an otherwise stable cave became a death trap ready to collapse into the bowels of the earth at the slightest bump.
“Sam, are you there?” Remi asked.
“Yep. I was mentally practicing Wilson Pickett’s ‘In the Midnight Hour.’”
Sam was a fair hand at the piano, and Remi at the violin. Occasionally, when time permitted, they practiced duets. While composer Pickett’s music didn’t readily lend itself to classical instruments, as lovers of vintage American soul, they enjoyed the challenge.
“What’ve you found?” Remi asked.
“That it’s going to take a lot more practice. And my blues voice needs more—”
“I mean, ahead?”
“Oh. An opening.”
“Lead on. This crawl space is too tight for my liking.”
Unseen by Remi, Sam smiled. His wife was being kind. While Sam’s male ego wasn’t a fragile thing, Remi also knew that offering a little face-saving was a woman’s prerogative.
“Here we go,” Sam replied, and started crawling forward.
It took only thirty seconds to reach the opening. Sam inched forward until his head was through. He looked around, then said over his shoulder, “A circular pit about ten feet across. I can’t see the bottom, but I can hear water gurgling—probably a subterranean offshoot of the Bagmati. Directly across from us is another opening, but about twelve feet higher.”
“Oh, joy. How are the walls?”
“Diagonal stalagmites, the biggest about as thick as a baseball bat, the rest about half that.”
“No conveniently placed spike ladders?”
Sam took another look, panning his headlamp along the pit’s walls. “No,” he called back, his voice echoing, “but dangling directly over my head is a spear.”
“Pardon me? Did you say—”
“Yes. It’s affixed to the wall by what looks like a leather cord. There’s a piece of cord hanging below the spear with a shard of wood attached.”
“Trip wire,” Remi commented.
“My guess as well.”
They’d seen similar traps—designed to foil intruders—in tombs, fortresses, and primitive bunkers. However old this spear trap was, it had likely been contrived to plunge into the neck of an unsuspecting interloper. The question, Sam and Remi knew, was what had the booby trap been intended to protect?
“Describe the spear,” Remi said.
“I’ll do you one better.” Sam rolled over on his back, braced his feet against the ceiling, and wriggled forward until his upper torso was jutting through the opening.
“Careful . . .” Remi warned.
“. . . is my middle name,” Sam finished. “Well, this is interesting. There’s only one spear but two more attachment points. Either the other two spears fell away or they found victims.”
He reached up, grasped the spear’s shaft above the point, and pulled. Despite its half-rotted appearance, the leather was surprisingly strong. Only after Sam wriggled the shaft back and forth did the cordage give way. He maneuvered the spear around, twirling it like a baton, then slid it back along his body toward Remi.
“Got it,” she said. A few seconds later: “This doesn’t look familiar. I’m no weapons expert, mind you, but I’ve never seen a design like this before. It’s very old—at least six hundred years, I imagine. I’ll get some pictures in case we can’t come back for it.”
Remi retrieved her camera from her pack and took a dozen shots. While she was doing this, Sam took a closer look around the pit. “I don’t see any more booby traps. I’m trying to imagine what it must have looked like by torchlight.”
“‘Terrifying,’ is the word,” Remi replied. “Think of it. At least one of your friends had just taken a spear to the back of the neck and plummeted into a seemingly bottomless pit, and all you’ve got is a flickering torch to see by.”
“Enough to turn away even the bravest of explorers,” Sam agreed.
“But not us,” Remi replied with a smile Sam could hear in her voice. “What’s the plan?”
“Everything depends on
“Sam, are you there?” Remi asked.
“Yep. I was mentally practicing Wilson Pickett’s ‘In the Midnight Hour.’”
Sam was a fair hand at the piano, and Remi at the violin. Occasionally, when time permitted, they practiced duets. While composer Pickett’s music didn’t readily lend itself to classical instruments, as lovers of vintage American soul, they enjoyed the challenge.
“What’ve you found?” Remi asked.
“That it’s going to take a lot more practice. And my blues voice needs more—”
“I mean, ahead?”
“Oh. An opening.”
“Lead on. This crawl space is too tight for my liking.”
Unseen by Remi, Sam smiled. His wife was being kind. While Sam’s male ego wasn’t a fragile thing, Remi also knew that offering a little face-saving was a woman’s prerogative.
“Here we go,” Sam replied, and started crawling forward.
It took only thirty seconds to reach the opening. Sam inched forward until his head was through. He looked around, then said over his shoulder, “A circular pit about ten feet across. I can’t see the bottom, but I can hear water gurgling—probably a subterranean offshoot of the Bagmati. Directly across from us is another opening, but about twelve feet higher.”
“Oh, joy. How are the walls?”
“Diagonal stalagmites, the biggest about as thick as a baseball bat, the rest about half that.”
“No conveniently placed spike ladders?”
Sam took another look, panning his headlamp along the pit’s walls. “No,” he called back, his voice echoing, “but dangling directly over my head is a spear.”
“Pardon me? Did you say—”
“Yes. It’s affixed to the wall by what looks like a leather cord. There’s a piece of cord hanging below the spear with a shard of wood attached.”
“Trip wire,” Remi commented.
“My guess as well.”
They’d seen similar traps—designed to foil intruders—in tombs, fortresses, and primitive bunkers. However old this spear trap was, it had likely been contrived to plunge into the neck of an unsuspecting interloper. The question, Sam and Remi knew, was what had the booby trap been intended to protect?
“Describe the spear,” Remi said.
“I’ll do you one better.” Sam rolled over on his back, braced his feet against the ceiling, and wriggled forward until his upper torso was jutting through the opening.
“Careful . . .” Remi warned.
“. . . is my middle name,” Sam finished. “Well, this is interesting. There’s only one spear but two more attachment points. Either the other two spears fell away or they found victims.”
He reached up, grasped the spear’s shaft above the point, and pulled. Despite its half-rotted appearance, the leather was surprisingly strong. Only after Sam wriggled the shaft back and forth did the cordage give way. He maneuvered the spear around, twirling it like a baton, then slid it back along his body toward Remi.
“Got it,” she said. A few seconds later: “This doesn’t look familiar. I’m no weapons expert, mind you, but I’ve never seen a design like this before. It’s very old—at least six hundred years, I imagine. I’ll get some pictures in case we can’t come back for it.”
Remi retrieved her camera from her pack and took a dozen shots. While she was doing this, Sam took a closer look around the pit. “I don’t see any more booby traps. I’m trying to imagine what it must have looked like by torchlight.”
“‘Terrifying,’ is the word,” Remi replied. “Think of it. At least one of your friends had just taken a spear to the back of the neck and plummeted into a seemingly bottomless pit, and all you’ve got is a flickering torch to see by.”
“Enough to turn away even the bravest of explorers,” Sam agreed.
“But not us,” Remi replied with a smile Sam could hear in her voice. “What’s the plan?”
“Everything depends on
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