Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [79]
Finally I waited too long. When I tried to back out, I couldn’t move.
My hands went to my throat, as if to tear away the thing that was blocking my lungs. No use . . . Blankenhagen and Tony were dying, maybe dead. And I was dying too. I would fall down in this awful dirty hole and never wake up. It was almost a relief to feel the pain of my labouring lungs fade as I fell forward into blackness no more absolute than that which already surrounded me.
When I came to, I was breathing. The shock of this discovery woke me completely.
I had been on the verge of breaking through the earth fall when my last convulsion threw me against the thin shell of soil remaining. I was lying with my head and shoulders on a downhill slope of dirt. The rest of my body was still in the hole. By a miracle, it hadn’t caved in.
I went back through my little tunnel as fast as I dared. Tony was already stirring as the fresh air from beyond reached him. Ruthlessly I slapped him awake. We didn’t waste time feeling Blankenhagen’s pulse or handling him gently. I backed through the tunnel dragging him by the shoulder, with Tony pushing from the other end. Tony barely made it. The ceiling began to subside as his head came out of the hole, and he had to pull his legs through solid dirt.
The first thing I did was light a match. The feeble flame was a beautiful sight. I’ve had a slight phobia about darkness ever since that night.
To our surprise and relief, Blankenhagen was still breathing. That was all we bothered to find out. Tony was on his feet, swaying dizzily, but driven; I followed, lighting matches with reckless abandon.
The tunnel went straight on without bending. It ended in a flight of wooden stairs.
I let Tony go up. The stairs looked solid, but there was no point in risking a double weight. If only the stone I could see at the top was movable . . .
When Tony came down, his face was grey. He didn’t need to speak. He just shook his head.
The match went out. Holding hands, we stumbled back to where we had left Blankenhagen. He had not moved. We curled up, one on either side of him. Tony was mumbling about shock, and keeping the patient warm, and it all made very good sense to me at the time, but I didn’t really care. All I wanted to do was rest.
When I finally awoke I knew I had slept for hours. All my bruises had solidified, and I was as stiff as Blankenhagen’s splinted arm. Otherwise I didn’t feel too bad. The first thing I did was take a deep breath. The air was still fresh. No problem there.
With that vital matter settled, I started to take stock. I could hear Tony snoring; it was loud enough to wake the dead. So I knew he was okay. Blankenhagen . . .
At least he was warm. I was in a good position to know. Somehow his one usable arm had gotten around me and my head was on his shoulder. His heart sounded a little fast.
I extricated myself, sat up, and lit a match. Blankenhagen’s eyes were open.
The shreds of my blouse were wrapped around his left arm. I wasn’t embarrassed. I wear less on the beach, and anyhow I was covered by a coating of dirt
‘Sorry for leaning on you,’ I said. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Hurt me? You have saved my life – you and he.’ But he didn’t look at Tony. ‘You are an amazing woman.’
‘And you,’ I said, returning his du, ‘are quite a guy. How do you feel?’