In the Belly of the Earth Read online

  With his expectations high, he took the flashlight and turned it backward in his hand. He placed it at an angle against the rock and slowly began to push it back and forth, back and forth, pressing harder with each stroke. The good news was that the metal surface managed to cut away an almost inch-long swath in the wall, measuring a centimeter deep. The bad news was that it took almost an hour do so. When he finished this first experiment and set the flashlight down, his arms felt almost useless. He stared at the rock, trying to calculate just how long it would take to carve his way out. Even if he possessed superhuman strength and worked nonstop round the clock, it would take over ten days. Considering his need to rest, not to mention sleep, the task would take three times as long. This put him trapped in the cave for well over a month.

  A month.

  The realization bombarded him with a wave of gloom. He lowered his head and rested it on his open palm. Could he survive that long? Even if there remained plenty to eat and drink, would his mind hold up? Could he possibly stay sane? There was no way to know. The reality of what it would take to return to the world of sky and sun and people was so daunting he could do little but breathe.

  Nevertheless, the next morning, after breakfasting on a handful of crickets, he began. The flashlight felt good in his hands, the cold metal warming quickly against his palm. With shoulders hunched for leverage, he pushed back and forth as hard as he could. Rock crumbled and fell almost at once. He smiled. It would work. It had to work. By midday he had managed to widen half a foot of stone by an inch. He allowed himself a bit of rest and stared at what he’d accomplished. Part of him was elated that the job was possible. The rock would give way, eventually. But another side of his mind pondered just how weak he felt, how the morning’s work had seemed like many days compressed into one. His arms did not just ache. They were on fire. All the way down to the bone. He stretched his fingers in attempt to push out the pain. They felt as raw as ten bloated sausages attached to his palm. But he had no choice but to press on.

  Something cawed outside in the open. Fred looked up.

  A coal-black crow sat perched on a tree just beyond the fissure, tilting its head back and forth as if studying him. Fred blinked. Waited for it to go away. But it remained there, observing his every move.

  Fred sighed with irritation. “Go away,” he muttered at it. But the crow did not obey.

  Hours later, beyond exhausted, he held the flashlight in weakened hands and closed his eyes. He knew he needed to rest, if only for a moment.

  What is the use? A voice spoke from outside.

  Fred’s eyes flew open. The crow was still watching him.

  I asked you a question, child. What is the use of what you do there?

  Fred froze, peering into the doll’s eye gaze of the creature. It was a dozen yards away, but its voice was clear inside his head. He decided he must be dreaming.

  “I am carving my way out of here,” he said.

  The bird chuckled, but the sound was more like sand ground between teeth. It shook its greasy plumage, gave three quick beats of its wings, and leapt down to the entrance of the cave. It stuck its beak into the shadows and stared at the boy all the harder. Why labor for something impossible? There is no way out.

  “I disagree.”

  But you will die of exhaustion before you succeed.

  “I have no other choice.”

  Of course you do! The crow laughed again. Fred wished it would stop finding his fate amusing.

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  I most certainly will not. I am your only friend. I am the first voice you have heard since you fell, am I not?

  “You’re not real.”

  How do you know?

  “Because crows don’t talk.”

  In response, the bird drew in its wings and stepped fully into the cave. In four quick hops it was almost upon him, but stopped within arm’s length.

  I am no figment of your fevered imagination, it said proudly. If that’s what you’re thinking.

  “Yes you are! You’re a hallucination. And I wish you’d go away.”

  The crow cawed softly, as if offended.

  “Why are you here?” Fred asked.

  I’ve to save you from believing in things unattainable. Why leap when the sky is so high? Why swim when you will only drown? Stay safe, I say. Stay safe where risk cannot reach you, and neither can pain.

  Fred scraped harder still. Rock crumbled and fell. “Are you suggesting I remain here? That I actually stay in the cave?”

  Why not? There is everything you could possibly need. It is not bereft of discomforts, to be sure. But life is not a party, child. It is survival. It is digging in where the ground is soft enough and staying put. It is thanking your lucky stars when you have a meal to eat, be it carrots or crickets. It is being content.

  “I could never be content here.”

  Why?

  “I want to see the sun.”

  The crow glanced over its shoulder at the growing day, then looked back at Fred. You can see the sun well enough already.

  “But I want to feel it.”

  Trust me, you are much safer in the dark. The light reveals too many things better left hidden.

  “You’re a liar!” he spat.

  The crow leaned down even closer as Fred scraped. It brought its onyx beak within an inch of the other’s ear and spoke almost in a hiss. I know what you endure, child. I know the way others look at you when you enter a room. They laugh at the mere sight of you! You are a strange, sad sort of creature. So smart that people hate you. So awkward that folks will never stop gawking at how you walk, how you speak, even how you raise your hand. They will laugh at you forever and always. Mark my words.

  “It’s not like that.”

  Indeed, child, it’s worse. Mind your hands.

  Fred looked down and saw drops of blood sprinkled on the ground. He pulled one hand from the flashlight, then the other and turned them over to examine. Both palms were almost entirely blistered. Somehow, in the adrenalin of his discussion with the crow, he hadn’t felt the onslaught of increasing discomfort. But looking now on the bulbous pockets of fluid, many of them burst and bleeding, a jolt of pain flashed up both arms. It felt like his hands had been dipped in acid or boiling water until the skin had sloughed away.

  My poor, poor child, the crow said. How maddening it must be to fail.

  “What am I going to do?” Fred asked, holding his palms upward as they burned.

  Rest, the crow counseled. And do not try again.

  12

  His hands were worse the next morning, swollen and oozing. It was torturous even to move his fingers. He sat on the rock floor and stared at the morning light as it danced through leaves and branches. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, imagining himself out in the open, arms flung wide, with no shadows or walls to keep him prisoner.

  There was nothing he could do. In maddening despair, he lay flat on his back and draped his arm over his eyes. When flies landed on his blistered hands he shook them wildly, though the effort caused fresh waves of fiery pain. He tried hard to hold it together, but his chin began to quiver as fresh tears rolled down. He had no choice but to stay there, to wait until his hands were healed enough to resume the scraping. He decided to use shreds of his shirt in the future as a makeshift glove to ensure no more blisters. He would learn from his mistakes. He would work as long and as hard as he could to escape into freedom. He would not listen to the crow.

  Sleep, he told himself. Close your eyes and forget everything until your hands are healed.

  He breathed a long and weary sigh and closed his eyes. Despite the pain, he managed to sink into a sleep so deep the world became vapor.

  * * *

  Icy wind clawed at his face. The sun was shining outside the cave, no longer the yellowish glow of summer, but pale and white and faded. The leaves were gone from the trees, exposing craggy gray branches and limbs trembling in the cold. Snow was on the ground now, blown round in powdery
clouds that sparkled in weakened sunlight.

  Fred tried to move but could not. He was on his stomach in the fissure. He felt one arm stretched forward, his fingers still clutching the flashlight. He knew he had carved many feet of rock, closer than ever to the opening of the cave. But he was so tired now. It had taken so long. There was no counting days. Or even weeks. Now seasons marked the passage of time. Summer had given way to autumn, autumn to winter. He was so close. So close. Only days away. If only he could manage to lift the flashlight. Fred clenched his teeth. They felt brittle and exposed. He looked down at his arm. There on the cave floor, where his hand should have been were only bones, white and bare, picked clean of flesh. Still clutched within a skeleton's fingers was the flashlight, worn now to a stub of shredded metal.

  He tried to scream, but had no lungs, only an empty rib cage.

  You’re much better now, someone croaked. He turned his eyes to see the Crow perched upon his shoulder blade. It leaned its head down and pecked the final piece of desiccated flesh from his neck, chewing and swallowing in an instant.

  Fred awoke screaming. The light was gone but the air was warm and he could hear wind rustling leaves outside the cave. His heart rate slowed down. It had been just a dream, after all.

  Or an omen.

  He could not sleep the rest of the night, staring up into the dark. His hands were so tender even the caress of the wind hurt them. But to shield them from the elements was to risk touching them, and that would hurt worse than anything. He held them palm up on his thighs and pondered what to do next.

  He was certain now that the dream had showed him what awaited if he stayed there. He would die. The torture of seeing unreachable sunlight would eventually destroy his soul. Winter would come and freeze his bones.

  It took two more days for his hands to scab over and harden enough for movement. He ate as many crickets as he could, then stuffed his pockets full. He checked the flashlight and found the beam still strong, then crept slowly back down into the flooded tunnel. The water’s cold stole his breath away but he continued onward until all but the top half of his head was submerged. Holding the flashlight above water as before he passed quickly through the tunnel and reached the other side within minutes. He climbed out of the water, shook himself as dry as possible, and continued on to the main room. The wider space, though darker than dark, served to calm him in a way. At least there he didn’t have to stare at something he could never reach. At least there he could try to find another way.

  His first effort was to retry the main tunnel above, from where he’d been pushed into this dark world. He was lighter now, and had fresh energy from the crickets. Perhaps he could conquer that final three feet that had barred him before. After clambering up the muddy slope he made his way easily to the far side of the cave that had been his dark home for those first terrifying days. He shined the flashlight at the tunnel. It looked closer now. Lower. Reachable.

  After several deep breaths, he crouched low, counted to three, and sprang forward at a sprint. He reached the base of the incline, bounded up like a mountain goat. To his shock, his hands were able to reach and grip the bottom lip of the tunnel. He hung there, legs kicking wildly over a sheer drop beneath. For a moment of pure elation he thought he might be able to pull himself up, but the sudden overwhelming pain from his scabbed blisters and the weight of his body loosed his grip and yanked him downward once again. He lowered his arm to catch himself, smashed against the rock, heard and felt a snap, then rolled all the way down. When he reached the bottom at last, he tried to rise, but white-hot pain consumed his upper arm, like someone had stabbed him with a knife and twisted it. He grimaced, cried out, almost fainted. A dull numbness now pooled within the tissue. He reached over with his other arm to feel for an injury, probing fingers immediately feeling and withdrawing from an unnatural shard of bone jutting out from within his arm. He gingerly tried to move it, but fresh pain flashed him to nausea.

  His arm was broken.

  The realization settled upon him like an anvil on his chest. The blisters were a nuisance. But a broken bone was a death sentence. He would not be able to climb out. Nor would he be able to carve his way out with only one good arm. His only two options for escape had just been utterly and irretrievably torn from his grasp.

  He was going to die there.

  Fred lay motionless for a long while. He thought of his parents, tried to imagine their faces but saw only their twisted contortions of grief. How long would it take to meet his end? How long could he survive on crickets alone? How could he end things quickly, so he would not have to suffer?

  No. He could not, would not think this way.

  He struggled to his feet and moved to the larger pool for a drink. Reaching the water’s edge was much harder now, but with a series of groans and grunts he was able to lean down enough to scoop out a handful of water and bring it to his lips. Once he’d had his fill he sat down with the flashlight on his legs, its beam shining into the aqua depths of the pool. He soon noticed something odd about its far edge, where cave wall met the water, deep under its surface. There seemed a blacker emptiness there, as if another tunnel lay submerged.

  Maybe there was another way out after all.

  13

  Doubts struck almost immediately. If in fact there was a tunnel beneath the pool, the only way forward was completely underwater. He’d never been a strong swimmer. Disliked it even on a warm day in the sun. He’d be swimming blind, holding his breath, all but frozen to the bone. And what of his flashlight? Even if he ended up feeling his way to another room, the thing would be waterlogged - batteries, bulb, wiring and all. He could try to dry it out after the fact, but there was always the risk that his light would be gone forever.

  Fred switched off the beam. Its battery life felt more precious than ever. There in shrouded silence his mind raced, distracting him from a barrage of pain in his blistered hand, his broken arm, his every weary cell. Voices spoke to him in the dark.

  You mustn’t risk it, the Crow said. You know that you cannot swim well. You will drown within seconds. It is far too cold. You will perish from hypothermia. Your light will go out. The mere notion is insanity. You mustn’t even think of it.

  The sound of the bird’s voice, though grating, offered a kind of comfort. It concurred with thoughts he’d already had. There was no lie in them. Each warning was sound.

  And then another voice came. This one was quieter. No rasp or croak. Just soothingly steady words echoing inside his head like memories.

  A voice that sounded like his dad’s voice.

  You must go deeper to get free.

  “But I might die,” Fred countered.

  You will surely die if you stay. You might live if you go.

  “It’s too risky.”

  Risk is the only way to live.

  Fred thought on this a moment. All the stories in all of history had said the same. No hero becomes such through playing it safe. By taking the easy, common road. They find their victories by risking it all. By diving in, full bore, aware that failure might take them in the end. But reading a story is much different than standing on the precipice yourself.

  “I’m afraid.”

  Have courage, you are not alone.

  Fred stood to his feet and switched on the light. Darkness fled from its beam. He took a step toward the water, then stopped. The Crow’s voice did not hesitate to speak.

  Do not imagine yourself immortal. You are not. Your pride will kill you. Wait here for the chance of rescue.

  Fred shut his eyes, clenched his fists. He just wanted to do the right thing. The wise thing. Which was it? Going or staying?

  It is wise to stay, the Crow said.

  The other voice spoke at once. Do not let fear masquerade as wisdom.

  He stepped closer still to the water.

  It is suicide, the Crow was hissing now.

  But Fred did not need to hear another word. His decision was made. He took the final step into the water and hardl
y felt its frigid sting as he lumbered forward. The floor of the pool angled downward inch by inch, then foot by foot until he was all but underwater. With his toes just barely touching submerged rock, he reached the far wall. His face was above water, his flashlight held high with one arm, its beam sweeping erratic in the air as he tried to stay afloat. With his feet, he probed for the submerged tunnel. It was easy to find, much wider than any tunnel he’d moved through. At least he would not get trapped. Not at first.

  His body shook violently now. The cold was already taking him, seeping into his bones. It was now or never. With his thumb, he turned off the flashlight and dove underwater. Within seconds, his head crunched against the roof of the tunnel. He saw stars in the dark, felt a swirl of dizziness, but kept on swimming as hard as he could. There was no way to tell if he was heading in the right direction, or which way he was facing. He was swimming in icy tar, every muscle growing sluggish in the cold. His lungs began to burn. Panic followed quickly. He had no idea how much time had passed, nor how far he had come. But he soon knew that only seconds remained before he passed out. His mind was already dimming. The next moment his legs grew too weak to move. One and then the other became rigid as wood. He could only paddle with one hand now, but even this felt no stronger than a twig.

  And then his body went rigid, slipping into final shutdown. Bubbles leaked from his mouth, gurgled upward in the water. Slowly he sank, one foot, two feet, until his bent knees struck smooth rock below. His burning lungs turned to fire and his mind filled with ropes of fog. His thoughts spun and swirled and twisted, then faded one by one by one like lights going out in a darkened house, until all that he saw was the face of his mother and father, smiling in the sun, waiting for him to join them in the warmth.

  His body no longer moved, just floating and bobbing gently in the cold dark.

  Then, the second before his lungs gave way in surrender to the water trying to kill him, his legs kicked in one final lurch and shot him upward like a torpedo. His sluggish mind expected his head would crunch against rock, but there was no rock to strike. He broke the water’s surface in a fantastic splash, gulping instinctively for air. New life surged into his frame and he half-swam, half-splashed hard toward some hoped-for shore. It arrived in seconds, a smooth lip of stone that allowed him to roll out of the water with the last of his energy. He collapsed on his back, gasping and coughing and grateful to be alive.