The sun's rays woke them and they gingerly rose from their slumber.
So it wasn't a dream, Joseph thought to himself as he glanced at the bone next to him. The events of yesterday seemed unimaginable to this unassuming kid.
The cougar.
The cave.
The Indian settlement.
The foot bone.
Was this part of some eerie dream he was having?
But no, Peter's loud yawn told him it was real, all of it.
Joseph stepped outside into the chilly air and glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock.
Surprised at the hour, he stumbled forward, intent on relieving himself, but soon his feet found nothing but air.
He tumbled forward, crying out in surprise, before he thudded to a stop, then the blackness shrouded his thoughts, and he was silent.
Peter began preparing breakfast for the two of them and the peacefulness of his surrounds put him at ease. No birds sang, and the wind in the trees was oddly quiet.
As the bacon started to sizzle, he realised he hadn't seen Joseph for some time. Shrugging it off, he figured he was exploring.
It really was an amazing place he thought to himself.
He envisioned the Indians waking early to begin their day.
What did they do first?
Maybe the men went off hunting game, the younger men begging to be taken along on their adventures, and the wiser, elders waving them away with a stern look.
10
Breakfast was ready.
Joseph’s head was spinning.
He tried to stand up but a searing pain in his left ankle prevented him.
Where was he?
He had fallen for what seemed like an eternity and then nothing.
Gingerly he felt forward trying to figure out his new surroundings.
He felt a smooth, damp, surface not far ahead of him, all around him.
He was in a tomb, he thought, deep underground where the Indians buried their chiefs, or their fallen warriors, in times of war.
He shook this image clear and used his hands to get his bearings.
He felt several thick tree roots around him and he wondered how far down he was.
5 feet?
8?
He dared not think any higher.
Time ticked away. His glow in the dark watch told him it was seven thirty.
He'd been down here for half an hour.
What else is down here, he pondered and then he quickly shut out that thought as visions of giant spiders crept into his head, creeping closer to him, fangs dripping with venom.
I mustn't be too far down, he reassured himself, not very convincingly.
The sky looked strangely dark.
Menacing.
He prayed it wouldn't rain.
Peter wandered outside, calling out.
His voice shrill in the early morning, shattering the silence around him.
Then he saw it.
Not far from the entrance to the long house, maybe six feet away at the most.
A pile of sticks that wasn't sitting quite right. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it 11
yesterday; it was practically in front of the long house they had stayed in.
As the skies darkened, he edged cautiously closer, not really knowing what to find.
A hole.
About five feet square going down into the Earth below, like a giant mouth waiting for an unsuspecting animal to stray to close.
Or an unsuspecting person.
His pulse racing, he got down on his hands and knees and peered into the darkness.
Joseph felt a shadow cross over him and he peered up.
“Peter!” he crowed triumphantly, as a familiar face peered down at him, an angel sent from the heavens above.
“How did you get down there?” Peter sounded worried.
“I must have fallen in, can you get me out?” Joseph sounded slightly panicked.
“Are you hurt?”
“My left ankle hurts a bit but apart from that I seem to be ok.”
“I'll get my rope from my pack, don't move.”
Joseph wasn't going anywhere for the time being.
Peter disappeared from view, Joseph slumped back against the wall, forgetting about his ankle, and he cried out in pain.
His ankle felt like it was on fire, throbbing, and he was glad he couldn't see the damage.
He had a weak stomach.
The first drops of rain were like death drops.
It felt like Peter had been gone for hours but it had only been a few minutes. The rain got slightly heavier and he could feel the walls starting to lose their compact texture.
Peter returned but Joseph could hardly make him out against the blackened sky. The rope was a breath of life and he held on tight.
Peter tried to pull him back to the surface but much to Joseph's dismay he didn't seem to be moving at all.
“I can't get a grip.” Peter's words were a dagger through his heart. It was a downpour now, and a small but menacing pool of water began to form at the base of this pit of death.
12
He prayed.
Never a religious person, he implored God to let him survive this nightmare.
Tears streamed down his face and he grabbed the sides of the pit in frustration but the dirt had turned to mud as his hopes began to slide away like the crumbling walls around him.
The water had reached his waist.
“Hang on; I've tied one end to a tree nearby.” Peter's words were a godsend, perhaps from above.
With the rain teeming down and the walls collapsing around him Joseph grabbed the rope and started to climb.
He wasn't going anywhere but he didn't stop, kept his legs moving, ignoring the pain.
Inch by agonizing inch he started his ascent, ever so slowly, until Peter grabbed his hands and hauled him to safety with one last mighty effort.
Joseph was saturated and muddy head to toe, like his friends after a game of rugby on a Saturday afternoon.
The adrenalin pumped through bodies, as they lay on the ground, completely exhausted.
Neither had the energy to move. Somehow, with a final burst of energy, Peter got to his feet and dragged a muddy, saturated and shaken Joseph with him and they stumbled towards the safety of the long house.
Slumped against the wall with a new set of clothes on and a belly full of hot coffee, Joseph wearily glanced at his watch.
Eight fifteen.
He'd been in the hole for just over an hour but it seemed like a lifetime.
Half asleep from exhaustion and relief he glanced over at Peter who had in fact fallen asleep, slumped against the wall.
His ankle was not as bad as he feared, in fact it seemed to be ok, but Peter insisted on wrapping an ice pack around it.
He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
He couldn't fight it anymore.
Drifting off, he was back home in Courtenay, 23 Maple Avenue to be precise, and it was mid morning. His mum was cooking a big greasy breakfast, a Saturday morning tradition in the Marston household.
He came downstairs dressed in his favorite combo of baggy jeans and his ultra loud yellow t-shirt, wavy brown hair a chaotic web on his head.
13
“High honey, did you sleep well?” his mother sang out from the stove where she was cooking some eggs.
“Yeah great thanks” he replied. He was in a good mood today. A quick breakfast and then off to the lake for some fishing with the guys under the Fifth Street bridge on a beautiful day, maybe hit the arcade later on.
“Hey where's Dad?” he queried as he approached the table.
“Oh Joseph,” his mum replied, her eyes moist. “He's been gone for over three months now.”