There was a sharp chill in the air and a half-moon in the sky. It was enough to see by. Others might have found the dark walk and the stretching moon shadows frightening. Curtis was fearful enough of what he might find in the caves not to give a damn. In any case, with the colour bleached from the landscape, the bare hills bore some resemblance to the scrublands of South Africa, and the knowledge that there was no Boer sniper behind a bush was enough by itself to make the walk seem relatively pleasant.
The landscape looked different at night of course, but he had a soldier’s sense of direction, and he only missed his path once, losing just a few minutes. He covered the ground in not much over forty-five minutes, all told, and after a scramble up the hill, stood in the black cave mouth.
“Da Silva?” he called.
No response.
He took one of the lamps kept there and lit it, then set off into the cave. The light flickered madly with the swing of the lamp, creating grotesque shadows that leapt and jumped at him.
“Da Silva?” he called into the main cave. His voice echoed back.
He would have to search each gallery, he knew. He should do it logically, work his way round, but his mind kept coming back to that terrible black sinkhole and he took a few strides on the cold, slippery stone underfoot, towards the tunnel that led to the white gallery, and called again, “Da Silva!”
His voice rang off the wall and died away, and he heard a soft, quiet sound like a sob.
“Da Silva!” He raised the lantern high, hurrying as quickly as he dared over the treacherously smooth cave floor, and came into the white gallery and saw, sprawled on the floor, by the sinkhole, back against a stalagmite, the dishevelled form of a dark-haired man.
Then Curtis was over by him, on his knees on the freezing stone. Da Silva was soaking wet, hair sodden. His arms were stretched back behind him, around the horrible wet smoothness of the stone, and as Curtis registered the ropes around his wrists, he saw a droplet of water spatter from the ceiling onto da Silva’s head, and saw his body jerk.
“Oh Christ.” Curtis gathered him into his arms as best he could, given how tightly he was tethered to the rock. His skin was ice cold. “Da Silva, can you hear me? It’s Curtis. I’m here. I’ll get you out. Daniel?”
Da Silva’s head was flopped forward against Curtis’s chest. He made an incoherent noise. Curtis took his chin and tenderly tilted his head up. Water ran down his grey face. His eyes were shut.
“Daniel,” said Curtis hopelessly.
Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. The dark eyes locked on to Curtis’s. He said, choking, “Don’t be a dream. Don’t. Please. Don’t be—”
“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not a dream.”
Daniel blinked. Water dripped from his dark lashes. He looked at Curtis for a long moment, and whispered, “You came. Oh God, you came.”
“You made me come,” said Curtis, and wrapped his arms tighter as Daniel broke into weak, helpless sobs.
He wasn’t sure how long he held him, sprawled together on the cold wet stone, holding him away from the awful, relentless, hammering drips, but he was damned uncomfortable by the time Daniel’s tears had turned to deep, ragged breathing.
“Who did this?” he asked.
“J-James and H-Holt.” Daniel’s teeth were chattering, but that was an improvement, Curtis knew. “Going to leave, leave, l-leave me here. Turn me to s-stone.”
“Rubbish.” Curtis clutched the dark, sopping hair. “That takes centuries. I need to let go, understand? I have to get you loose.”
Daniel gave a tiny gasp, then shut his eyes and nodded. Curtis released him, reluctantly, and rose, stiff and wet. He took off his overcoat, draped it over Daniel’s shaking body, still in evening dress, and went to get him free.
The rope that bound him was knotted round the other side of the stone. It wasn’t tied in a particularly difficult way, but it was thick, and swollen with the endless water that ran down the side of the stalagmite. Curtis moved the lantern, heard Daniel’s whimper, put it back so that the light shone on him, and hurried back to get another lamp from the cave entrance. With that illuminating the other side of the rock, he began to work at the knot.
“Curtis?” rasped Daniel. “Curtis?”
He leapt up and went round the rock. “What?”
“Just… Not a dream.”
“No.” Curtis put a hand to the cold cheek and felt Daniel’s head turn, his lips brushing Curtis’s skin. “I have to get this rope off you now. I’m here, and I won’t leave you, but you have to let me work.”
The worst part of fever dreams was always the help, he thought savagely: one’s uncle, or the nurse, or one’s friend, coming to bend over the bed with soothing words and a cool drink, and one felt comforted and cared for at last, and then one woke again to solitude and parching thirst and a night that seemed endless. Curtis didn’t like to imagine what it must have been like to spend a full day here, in the dark, with that awful torture of the drips and the encroaching cold and wet, and to dream that help was here and wake again and again to hopelessness.
The knot was irretrievably stuck. He took out his pocketknife and sawed at the rope with vicious force.
“Curtis.” It was a croak.
“Let me do this,” he said through his teeth.
“Curtis!”