drawn with exquisite skill, but in something of a naive style-as if executed by highly skilled schoolchildren. The way the artists had captured the demeanour of individual creatures with just a few lines-a stroke here for a mouth, a bit of shading there for a bulge of muscle-was remarkable and revealed a long familiarity with the animal life depicted. At the same time, there was a distinctly fanciful element in the portrayal-as if the artist were at play with his subjects or engaged in a light-hearted dance.
Drawn deeper into the gallery, Kit saw that, apart from the creatures on display, there were sections consisting of symbols-spirals and wavy lines, dots and circles of various sizes, shapes that looked like eggs, and many handprints. The handprints were made the way a kindergartner makes a hand by outlining his own digits with a crayon; on the cave wall, however, instead of drawing around the hand and fingers, the pigment had been sprayed somehow over the hand, leaving a shadow print on the surrounding rock, a void where the artist’s hand used to be. Were these the painter’s signatures? Or were they simply a way of announcing a presence-like the “Bill woz’ ere” graffiti one saw scrawled in London subways?
And then Kit saw something that made his heart beat a little quicker. There on the wall opposite him was a spray of smaller figures. Kit moved in for a closer look at the pattern of swirls and spirals, squiggles and dots-the strange characters of a deranged alphabet. Despite the crude tools used to make them, each was precisely rendered, and each unique. Bending near, he peered at them in the dimly flickering light and knew he had seen these queer pictograms before: on the Skin Map.
Mind reeling with amazement, Kit gaped at the devious signs. How could this be? How was it possible? He drew a deep breath and forced himself to rein in his racing thoughts. Okay, think! What does it mean? The first thing that came to mind was that either Arthur Flinders-Petrie had been here, or someone who had access to his map-because, on closer inspection, Kit noticed that the technique of the artist was very different from that displayed in the surrounding paintings. Each pictogram was precise and cleanly drawn, with no false starts or smudged lines. Obviously, the person who painted the symbols on the wall knew exactly what he was doing.
Standing there in the quivering darkness of the cave, Kit heard again the words of Sir Henry Fayth: No coincidence under heaven.
“No such thing as coincidence,” whispered Kit, brushing the stone with a trembling fingertip. It was true.
The light shifted abruptly, and Kit glanced around to see that the clansmen were moving on. “Wait!” he called instinctively, his voice ringing hollow along the gallery walls. The last clansman looked back but did not stop, and Kit was soon enveloped in darkness. With a groan of frustration, Kit abandoned the Skin Map symbols and hurried after the light, determined to return as soon as possible to study the symbols some more and try to commit them to memory.
Dardok led them by winding turns deeper and ever deeper into the cavern until at last they came to a stretch of wall where there were few paintings. Placing his skull lamp on a flat rock, Big Hunter busied himself with something in the shadows; Kit edged closer and saw that Dardok was kindling several more lamps, lighting them from the single flame of his own. As soon as they were lit, he handed them out, giving one to Kit as well.
Besides the lanterns, there was a supply of shells from river clams, twigs, and clumps of earth. Taking up smooth river rocks obtained from a little heap beside the place where Dardok was lighting lamps, the clansmen began pounding the dirt clods. At first this activity appeared meaningless to Kit; but as he watched, the men took up some of the clamshells, also obtained from the river, heaped some of the pounded earth into the shells, and then added water from a dripping stalactite to make a thin mud.
It’s a workshop, Kit realised. They’re making paint.
This mud was mixed on the half shell with a grubby forefinger, each artist making his own. When the paint was ready, Dardok produced hazel twigs. These were handed around and promptly popped into their mouths. The clansmen chomped away for a while, gnawing on the sticks, fraying the ends to form rudimentary paintbrushes. Every now and then they removed them for examination before chewing again. When all was ready, there followed a lengthy consultation that Kit could follow only in part. He sensed the buzz of thoughts flitting among the group-he could always tell when they were discussing something-but the impressions did not settle and crystallise as when En-Ul addressed him directly. Moments later the huddle broke and the clansmen took up places along the wall, singly or in pairs, and began to work.
Kit found a comfortable perch on a low rock and settled back to watch as the hunters-turned-artists sketched their designs. Each artist, following contours of the rock only he could see, roughed out a basic body shape-an ox, a deer, or a bear-and began filling in the body, dabbing the paint with their crude brushes. They worked quickly, adding shade and colour to the shapes they created. Kit gradually became aware of an odd sound-a low droning hum almost below the threshold of hearing. Rising and falling like waves washing on a distant shore, the sound waxed and waned: the clansmen were humming while they worked-not vocalising exactly, something more like purring. The sound seemed to come not from their throats, but from their chests; and once it started, it went on and on and on.
Kit watched the progress of the painting, and it occurred to him that if he made some paint he might imitate Arthur Flinders-Petrie and copy the glyphs onto himself; he could become his own Skin Map, and thereby carry them out of the cave for further study. Taking one of the clamshells, he filled it with some of the pounded earth, mixed in some water, and then started back to the main channel of the cave. Passing Dardok, he paused and whispered, “I need a drink.” He held the image of a man cupping water to his mouth. Dardok glanced around at him and gave a grunt of assent before resuming his work.
Message delivered and received, Kit took his lamp and walked back along the tunnel leading to the main passage and the gallery of animals where he had seen the Skin Map pictograms. He followed the twisting, turning corridor of stone and came to a divide and paused. He had not remembered that junction, but then coming from the other side he would not have seen it; he took the larger path and continued on. After a few steps, his decision was rewarded by the sound of water dripping into a pool-a solid, almost metallic clink echoing along the stone corridor from somewhere just ahead.
Kit resumed his slow progress along the passage. The plinking sound, however, seemed to move with him, remaining just a little ahead of him. Sometimes it seemed to be closer, and other times farther away, but curiously, the sound seemed to remain just a little way ahead. Against all reason, he picked up his pace-as if he might overtake the sound somehow. He felt a breath of air on his face-the merest touch of flowing air, nothing more than a sigh against his cheek. But it halted him once more. The tiny breeze ceased. Must have imagined it, thought Kit, moving on. He had taken four or five steps when he felt it again-a feathery light touch of warm on his skin.
He pushed on. The single-flame lamp gave off little light, but drawing closer to the metallic clinking sound Kit imagined he saw a movement in the darkness just out of reach of his puny lamp-a low, sinuous motion close to the floor. It was there-just a flicker of shadow in the deeper gloom-then it was gone again. Yet the metallic clinking sound continued, a little louder than it was before.
Now air flowed over and around him-fresh and clean, not the stale, still stuff that filled the cave. At this, Kit felt the first flutter of worry: had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? Kit stood for a moment, frozen by indecision. Should he go back and try to find where he had gone wrong, or continue on? He felt the air on his face and decided to go forward. If nothing else, he reasoned, following the fresh air would eventually lead him out of the cave. He lurched ahead. He heard the plinking sound again and sensed a rush of movement just ahead of him. He glanced up to see a dark shape moving against the deeper darkness. In the same instant, his foot snagged something loose on the floor. He felt a jerk, lost his balance, and went down. The clamshell fell from his hand and clattered against the stone floor. The skull lamp’s fragile flame snuffed out.
Absolute darkness-intense, complete, and impenetrable-descended on Kit. It felt as if the weight of the earth had collapsed upon him. The darkness was so oppressive that for a moment he felt as if he might suffocate.
Relax, he told himself. Take a breath. Your light’s gone out, that’s all. It is only darkness-you won’t smother.
With these and other thoughts he comforted himself as he lay on his side trying to decide if he was injured or merely unnerved. Other than utter blindness, he seemed to be intact. His best, if not his only, option was simply to keep following the fresh air until he came out of the cave and then wait at the entrance for Dardok and the others, who would eventually emerge to discover him. Rolling over onto all fours, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and heard the clinking sound echoing off the rocks some distance away. Turning his head towards the sound, he glimpsed a faint glow of pale light ahead-a ghostly gleam so weak it might have been imagined. Kit closed his eyes and counted to ten, then opened them again. The light remained. He looked away. Looked back. The pale cast of
