Elisha’s Bones Read Free Page A

I’m two decades younger than Jim and so I leave him behind. By the time I reach the tomb entrance, the first of my team are exiting from the earth’s darkened maw. The clinical part of me notes that the doorway is intact; there are no new fissures along the limestone and shale layers to indicate an earthquake. The plebes are coughing; they’re covered in dust. One of the National Geographic guys is cradling a broken camera.
    I see Brown come out. He’s coughing but he gives me a small wave. “We’re fine,” he manages.
    Despite his assurances, I do a head count. With everyone moving around, I have to do it twice before I’m reasonably sure that everyone’s accounted for. And it is this relative assurance which makes me feel better about what I ask next.
    “Is the sarcophagus okay?”
    Brown, who is still hacking up dust, gives an emphatic nod. “It’s fine. The structure held; everything’s fine.”
    The fact that the team is all right, coupled with our good fortune of the tomb still being intact, elates me, and it takes a bit of the edge off of the urgency I’m feeling. When Jim reaches us, his breathing labored, he takes his own turn ascertaining the health of his charges and then runs a clinical eye over the dig site. The sun is directly overhead and there are no shadows in the valley, yet his eyes are hooded. Sweat beads on his forehead. He looks like a big-game hunter out on the savannah, surveying the vast terrain. Images like this are what I juxtapose against the more common mien of the academic that is his normal skin.
    “What was it?” Jim asks.
    The question gives me pause. I know it wasn’t an earthquake, and Brown insists the tomb is intact, which precludes a cave-in. And what kind of cave-in would have been felt across the hundred yards separating the tomb from the RV anyway? Could it have been a whole subterranean cavern collapsing in upon itself?
    “I don’t know,” I finally say.
    I half acknowledge that one of the National Geographic cameras is snapping again, and I feel a bit like the emperor sans clothes. I’m hoping that this part will wind up on the cutting-room floor, but that’s wishful thinking. More than likely, there will be an inset with a picture of my face, complete with poignant caption.
    Jim doesn’t say anything but I see him doing the same thing I am: ascertaining how an event we can’t qualify has affected us. There’s a very real hope that it hasn’t. Our team and our site appear to be unhurt. This last thought hangs there, teasing me with something I can’t quite put my finger on. I stand there, hands on hips, still catching my breath and squinting against the sun. I’m looking at the faces of these people I’ve come to know over the last few months, and it seems like a long time passes before it hits me that the face that should be most familiar is missing.
    “Where’s Will?”
    The question falls on deaf ears. Most of them are milling about, content to let others determine what happens next. Jim is busy talking with Brown about the contents of the opened sarcophagus. The National Geographic guys are snapping away. It then occurs to me that neither of the two excavators assisting my brother is here, either. I smile and shake my head; it’s just like Will to ignore the unanticipated movement of the very earth into which he’s digging.
    I don’t realize I’ve left the group until I’m already halfway around the hill. I’m not sure what it is that makes me uneasy; I only register that I’m no longer smiling. That’s when it hits me: I can’t hear any noise coming from the auxiliary dig site.
    I break into a jog and it’s just as I’m about to round the last bend separating me from Will’s team that I hear the first cries.
    I now start to sprint, and as the last of the rock shifts out of my line of sight, I catch a first glimpse of Will’s dig, with fear now my only reality. Where there should be straight grid lines and pin flags and a clean trench