuments and other relics of antiquity had come to light, and were properly documented by the archaeologists of the day. But, to my certain knowledge, no account of this place existed: it was completely unknown.
Inscribed on the upraised platform before us, which was presumably the tombstone and formed the focal point within the mausoleum, were hierographs of Sanskrit or kawi, the ancient poetic tongue. Drawing near to examine these, a still more startling discovery was made.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Hector, beside himself with excitement; as indeed were we all. “Just look at this, will you!” He was pointing to the lower end of the level block, which remained in shadow, outside the area of directly transmitted light. Something glowed dully in the dimness. And then I became aware of, or rather keenly conscious of, the smell. It was subtly pervasive and aromatic, contrasting with the damp, mephitic odour one normally associates with guano and subterranean lairs, and I had sensed it at the moment of our entrance. The atmosphere was charged with the sweet, pungent scent of sandalwood. Now I could see the fragile plume of smoke drifting upward from the burning incense stick, supported on its little plaited tray of palm and bed of starry flowers.
Someone had been here before us, in the very recent past. Someone, unknown and invisible to us, had come to render an oblation in reverence to the spirit of this place. All at once, I felt the surge of an indefinable force within me and I seemed about to succumb to the infinite genius that was here, the alarums in my ears reinvested and resounding more madly than ever.
“Are you all right?” Hermione was holding me against her, arms encircling my chest. I could barely hear her, although her lips were brushing my lobes, and I scarcely sensed the warmth of her breath on my neck. I think I must have tottered momentarily, almost swooned in fact. All else was blotted out by this infernal belling in my brain.
“Come and sit here.” Gently lowering me to the podium, she sat beside me. And despite my extrasensory state, I know I felt that we were committing a great sacrilege. I made to move and stand upright. But it was too late.
The ringing became a roaring, unendurable if not enduring.
Ever louder and nearer it came, and the walls began to shake.
“Earthquake!” I heard myself scream. And so in truth it seemed, for the vibration was real, but the effect belied the cause. Before I could haul myself erect, with a tumultuous reeking rush, the opening to the passage appeared to explode, like the slit entrance of a pill-box into which a grenade has been tossed, and the raging flood burst through with a fearful force, which swept over us, hurling us against the rear wall.
For a few terrifying moments I found myself trapped inside one of the sculpted cells, pinned between pillar and dais—time enough to ponder the riddle of the origin of such cavities. Seat of meditation, or of lying in state? Sequestered ascetic retreat, or mortuary? Or random expression of some giant’s whim?
The pressure eased, but I was drowning. I clawed my way out of the cove, only to find myself spinning out of control, propelled forward by the current, as a tea-leaf revolving in a cup being stirred. Finally I broke surface, gasping, and alternately bumping and scraping against the walls. And then I spied Hector, bobbing in the centre of the maelstrom, picked out indelibly by the natural spotlight’s glare. He saw me and waved.
“Come over here!” he yelled, “less motion in the middle.”
I was about to swim over, when I realized that only two heads were visible.
“For Christ’s sake! where’s Hermione?” I shouted; and without waiting for an answer, I sucked in an almighty breath and dived down, hoping to discover the cove where, like me, I felt certain she had been trapped. Thank God, it took but an instant to find her. She was wedged, as I had been, in one of the monumental hollows, and the impact must have knocked her senseless. I grabbed her legs and pulled for all I was worth, and she floated free, and we rose to the surface. But still she was limp and unconscious. And then the dread notion assailed me. What if she were no longer living?
Even as the fearful thought struck unbidden, it was denied. Her lashes fluttered, and then her eyes opened and seemed to register my presence, whilst the semblance of a smile played upon her parting lips. A violent spasm shook her, and choking and heaving, she began to rid herself of the unutterable flood. And as she restored herself, I continued to hold her with all my strength.
“Thank God!” I breathed, “you’re safe.” But no sooner had I given expression to my relief than it dawned on me that Hector was nowhere to be seen. I scanned the length and breadth of the pool, and each dark corner, and I drew a blank. Nothing! How could I conceivably duck again, without abandoning Hermione?
As I wrestled with this new dilemma, Hector’s head suddenly appeared an arm’s length away. His eyes rested on us for fully ten seconds, and although he uttered not a word, I could tell that he was being steadily redeemed from dismay and disbelief, until he was wholly reassured and himself again. I guessed what had happened: of course he too had plunged in unison with me, and joined the frantic search for his sister. It had been my unerring luck to discover her as speedily as I did, while he continued to hunt until the blood sang in his head. So were the three of us reunited; but without the ability to stand, and with the water still rising so that barely three feet remained between us and the roof, our prospects overall were appalling.
The water had to drain away eventually somewhere. We had seen other tunnels leading from the main passage, which could conceivably have once formed part of an irrigation system. But how long would it take for the level to subside, particularly through channels blocked by the wreckage and alluvium of flash flood? And still the water continued to rise.
I was rapidly nearing the end of my strength, endeavouring to keep myself as well as Hermione afloat. Thankfully she had now regained consciousness and was beginning to respond to the situation, and Hector relieved me of the task of supporting her. He was besides more powerfully built and a better swimmer than I. But strength and endurance notwithstanding, no hope on earth seemed to avail us or prevent our drowning like rats in an inundated sewer.
Yet there remained one possibility of escape; and it dawned on both Hector and me in the same instant that the one, and doubtless the only, practicable exit, given the absence of any prospect of immediate drainage, was provided by the central shaft which served both to ventilate and illuminate the underground chamber.
There was not a moment to lose. Our heads were bobbing but two feet below the ceiling. We paddled over to the dwindling patch of light, which represented our last flickering chance of staying alive.
Looking up the chimney to the pale sky above perceptibly raised our spirit. Should the level of the water continue to rise, there was space enough for the three of us to be borne aloft with it. I likened our circumstances to those of the explorers in the Jules Verne story, ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’, who are saved from the subterranean sea, by being propelled up the crater of an extinct volcano to the outer atmosphere. But our progress might not be so rapid, though the distance were much less. And what if the flood had now peaked? It might take forever and a day to recede, by which unconscionable time we should surely have ceased to tread water and perished.
Yet there was another solution. The latent thought, at once concealed and patent, struck like a lightning bolt. The chimney, while its sides appeared smooth and sheer so as to offer scant possibility of foot or hand-hold, had at least the advantage of being sufficiently narrow to contain and lend leverage to a substantial body attempting to ascend it.
I looked at Hector, whose contemplations had clearly reached a similar conclusion. “Well, what do you think? We could give it a try.” But then I realized with a sickening sense of despair that Hermione had not the strength, though she may not have lacked the resolve, to haul herself the whole length of that vertical cleft. Equally, it was painfully certain that neither I nor Hector, whether taking it in turn or heaving together, would be capable of pulling Hermione up the vent between us.
“I think,” said Hector, with that air of assurance that was his stock-in-trade no matter how dire the conditions affecting him, “it will be best if one of us can climb out of here and find a rope, and preferably someone else to give a hand, leaving the other to keep an eye on Hermione. Obviously there’s no way she can haul herself out in her present state.”
“I agree,” I said: “it seems to me that you’re probably better equipped than I to claw your way out of here. I’ll stay with Hermione. I reckon I can hold out for as long as it takes. But, for Christ’s sake, be quick!” Hector’s self-confidence had affected me, superficially at any rate. But I knew in my heart that I should be hard put to it to keep both myself and Hermione afloat for any appreciable length of time.
By now our free head-room had all but disappeared. Hector hoisted himself up into the well, wedging his body in the narrow space directly above us, feet and back braced against the walls. Then he began to ease himself upward with surprising agility and speed.
“Piece of cake!” he shouted down the shaft. “Be out of here in no time flat.” I watched his silhouette receding against the glare. What would happen if he slipped? Came crashing down on us? Knocked us all out? But he did not. Hector kept on going, and very soon had reached the top. I can still see his face peering over the edge and hear his parting shout.
“Just hang on, will you: be back in a tick!”
“Hurry! Be quick!” I gasped rather unnecessarily; and I doubt whether he heard me.
Hermione and I were on our own. In any other circumstances I would have welcomed such seclusion. But here we were, at the bottom of a dismal pit, exhausted and afraid, and fighting for our lives.
Hermione was no longer helpless. I noticed that she had transferred her weight away from me, and was able to support herself freely. But the effort was costing her dear. By reaching up, I found I could hold on to a slender ledge or groove let into the rock, forming a sort of cornice at the base of the well. Guiding her hand on to this slight projection gave us both added purchase, and served us well so long as the level of the water remained fairly constant. In fact there had been no noticeable variation in the latter since about the time that Hector hauled himself clear. If we were not to be buoyed gently up the shaft, then I hoped we could stay where we were until help came. But if the tide turned, so-to-speak, and the flow diminished, we should be faced with the choice of hanging on for dear life, or being reduced to floundering around once more in the black lake below. And I was filled with the awful fear that the waters would recede with such force, that we should be caught in the resulting vortex and sucked down some dark corridor, never to see the light of day again. Holding grimly on to the ledge with one hand and ever more tightly on to Hermione with the other, I tried to banish these gloomy notions from my mind.
“Are you all right?” It was her voice, straining, breathless in my ear. Her voice, faint and filled with apprehension. Still, it was her voice, expressing concern for me, rather than for her own condition. She was smiling a forlorn, reflective smile; her eyes glistening and moistened from within. I pressed my lips to her brow and to her eyes in turn.
“And what about you? You, O dearest one! Try to hold on. I won’t let you go.”
The smile had reached her eyes. She placed her lips on mine momently.
“Mind your heads!” The caution came bellowing down the well. Hector let fall the coil of rope. We ducked. I seized the cord which had the insubstantial feel of a cow tether, and tying it under Hermione’s arms, prayed that it would do the trick.
“Haul away!” I shouted; and the next instant, she was whirling furiously up the shaft and into the light.
Then came my turn. Spinning up, and over the lip, and back to the land of the living. What blessed relief!
We lay in the long grass, gazing heavenwards, careless of the cutting blades, numb to all discomfort. I was keenly conscious of the song of birds, chirr of cricket, and cicada’s drone: the crescendo came from all around, where none had been before, and smote my ears so long accustomed to the vaulted noiselessness below. Had it always been so, obliterated by absorption or the inner thrum? No. Fair Nature’s mood had revived, shedding all suspicion and every care. The sky was clear once more. The storm had passed; might not have been, were it not for the constant rush of aggravated flow.
Hermione lay beside me. I brushed her lips with mine; no crushing clasp, our slightest contact let the current flow. I smelt her sweetness and I felt the pressure of her smile.
“Now now you two!” Who else but Hector? He was grinning like a Cheshire-cat. “It must be time for tea.” And although I am not inclined to take tea in the tropics, it seemed to me, a very sound idea.
“Tea for three: just follow me.” I drawled. “Would you like it at the ‘Bush’ or the ‘Shampoo’?” ‘Shampoo’ was the waggish invention of Hector, who always referred to the gracious Hotel Tjampuhan by that name.
We decided on the ‘Shampoo’. Hermione, who seemed to have made a most miraculous recovery, wondered whether we should be feasting on soap-suds and pomade, or some other creamy substance. The derivation explained, it was pointed out that cream, as in clotted, was rather hard to come by: at least we should be glad to settle for a pot of Java tea and sticky cakes.
“But how did you manage to find the rope so quickly?” Though each second in that catacomb had been an eternity, yet our ordeal awaiting Hector’s return could not have endured beyond five minutes.
“Simple as pie!” he replied. “You see those cows peering at us somewhat anxiously through the hedge over there?” I turned in the direction his finger was pointing. Sure enough, there were two cows and a calf. “Well, I relieved them of their halters and tether-ropes, having asked their permission of course; tied a couple of knots, and—presto! one splendid sheet capable of hoisting a cow—two cows in fact.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Hermione, with enormous emphasis on ‘beg’. And it was the first time she had laughed and shown her perfect teeth that day.
He also had a way with animals. In my experience, Bali cows tended to be coy and difficult to coax. But these beasts stayed where they were and stood placidly as Hector slipped the halters over their horns, then tied the tethers to tussocks of tall grass. I doubted whether their owner could have performed the task so neatly. I expressed my admiration accordingly.
“Got a few moos chez-nous, you know,” came Hector’s explanation. “Now which way do we go?”
We had emerged in a field of alang-alang, bordered on three sides by quickset of coral-bean and hibiscus, behind which lay rough pasturage, and on the other by a sheer drop into the river. A grass-cutter’s track led perilously near the edge to a movable section of hedge. Crossing terraces of short turf, we soon found ourselves back on the path from which we had deviated with such unforeseen consequences earlier that afternoon.
Presently we passed near the hollow where lurked the entrance to the cave. “I know a great secret passage. Would anyone care to explore?” Our merriment at Hector’s announcement was a trifle forced, I felt. But yes, given the opportunity and more clement weather, I doubted if I would be able to suppress the urge to venture in the cave once more. It contained a mystery that cried out to be solved. I wanted to know the origin of the offering.
Thus musing, we came to another giddy conglomeration of cracked bamboos and wire, suspended high above the surging river. We all three marched across without batting an eyelid between us, though I remembered that I had been rather hesitant in negotiating this particular span previously. Ten minutes later, we were on the main road.
A minibus hove in view and I hailed it.
“What’s this?” scorned Hector. “Can’t stand the pace?”
“Have a care,” I said, “Hermione only stepped off the plane this morning. I know it seems like half a lifetime ago.”
“Right you are,” Hector nodded. “Of course, absolutely right.” Then turning towards his sister; “Forgive me: it must have been a strain. We could all do with a ride.” It was the first nice thing he had said to her.
Later, sitting in the spacious dining-room of the good Hotel “Shampoo” a great array of queerly coloured cakes and buns spread on the table before us, we indulged in reminiscence.
“There was somebody there. There had to be someone,” said Hermione. “I’d go back like a shot to find out who it was. How is it that we saw no one? I’m sure that joss-stick was lit only a few minutes before we came across it. What do you think?” She looked at us both in turn.
But neither Hector nor I could come up with an explanation. And we let it go at that. I should say I let it go at that. The problem was that I was obliged to return to England in only a couple of days’ time. My holiday was up. Otherwise I should have been only too eager to return to the cavern and make it yield its secret.
After tea we adjourned to our respective quarters to clean ourselves up, rest, and put on some dry clothes. This had been my second sodden meal in 24 hours. First we agreed to rendezvous at the Beggars’ Bush for dinner.
