branch, but here the right side was filled with rocks. Left this time, then, and then right again when it branched into three. But it was a dead end, so back out to the fork. Whichtunnel had he actually come from? At a loss, he stood in the smell of decay and death.
He moved, bent forward, farther and farther into the labyrinth. There were no longer any signs of mining in the tunnel, only clusters of stalactites that hung down from the tunnel’s low ceiling. It was cold, a bitter cold that penetrated even the three-layer laminate of the dry suit.
What if he never made it up again? How long would it take before someone wondered where he was? Would anyone start looking for him? Erik Hall hit the tunnel wall with his glove and the beam of light wavered.
Mom had been gone for a long time, and for some reason it struck him to think about what he would leave behind in the lonely cottage. The extent of his fame: three old newspaper clippings.
One of the blurbs, a few inches long, said that he had scored eleven points for his school basketball team in a game long ago. The second was a picture from when the local paper had visited Dala Electric, although he was a little bit hidden from sight in that one. Then there was the achievement itself: a short quote from the big evening paper, when they had done a summer report on the mine in Falun. In that one he’d actually gotten his whole face in. He suddenly remembered: Dyke Divers; he couldn’t forget why he was here.
Erik stopped.
This really must be the end. He looked at his depth gauge, which showed an inconceivable depth of 696 feet. Over 150 feet farther down than the girls, and he had done it without help from anyone.
He took out the spray can with stiff, frozen fingers and shakily sprayed another set of initials: E-H, 212 METERS . Then he thought for a second and added: AD EXTREMUM —at the limit.
He took a few pictures with his underwater camera and then let the light of his headlamp sweep over the tunnel walls. There was something there—
He took a step closer.
Another door? He really ought to turn back.
Yes, it was another iron door, the same kind, the same bolt, this one on the inside, too. The same … chalk?
NÁSTRÖNDU
The thick air streamed into his lungs. Náströndu?
He gave the door a light push.
It immediately gave way, swinging wide open on screeching hinges.
When Erik got control of his breathing again, he finally dared to move forward and peek in.
A stairway wound steeply downward, just behind the door.
Ten extra minutes.
He set the timer on his dive watch and his rubber shoes squeaked as he took a first step.
The stairway formed a tight spiral, as coil after coil led him deeper and deeper. At the opening at the end was a large cave, surely sixty feet high.
There was a slow drip of water that fell down into an overflowing pool. In the middle of this pool rose a stone, and on top of the stone was something that resembled a sack.
The air was heavy to breathe; it flowed like mud and the smell was worse than ever.
Just a quick lap around, and some pictures.
He tried to move as silently as possible, but the scraping of the gravel echoed through the cave. He stopped to calm himself down and listened to the drops that were falling.
The light from his forehead swept over the walls. A vein of copper glimmered to the right, all the way up to the ceiling of the cave.
Erik gave a start when he saw something that resembled an arch-shaped opening to the left. But when he came closer and let his glove glide over the hard surface of the rock, he realized that he had only been tricked by the play of shadows. He shone the light to the leftonce more and then … but there
was
something there! The same shaky lines of chalk—but this time whoever had written them had striven for more than isolated words.
Erik could barely decipher the writing. He took out his camera. It flashed, and he looked disbelievingly at its screen.
O n his way back to the stairs,
He moved, bent forward, farther and farther into the labyrinth. There were no longer any signs of mining in the tunnel, only clusters of stalactites that hung down from the tunnel’s low ceiling. It was cold, a bitter cold that penetrated even the three-layer laminate of the dry suit.
What if he never made it up again? How long would it take before someone wondered where he was? Would anyone start looking for him? Erik Hall hit the tunnel wall with his glove and the beam of light wavered.
Mom had been gone for a long time, and for some reason it struck him to think about what he would leave behind in the lonely cottage. The extent of his fame: three old newspaper clippings.
One of the blurbs, a few inches long, said that he had scored eleven points for his school basketball team in a game long ago. The second was a picture from when the local paper had visited Dala Electric, although he was a little bit hidden from sight in that one. Then there was the achievement itself: a short quote from the big evening paper, when they had done a summer report on the mine in Falun. In that one he’d actually gotten his whole face in. He suddenly remembered: Dyke Divers; he couldn’t forget why he was here.
Erik stopped.
This really must be the end. He looked at his depth gauge, which showed an inconceivable depth of 696 feet. Over 150 feet farther down than the girls, and he had done it without help from anyone.
He took out the spray can with stiff, frozen fingers and shakily sprayed another set of initials: E-H, 212 METERS . Then he thought for a second and added: AD EXTREMUM —at the limit.
He took a few pictures with his underwater camera and then let the light of his headlamp sweep over the tunnel walls. There was something there—
He took a step closer.
Another door? He really ought to turn back.
Yes, it was another iron door, the same kind, the same bolt, this one on the inside, too. The same … chalk?
NÁSTRÖNDU
The thick air streamed into his lungs. Náströndu?
He gave the door a light push.
It immediately gave way, swinging wide open on screeching hinges.
When Erik got control of his breathing again, he finally dared to move forward and peek in.
A stairway wound steeply downward, just behind the door.
Ten extra minutes.
He set the timer on his dive watch and his rubber shoes squeaked as he took a first step.
The stairway formed a tight spiral, as coil after coil led him deeper and deeper. At the opening at the end was a large cave, surely sixty feet high.
There was a slow drip of water that fell down into an overflowing pool. In the middle of this pool rose a stone, and on top of the stone was something that resembled a sack.
The air was heavy to breathe; it flowed like mud and the smell was worse than ever.
Just a quick lap around, and some pictures.
He tried to move as silently as possible, but the scraping of the gravel echoed through the cave. He stopped to calm himself down and listened to the drops that were falling.
The light from his forehead swept over the walls. A vein of copper glimmered to the right, all the way up to the ceiling of the cave.
Erik gave a start when he saw something that resembled an arch-shaped opening to the left. But when he came closer and let his glove glide over the hard surface of the rock, he realized that he had only been tricked by the play of shadows. He shone the light to the leftonce more and then … but there
was
something there! The same shaky lines of chalk—but this time whoever had written them had striven for more than isolated words.
Erik could barely decipher the writing. He took out his camera. It flashed, and he looked disbelievingly at its screen.
O n his way back to the stairs,
Similar Books
Kelan's Pursuit
Lavinia Lewis
Dark Ambition
Allan Topol
Deliver Us from Evil
Robin Caroll
Mr. Popper's Penguins
Atwater
Chocolate Covered Murder
Leslie Meier
Tickle His Fancy: Trident Security Book 6 (Trident Security Series)
Samantha A. Cole
The Nameless Dead
Brian McGilloway
The House in Amalfi
Elizabeth Adler
Turn the Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco
Peter Shapiro
The Transference Engine
Julia Verne St. John