999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [200]
“I’ve brought you something to eat.”
A basket sat at the bottom of the ladder. Presumably John had lowered it by a rope and then pulled the rope back up before calling to Romero.
“I’m not hungry.”
“If I were you, I’d eat. After all, you have no way of telling when I might bring you another meal.”
Romero’s empty stomach cramped.
“Also, you’ll find a book in the basket, something for you to pass the time. D. H. Lawrence. Seems appropriate since he lived on a ranch a little to the north of us outside Taos. In fact, he’s buried there.”
“I don’t give a shit. What do you intend to do with me?” Romero was startled by how shaky his voice sounded.
John didn’t answer.
“If you let me go right now, I’ll forget this happened. None of this has gone so far that it can’t be undone.”
The trapdoor was closed. The pale beam of light disappeared.
Above, there were scraping sounds as the barrel was put back into place.
Romero wanted to scream.
He picked up the basket and examined its contents. Bread, cheese, sliced carrots, two apples … and a book. It was a tattered blue hardback without a cover. The tide on its spine read, D. H. Lawrence: Selected Stories. There was a bookmark at a story called “The Woman Who Rode Away.” The pages in that section of the book had been so repeatedly turned that the upper corners were almost worn through.
The blows to Romero’s head made him feel as if a spike had been driven into it. Breathing more rapidly, dizzier than ever, he went back to the chamber. He put the basket on the table, then sat on the cot and felt so weak that he wanted to he down, but he told himself that he had to look at the story. One thing you could say for certain about John, he wasn’t whimsical. The story was important.
Romero opened the book. For a harrowing moment, his vision doubled. He strained to focus his eyes, and as quickly as the problem had occurred, it went away, his vision again clear. But he knew what was happening. I’ve got a concussion.
I need to get to a hospital.
Damn it, concentrate.
“The Woman Who Rode Away.”
The story was set in Mexico. It was about a woman married to a wealthy industrialist who owned bountiful silver mines in the Sierra Madre. She had a healthy son and daughter. Her husband adored her. She had every comfort she could imagine. But she couldn’t stop feeling smothered, as if she was another of her husband’s possessions, as if he and her children owned her. Each day, she spent more and more time staring longingly at the mountains. What’s up there? she wondered. Surely it must be something wonderful. The secret villages. One day, she went out horseback riding and never came back.
Romero stopped reading. The shock of his injuries had drained him. He had trouble holding his throbbing head up. At the same time, his empty stomach cramped again. I have to keep up my strength, he thought. Forcing himself to stand, he went over to the basket of food, chewed on a carrot, and took a bite out of a freshly baked, thickly crusted chunk of bread. He swallowed more water and went back to the cot.
The break hadn’t done any good. As exhausted as ever, he reopened the book.
The woman rode into the mountains. She had brought enough food for several days, and as she rode higher, she let her horse choose whatever trails it wanted. Higher and higher. Past pines and aspens and cottonwoods until, as the vegetation thinned and the altitude made her light-headed, Indians greeted her on the trail and asked where she was going. To the secret villages, she told them. To see their houses and to learn about their gods. The Indians escorted her into a lush valley that had trees, a river, and groups of low flat gleaming houses. There, the villagers welcomed her and promised to teach her.
Romero saw double again. Frightened, he struggled to control his vision. The concussion’s getting worse, he thought. Fear made him weaker. He wanted to lie down, but he knew that, if he