Part One

Chapter 1:

Bougainvillaea

It was a perfectly normal day in the town of Harmony. The blue sky held the usual clouds you would expect in the late spring. The warm, moist, Gulf air mixed with the cool air descending from the dry mountains. Where they met, moisture condensed into chariots of marshmallows racing across the sky.

The morning had been cool. Now that the sun was arching high across the sky, the temperature was beginning to rise. The songbirds out in the field had quit their chorus. It was time to lay low, beneath the branches of blackberry vines. They would wait until the sun prepared to disappear for the day. It would be cooler and the bugs would fly again, rising from the small ponds and drainage ditches. Only then would the birds fly out of their shelters for the evening meal.

Joe's cat, a tabby named Bougainvillaea, was out hunting for birds. She knew the window of success was about to shut until dusk but she was hungry. Joe had decided she was getting fat from the canned cat food and had cut her back to one a day. Bougainvillaea didn't like that aspect of living with Big People. She would rather be responsible for herself, if only cat food didn't taste so good.

Breakfast wasn't enough and her tummy still required more. She decided to supplement her regular diet with wild food. The trouble was, Joe had been right, though she hated to admit it. Bougainvillaea wasn't fast enough to catch anything.

She knew a place where a family of mice lived. She had found the nest last week. There had been eight hairless babies in it. That was when daily life presented three cans of Crystal Star Tuna for Cats. She could afford to look down on such bestial fare.

It's funny how time or perspective can change what you're willing to eat. Breakfast was a long ago event. Those mice would be almost full grown now. Or, at least teenagers.

Joe was at high school and wouldn't be back until after three o'clock. That was a long time to wait. Bougainvillaea knew she could extort an afternoon snack by rubbing against Joe's leg and allowing him to pet her. Getting scratched behind the ears wasn't too big a price to pay for tuna fish; she even liked the attention. Still, there was all that waiting when her stomach was grumbling, complaining, now.

The mice lived in the ground cavity of an old, leafless Maple tree. The tree grew next to a long-abandoned mine shaft. The mine had been there longer than any of the people, or animals, could remember. It seemed it had been there forever, since before anybody had ever lived here. Now, that's old, thought Bougainvillaea.

There was a big, thick, branch that hung over the mine shaft. When she was a younger cat, and much more interested in playing, she used to climb the trunk of the tree, trot out to the end of the branch, and sit. There, she could look down into the dark water that filled the abyss. She had drunk, long and often, from the pool but her thirst had never slackened.

There were never any fish swimming in the pool. Neither were there mosquitos like in all the other ponds around the farm. Bougainvillaea didn't like them whining around her ears all the time. One of the nice things about playing near the old tree was the lack of insects.

Bougainvillaea didn't like to think of the water. Even now it made her shudder involuntarily. She was a good swimmer, all cats are, but that wasn't any reason for getting wet. Still, what is life without some element of danger or risk? So, she liked to climb the ancient Maple and sit above the raven-dark water.

She would imagine herself to be a jungle cat, like the relatives in her feline memory. "Bougainvillaea: Lord of the Jungle," is how she thought of herself. Those were kitten dreams. Now, she dreamed of lunch.

She followed the well worn path from the house, into the yard, under the fence where the barbed wire would scratch her back, and into the field. This was her territory and she knew it well. There were no other cats in the neighborhood; she had driven the last one away last year. That was when she was still slim and sleek. Oh, well, she sighed.

Joe's family was growing corn and onions this spring. In fact, that's what everyone grew around here.

Bougainvillaea liked to walk through the corn stalks. They rubbed against each other and made a delightful scraping racket like the sound of a can opener cutting into the metal lip of Crystal Star Tuna for Cats. There was the chance a Starling or Blackbird, perched on the corn, had dosed off in the afternoon warmth. Maybe she could save the energy a long walk to the mice would bring.

Bougainvillaea prowled through the corn. She did scare up a flock of Starlings but they were too wide awake to catch. No easy meal here. It would have to be the mouse family.

On the edge of the field of corn was another fence. She would dip under it where a sharp metal barb had worn off many strands of her long brown hair. Then, a quick dash across the little-used road, up the hill and down the other side into the hollow where the tree was. And, an afternoon repast she hoped.

In no time she was there. She stopped on the side of the mine pool away from the tree. No need in getting the mice excited. They would be bigger now and able to run away without mama's help. A chase would be exciting; food always tasted better when she worked up an appetite. Today, though, the appetite had worked her up; she was hungry and she wanted all the mice.

Bougainvillaea crouched down low. Her ears twitched as they tested the air for sounds of the mice moving under the distant tree. She was pretty sure she heard them. Her tail tested the direction of the wind; it would be foolish to approach from up-wind where the mice could smell her.

There was no breeze. From the corner of her eye she could see the large clouds, high above, moving gracefully across the blue sky. She filed this bit of information along with many others in her mind. Her thoughts, concerned only with what was necessary for hunting, dismissed the cloud movement as irrelevant.

Her sensitive ears detected a squawk emanating from the nest. She smiled, as much as a cat can smile. At least there was one mouse. If she was patient, she would get it. Belly sliding across the ground, like geologic time she inexorably inched forward. There was no hurry now. Even her growling stomach knew the importance of silence. It was content to wait.

When she was finally within pouncing distance Bougainvillaea gathered her legs up beneath her and prepared to assault the nest. Her ears detected the sounds of at least two mice. Her mouth began to fill with saliva.

Then, she was off. She jumped into the nest! She landed on the whole family. Her front paws pinned two of the rodents down and with her teeth she caught a third. The rest scattered, willy-nilly, with one racing up the tree and onto Bougainvillaea's branch above the mine.

She saw it out there, plainly enough, and plainly knew the mouse had nowhere to go from there but into the water. She had time, she reasoned, to get this fourth critter so she enjoyed her mid-day meal.

When Bougainvillaea was ready for dessert, she took her favorite route up the old tree. She walked daintily, if a bit sluggish, onto the branch. It wasn't as thick as she remembered, or maybe she had grown a bit thickish herself. The little mouse cowered behind a stub at the branch end.

The cat moved slowly. It would do no good to lose the mouse to impatience. The little critter was directly over the pool. If it froze in fear, Bougainvillaea would get it. However, if its fear of becoming someone else's meal made it try a leap to safety, it would end up drowning in the water below. She would be unwilling to retrieve the mouse. Bougainvillaea hated to eat wet food.

She was within a couple of cat-lengths away. The beady black eyes of the mouse looked back at her. Its whiskers twitched, sampling its environment. What would it do? If Bougainvillaea charged, would the mouse try to flee, skittering around the cat? Would the rodent try to leap to the ground? The earth below must be terribly far away to so small a creature.

The cat gathered up her legs beneath her and prepared to lunge. It was time to decide. The mouse twitched its whiskers faster and faster. It didn't dare look away from the cat now. Oh, what to do, what to do!

At last, the cat attacked! The mouse ran and tried to squeeze around the other animal. Bougainvillaea saw what the mouse was trying to do and, in mid-jump, reversed herself. But, she was not the kitten she had been in the days when she played Lord of the Jungle. She was a full-grown tabby, and a fat one at that.

Bougainvillaea lost her footing and tumbled down from the tree towards the water. As she went over the edge, turning her body to land feet first, she saw the relieved look on the face of the frightened mouse. She tried to swipe at it with her rear, left paw as she sailed past. If her legs had been longer, she might have succeeded. As it was, she also failed to reach under the branch to grab onto a piece of the grooved tree bark with her front paws.

Bougainvillaea was prepared to meet the water's surface. It would be a wet landing, but all four feet were pointed groundward with her legs splayed out. That was how nature had taught her to land the first time she fell from a tree.

She anticipated the splash, the covering of her head by the cold liquid, then bobbing up to the surface and swimming to the shore. Instead, when she hit the surface, there was no splash, no cold water, and no bobbing. She kept falling.

Chapter 2:

The Dweeb

School. "What could be more boring?" Joe wondered aloud. He picked up a shriveled onion that was lying on the side of the road. He sighted on a far away road reflector, wound up like a pitcher, and tossed the bulb into the field.

"More boring than what," asked his companion.

"Frank, how do you stand it?"

"Stand what?"

"You know; being in class all day. Especially when the day is as beautiful as this." Joe spread his arms around to encompass all the two high school seniors could see. That included everything from the powder blue sky with puffy white clouds galloping across it, to the corn and onion fields which spread out in every direction to the horizon.

Everyone ate corn here. No one ate onions. But it was a tradition to grow them. Everyone did.

The teens walked home from school along the same route every day. Their parents owned neighboring farms outside of town. There were no sidewalks here, just the dirt and gravel roads which led from the main highway. The boys would walk on the road, or along the irrigation ditch, occasionally cutting across fields if no crops were planted.

"Have you ever seen a sky that color before with clouds that shape? Has the corn ever looked so high and green to you? I mean, this has got to be the most perfect day of the year and we had to spend the best part of it indoors."

"Don't you think you're kind of exaggerating?" Frank replied. He was accustomed to his friends comments. Joe didn't like being indoors for any reason. It could be snowing and a hundred below and Joe would find some reason for being outside.

"Well, maybe a little. But, really, Frank. You sat in biology class for a whole hour taking notes about what ole Mrs. Fredricksen says as if it truly was important. What was it all about? Some rabbits in Australia. To me it's just BOR-ing. It's a mystery where you get all the energy to be interested in all that stuff."

"If you think that's a mystery, what do you think about the great onion caper?" Frank thought he would try changing the subject. It wasn't that he didn't want to answer Joe; they had this conversation all the time. Right now, Frank wasn't interested in explaining what he liked about school. He was always afraid it would sound like excuses. He liked to learn, that's all.

"Oh, you mean about how you can plant 100 "seed" onions in a field and only harvest fifty?"

A "seed" onion is a small, greenhouse grown, bulb that farmers plant. In science class, back in the sixth grade, all the students had grown onions that way. Growing an onion from a real seed takes too long. By the time the plant should be ready to harvest, it is still too small to be any good.

"Do you suppose someone is stealing them?"

"What? Pulling them up out of the ground before the onion pickers can? No, they're just getting eaten. "'Et," that's want my granny says."

Joe proceeded to imitate his grandmother. He shriveled up his face and crooked his left forefinger like a can open. Then, he made his voice sound like dried lizard skins scraping against each other. "'Et, I tell you. Someone, or something, 'et 'em all up. Been happenin' ever since I was a little girl. Who knows? But people still plant onions." He enunciate each syllable and emphasized each letter. It came out sounding like "on-yee-quinns," which was how all the old people pronounced the word.

Frank smiled. He knew most of their classmates couldn't see why he and Joe hung out together. Frank had the reputation that comes with being the best student in school and Joe was the antithesis. To be truthful, Frank had to admit to himself he didn't understand the reasons either. Unless it was that life didn't lack for excitement or interest when Joe was around.

Actually, it could be downright adventurous. Last summer they had convinced their parents to let them go to Wyoming for a month. No chaperons. They filled up their backpacks, pored over maps, and took the bus to Dubois.

When they arrived, they kept pronouncing the town's name the way their French teacher taught them. The residents of that small ranching community were too polite to correct their mistake. Finally, some old cowpoke had drawled, "Don't know nothing 'bout no Doo-blahs, but this 'a hear'n town's called Dew-boys."

That same cowboy had driven them west, out of town, into the Wind River Mountains. There, they backpacked for three weeks through some of the roughest, beautiful mountains Frank had ever seen. They had to cross some pretty big streams, and one river, without benefit of bridges. One day they had climbed over loose boulders and ice to the top of Mt. Fremont. They spent three of the coldest, wettest, and most miserable days of their lives in the middle of the trip. They didn't have any rain gear. Their only "tent" was an old plastic paint tarp Frank's father had given them a moment before the bus left.

A storm came up and pelted them with rain and hail the whole time. Sometimes lightening struck so close that they saw the flash and heard the boom simultaneously. They had spent those days shaking in fear one moment and giggling from excitement the next. As Joe liked to say, what's a little discomfort when there is fun to be had?

Frank thought about that for a moment, all the while scanning the horizon as they walked. Joe had a point about how pretty the day was.

He was thinking. Some people say mile after mile of corn is pretty dull and boring. It's not what used to be here before we kicked out the Indians and slaughtered the buffalo. But, if someone was to come here and want to pave it over to put up wall-to-wall shopping malls, or build a nuclear waste dump; Frank would fight to save it. This is home. This is what he believed in.

"Rabbits in Australia are like what we've done around here."

"What do you mean?"

"Look around you. Corn and onions. Onions and corn. It could as easily be rabbits. They're examples of how people like us have changed nature around. If the Indians came back, they wouldn't recognize this place at all. Everyone has to realize that everything they do affects everyone else."

Joe smiled. He knew his friend well enough to recognize when Frank was getting involved with what he was saying. Frank's eyes would get real large and his faced would glow with some inner energy that Joe wished he had. Sometimes he liked to tease Frank, to egg him on. This time, the topic really interested him so Joe asked for more information.

"Someone imported rabbits into Australia a hundred years ago. There wasn't any natural predator so the population of rabbits took off. Pretty soon, there were rabbits everywhere and you couldn't take a walk without tripping over a few dozen or so."

"I bet there was great rabbit hunting."

"I'll bet you're right. After a few years, there also wasn't anything green left on the ground. The rabbits ate it all. I know it sounds pretty strange, but it's true."

"Strange isn't the word for it. And talk about strange; look at that. I thought Halloween wasn't until October."

Frank looked to where his friend was pointing. There was a tall, very thin person walking towards them. His clothes fit him poorly. His pants were too short and his shirt was too big. He hat was beat, but serviceable; it hid most of this face. "Must be some street person. I saw it on TV last month," Joe said. "There are people without jobs or homes so they live on the streets."

"No, I don't think so. Look at his face. He looks like a ghoul from a Halloween, Part 40, movie."

"Looks like a dweeb to me," ventured Joe.

"And it looks like he's heading for us. What do you say we turn around and go another way?"

"There are two of us and only one of him. Let's see what the Dweeb wants."

Chapter 3:

Adventure

The strange looking person, who Joe chose insultingly to christen the "Dweeb," walked right up to the two boys and stopped. From where he stood the stranger blocked the middle of the road. The boys would have to pass around him or walk in the irrigation ditch. They stopped and chose to investigate the stranger instead.

The man's clothing was old. It was patched well, though. The shirt was indeed far to large for his narrow frame. His skin was pale but his hands were stained a dull brown as if dirt had been rubbed into them. His face was long and drawn; his eyes sunk into his head were large bright orbs. In fact, his eyes were the only outward evidence of life.

"He must be eight feet tall," whispered Frank.

"I bet the Lakers could use him," returned Joe. "What do you suppose he wants? Look at the way he's looking at us."

Indeed, the stranger had a curious manner about him. His eyes moved side to side, from boy to boy, while his head and body remained frozen.

"He looks like he wants to eat one of us and can't decide which it will be. Hey, Mister. What gives?" prompted Joe.

"You are Joe?"

The man's first words surprised the boys. They self-consciously, retreated a step or two.

"I have not come to harm you," the stranger continued softly. "I am to invite you to visit our country. They wish to meet you." Here he paused and waited. The boys made no move or sound.

"You will follow me?" the stranger prompted.

"Will we be back in time for dinner?" retorted Joe.

The giant didn't have a sense of humor. He looked confused by the answer.

"What he means," explained Frank, "is that we can't just up and go with you."

"Why?"

"Because we don't know who you are, dummy. How do we know you aren't dangerous? No, I don't think so," said Frank. "No deal. No way."

"Isn't an adventure worth the unknown? There could be many rewards."

That comment stopped them cold. Frank's inclination was to turn around and walk home some other way. Excitement was fine as long as it didn't entail danger. This adventure had all the hallmarks of an unwise decision. The Dweeb was a bad looking character. Still, he hesitated, waiting to see Joe's reaction. Frank didn't want his friend to think he wasn't adventurous.

Joe was both electrified by the Dweeb's offer and cautious. True, the cost of the unknown was adventure. Adventures always held an allure for Joe. Still, this was unconventional.

The Dweeb looked like the man parents always said not to accept candy from. He may not be offering real candy, but the proposition was about the same. On the other hand, this could be incredibly exciting. Joe decided to try and wait for Frank's decision. Frank always did what was right.

In the silence while the boys thought, the Dweeb waited. There was a reason he had been sent. He was patient and not given to rushing through things. His instructions had been plain enough. Find the person called Joe and entice him to the cave. There could be other people on this road who were not named Joe. He would take that chance.

Then there was the other reason, his reason. Actually, his and a few others. He would not be able to be a part of that. This was his job. There were two parts to it. One source knew only about the first part; the other source knew about them both.

They had given him some suggestions to follow. He didn't know where the information came from, but the Big People were never wrong. He had tried what they said to try and it may be working. The teenagers were silent; they appeared to consider his offer.

"I don't think we should go," said Frank. He was addressing the Dweeb, but the statement was really for Joe. Frank was relieved when Joe nodded his head, agreeing with him.

The Dweeb looked disappointed. "Follow me to the cave," he said. "Then decide."

"That sounds reasonable," Joe spoke without thinking. He looked quickly at Frank.

"Good. Follow me." With that, the Dweeb turned and began to walk away. The boys remained a moment and the Dweeb turned. "Be with you in a moment!" Joe called, with false cheer. He turned to Frank who wore a look of impatience.

"Don't look at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like I just stepped in something and brought it into the house."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't be mad at me, Frank. Let's just follow him to the cave, whatever that is, and take a peak inside. What harm could it do?"

"Well..."

"There are two of us, right?"

"And we don't hardly equal one of him."

"Yeah, he is kind of on the large size, I'll admit. It isn't as if he was beefy. He's as skinny as a shovel handle. I don't think he wants to hurt us. He said so, didn't he?"

"Then, what do you think he does want?"

"To show us something, I guess."

"Why does he keep talking about showing us his country? Is he going to take us somewhere?"

"To the cave. Wherever it is."

"I don't know." The more cautious boy was beginning to waver; Joe could feel it. It wouldn't be hard to convince his friend to follow the Dweeb as long as it remained a safe idea.

"Look, Frank, let's just follow him and if it looks like he's going to pull a fast one, we'll bail out quicker than you can sing "happy birthday" in Nepalese."

Frank's family had hosted an exchange student from the Himalayan country the previous year. One of the useful things the two friends had learned from the student was the Nepalese equivalent for the current pop songs as well as a few time-worn classics.

"O.K. But the first sign of something fishy and we leave. No discussion. We get out of there."

"Agreed," said Joe with a smile. Seeking to reassure the other boy, he added, "It'll be fine; you'll see."

"I hope so," was Frank's reply. "I hope so."

Chapter 4:

Into the Cave

The Dweeb led the two friends on a familiar walk. They followed the road for half a mile, turned left at Mr. Mackinaw's corn field, passed through a barbed wire fence, topped a small hill overgrown with an old crop of onions, and descended to the old flooded mine shaft. The dark, crystal blue, color of water glinted in the sun.

Not many people went out this way. None of the parents wanted the kids playing around the shaft. No one in town knew how long the mine had been there. Even the oldtimers couldn't remember when any mining had been done in this part of the country.

The pit was rumored to be "bottomless." One fact was sure, mine shafts were dangerous. People had wanted to board up the hole, or at least fence it off.

Joe and Frank had explored in the area a few times but it didn't have much to offer. The big old, dead, Maple hung over a little hole filled with water as far as they were concerned. There weren't any fish, they had tried. It was too small to swim in. The water was tasteless. Frank thought it didn't even taste "wet" but Joe had always laughed at him for saying that.

The boys followed the Dweeb to the deep pit. The hole was filled with water, as they remembered. Neither could think of a reason for coming here.

To their surprise, the Dweeb walked purposefully into the water. It wasn't until he was waist deep that the boys said anything.

"We're not going in there," Frank said.

"We'll drown," added Joe.

The Dweeb turned around and looked at the boys. He appeared to mull this over before he spoke. "Follow me."

Frank shook his head left and right. "No way, Jose."

"Trust me," said the Dweeb. "The ground slopes underneath and you won't slip. There is a door at the bottom. Through the door is the way we must go.

The boys looked dubious.

"You can hold your breath, if that makes you feel any better."

"That's pretty silly. We don't know how far it is," said Frank.

"Yeah. What happens if we run out of air and we're nowhere near your silly old door? What then?"

"I promise you; you won't need to breathe once you are in the water."

"Then why did you say we can hold our breath?" queried Joe suspiciously.

"To make you feel more comfortable. All is not what you are trained to see or believe." He waited while the boys looked first at each other and then at the Dweeb. No one moved. "Trust me," he repeated.

The silence was absolute. Not a bit of breeze stirred along the ground. High, wispy clouds traveled across the sky, oblivious to the little drama being enacted at the old mine. The maple tree near the pit stood like a guardian. One large branch hung over the water. It would make a fine place for an old tire swing. Why hadn't anyone ever put one there?

In situations like these Joe had learned to follow the lead of his friend. He decided to wait and see what Frank decided. Finally, after what felt like hours of thought, Frank turned to him and whispered, "How long can you hold your breath?"

Joe considered. It is one thing to hold your breath sitting on the sofa watching TV; yet another to do it underwater sitting on the bottom of the pool; still another to do it while swimming or walking into a bottomless pit when you didn't know when your next breath would be taken. He made his best guess and then shaved off 10 seconds to be safe. "About 40 seconds."

"Me too," replied his friend. "Let's give it a try."

"O.K." said Joe. "You first."

All this time the Dweeb had been standing in the pool of blackened water, silent and motionless. When the boys advanced to the edge of the water, he grunted, turned and advanced downward. "Follow me," he said. In a moment, while the boys debated removing their sneakers, the Dweeb had progressed until only the top of his head showed. Then, it too, was gone.

"Wait!" called out Joe.

The Dweeb's head poked out of the water.

"What about flashlights?"

The Dweeb smiled, said nothing and was gone.

"I guess we don't need them," Frank commented wryly. "No use in taking off the shoes, I guess." He stepped into the pool. "Not cold at all," he said over his shoulder. "Water's fine."

Joe followed him in. Both boys were surprised at the firmness of the bottom. It was almost sandy, with a hardness that accepted each step. The water temperature was that of a warm bath. Joe preferred showers, he thought to himself as the water level approached his chin. They both stood in that position a moment and looked at each other. "Well, here goes," said Frank and he took a breath and proceeded under the surface of the water.

Chapter 5:

Breathing - Underwater!

Joe followed his friend under the pool of water. There was an unusual lack of buoyancy, like they were wearing diver's weight belts. He silently counted the seconds he held his breath. He was sure Frank was doing the same. He would wait until 40 seconds were up, then turn around and swim up to air as fast as he could.

Being underwater always brought an element of panic to Joe. He had learned to control it, somewhat, but the thrill of the unknown was strong in him. It was all he could do, now, to stay calm.

Joe always admired Frank's way of methodically approaching any problem, coolly think over all the possibilities before deciding. As odd, and unsafe, this following of the Dweeb seemed, Joe knew that Frank had considered all the alternatives. The Dweeb, in himself, was unusual and called for special consideration and thought. This was no commonplace mystery they were investigating. It belonged in a Stephen King book. Or a dream.

Was it possible? Instead of needing to swim down, Joe was able to keep walking. But the deeper he went, the darker it became. Pretty soon, Joe couldn't see Frank or the Dweeb. He wished for a flashlight. It was faith, not trust, that led him on now. Faith there must be a bottom to every hole.

After an eternity, 40 seconds was up. They should have reached the door by now, Joe decided. He wanted to turn around but he wouldn't do it without Frank. The problem was, he couldn't see Frank at all. He reached out his arms and took a large step hoping to touch his friend. No one was there!

The panic of being underwater now rose from his heart to his throat and was replaced with terror. Where was Frank? He took another large step, this time almost launching himself into the swimming position. Rather than gliding through the water he kept sinking!

In a mixture of panic, terror, and confusion, Joe lost his head. He was sinking, and fast too, tumbling downhill like in a waterslide. The constriction in his chest told him he had seconds of air left. He tried valiantly to figure out what to do but his brain refused to work. All he could think of was, "I'm going to drown."

Joe tried valiantly not to take a breath for he knew the moment he did the gag response would begin. There was no chance, once that happened, to recover. And still, he felt himself sinking. Finally, he could hold his breath no longer. He would have to breathe. Could Frank have turned around in the dark water and returned without him? Why had they followed the Dweeb in the first place? The creature hadn't acted dangerous. No use in thinking about that now.

Joe took his first breath of water, expecting to gag and then sputter and cough. Good bye, world, he thought. Life was to wonderful to waste like this. However, instead of what he expected, Joe felt nothing. Am I dead, he thought? Was it that easy? At least I didn't suffer.

Then, Joe realized he was breathing, and, underwater! It wasn't like being in the open air. It was more like being in a crowded room with lots of people. The air is thick with the smoke of cigarettes. The windows need opening but they've been painted shut. There is a stale taste to everything as if, for all the crowd that is there, nothing new has entered or left the room for a thousand years.

With the awareness that Joe was breathing came the realization he was no longer sinking. He lay, sprawled, on dry ground. Joe saw, or rather felt the presence of Frank, beside him. "What kept you?" asked his buddy.

Frank's voice was clear as a bell, though somewhat of a dull bell, as you would expect in a deep cave where all sound is absorbed by rock walls. Joe felt his racing heart slow down to a fast walk at the sound of his friend's voice. He replied as nonchalantly as possible, "Took a wrong turn," and proceeded to dust himself off.

The Dweeb grunted. "Follow me. Close the door behind you."

The boys had no idea where the Dweeb had gone and walked with arms outstretched. Joe found the door first. "This way, Frank," he said. "Here. Grab my hand." He felt the hand close on his. The boys passed through the portal and shut the door. It closed on well greased hinges.

"What happened to the water?" asked Joe.

"I don't know. All of a sudden it wasn't there. Did you notice you're not wet?"

Joe felt his clothing. A sound of surprise exited his mouth. Even his shoes were dry. "What?"

At that moment two things happened. First they bumped into the Dweeb and when he moved to the side, the boys saw a small light on the wall. It illuminated the passageway they were in so the boys could see about 100 feet ahead. Then, either the light petered out or the tunnel curved.

"Soon. Almost there." said the Dweeb. "Quiet. Listen."

They did as they were bade. A faint clamor drifted through the tunnel to them. "Sounds like machinery," said Frank. The Dweeb nodded. "What happened to the water?" Frank added.

The Dweeb smiled. "I told you; everything is not what it appears. Your eyes fool your brain and your brain fools you. That is how they keep people away from here."

"Oh," said the boys in unison. Neither was quite sure what the creature meant but one thing was for certain. They were here; dry, warm, and safe. Well, maybe dry and warm. Time would tell on the last point.

Chapter 6:

A Horrible Sight

The triad moved down the corridor. The sounds of machinery grew louder and the lights along the wall grew brighter and closer together. The further they moved into the deep earth, the slower the Dweeb walked. It was as if he didn't want to go in the direction they were heading.

The din of machinery was soon so great that conversation turned into a shouting match. Even the normally soft voice of the Dweeb was raised. Still, the boys had to strain.

"I will leave you here."

"What?" shouted the boys in a fright.

"My job is done. It would not be good to be seen with you or they would know I had succeeded."

The Dweeb said curious things but this was, by far, the most peculiar. "We don't understand," said Frank after the boys had exchanged looks of stupidity.

"They sent me to find you and I have. It would not be good for you to be found."

The Dweeb's logic was impossible to figure out. The noise was deafening. Frank held his hand up to Joe not to pursue the matter. They would find out the answers soon enough. "What do we do now, then?" he shouted into the Dweeb's ear.

"I go on. You wait."

"And..?"

"Someone will come for you."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Someone."

"How will we know who they are?"

"You won't. They will know you."

"Is it safe to stay here?" Joe asked. He was beginning to have serious second thoughts about the whole expedition. There was something fishy about the Dweeb and his reasons for wanting them to follow him.

"No," was the shouted reply. The surprise stood out clearly on the boy's faces. "But, there is no choice." He turned to go, leaving the boys alone. "No one knows you're here but me," he added over his shoulder, "and I won't tell."

"Then how will anyone know to come for us?"

The Dweeb shrugged his shoulders and kept moving. He turned sharply left in a few feet and was gone. Cautiously, Frank and Joe crept to the turn and looked. The Dweeb's uncertainty of their future was unsettling, but his manner instilled caution.

What they saw was shocking. The Dweeb was standing in a large room filled with machinery. Here was the source of all the noise. The Dweeb and a taller, muscular man were arguing. The boys couldn't hear the exchange but the other man was involved in what was probably a vociferous harangue.

The Dweeb's shoulder's were bent and he had slumped to nearly half his height. The Haranguer towered over the Dweeb, no small feat, and began to beat him with a long stick, or wand. It was thin, like a noodle and almost invisible. Each time the Haranguer struck, the Dweeb diminished in size until he disappeared. The Haranguer had, literally, beaten the Dweeb into the ground.

Frank and Joe crept back from their vantage point. They looked at each other. Joe wiped his brow. The blast of heat from the machinery room had made his face break out in a sweat. Frank did the same. Then, he motioned with his head that they should walk back down the hall.

When the noise had lessened to a dull, faint roar, they held a huddled conference. They stood just out of the flickering light of the wall light. They hadn't noticed before, but there were many other hallways and corridors entering the passageway they stood in.

"What are we going to do, Frank?"

"I don't know. I'm not even sure what is going on."

"Did you see what that guy did to the Dweeb? Beat him until there was nothing left. I wonder if he knew that would happen." He was feeling bad about the negative name he had assigned the man who was no longer. It was a poor sign of respect.

"Probably. It's no wonder he was moving slow the further we got along." Frank took a long pause before continuing. "It's obvious something is wrong down here. The Dweeb seemed to think there was something we could do to help."

"But, what?"

"Good question."

"Perhaps I can be of some assistance," came a high pitched voice. When the boys looked around, they could see no one who could have uttered those helpful words.