The Island Stallion (6 page)

We could get in there with the dory, Pitch. We could slide her in alongside the big rock just after a wave has struck, then pull her up onto the smaller rock, directly behind the big one, so we’d have her to get away on.”

“It sounds too dangerous,” Pitch said thoughtfully.

“But Pitch, what else can we do? And if we’re careful it shouldn’t be dangerous.”

“I don’t know, Steve,” Pitch began. “There may be an easier way farther on. We’d better go all the way around the island first.”

“Okay,” Steve said dismally, “but I doubt that we’ll find anything else. If there was an easier way of getting onto this part of the island, it would have been discovered long ago.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever looked before,” Pitch replied insistently. “We wouldn’t have either if we hadn’t seen the horse last night,” he reminded Steve.

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Steve agreed. But as the launch pulled still farther away from shore, he continued looking back at the waves striking the dark, greenish rock.

They were well out of danger from submerged rocks when Pitch turned to Steve, saying, “We’ll go around to the other side of the island now, and if we find no other way, we’ll come back in the dory as you suggested, Steve.”

As they rounded the tip of Azul Island, the wind whipped into their faces and the launch dipped deeply into a far heavier sea.

Steve said, “It’s worse here, Pitch. We wouldn’t have a chance of getting in. The wind is driving the waves too hard against the walls on this side.”

Pitch nodded grimly as the launch was tossed heavily about on the rough sea. “You’re right, Steve, we’d better go back.”

“For the dory?” Steve asked quickly.

“For the dory,” Pitch repeated solemnly.

Two hours later, after having taken the launch back to the pier, they returned in the dory to the large green rock they had seen earlier. They had broken camp, and now their backpacks, along with several coils of rope and Pitch’s pick and shovel, lay at the bottom of the dory as the small boat lightly rode the high swells.

“Perhaps it was silly to bring all this gear along,” Pitch said. He was sitting beside Steve, both pulling hard on their oars. “Even if we’re able to reach shore, we may not find a way up the sides, you know.”

“But if we do,” Steve said, “we’ll be glad to have everything with us. It’s too long a row to go back for our gear.”

The dory fell swiftly into a deep trough, then rose high with the next swell. Steve saw that they were nearing the large rock, and his face became set.

Pitch said warningly, “Careful now, Steve.”

A moment later they stopped rowing, but their oars remained in the water, directing the course of the
dory and holding her back from riding in on top of the swells. They were both tense, for they knew that if they went too far to the left they would be swept against the rock and too far to the right would mean being carried all the way in against the walls of Azul Island. There were only a few feet of swirling waters where they could bring in the dory safely.

A heavy swell slipped under them and crashed against the rock, its spray coming down on top of their heads. As the dory went down into the trough before the next swell, Steve said, “Now, Pitch!” Together they plunged their oars downward and pulled hard. The small boat leapt ahead, its prow parallel with the rock. The wave behind them struck the face of the rock and water poured in torrents about them. Steve’s fingers clawed at the jagged stones as he pulled the dory forward, and Pitch struck his oar viciously into the water as though he were wielding a canoe paddle. The dory’s prow pushed sluggishly into the strong current flowing back from the walls of Azul Island, and for a moment Steve thought they would be pushed back to the front of the rock again. Then the waters from the rock surged forward to meet those coming from the wall. Now there were turbulent waters beneath the dory, but neither a forward nor backward current.

They were just behind the larger rock, and Steve saw the small alcove where the smaller rock joined the larger one. While he steadied the dory, Pitch jumped out onto the rock and grabbed the boat. “Hurry, Steve,” he said.

Steve followed, his feet slipping on the slimy, moss-covered rock.

“Pull her up now,” Pitch said.

Together they lifted the prow out of the water and then swung the dory sideways until she was directly behind, and protected by, the larger rock. That done, they sat down quickly beside the dory. For a moment they said nothing, each listening to the heavy thud of waves crashing against the face of the rock.

Finally Pitch asked, “Now what, Steve? It’s just about as bad as in the canyon.”

“But it’s not as smooth or as steep,” Steve pointed out hopefully. “Maybe we can get a foothold someplace and be able to climb up.”

“It’s difficult to tell from here,” Pitch said.

Simultaneously they looked in front of them at the low, dark rock that stretched before them to the wall. Their first task would be to cross it safely. They waited for the waters to drain from the rock, and saw the green, slippery moss that grew there.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Pitch cautioned. “Very careful.”

Steve’s eyes were still fixed upon the rock. He studied it intently for a few minutes more before suddenly crawling forward on his hands and knees. He pushed away some of the green vegetation, exposing a long, uneven niche in the rock. A few feet above it he uncovered another. His eyes followed the indentations up to the small crest of the rock, then he turned to Pitch. “They’re almost like steps,” he said excitedly. “Do you think the sea could have cut them in the rocks, Pitch?”

“I suppose so,” Pitch returned, after studying the niches. “Although they do seem to be about the same
distance apart, leading right across. Maybe they even go to the wall.”

“It’s hard to tell,” Steve said, “because the moss covers them so well. If we can find them, they’ll give us a little foothold.” Steve’s hands were on the rock. “Shall we try it now, Pitch?”

Pitch knelt directly behind Steve. “I suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “I’ll never be more ready than I am now.”

They heard a wave strike the face of the rock, then the waters came pouring over the sides sweeping past them and covering the low rock. They waited until the waters drained from the rock and the way was clear again; then Steve went ahead, followed closely by Pitch.

Steve was in a full crouch, his hands clawing at the rock in front of him until he found the cuts; then he brought his feet up to them, while his hands moved forward again, searching for the footholds he hoped he’d find beneath the green moss. When he reached the small crest of the rock he started down toward the wall, only a few feet away. It was more difficult finding the cuts now—or perhaps there were none, he thought. He stopped looking for them as he heard the next wave crash with a dull thud against the large rock behind him. There were only a few seconds now before the water would sweep over the path he was following. Ahead he saw a long narrow ledge on the wall, a few feet above the rock. He let go. Sliding and slipping, he went over the remaining bit of rock until he had reached the wall, then quickly stepped up to the ledge.
He no sooner had turned his back to the wall than Pitch was climbing up beside him.

They stood there catching their breath while the wave covered the rock, swept up to their feet, then receded, rolling seaward.

“It could have been worse,” Steve said encouragingly.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so,” Pitch said slowly. Then he turned and looked at the ledge running along the wall. “We can’t just stand here, Steve, so let’s see where this goes. If it comes to nothing we’ll just have to call it quits and go back again.”

Moving slowly, Steve sidestepped along the narrow ledge. He had gone about thirty yards when the ledge ended abruptly at a shallow cleft in the rock.

Steve and Pitch stood there, saying nothing, their eyes taking in the smooth stone on either side of them. Overhead, the cleft rose about fifty feet. Pitch moved off the ledge and into the cleft beside Steve; there was just enough room for both of them. “Well, this seems to be the end,” Pitch said dismally. “There’s no place to go from here.”

Steve hated to turn back now, for there was no other way, he knew, of setting foot onto this part of the island. But Pitch was right—there was no place to go from here. No place but up.

Pitch had moved back to the ledge, and Steve pushed his foot against the wall of the cleft. As he did so he could feel a small indentation in the rock. He swept his foot along it, scattering the small stones that lay there. He could see it clearly now; the indentation
was worn almost smooth, but it was still very much like the uneven cuts in the rock they had just climbed over. He glanced at a point a few feet above the first cut; then, quickly, he leaned forward, his fingers finding another niche in the stone wall. Looking above his head, he saw several more slight indentations; but whether or not they went all the way up the wall he could not tell, for they were too shallow to be seen from any distance.

Pitch had turned away from him, but Steve excitedly called him back. Pointing to the lowest niche in the wall, he said, “Look, Pitch! Here are those cuts again.”

Crouching down beside Steve, Pitch felt the cuts; then after Steve had shown him the others, he said, “They certainly look the same, Steve. But why would anyone—”

“Here’s why!” Steve said quickly. He braced his back against the wall opposite the cuts, then raised his feet to the first niche. And there he sat, wedged between the walls of the cleft!

“You mean …” Pitch began.

Instead of replying, Steve placed one foot in the next cut, then slid his back up the wall until he was still higher above the ground.

Pitch looked up at him in amazement. “Can you come down the same way?” he asked.

“Sure,” Steve said, and he slowly made his way back to the ground. “We can do it, Pitch,” he said. “We can go right up, as long as those cuts are there to give us a foothold!”

“But do you think they go all the way up, Steve?”

“I’m sure they do. Those cuts were made by someone
as a way of getting up from this ledge! Come on, Pitch,” Steve said anxiously, “you can easily do it.”

Once more Steve was in the cleft, and a few seconds later he was moving slowly up between the walls. Pitch watched him for a few moments, and then, when it was obvious that Steve wasn’t going to wait for him or turn back, Pitch hesitantly started up himself. He found it easier than he had expected as long as he kept his back hard against the opposite wall and his feet firmly in the cuts. Soon he was gaining upon Steve, who had to spend time uncovering each cut before going on.

As Steve neared the top he could see the wide ledge above. He pushed himself up the remaining few feet and then crawled out upon it. Pitch was just behind, and Steve reached down to help him up.

They stood there side by side, looking about them. Below was a precipitous drop to the sea, and above another sheer wall of yellow stone. Pitch had begun to shake his head dismally when he saw the box-shaped stone that rose a few feet above the center of the ledge. “Look here, Steve,” he said, running to it.

When Steve joined Pitch, he found him looking down a darkened shaft. The hole was about four feet in area, and the stone around it was squared off at each corner, “Somebody built this,” Steve said, looking down into the blackness of the hole. “What is it? Where does it go?”

Pitch was running his hands around the sides. “This isn’t stone,” he said. “It’s a mortar of some kind. See how it crumbles, Steve. I’d say it’s hundreds of years old.”

“What’s the hole for?”

“I don’t know for sure. But it could be a ventilation shaft,” Pitch returned.

“You mean to tunnels below?” Steve asked. “Tunnels that may lead to the interior of the island?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Steve,” Pitch replied quickly. “We’ve really stumbled onto something.”

Looking down the shaft, Steve said, “How deep do you think it goes, Pitch?”

Pitch looked about the ledge. “If we had something to drop we could tell approximately,” he said. They searched the ledge but could find nothing on the bare rock; then Pitch put his hand in his pockets and finally withdrew a long piece of white chalk. “This will do,” he said. “I must have picked it up at the Customs office when you arrived.” Leaning over the shaft, he added, “Listen closely now,” and dropped the chalk.

Steve heard Pitch counting to himself as the chalk fell; then came the soft thud as it struck the bottom of the shaft.

Pitch said, “About a hundred feet, Steve, as close as I can figure it.”

“The rope could easily do it then,” Steve said quickly.

“You mean for us to go down?” Pitch asked, his eyes becoming grave. “You think we should, Steve? We don’t know what we’ll find below. It might be dangerous.”

“We can’t stop now,” Steve pleaded. “We’ve been looking for a possible way into the interior. We’ve found it. We can easily fit into the shaft.”

Pitch was silent for a moment; then he said
thoughtfully, “And if we find nothing, we can always climb back up the rope. We’ll tie it securely around the top of the shaft here.” His voice had become eager again.

“Yes,” Steve added, “and we’ll have our flashlight to use below. We’ll have to go back to the dory to get it, and we should get our packs, too. If we find anything and decide to stay, we’ll need everything we have with us. We’d better make sure the dory will stay fast as well.”

Pitch nodded. “Yes, we’d better, as you say.”

But they still stood at the edge of the shaft, looking into the blackness below.

“We found what we were looking for, Pitch.”

“Much more, actually,” Pitch said slowly. “Much more.”

Steve placed the lid on top of the can of Sterno, extinguishing the flame over which the midday meal had been cooked. Pitch had risen to his feet, wiped his tin plate clean with a paper towel, and walked over to the shaft. He stood looking down for a few minutes, then glanced up at the overcast sky and said, “We’re in for some rain, I’m afraid.”