2,563 Words

       Dean's trusted black stallion, Onyx, bore him into the wilds of Montana.  Onyx's mane fluttered in the wind before the boy, and his legs roared beneath as they ventured into a rare, inspirational domain where few humans had ever set foot.  For Dean, a ride in the wild country transcended simple escape from his mundane workaday routine.  It became the stuff of his dreams—a journey of discovery, an exercise in freedom.  Although he was only sixteen, Dean's family trusted him to engage in this long-standing tradition of adventure.  He was no city boy.

       He worked his family's ranch this summer, his fifth year as ranch hand and heir apparent, but he now enjoyed a Saturday free of such responsibilities.  With three sandwiches and two canteens of water aboard Onyx, he'd prepared himself to make the most of this opportunity.

       For two exhilarating hours, Onyx carried him past pine-laden hills and winding, rock-strewn valleys.  They whisked through fields of tall, undulating grass that danced to the rhythms of the west wind.  Dean navigated his prized stallion through a narrow canyon that opened, at the base of a thin waterfall, onto a green and yellow prairie.  He dismounted alongside the resulting stream, nearby which lay plenty of good grazing.

       He grabbed a sandwich and a canteen from his saddle bag, and rubbed Onyx on his snout.  "Let's take a break for lunch, buddy.  Looks like there's plenty of good grass for you, but don't stray too far, okay?"

       He tapped the stallion's hind quarters, and Onyx trotted to the stream for a long drink.  Dean sat in the wild grass at the base of a rocky rise.

       He'd traversed this small valley plain once before, but too quickly to pay it the proper attention.  As he did so now, a small opening in the sloped rock overhead, about twenty feet up, stirred his desire for exploration.  Wind swirled within the cave mouth and whispered to him, as if to challenge his resolve, his daring.

       He kept a constant lookout for predators when in the wilds, and trusted that Onyx would alert him to dangers, as well.  Although too high for a bear, the cave might prove a suitable den for a mountain lion.  Still, he yearned to fulfill his adventure.  How could he resist?

       He whistled, and Onyx raised his head from the grass and galloped to him.  He stroked his best friend's nose and murmured, "Stay close, buddy.  I'm going to climb up for a look."

       He tapped the hunting knife sheathed on his belt—he never ventured into the wilds without it—and took a deep breath.  "I should've brought a gun."  He paused for a few seconds, and said, "Ah, I'll be all right."  Onyx whinnied as if to object to his decision.

       The cave tunneled beyond the influence of indirect sunlight.  Dean's breath quickened as he slipped the knife from its sheath—just in case.  He stiffened his upper body, planted his feet such that he could leap in an instant if necessary, coughed the cobwebs from his throat, and yelled louder than he'd intended.

       "I don't suppose there are any bad cats in here."

       He flinched at the voice that echoed throughout the chamber in response.  "…bad cats in here… cats in here… here."

       He tapped his fingers on the cave wall, his left foot on the floor—over and over and over—and nibbled at his lip.  The forbidding darkness, a curtain drawn across the chasm, reached into his psyche and crawled like ants up his spine.  How far back did it go?  His mind instructed him to seek the answer, but his feet rooted him to the ground in resolute insubordination.

       He carried no source of light, but reassured himself in whispered commands.  "Just take it slow and keep a hand along the wall.  Don't be a wimp, Dean.  How bad can it be?"

       He closed his eyes and turned his right ear toward the inner depths, seeking any sound veiled within the shadows.  Thump… thump… thump.  His eyes bolted open as he zeroed-in on the sound emanating from… his chest.

       "Don't be a little girl, Dean."  He wiped the sweat from his brow.

       He would not allow his silly fears to derail his adventure.  He took one step, and another, and—

       "What was that?"

       Frozen in silence, he waited.  The echo faded to nothing.

       He tightened his grip on the knife and resumed, and with each deliberate step, he relaxed further.  Some twenty steps in, he paused.  The charcoal-gray veil before him had deepened black as oil.  He turned toward the cave entrance and found momentary comfort in the distant light, inhaled a deep breath, and spun back to the darkness.

       "I could always come back another day, with a flashlight—maybe a gun."  He half chuckled and half grunted.  "Remember, curiosity did kill the cat."

       He chewed on a fingernail as he squeezed the knife in his other hand, and he thought of the stories the ranch hands liked to tell around the fire pit every night.  They told mostly whoppers, to be sure, but he couldn’t help but wonder what story or treasure might lie beyond the black veil.

       "As long as I can see some light behind me, I'll be all right."

       Six steps further, he realized his error.  Too late!

***

       He tumbled at a steep angle for several seconds, a wrecking ball of scratched arms, bruised legs and bumped head, until he thudded to an abrupt stop on level ground.  His breathing echoed in rapid bursts like machine-gun fire all around him.  Goosebumps leapt from his arms as a shiver rocketed from his feet to his brain, where it froze him in terrified indecision.

       He could not see his own hand as he touched his forehead, nor even the shadow of movement.  This place existed beyond the spectrum, beyond black.  This otherworldly realm barely existed at all—a void in the bowels of Earth.

       He crawled on all fours and groped as a blind child, in hopes of finding the slope and his way back into the light, into the world above, into life.

       An hour later, or perhaps a day—he had no concept of time—certain he'd made an impossible situation even worse, he collapsed.

       He lay on his back and sank into the depths of realization, the acceptance of which slowed his breathing and lent him an ironic calm.  He dragged his hands over the ground to either side, surprisingly soft in a blanket of ancient silt, in search of his knife, which he'd lost during his tumble into the abyss.

       His fingers brushed against a small stone.  He grabbed it and sat up, as an idea clawed its way into his mind—a desperate hope.

       He stood, gathered his balance, threw the stone into the darkness, and… waited.

       One, two, three, four….  It struck a solid surface.  His mind whirled in furious contemplation.  This cave is large.  How long will it take to die in such a place?  However long it takes to die of thirst, I imagine, unless….  Can a person die of fear?

       A tear trickled down his cheek as he bowed his head and whispered, "Dear God, what have I done?"  He raised both his head and his voice.  "God, please forgive me.  Prepare me for—"

       The words reverberated off the cavern walls and tortured his mind, as it conjured the image of a beast stalking out of the black pit—silent, hungry.  This was no place for an imagination.  As the echo faded, only his rapid breathing and the hammer of his heart remained.  He resumed his prayers in silence, with head bowed and eyes closed.  Sight served no purpose within the void.

       So he thought.

***

       Dean opened his eyes—a mere reflex—and gasped.  A faint glow shimmered in the distance.  He shook his head and clenched his eyes shut.  It must be a dream, a hallucination.  Although he feared proving that to himself, he nonetheless opened his eyes again.

       A nebulous white cloud, like those he'd seen in pictures from the Hubble Telescope, bobbed and wavered in near transparency.  He couldn't gauge its distance, but he didn't care.  He gathered his courage and walked toward it.

       He paused and held his breath for several seconds—an involuntary reaction—and flexed his fingers to control his shaking hands.  "What if there's another hole?"

       He thought saying it aloud would help him to think it through.  In truth, the sound of his voice provided a modicum of comfort, the creepy echoes notwithstanding.

       "What difference does it make?  I'll die anyway, if I just sit here."

       Each step challenged his resolve more than the one before, and required every ounce of courage and determination he could summon.

       The light intensified and exposed a wide cavern about him.  Before him, the ground effervesced and sparkled in a thousand points of light, as though he were about to step upon a clear, Montana night sky.  This trick of the eye gradually revealed its true self, and Dean stood at water's edge.  An underground lake stretched beyond his sight.  He marveled at its magnificence, as it reflected light that emanated from….

       "The light comes from nowhere.  How is that possible?"

       He searched for the source, but—

       "Do you dance?" a strange voice echoed from the void.

       Dean jumped so high he was amazed, once he regained his composure, that he hadn't smashed his head on the cave ceiling.  The voice spoke from everywhere, yet nowhere.  He spun all around, but whoever had spoken remained hidden.

       He trembled as he whispered, "Who said that?"

       "Do you dance?"  The soft, delicate voice of a girl enveloped him.

       "No.  Well, sort of… but not very well.  Who are you?  Where are you?"

       A light burst to his right and forced him to shield his eyes.  As it diminished, a girl appeared in its place, pretty in a white dress and with white bows in her hair.  She sniffed a bouquet of wild flowers she held and… she glowed.

       His mind revolted at what his eyes revealed.  Was he already dead?  How could she, this diminutive girl, be the source of light?

       He swallowed the lump in his throat.  "Are you an angel?"

       "I'm Mary Esther Denton, and I like to dance.  I'm fourteen years old.  You don't think that's too young, do you?"

       "I guess not."

       "That's good.  What's your name?  Did you come here for me?"

       "I'm Dean Stone.  I fell down a hole.  It was an accident and I was trying to find my way out."

       "Oh."  Her smile belied her obvious disappointment.  "As long as you're here, will you dance with me?"

       She hummed a song he didn't recognize, but her gentle voice comforted him.  When she held out her hand, he hesitated for a moment.  His mind almost revolted again as he grasped it, for it was neither warm nor cold—it just was.

       Movement seemed impossible, as if, true to his name, he had turned to stone.

       She curtsied.  "Do you want to lead?"

       His jaw hung slack.  "Uh… sure."

       They embraced and glided to the wondrous sound of her voice.  Mary Esther's light filled the cavern, yet she shined not so brightly that he must shield his face.  The flowers, which she held onto as they danced, bathed them in living perfume.  She glowed in contrasting shades of white, her dress one hue, her skin another, her hair and eyes yet others.  Although her skin radiated no heat, her nearness warmed him as though the very light she exuded were a protective blanket.

       She hummed and sang and they danced for time without measure.  He was unable—almost unwilling—to separate from her.

       He finally intruded on the serene reverie.  "Will we dance forever?"

       She smiled beneath her dreamy gaze.  "Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

       He almost wished it were true , yet he'd assumed most of his life remained ahead of him—great accomplishments, world travel, a wife and children.  And what of his family back at the ranch?  How must they suffer?

       Dean didn't know what to say to Mary Esther; he could barely make sense of his own thoughts.  I could love this girl, but….  If I'm not dead, I must leave this place.  I don't want to die.  I want to go home.

       He wasn't surprised when she responded.

       "Very well, I will show you the way out.  You've been sweet to dance with me."

***

       Onyx carried Dean without need of prodding or guidance, a fortunate skill, for his master drifted unawares, lost in reminiscence of Mary Esther Denton.

       "…you gonna answer me or not, boy?"

       Dean blinked his eyes several times and glanced about, slow to recognize his dad's voice.  Mr. Stone and the ranch boss, Tom, sat in rockers on the porch.  Dean remembered none of the ride back to the ranch.

       He looked to his dad.  "Sorry, I was a little distracted."

       "Distracted?  Looked more like you were on another planet.  Anything you want to talk about?"

       Dean hesitated, fearful they would think him crazy, but he needed to tell the story—every detail—lest he really go insane.

***

       Dean's dad watched him through squinted, incredulous eyes, silent, as though searching for the right words.  Tom stopped rocking, dropped his head and stared at his own feet.

       Seconds seemed as hours to Dean.  Why won't they say something?  Don't they believe me?  They have to.  I would never make up a story like—

       "I was just a pup back in sixty-two," Tom said….

       Dean breathed a sigh of relief, and listened.

       "…thirteen years old and in love with an older woman, don't you know."

       Tom smiled, leaned back in his rocker and stared up at the sky.  "She was fourteen, you see, and she went to the same one-room schoolhouse that we all attended in those days.  She was a pretty young thing, and she sang like an angel.  We did a lot of singin' in school back then.  I was quite the love-struck lad, and tried desperately for months to get her to notice me."

       He laughed and shook his head before continuing.  "Well, she finally agreed to go to the summer festival with me, but only if I agreed to dance with her while we were there.  That girl just wanted to dance—talked about it all the time.  Well, that was fine with me—a nice excuse to get close to her—but on the weekend before the festival, she went for a ride in the wilds."

       He took a deep breath, leaned forward and slapped his hands on his knees, and let out a long sigh.  "No one ever saw her again.  The sheriff found her horse runnin' free the next day, but there was no sign of the girl.  It was the saddest thing."

       He paused and stretched his lips tight across his mouth.  Dean and his dad suppressed their curiosity and waited; they knew Tom well enough to know he wasn't finished.

       "Everyone liked her.  She was such a sweet girl.  Even after forty-five years, I still think about her now'n'again."

       The look on Tom's face as he gazed into Dean's eyes, and the hushed tone of his voice, resurrected the goosebumps on Dean's arms.

       Tom nodded.  "Her name was Mary Esther Denton."

--THE END--