prehistoric caves and shelters and it was a well-accepted certainty that important sites, perhaps even spectacular ones, remained to be discovered. Some would be found by professional archaeologists or geologists, others by cavers looking for new thrills, still others by hikers or even, as had happened before, the family dog.
Before today’s expedition with Hugo, Luc had gone back and checked his old journals about the Ruac cliffs. The notations were sparse. He’d spent a day or two poking around the area during the summer following the award of his doctorate. His scribbled notes spoke of buzzards and black kites soaring on the thermals and the pleasures of a good packed lunch, but there was not a single mention of an archaeological find. Looking back, what he remembered most of that summer was the lightness that came from finishinig one part of his life and starting another. His student days were done; his professorship had not yet started. He could still conjure up the bliss of that liberty.
In researching the trip, Luc discovered that a colleague from Lyon had done a helicopter survey of the stratified oatmeal-coloured rock surfaces of the Vezere valley several years earlier. This was potentially of greater use than the notes he had made years before, and Luc had him email a file of photographs and maps. He studied them intently, side-by-side with the Barthomieu map, peering through a photographer’s loupe for any useful clues – waterfalls, crevasses, cave mouths – but like the archaeologist from Lyon, he saw nothing of particular interest.
An hour into their hike, the two men paused for some bottled water. Hugo slipped the rucksack from his shoulders and squatted on his haunches with his back up against the rock face to avoid getting dirt on the seat of his khakis. He lit a cheroot and his face registered the first pleasure of the afternoon. Luc remained standing, squinting into the afternoon sun. He pulled the crude map from the back pocket of his jeans, had another look then folded it back up.
Hugo pouted. ‘I hadn’t appreciated how futile this would be until I got up here. We can hardly see the rocks below us! It’s almost impossible to make anything of the rocks above us! I suppose if there were a big fat cave entrance right off this ledge, maybe we’d find it. You never told me how ridiculous this was going to be.’
Luc shrugged off his friend’s comments. ‘The map is the key. If it’s for real then perhaps we’ll find something. If it was from this guy’s imagination then we’re getting our sun and our exercise for the week, that’s all. Plus some male bonding.’
‘I don’t want to bond with you,’ Hugo said irritably. ‘I’m hot, I’m tired, my new boots hurt and I want to go home.’
‘We’ve just started. Relax and enjoy. And did I tell you your boots are splendid?’
‘Thank you for noticing. So what’s the map telling you, professor?’
‘Nothing yet. Like I said,’ Luc explained patiently, ‘once he’s steered us to the general area by orienting us to the position of the abbey, the village and the river, the only landmarks are this peculiar tree and a pair of waterfalls. Since the tree’s bound to be long gone, if we find waterfalls, then maybe we’re on the right track. If not, we’re probably going to come up empty. What do you say we keep moving?’
As the afternoon progressed, their trek became more difficult. Periodically, the ledge they were travelling on would taper and disappear and Luc had to find a new reliable ledge higher or lower on the cliff face. The ascents and descents weren’t so difficult as to require anything remotely like technical climbing but he nevertheless worried about Hugo’s abilities to keep his footing. On a couple of occasions he instructed his friend to pass his rucksack up on a short rope before Hugo would begin his search for foot and hand holds up the vertical face. Hugo grumbled and generally made a nuisance of himself but Luc lightly deflected his groans and kept them forging ahead on their slow, steady pace.
Down below, a group of kayakers, their boats, in bright primary colours like children’s playthings, paddled downstream. A flock of black kites very high in the pale-blue sky swooped by in the opposite direction. The sun was getting lower and the rich flood plain was taking on the hue of good beer. Luc checked his watch. If they turned back soon they’d be able to make it back to the car in daylight, but he decided to press on for a little while longer. They were approaching a promontory. Once they got beyond it he was hoping they’d be able to get a look at a long stretch of rock face. That would be their go/no-go point.
Unfortunately, when they got to the promontory the ledge dwindled to nonexistence and the only way to progress was a scramble up a craggy ledge covered in scrubby bushes. It wasn’t an easy decision. Hugo was irritable and tired and Luc knew that the extra climb would delay their return. But the adventurer in him always had to know what was on the other side, so he parked Hugo on the ledge, left his own rucksack behind and said he’d be back in a quarter of an hour or so. Hugo, no longer concerned about staying clean, moodily sat cross-legged on the trail and bit into an apple.
The climb wasn’t too challenging but Luc was happy to have ditched his friend so he could move at at his own pace. The peak of the promontory was a flat expanse of limestone about three-quarters up the cliff face. The view over the valley was magnificent, almost demanding a photograph, but the sun was low and time was precious so he left his camera hanging around his neck and moved a little further downstream to get the lay of the land beyond.
Then he caught sight of something that made him let out an involuntary throaty sound of surprise.
Just below him on a broad ledge was a solitary large juniper tree growing out of the scrub. Its enormous dry and rough twisted trunk the colour of charcoal ash fanned out and gave way to a jumble of corkscrew branches that jutted out in every conceivable direction. Its greenery was minimal, a few coniferous tufts here and there, like an old dog with mange.
Luc scrambled down the slope as quickly as he safely could and ran to it. When he was close enough to touch it, he pulled the map out again, looked up into its impossible jumble of branches and nodded his head. The match was uncanny – even after six hundred years! If any tree was going to live for centuries in this kind of barren terrain it would be the indomitable juniper, the ultimate survivor, with the odd specimen living for two millennia or more.
At that moment Luc decided they wouldn’t be turning back.
He knew Hugo would complain bitterly, but it didn’t matter. They were going to be camping tonight. If there wasn’t a good spot further on, they could always come back and sleep under the protection of this ancient tree.
Hugo did complain.
It was certainly a tree, he agreed, but he thought it was an article of extreme faith that it was the tree. He was sceptical to the point of being obnoxious. Finally Luc told him flatly that he was carrying on and if Hugo wanted, he could go back, take the Land Rover and find a hotel.
Hugo had no appetite for either course of action. He groused equally about sleeping rough and finding his way back to the car on his own. In the end he gave in and meekly followed Luc along the new ledge in search of, as he put it ‘mythical waterfalls and unicorns.’
They were running out of daylight. The temperature was dropping and the sky had turned a dusky, rose-like pink. Hugo, resigned to spending an uncomfortable night under the stars, demanded a break for his aching shoulders. They stopped on a secure shelf and guzzled water. Then Hugo unzipped his fly and urinated over the edge. ‘There’s your waterfall,’ he said without a trace of humour.
Luc had his rucksack off too. He leaned back and rested his head against the cliff, about to make a schoolboy comment in reply, when instead he said, ‘Hey!’ He felt the dampness on his scalp. He wheeled around and laid both hands on the rocks. They were wet. Stepping back as far as he could without going over the edge, he looked up and pointed at a wide dark stripe. ‘Look! It goes all the way up. It’s our waterfall!’
Hugo looked up too, unimpressed. ‘If that’s a waterfall, I’m the Pope.’
‘It’s been a dry summer. After a rainy spring, I’ll bet it turns into a proper waterfall. Come on before we lose the light. If there’s a second one, I’ll buy dinner.’
They walked into the fading light for the better part of another hour. Now, instead of looking, Luc constantly touched the rock face to feel for moisture.
Dusk was overtaking them. Luc was about to call a halt when they both heard it at the same time: a trickle, like a running tap. A few paces ahead, the rocks were soaking wet and water was seeping onto the ledge, puddling and flowing down towards the river. It was more a water dribble than a waterfall, but as far as Luc was concerned they were on the right track. Even Hugo perked up and agreed to push on until the sun completely set.
Luc pulled out the map one more time and pointed to the two waterfalls and the X that marked the cave. ‘If this part of the map is to scale then the cave is nearby, but it’s impossible to know if it’s below us or above us. I
