Movement (10 page)

Putting his arm around her shoulder, Colin said, “Don't look so worried. We'll find them.”

“You said that ten minutes ago. Don't
you
get uptight.” She stopped abruptly. “Hey, aren't these familiar?” She picked up some orange worry beads from the sand.

“Oh, god, they're Ronald's,” he said. “His favorite obsession. Oh, god.”

“Hey, hey, calm down Dr. Watson. We don't have a corpse yet. Let's go back a bit. We must have walked past them.”

The hard, yellow street lights of St. Just glared from the emptiness like distant sulphur torches lit by absent citizens. The footpath toward the town was barely discernible. The cows in the nearby field had blurred into twilight. A lone sheep moved over the rocks down by the waves. “Hey, isn't that them?” she asked. “Isn't that Andre's coat?”

Colin loped down the hill, ignoring the path, shouting, “Where the fuck have you guys been?”

When she caught up, Andre and Colin were standing with their hands on their hips looking down. “Insane. Insane,” Andre was saying. “It's my fault. Insane. Insane.”

Susan looked at him closely, as if fixing him in her stare would steady him. “Where is Ronald?” she asked slowly.

“In the cave. In the cave. Down there, can't you see?”

No, she couldn't see. She couldn't see anything. Night on the cliffs. A trial for true knights. “How long has he been there?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“I was telling him about
The Manticore
by Robertson Davies.”

“Andre,” she shouted, “Is Ronald all right?”

“I don't know. I don't know.” He turned toward the ocean and flapped his arms. “He just hasn't come out.”

She knelt down and peered into the dark cave, calling, “Ronald. Ronald.”

A noise surfaced. A long, low noise. She couldn't tell if it was the wind or the sea or a moan. She couldn't hear below Andre's wailing. “Colin, will you try to calm him down?”

“Ronald. Ronald,” she shouted.

Again. A peculiar, childlike sound. Fearful, pathetic, desperate. A faint, wordless cry.

“OK, Ronald,” she called. “Get ahold of yourself. We're here. Hold on.”

She turned her head back toward Andre. “How deep is it? Why can't he get out?”

“He told me he was all right,” said Andre. “I had read about it in this book. Always hoped to find one. A cave, I mean. In the book, a man goes through the cave and finds himself in the process of coming out. Ronald said he would go first and I would follow. About a half-hour ago. He got caught.”

She interrupted Andre, trying to draw out a clearer story.

But he continued as before. “It was my fault. My idea. He got caught on a rock or something. Maybe the tide frightened him. Couldn't move either way. It's the water. The water. The time. I know I should have left to get help. But I was … paralyzed. Afraid I would never find him again. I thought you would come.” His voice broke and he began weeping. “I waited forever.”

“Now hold on,” she said, “it's not your fault. It's not our fault. Look, what are we drivelling on about? There's a man down there who's going to drown in high tide if we don't do something.”

Susan measured the width of the cave. “It's a problem of time. That tide probably has a half-hour. Maybe we could get help from the village if we ran. Maybe not.”

“What can we do?” shouted Andre.

“Colin, why don't you get up to St. Just?” she said. “You run. I'll try to do what I can here. I'll try to release the rock or whatever's catching him.”

“No, no. I'll do it.” Colin moved her to the side and peered into the cave. “I'm stronger.”

“It's the only way,” she said. “I'm the only one who's small enough. Please,” she shouted. “We don't have time.”

He ran off toward the yellowed village.

“Ronald,” she shouted. “Listen, Ronald. We're coming down to get you.” She heard the moan again. “Try to prop yourself up as high as you can. I know you're tired, Ronald, but try.”

Andre was standing over her, tapping his walking stick against the opening. “He said he didn't know who he was, bound up by all those pressures,” Andre spoke frantically. “I told him he was being rash, impatient.”

Why couldn't he shut up for a minute? Susan was sorry for Andre, but she was more worried about Ronald. And if she told him to be quiet, he would just start sobbing again. Suddenly she said, “Andre, the stick. Have you got any matches?”

“I smoked my last cigarette twenty minutes ago, sorry.”

“I don't want a cigarette,” she snapped. “Do you have any matches, Andre? Quick.”

“Matches. Yes, here, but.…”

“And the stick.”

He looked at her blankly.

“The walking stick.” She pulled it out of his loose grip. “It's the only piece of dry wood around here.”

Before he could protest, she was trying to ignite the cane.

“Have you gone mad?” shouted Andre. “Take hold of yourself, Susan. What are you doing?” He tried to wrestle the cane from her.

“Light. Don't you see? Light. To look inside the cave. To get a sense of dimension. To see how Ronald is.” She spit out the words, more and more anxious about the stick. Finally it caught the flame. Backing away from the glare for a moment, she thrust it firmly into the black hole. She could see the moist, jagged ridges of the cave, then the edge of its crouched inhabitant. All she could recognize was Ronald's back. A patch of red parka. The flame went out.

“Ronald. Ronald. Can you hear me, Ronald?” Another low moan rose. The contortion of his body must be terribly painful. How could he have done it? How could they get him out? Why was he doubled over? He must have changed his mind about how to get out. He must have turned upside down and tried to swim out the bottom. But the cave was too narrow to exit there. So now he was stuck, with his head and feet facing down. His back wedged across the cave. Caught both ways. Worse than she thought. She had counted on his height giving them time against the tide. But he lost three feet by bending over. Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen. Colin would never make it back.

A faint sound surfaced.

“How is he?” Andre demanded.

“See for yourself.” She lit the cane and turned toward the village.

“No. I'm a coward,” said Andre. “I admit it. Just tell me how he is. Does it look hopeful?”

“No.” She looked over the ocean now, the cane flaming in her hand. It left her blind against the black water, as if she were using flashbulbs in a long, dark tunnel.

“Why?” said Andre.

“He's got himself stuck in a Chinese puzzle. Caught both ways.”

“Poor Ronald. He was so afraid of something.”

She stamped out the flame and removed her parka.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm going down.”

“Without the flare?”

“It wouldn't do any good,” she said, lowering her foot carefully. “It's a matter of feeling out the wedges, of grabbing and holding. Anyway, there's no room for it.”

“You're crazy,” he screamed. “At least wait until they get back.”

“There's nothing to wait for, or there won't be,” she got a foothold. “He'll be gone by that time, if he's not already.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I don't know.”

She placed one foot close after the other, climbing deeper. Deeper. Her left foot slipped and she could feel the shoe loosen. She heard it swoosh off her foot. It seemed to take minutes before it landed on Ronald's back. A thud, followed by a groan. At least he's alive, she thought and cried, “Oh.”

“Are you OK?” shouted Andre. He hadn't needed to shout. She was just an inch or two below the beginning.

“Yes. Don't worry about me yet. Think about ropes—things we can use to pull us out. Your belt. And that strap from Ronald's handbag.”

“And my binoculars,” he shouted.

“Right.” The waves were higher than she anticipated. Her only chance was to dislodge Ronald, attach him to a rope and pull him up after she climbed out.

Her foot slipped and the rock on which she was balancing crumbled against the wall. She thought she would fall straight on Ronald. Her only reaction was acceptance. A sense of inevitability. No regret or fear. No reaction, really. But she felt a ledge below and managed to catch herself diagonally across the tunnel.

“Are you all right?” shouted Andre.

“Yes,” she said, “yes.” His panic was oddly reassuring. It gave her something to react against. Steadied her. She felt a cold chill run down one leg, paralyzing her for a second. Then another chill. It was the water. The waves spitting. The water. Everything accelerated. She felt like the film had snapped and the projector was speeding. Dark. Water. Hard, rock edges. Cold. Roars from the waves; echoes from the cave. Sloshing feet inside and outside. Moans from Ronald. “Are you all right? Are you all right?” She realized she was the one who was supposed to answer. She felt free. A sense of release. Surrender would be so easy. No one to see or hear. No one else. She caught herself. She groped for Ronald with her foot. He was just beneath her. She could feel his warmth through the parka. She could also feel the wet.

The tide had risen. Water just below her feet now. And above her were sheer walls, the ones she had fallen past. Straddled over him, her legs astride the tunnel, she bent down to pull him up. Frantically, purposely, systematically, she tried various ways of releasing him. He couldn't budge. Impossible. One life, feelings fragmented her thoughts. One death, one life, were enough.

“Are you all right? Are you all right?” She wished she could reassure Andre. She slipped down to something soft.

“No,” she shouted suddenly. She ranged her hands over the sides of the cave. No way to climb back up. Water had reached her ankles. Standing on tiptoes, she was revolted that her support was Ronald's back. She could feel the slipperiness of his parka through her stocking. Something. One finger touched something. Some kind of projection above her head. Not tall enough, she was not tall enough and the water … the water was reaching her knees. She felt a sudden anxiety about her watch. The watch she had bought in Switzerland years ago. The watch wasn't waterproofed. She pulled the chain over her head and swung it, lasso-like, in the direction of the protrusion just above her head. It caught and held steady. Very precisely and forcefully she tugged it. Working as a lever, it supported her to the ridge several inches above. Surprised by the endurance of the chain, she felt a twinge of remorse as the watch smashed against the wall of the cave. What was that John Cameron Swayze commercial with all the water rising faster and faster and.…

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” On her way out now, no question. As the water lapped after her, she strained and pushed and forced her way out. The momentum was there. The water was more reminder than threat. She knew she would make it. That was certain. And for the last minute of straining and stretching, she actually enjoyed this sensation of movement. She caught sight of a fire at the top of the cave. Torches. They lit the faces of four men. Four serious, worried—and now—relieved faces.

“Ronald?” asked Colin. “We've lost him?”

“Yes,” she said.

“But you're all right?” asked Andre. You're all right?”

She nodded.

Susan was sitting alone, sorting through a dozen contact sheets. The village shots were OK, but she would have to go back with a filter for the cliff photographs. It was odd to be back in Cornwall after all these months. She was glad she had returned for the inquest.

The hearing was brief and uneventful. Ronald's wife had requested the body. The cave had been sealed off by the Council. Testimony was finished in an hour. This inquest reminded Susan that her sadness for Ronald had not ended, would probably never end. It revived old fears and she was grateful to realize that some of these
had
already ended. The memory of that afternoon was like a cold fog through which her heart passed during splinters of her nightmares and during twinges in uneasy days. But she knew she would be OK. For her the inquest was a sober commencement ceremony. She knew she would be OK.

After the hearing she climbed into the familiar old car with Andre and Colin. They exchanged news. Both men were surprised her book was almost finished. Andre said his life was going well. He was coming to terms with his ambition. Working full time to pay for his psychoanalysis. Going every day helped him a lot. Colin barely got a word in. He said he was standing as a Scottish National Party candidate. The inquest was making a big dent in his campaign, still he had wanted to come down for it.

Colin offered her a lift North. Andre invited her to have lunch. But she said she had more photographs to take. So they both promised to write and dropped her off at the beach alone.

Cultured Green

Hot, crowded, chickens underfoot. Suffocating, but if she opened the window, the pig on the roof might piss in her face again. Mother had told her those Towel Moists would come in handy. So what was a nice Job's Daughter,
magna cum laude
social studies teacher from Seattle doing in a twenty-year old Bluebird school bus sputtering from Guatemala City to Oaxaca on the grace of a reconditioned rear axle and a dust-streaked statue of the Blessed Virgin?

Six months from Southern Chile. Buses all the same vintage, all with the same Noah's Ark contingent. Six months of brown-bellied Australians who drove vans cushioned with semen-caked sleeping bags. She was ready to go home. She didn't know if she belonged in the States. She did know she didn't belong here. Rudolfo's wild orchid was dying from its own steam in the plastic bag at her feet. Her backpack was stuffed with mementos from Eduardo in Santiago, Anna in Rosario, Señora Pardo in Belem. Remarkable hospitality. Volcanoes of food. The best bed in the house. Nothing accepted in return. One thing, expected, in return. If it were not too much trouble (the best English, including the subjunctive, in cases like this), did she know a school for their brother Juan or Lupe or Raul? Her new friends—they were the innocents abroad. This responsibility they gave her was heavy and maybe that's why she was going home. The further north she went, the hotter it got. The orchid was dead an hour ago.