“Not this one.” Quillan pointed his light away in the direction of the painted chamber. “It’s over that way.”
He started, and Carina followed closely with Father Antoine behind her. They felt the floor rise, and the men needed to duck their heads as they entered the narrow cave tunnel. Suddenly the floor dropped, and they entered the small chamber. It was the third time Carina had been there, but as her candle illuminated the pictures around her, she felt the same trembling emotion. Wolf ’s saga could not leave her unmoved.
She glanced at Quillan. He had fixed immediately on the final picture in the circular mural, where Wolf stood with his son raised over his head. Father Antoine circled slowly, studying each new image with a grim countenance. She knew well what he was feeling. He’d been a part of Wolf ’s life.
Wolf had told him of the slaughter of his family, shown him the scars of being a white slave among the tribes. But it was not the same as seeing the images Wolf had transferred from his mind. Without speaking, Carina joined Quillan and laced her fingers with his.
He kept his gaze to the wall. “I remember this.” He spoke so low, she wasn’t certain she’d heard.
“Remember?”
He nodded. “Impossible, I know.” The opening in the teardrop-shaped ceiling moaned softly. He looked up. “That, too.” His hand tightened its hold on hers. “The first time I heard that, I recognized it. That sound has been in my dreams all my life.”
“But, Quillan . . .”
“I know. I was only an infant. But I’m sure Wolf brought me here.” The candlelight flickered across his face.
“And this scene . . .” He stepped closer to the wall. “Carina, I remember it.”
“Not impossible.” Father Antoine joined them. “The mind is a tome, holding every image, every word. If you did see it, even in those early months before Rose sacrificed her good for yours, then surely it’s locked away somewhere.”
Quillan returned his gaze to the image on the wall. “I’ve always remembered easily. Words. Pictures.”
Father Antoine asked, “Words spoken or written?”
“Both. But mainly written. When I was young I thought everyone did.” His face hardened. “Then I learned otherwise.”
Carina guessed it was a painful memory. He had so many of those. Quillan turned now, and together they circled the chamber, reading Wolf ’s life on the walls. Like his son, Wolf ’s life had not been easy. A fierce defensiveness rose up in her for Quillan. He may have had a joyless youth, but no more. She would make him happy.
He looked down, and she thought he had read her thoughts, but then she realized she was squeezing the blood from his fingers. She relaxed her grip. When they had completed the circle and stood once again at the final painting, Quillan asked, “Why would he show me this?”
Both Carina and the priest knew the question was much deeper. Why would Wolf take his infant son into the cave and show him his deepest secret when he couldn’t bear to have the baby near? When Quillan’s cries set off memories too painful, too present to bear? When Wolf ’s madness made Rose give their child to another to raise?
Father Antoine said, “Perhaps his mind was like yours, Quillan. He didn’t read or write, but he remembered. How else could he depict those early scenes with such detail? He couldn’t have been more than four or five at the time.”
Quillan frowned. Carina bit her lip. Had Wolf passed on a gift to Quillan? Or a curse?
“Maybe,” Father said softly, “he knew you would remember.”
Quillan drew a slow breath. “I’ve asked Alex Makepeace to help me seal this off. I don’t want others—”
“Quite right.” The priest circled the cave with his eyes. “Wolf ’s borne enough.”
His words brought a low rumbling. Some trick of wind through the angled opening above? It grew, and now Carina felt it in the ground. Did the earth shake? But no. It was like the flood, something rushing, crashing above them. Quillan tugged her as snow powder gushed through the small opening like sugar from a sack.
“Avalanche!” And he turned and rushed down the tunnel to the main cavern and the rope.
Carina’s candle fluttered as she hurried after her husband. The bats beat the ceiling with their wings and swirled like a dark cloud above. But they must sense that their exit through Wolf ’s chamber was shut off. Quillan shimmied up the rope through the bats, his candle doused. Father Antoine joined Carina, holding the end of the rope with the harness swishing the floor. Quillan disappeared into darkness. She wondered if she should put on the harness, but the rope hung limp once he reached the top. Had he forgotten them?
Father Antoine took the rope firmly. “I’ll go next and bring you up.”
She didn’t want to be left down there. What was wrong with Quillan, to rush up and abandon them? Father Antoine pushed back his sleeves and started to climb. He wasn’t as swift, moving like an inchworm on the rope. But he doggedly climbed. Now there was only her candle lit, and she lost the priest in the dimness.
She was alone in the cave with the bats. What was happening? Could it really be an avalanche? The rope jerked and she caught it, climbed into the harness, and blew out her candle.
The first tug yanked her off her feet. The men must be pulling together. She was hoisted into the musty cloud of bats, but not one touched her. Grazie, Signore! She pushed through the hole in the ceiling, which was the floor of Wolf ’s shaft, used her legs against the wooden ties that formed the walls, and then she was up. But the tunnel was as dark as the cave. Where was the daylight?
Quillan caught her waist and helped her from the harness. She felt him shaking. Quillan shaking! Dio! “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“We’re buried.” His voice was grim.
“What do you mean?”
“The avalanche has covered the mine.” Quillan relit her candle. “Chunks of snow and ice like boulders and tons of powder.”
She tried to picture it. The closest she could come was to imagine the flash flood that had torn away half the city of Crystal.
Quillan smashed his fist into his palm. “I should have known with the warming today.”
“How could you? Could you know the flood was coming, too?”
He pressed his palm to his forehead and stared at the tunnel’s mouth. “My team.”
And now she knew why he trembled. Jack and Jock. Oh, Signore. She gripped his arm. “Maybe they ran. You left them free. Maybe they heard it and ran.”
Quillan didn’t answer, and she looked at Father Antoine. His grim face belied her. But couldn’t they have? She thought of Dom, her own mule lost in the flood, carried away by a force beyond him. How Quillan loved his horses. She ached for him. “What do we do?”
Her question seemed to settle Quillan. Give him a task, let him work. He held his candle up and searched about. “Carina, in your trips here, did you ever see a shovel?”