Subterranean (35 page)

“Why do you think it has anything to do with your ancestry?”

“The images in my dreams,” he said, counting off his points on his fingers. “First, my grandfather appearing dressed in traditional Aboriginal garb. Then the recent recurrence of my childhood nightmare of the cave. Even the words from the drums—'
prove your blood.
' It all seems to point to some ability inherent in my ancestral blood.”

She took a deep breath. Common sense and logic made her want to scoff at his claim. It had to be pure hogwash. Still, Ben had proven himself by selecting the right cave. She remembered a colleague who researched his doctoral thesis on Aboriginal tribes. “There is a lot of mysticism in Aboriginal lore. Spiritual walkabouts. Elders able to communicate over vast distances using dreaming pools. That sort of thing.”

“Right,” he said. “I thought it was mumbo jumbo myself. An Aboriginal friend that I used to cave with swore he had seen some pretty weird shit, but I never believed him.”

Distracted, Ashley pushed the little hoofed creature aside as it tried to get underfoot. It bleated and took off down a side passage. “What's the connection between a previously undiscovered tribe of evolved marsupials in Antarctica and Aborigines in Australia?”

“Hell if I know. But that drawing you discovered in the cliff dwellings in Alpha Cavern—the oval with the lightning bolt through it—makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“Remember when I told you I had seen them before? In Aboriginal cave paintings?”

She nodded. “Some sort of spirit guides of the Aborigines.”

“Right, the ones who supposedly taught early Aborigines how to hunt. The Mimis.”

The old man glanced backward at them. He mumbled something. “
Gota trif'luca mimi'swee.
”

Both Ben and she looked at each other. “You're the telepathic one,” she said. “What did he say?”

Ben shrugged and shook his head.

The old one seemed to sense their confusion and sighed heavily. He pointed at his chest. “
Mimi'swee.”
He waved to encompass the entire warren of village tunnels. “
Mimi'swee.”

“I still don't get it,” Ben said.

Ashley held up a hand. “Mee . . . mee . . . swee,” she stammered, concentrating on the correct pronunciation. She pointed a finger at the old man.

His old neck creaked up and down; then he turned away.

Ashley stumbled in shock. This was impossible. “He was telling us the name of his tribe. The
Mimi'swee,
” she said. Then, under her breath, she uttered, “Mimis, the Aboriginal rock spirits. They're one and the same.”

Ben's eyes widened with sudden understanding. Before he could say anything, the tunnel emptied into a large cavern, lit by fungus on the walls and ceiling. Ashley stared in awe at the columns supporting the distant roof, but it wasn't the rocky colonnades that drew her attention. It was the thick growth that wrapped around the columns, sprouting white limbs laden with a pulpy red fruit, hanging like Japanese lamps.

“Damn,” said Ben from behind her. “Not here again.”

Ben hesitated before following Ashley and their old guide into the chamber. He studied the room, expecting to hear ghost voices or see his grandfather moving in the shadows. But neither occurred. On closer inspection the fruity growths were the only similarity between this chamber and his dream cavern. The formations were all wrong, and the growths weren't nearly as thick or leafy as in his dream. Taking a deep breath, he followed Ashley's slim back.

Ashley stopped, reaching up to one of the red fruits. “I think they're a type of mushroom,” she said, breathless, nodding toward the growth. “Notice the lack of leaf structure. The interconnecting root system. Hyphaelike. Linda would go ape-shit over this stuff.”

“Speaking of Linda,” Ben said, “this is all very fascinating, but we have friends depending on us.”

“I know, Ben. I know. I haven't forgotten. Maybe with the Mimis' rudimentary grasp of our language, they can tell us a way up from here.”

“Well, let's ask!”

Ashley shook her head and continued deeper after the old man. “First we need to gain their confidence. Your stunt in escaping those predators helped, but they still seem suspicious of us. Wary. We need to proceed cautiously, or we might still find our heads on the block.”

By now they had reached the center of the chamber. Here the floor was clear of the rocky columns and their bulbous growths. A shallow pit was carved into the center of the floor about a hand span deep. Around the declivity, the stone was polished to a glassy sheen and blood-colored drawings encircled the central pit.

The old man leaned on his staff on the far side of the clearing.

“My god! Look at the detail!” Ashley said, leaving Ben's side to study a drawing closer up. She knelt to peer at a depiction of a creature being attacked by a group of tiny warriors. “Look, the red paint is the same color as those weird fruits. The mushrooms are probably some type of home-grown dye.”

“Great,” he said sarcastically. “Some freakin' artist's den.”

“No, I think it's a religious place. Primitive cultures place great stock in graven images. Idols, statues, paintings, that sort of thing. Give me a few minutes to study these. Maybe I can learn something.” She slid over to examine the next picture, not even bothering to glance at him.

Ben felt the stare of other eyes, like in his dream, drilling into the back of his skull. He turned around.

The old man stood on the far side, sparing only a quick glance at Ashley before settling those gray eyes back on him. The elder nodded and sat cross-legged down on the floor, his staff balanced across his knees. He motioned for Ben to do the same.

Lowering to the floor, Ben finally noticed how tired his legs were. It had to be evening by now. Late evening. With a rattling sigh, he settled to the hard floor. Stretching a kink out of his back, he allowed his body to slump into a relaxed pose. He dreamed of a tall bottle of warm beer.

Glancing up, he noticed the old man staring at him, not uttering a sound, just peering across at him with those intent gray eyes. He seemed to want something. But what?

Ben smiled across at him one of his patented “charmers” that was known to turn a crocodile into a pussycat. But the elder only frowned back at him, his gaze still expectant. Well, stuff him then, Ben thought, letting his lids drift closed as he relaxed further. He had solved enough mysteries for one day. Now he only wanted to find a soft spot to sleep. His chin slowly sank to his chest. Maybe just a nap.

He drifted into a hazy land, half aware of the tiny noises Ashley made as she scuffled from drawing to drawing. It felt so good to release the pressures of the day, allowing them to seep into the rock. His breathing deepened and a slight snore rattled from his nose. If only he could—

“Ben! Benny boy. Wake it up there, son!”

Ben's eyes snapped open. Who the hell . . .? He still sat in the same cavern, the ring of columns and pulpy fruit surrounding him. But instead of the old creature, his grandfather sat cross-legged across the pit. He waved a liver-spotted hand in his direction. Ben glanced around. The place was otherwise empty. Not even Ashley was there. He craned his neck, peering. That was odd; he could still hear her, moving off to the left, mumbling something, but she was invisible.

“Benny, whatcha lookin' for?”

“Where am I?”

His grandfather lifted a finger crooked with arthritis and pointed to his skull. “In here, my boy.”

Ben took a deep breath, his heart beginning to beat faster. This was insane. His grandfather and the chamber began to fade to blackness.

“Whoa there, boy. Ya need to calm yourself. Can't get all riled up, or this here won't work.”

Swallowing hard, Ben began to get an inkling of what was going on. He concentrated on letting his body relax, starting with his toes and working up. The imagery around him intensified with clarity.

“There ya go, Benny. That's better.”

He concentrated on breathing evenly and deeply as he spoke. “You're not my grandfather.”

“No, I'm not.” His grandfather smiled slightly, then his image slowly shrunk and swirled, his brow thickening, his eyes widening; a staff appeared resting across his knees. The swirling settled into the figure of the old crippled creature. “This is, of course, my true image. I am called Mo'amba.”

The elder's voice still sounded like his grandfather. It was disconcerting to hear it coming from such an alien face. “How? Why?” Questions tumbled in his mind.

“Benny, neither of us speaks the other's language. So I speak to you with the language of the mind. My thoughts are translated by your mind into images and words you understand.”

“So you stole the memory of my grandfather to represent yourself.”

“Not me. You did. It was your mind that pulled up your grandfather's image to represent a
heri'huti
.”

Ben pictured his grandfather's stern sober face. “And just what the devil is a
heri'huti
?”

“I am. As are you. Someone with the ability to connect on the dream plane. To see farther down the dark paths to the unknown.”

“But why me?”

“I can read the history of your blood. A strong
heri'huti
glides in your bloodline from the distant past. Very strong. You are still unlearned, but with time your skill might even surpass mine. A skill that my village needs in order to survive.”

“What do you mean, survive?”

“I am the last of my people with this ability,” Mo'amba said, his expression suddenly pained. “With the passing of time, I have seen the other
heri'huti
s depart this world until only I was left. Now even I can't lead the hunters to feed our people and protect the boundaries from the
crak'an
anymore. The hunters go out alone. Blind. Without the guidance of a
heri'huti
to see beyond the next bend, it is very dangerous, and we have lost many hunters. Widows wail every night. We cannot survive much longer without a new
heri'huti
to guide our people.” He pointed one finger at Ben. “You are the one.”

“Me?”

“I have been calling for many years seeking to draw others like me here to our village. But you were the only one to answer.”

“Bloody hell, there must be others. Others like . . . well, like you. Maybe another village would share their
heri'huti
with this village.”

Mo'amba shook his head. “After the Scattering, the other villages were lost to us. In deep dreams, I sometimes hear inklings of the Lost Ones, but it may just be wishful dreaming rather than true dreaming.”

“Still, you can't expect me to—”

Mo'amba's form drifted back into the image of his grandfather, anger lines deep around his eyes. “Blood runs true! You are one of us!”

Ben opened his mouth to protest when Ashley's voice suddenly intruded. “Ben, you must see this!”

With her words, the images around him faded, the face of his grandfather swallowed by blackness. He opened his eyes and shook his head, clearing the clinging cobwebs of his dream.

Ashley stared at him with a crinkled brow. “Jesus, how could you sleep at a time like this?”

“What?” Dazed, he rubbed his temples, a vague throbbing still there.

“Come see this,” Ashley said, oblivious to what had just transpired. She crossed a few yards and knelt by a painting, waving him over.

He glanced across the clearing to the old man. He still sat staring.

With a shiver, Ben pushed up to his feet and slid over to Ashley, unsure what to tell her. “What did you find, Ash?”

“Look at this painted petroglyph. It's a triptych.”

“A trip . . . what?”

“Three pictures. See the last one.” Ashley crouched before three painted red circles and pointed at the third one.

Ben knelt closer, not quite believing what he was seeing. The third circle held a crude map of landmasses of the southern hemisphere. “My god, that's Australia.”

“I know. It's crude but fairly accurate. Now look at the other two.”

Ben studied the other two circles. The first showed the Australian continent connected to the Antarctic continent by a thick land bridge. The second showed the same huge land mass breaking away. “What about them?”

“It's the connection! It explains how the Mimis of Australia—at least some of them—ended up here.”

“I still don't get it.”

Ashley sighed as if she had already adequately explained. “Millennia ago, land bridges connected various continents. With the continental plates shifting and ocean levels changing dramatically, land bridges rose and sank frequently, some disappearing in a matter of months. The fossil record also supports the existence of just such a bridge. Many fossilized remains of extinct marsupial species have been found in Antarctica.”

He shrugged. “So you think . . .?”

“Yes! Look at the first map.” She pointed to the link between the continents. “That's the land bridge. The second picture shows the breakup of the bridge. The third picture shows how the continents eventually became isolated.”

“But how could these people know about this? Map this?”

Ashley sat back on her haunches. “They obviously lived through it. And mapped it, like the American Indians did their coastlines. And through either an oral or pictorial history, they kept the memory alive.” She pointed to both Australia and Antarctica on the third map. “They were once connected. Then something drove these people out of Australia, at least some of them. They were trapped here when the land bridge sank.”

Ben studied the images, imagining a people forced to flee to the icy continent across a bridge of rock. He placed a finger on Antarctica. Two tribes separated. “My god . . . the Scattering,” he mumbled. “Maybe this was what Mo'amba was talking about.”