“I don’t even know which direction is north.”
I could point out that we have a compass, but Anders isn’t just directionally challenged—put a compass in his hand, and it starts spinning, as if his very physiology foils him.
“North is to our right,” I say.
He lifts his hands, checking for the L that indicates left. I sigh. He grins and hefts the bag as we head out.
* * *
I find the mountain. Anders finds the cave. He’s a spelunker, which is not the hobby for a guy who can’t tell his left from his right. As compensation, he draws amazing maps of cave systems, but Dalton still insists that he never go caving without a more directionally adept partner, which these days is often me.
Anders can look at a mountain and, in one sweep, find the most likely places for a cave entrance. By the time we reach the mountain, the snow is light enough that he’s able to point out two spots. We pick the one with a natural pathway leading to it.
The first time I entered a cave was with Dalton, visiting a local recluse. I’d seen the small opening under a rock ledge and thought, That’s not a cave. To me, a cave is the sort of place a bear might make a den, with a wide opening. Most entrances to a system, though, are more like this: a gap that doesn’t look big enough for even me to squeeze through. As always, perception is deceiving, and Anders makes it inside without even snagging his snowsuit on the rocks.
It opens wider past the entrance, but it’s still not a stereotypical cave. The first “room” is maybe six feet in diameter with a ceiling just high enough for Anders to sit without scraping his head.
Caves maintain a constant temperature year-round, so Anders can remove his snowsuit without fear of frostbite. Halfway through examining him, as sweat drips into my eyes, I strip out of mine, too.
His collar is bruising where the helmet slammed down, but the bone is intact, and he accepts only one of the two painkillers I offer.
We spread out the contents of my bag. In winter, Dalton assigns one of the militia guys to check the saddlebags daily to make sure they’re fully stocked. It always seemed like overkill, but now I send him a silent apology as we find everything we need: flashlights, extra batteries, a full water canteen, meal bars, flares, emergency blankets, waterproof matches, and a first-aid kit.
“You want to see if we can get in farther?” Anders says when a stray gust sets me shivering.
“Good idea.”
Exploring an uncharted cave takes time. Anders wiggles through one tight passage, only to have to back up when it narrows. After maybe half an hour, we find a decent cavern, tall enough to kneel in, long and wide enough to sleep in.
We kill time by talking. Anders is the chatty one, but with a friend, I can give as good as I get. When we’re tired enough to sleep, I set my watch alarm for first light and stretch out on the blanket.
The moment quiet falls, I hear something deep in the cave.
It sounds like scraping. I picture a grizzly sharpening its claws on the wall, and I have no idea if they do that, but that’s exactly what it sounds like. A rhythmic, long, and slow scratching.
Anders whispers, “You hear that?”
I nod and then realize that’s pointless. Another thing about caves? Unless there are direct vents to the outside world, there’s no light. Absolute darkness. I remember the first time Anders showed me that, admitting he snuck out sometimes to sit in the complete dark and complete silence. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his darkness.
At the time, I hadn’t understood. Oh, I understood the appeal—I felt it, that mix of incredible discomfort and incredible peace. Absolute dark and absolute clarity, reaching into the darkness inside me. But there seemed to be nothing dark in Anders. I know better now. It took some time for me to come to terms with his past. And then more time to realize that the person I’d befriended wasn’t a mask he wore in Rockton. It’s all him, the dark and the light.
I turn on my flashlight and tell him I do hear something, and he says, “Scratching?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Bear?”
I mentally flick through my local critter list, courtesy of the naturalist who shares my bed. Around here, most predators will take shelter in a cave if that’s what presents itself, especially in bad weather.
“Probably bear,” I say.
“Black, right?”
“The blacks stay in the forest.”
“Of course they do. Grizzlies. It’s always grizzlies.”
“Could be a mountain lion.”
“I’ll stick with grizzlies.”
As for how a bear or mountain lion would get in—it’s a cave system, which means there are bound to be bigger entrances. We’re safe in here, though. This cavern only has two openings, and both were barely big enough for Anders.
“So we stay?” I ask, when he says we’ll be safe.
“You okay with that?”
“I will be after I double-check the perimeter.”
He chuckles. “Good idea.”
He makes his way along the walls, ensuring we didn’t miss an opening. I crawl to the back passage and push my head and shoulders through.
I call, “It’s not big enough for a bear or cat. We’re—”
A voice echoes through the passage. I hesitate, thinking it’s my own. But the voice comes again, and it’s definitely not mine.
I withdraw quickly and whisper, “Listen.”
He pokes his head in. After a moment, he pulls back, swearing under his breath.