Damian came to sit beside me on the sandy mound, as if to reassure me with his presence.
“The monks were living in turbulent times,” he said. “They knew that their monastery was a likely target for Viking raids. They must have made an escape route for themselves, carving a passage from their church to the caves below and concealing the entrance with the false memorial tablet. Unfortunately, their hiding place was discovered. Perhaps the raiders had encountered the same sort of thing in other monasteries and knew where to look.” Damian reached over to untangle the mess I’d made of my lanyard. “Do you remember what Sir Percy told us about the skull your sons found in the cove?”
“He could tell by its color that it was old,” I replied. “He also mentioned, in his colorful way, that it was cracked like a soft-boiled egg.”
“These bones are similarly discolored,” said Damian, jutting his chin toward our silent companions, “and they show telltale signs of traumatic injuries. The raiders may have found the monks trying to escape and hurled them down the staircase.”
“Clever of them to land in a circle,” I remarked dubiously.
“Do you think we’re the first people to set eyes on this place since the eighth century?” Damian asked. “I expect an islander discovered the monks’ mortal remains many years ago—perhaps hundreds of years ago—and rearranged them, as a sign of respect. I find it rather touching.”
“I find it unspeakably creepy,” I said, with feeling. “Can we leave now? The monks, God rest their souls, won’t help us to find Peter.”
“I’m going to look into the side passage first,” said Damian. “I want to find out where they—”
A faint, grinding thud sounded overhead, rumbled down the stone staircase, and echoed hollowly in the cavern. Damian swore under his breath, pushed himself to his feet, and leapt up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. I stood at the bottom, peering upward, and several long minutes later heard Damian pounding his fist against stone and shouting. After a few more minutes had passed, he began to climb down again. As soon as his hiking boots hit the sand, he reached for my flashlight and turned it off.
“We’d better conserve the batteries,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, though my sinking heart told me that I already knew the answer.
“Because we may be here for some time. Someone closed the memorial tablet, and it’s too heavy for me to lift. I’d no right to call Peter an idiot,” he added, his voice edged with self-reproach. “I’m the idiot. I’ve led you straight into a trap.”
“Percy will rescue us,” I said promptly. “Call him.”
“I can’t.” Damian cleared his throat, as if preparing himself to administer another dose of unpleasant news. “My mobile is at the pub, with Cassie.”
“What?” I cried.
“My mobile was in the pocket of my blazer,” he explained. “The blazer I wrapped around Cassie. The blazer she was wearing when she returned to the pub with Kate and Elliot. If Mrs. Gammidge hadn’t swaddled her in blankets, I might have remembered it, but . . .” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said limply. “So am I.”
“I doubt that we could have gotten a signal.” He tilted his head back to look at the cavern’s roof. “Too much rock between us and the outside.”
“That’s a comfort,” I murmured.
“We’ll be all right,” he said bracingly. “I’ve been in tighter spots than this, and I’ve always found a way out. I just need a moment to think. I’m going to turn off my torch, so have a seat. You’ll be less likely to stumble over . . . things.”
We sat side by side on the sandy mound near the bottom of the stairs. When Damian’s flashlight went out, we were enclosed in a kind of darkness I’d never before experienced. It was like being buried alive. I waggled my hand in front of my face, but I might as well have been blind. I could see absolutely nothing, but I could feel the hollow-eyed stares of Brother Cieran’s unfortunate brethren. I pulled my knees to my chest and swallowed the surge of panic that threatened to choke me. Damian and I were trapped in a bone-littered cavern, with no means of calling for help.
“Well,” I said to the darkness, “at least we’re dry.”
Eighteen
When Damian failed to respond to my plucky comment, yet another ghastly image rose in my fear-racked brain.
“We’re going to stay dry, aren’t we?” I asked tremulously. “The ocean isn’t going to rush in here and drown us, is it?”
“It seems unlikely,” said Damian. “The sand’s bone-dry, if you’ll pardon the expression, and the monks have been here rather longer than we have. Since they haven’t been washed out to sea, it seems safe to assume that we won’t be either.”
“But one of them was washed out to sea,” I reminded him. “The skull Will and Rob found must have come from here. Percy said it was ancient.”