Restless Soul. Alex Archer
and the scenery reminded Annja of chalk sidewalk paintings in Brooklyn that ran like impressionist watercolors during spring showers. It was a wonderful blur of green that she found beautiful, and she drew the scents of the flowers and leaves deep into her lungs and held them as long as possible.
“Which cave first?” she asked.
“Ping Yah,” he said. “It is older than Tham Lod, and perhaps has the most to see. It is in the same mountain range, and they are not terribly far apart, but it is harder to get to. Then Bor Krai or Pi Man, as I think I remember how to get there. We’ll have time for at least two. Maybe a third, as it is certain the lodge has canceled my bird-show group tonight. The tourists do not want to walk through all the mud.”
“Pity,” Luartaro said. “That’s too bad about your birding group.” His tone was evidence he did not mean the sympathy.
Annja had heard of Tham Lod Cave even before Luartaro had looked this area up on the internet. But Ping Yah and Bor Krai were new to her.
Although a part of her was excited at the prospect of seeing something that an average tourist never would, she couldn’t shake her worries over the mysterious sensation that niggled at her brain.
“What?” she whispered too softly for the men to hear. “What bothers me?”
She’d been to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, which one of her companions yesterday had mentioned. It had more than three hundred miles of tunnels, and she’d walked most of them during her many visits.
Three years earlier in California she’d explored a series of caves created in ancient times by volcanoes and earthquakes. And of course she’d been through the Carlsbad Caverns, which was famous because one of its chambers was larger than a dozen football fields.
In France, she’d climbed through the Lascaux Cave that featured paintings that dated back about seventeen thousand years.
Older still, by as much as fifty thousand years some scientists estimated, were the fossils of bears and other creatures found in Poland’s Dragon’s Lair.
On the island of Capri off Italy one summer, she’d journeyed through the Blue Grotto, a four-mile-long cave with breathtaking formations.
Her favorite cave? She thought about it a moment as the Jeep jostled along the road, which was little more than a puddle-dotted path. Perhaps the one in the Austrian Alps, Eisriesenwelt in the Tennengebirge range, one of the world’s largest ice caves. Or maybe the Pierre Saint-Martin Cave that stretched from France to Spain, one of the deepest recorded.
In Australia for a Chasing History’s Monsters special, she’d made a side trip to the Naracoorte Caves, but found them disappointing. The caves were largely a collection of big sinkholes.
Her trip was salvaged when she went to the Waitomo Caves in New Zealand. That had been her favorite, she decided after a few more moments of contemplation, because of the worms.
The same way Zakkarat had poled their group along the river on a bamboo raft in Tham Lod Cave, the New Zealand guide had taken her group in a flatboat into Waitomo.
At various points in their half-hour excursion, the guide had doused the lights. A riot of shimmering stars had appeared overhead. Except they weren’t stars; they were glowworms. Annja had counted herself fortunate that day to have seen something so unique and glorious.
She continued to run the names of caves through her head—ones she’d been to, ones she had no intention of visiting and ones she would like to see while she was still young. She couldn’t recall the name of the cave system in China that was perhaps the longest in the world. That was on her must-see list.
The mental activity was a reasonable distraction to keep the chill away. She’d gotten goose bumps again the minute she’d sat in Zakkarat’s Jeep, and the sensation of ants crawling on her skin had worsened as they’d headed down the road.
It wasn’t the rain and the cool breeze that came with it. The sensation was from something else. Maybe, she wondered, the ill feeling had nothing to do with the limestone caves or the spirits of the dead that had been interred in the teak coffins, but instead about their guide.
Worse, what if her nerves were jangling because of Luartaro? Was either of the men in danger—or dangerous? Would Roux know what was troubling her?
No, it’s the caves, she thought. Maybe not the caves themselves, but something in the mountains.
She realized Luartaro was talking, and she’d missed most of what he’d said—something about the limestone formations they’d seen yesterday.
Zakkarat chattered, too.
She pretended to be distracted by the scenery and pushed their voices to the background.
Her mind touched Joan’s sword—her sword. It waited for her.
But it would have to wait for quite some time, she thought. It had no place in her vacation—especially with Luartaro around. She didn’t want him to see that part of her life. Still, its presence reassured her.
The Jeep slid to the side of the trail, the front bumper coming to rest against an acacia tree as mud flew away from the back tires.
The jolt jarred Annja into alertness.
The trail they’d been bouncing along had suddenly disappeared, as if the jungle had reached out and swallowed it.
“The rest of the way we go on foot,” Zakkarat said. He turned off the engine, pocketed the keys and grinned at Annja. “God is washing away a lot of man’s dirt today.” He eased out of his seat and slogged to the back, fitting the largest pack over one shoulder and a coil of rope over the other. He put on one of the helmets so he would not have to bother carrying it. “Good thing you two wore boots today. And a good thing it does not rain inside the caves. We can dry out quickly inside.”
Luartaro took another pack and the second coil of rope, also putting on a helmet and gallantly leaving Annja the smallest pack to carry.
The rain was coming down harder, thrumming against the hood of the Jeep. It splattered against the big leaves and the mud and her shoulders, then against the helmet she put on. She fell in behind Zakkarat and Luartaro and continued to listen to the rain.
“You walk fast,” Zakkarat said after half a mile or more had passed. “Good thing, that. It leaves more time for the caves and less time in the mud. Most people, the tourists, they don’t walk so fast as you.”
Annja noted that Zakkarat was in good shape, no doubt from walking so many miles daily to take tourists to Tham Lod. She could have easily outpaced him, though; she was in that much better condition.
He told them that the last time he brought a few people this way it had taken nearly two hours to reach the first cave. They managed it in less than one, the mountains looming before them. The rock face they started to climb was slick from the rain.
As Annja worked her fingers into a crack, slid her foot sideways to find a purchase, she grumbled to herself that this was why the typical tourist was not directed this way.
Her foot slipped and she teetered, held in place by just the tips of her fingers and willpower. She fought for balance and slowly righted herself, pressing tight against the cold, wet stone. The rock felt good against Annja’s fingers, and her muscles bunched as she pulled herself up behind Luartaro. The exertion was welcome. Even the thrill of almost falling was welcome. It brought a slight flush to her face and chased away the unnatural cold that had been teasing at her gut.
The first chamber was nearly three hundred feet above the jungle floor, and it was a tight fit to step inside, though from the rock face it had looked to have been larger in earlier years. An earthquake or rock slide had narrowed it.
Luartaro had to shrug off his backpack before he could slip in.
Once past the opening, Zakkarat lit a gas lantern and passed Annja a dented flashlight.
“In case,” he told her. “You should always carry a flashlight