Tasarian, Gatemaster

By Holland Phillips

Brian Holliday never bargained for this. He buys a dilapidated farm in Vermont, just looking for a simpler lifestyle. Instead, when he explores a cave on his new property he stumbles across a gateway to another world. As he explores this new place he is confronted by a civilization ruled by swords and kings, where magic has changed many of the natural laws he’s come to rely on, and a wilderness that includes elves and dwarves and other strange beings. Worse than that, he finds himself drawn into an ancient legend that might force him to sacrifice everything he’s gained in his home world, or deny the responsibility and ultimately cause the destruction of both. If he accepts the task, he’ll have to decide who from his world will help him to win the battle that is brewing over control of the gate, or find a way to close it before the fighting begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: 3 Octave Publishing
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476411231

Holland Phillips

Holland Phillips’ childhood passion for the sublime and the irrational evolved into an appreciation of the possibility of alternate realities. His most recent book, Tasarian, Gatemaster, is a culmination of marrying legends of this world with the possibility of doorways to another.Holland is also a successful musician and producer with a number of contemporary instrumental albums to his credit. When he's not in the studio he spends his time writing novels, or wandering the woods of the Midwest looking for trace evidence of gateways.Holland has completed a second book in the Gatemaster series, Legend Valley. Currently, he is working on his third book, Chameleon, about a naïve fifteen year old growing up in the late sixties, whose experiences will determine the course of his adult life.

Book preview

Tasarian, Gatemaster

Book One of the Gatemaster Chronicles

By

Holland Phillips

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are completely the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, businesses or locales is entirely coincidental.

Tasarian,Gatemaster

Published by 3 Octave Publishing

Smashwords edition.

This book is also available in print at most online retailers.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2012 Holland Phillips.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by copying or any other means, without express written permission. Making or disseminating electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information, contact:

3 Octave Publishing

1128 Pleasant Valley Rd. # 212

Cleveland, OH 44134

ISBN: 9781476411231

Contents

One Beginnings

Two Gatemaster

Three The Other Side

Four Unexpected Encounter

Five Legend

Six Flight Into Black Forest

Seven Down Under

Eight Hakar, King of Dwarves

Nine Journey To Arendell

Ten Arendell

Eleven Mensil

Twelve The Last Leg

Thirteen Tannen Hollow

Fourteen A Sip of Potion

Fifteen The Way North

Sixteen Librarian

Seventeen Full Circle

Eighteen Home

Nineteen Answers

Twenty Meeting

Twenty OneToward Titus

Twenty Two In the Hidden Mountains

Twenty Three In the Wolf’s Den

Twenty Four Escape

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

Beginnings

Brian Holliday turned his silver-blue Mercedes up the narrow dirt road, and motored slowly up the winding hill. Pine branches licked the side of his car occasionally and he cursed each time, worried that they might scratch his car's mirror-like finish. He’d just purchased it a month ago, a gleaming testament to the hard work and impossible situations he’d maneuvered himself out of. 'Should've brought the damn Blazer,' he thought sourly.

At the top of the incline he pulled off into a small open grassy area, then stepped out to survey his surroundings. The landscape spread out below him like soft butter; a number of low dark hills squatted nearby, pines covered them like a soft green carpet. Past those a long valley spread out and away, washed in the blues and greys of a late morning haze, and off beyond even that, barely visible from here, a body of glimmering blue he guessed to be the reservoir he'd passed almost an hour ago.

'Right area,' he thought, nodding.

The drive to this part of Vermont was only a few hours from his home in Connecticut, not enough to be a bother. The highway passed right by Brattleboro, where it intersected with Route 30 heading north, a two lane twisting strip of blacktop that wound it's way along the frothing West River, a wide and swiftly moving stream that frequented fishermen in green waders and floppy hats. The river spilled into the depths of the sparsely populated wilderness they called the Green Mountains. There were still general stores and proprietors and homesteads here, symbols of a simpler age that had disappeared long ago in the metropolitan area of Connecticut.

He checked his watch for the third time, not wanting to be late for his meeting with Kelly Dansen, the real estate woman. There was still an hour before he was scheduled to meet her, he noted, and he was already near their meeting place. Just enough time to explore this road a bit further and get a better feel for the area. He always liked to be prepared.

Following the dirt road for a few miles longer, he found another and turned onto that as he surveyed the countryside. He liked it here. The few farms he passed were small and neat, and most were set off the road far enough to make his passing an unobtrusive event. Cows and a few horses grazed in the scattered fields, and more often than not a tractor rumbled through a plot of the green expanse, turning over rich black dirt in preparation for the summer's crops.

He'd decided to turn back when he spotted a farm unlike the rest: although the house was a typical faded and peeling white, the yard was cluttered with old rusting equipment, tools and furniture, as if someone from inside had flung open a door and it's contents had spilled out where they lay now. There was some fanatical order about the clutter that he couldn't comprehend, until he noticed a sign leaning against the sagging porch. "Antiques' it read, and underneath in scrawled lettering 'If it's old, I've got it."

He chuckled and pulled the car up the gravel drive. Perhaps the owner would give him a little insight on the area, although he doubted it. He'd heard stories of native Vermonters and their dislike for out-of-staters; they were generally monosyllabic people who stayed distantly pleasant, never really accepting anyone that wasn't truly born there. Friends of his parents had lived here for ten years, and he could remember them complaining about how they were still referred to as 'those Connecticut people' even after all that time. As uncomfortable as that could be, it was perfect for him - he wanted to find a place where he could blend into the countryside.

He parked and wound his way through the clutter, finally arriving on a porch that showed years of decay and neglect. The wood was dark gray and rotting in places, and he walked gingerly, smiling wryly. If this had been home, state safety officials would've already slapped a condemned sign on it and closed the place down.

Hello! he called through the screen door. He waited, and then peered into the gloom. It appeared to be a large country livingroom, dimly lit, with a charred wood or coal stove sitting crookedly against the far wall. There were a number of rectangular shapes, old rusty metal tables he guessed, and on them an assortment of knickknacks, piles of junk, and furniture filling the resulting aisles. A faintly familiar odor caught his attention, one that caught in his throat - it assaulted his senses and crinkled his nose in unconscious reflex - the tight, thick smell of the past, of heirlooms and mothballs, and an impending last breath lurking in the shadows. He concentrated on forcing deep breaths of air.

No one moved in the shadows that he could see. He called once more, then shrugged and slipped inside.

Lo, said a gravelly voice. A tired old man hobbled in out of the gloom.

No one answered when I knocked, he said. I was hoping to have a look around.

The old man cast one hand in the air, signaling disinterested consent. He was wearing an old man's uniform; baggy gray pants hitched up and buckled almost at chest level, and a red plaid shirt as ancient as the dusty antiques that filled this room. What hair he retained was disheveled and perched atop his head, and white as a painter's canvas. His face showed deep lines and pockets, obviously from years of working the fields; his skin permanently stained a deep brown by the ultraviolet rays. Only his eyes showed any signs of life, but they were cloudy cataract blue and had seen far too many winters.

Brian nodded pleasantly and began to wander slowly through the maze. He stopped and examined an old chest that might actually have some value, a rickety old rocking chair, and finally a table that was cluttered with war memorabilia.

Some of them's from the Big One, the old man said proudly, suddenly close behind him. Brian could hear the capital letters in the man's voice.

Mmmm, he replied, sorting through the piles of junk. Beautiful countryside up here, isn't it?

Ayuhh, the old man replied. If yer partial to trees 'n mountains.

His gaze rested on a table filled with an assortment of knicknacks, and in the middle of that junk a silver goblet that caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was stainless steel or something like it, and deeply tarnished; but underneath the stains there was an ornate landscape engraved on it, a myriad of mountains rising against a clear sky, and highlights of glitter he thought might be gold. On the other side there was a phrase; writing of some kind he didn't recognize. He had a pretty good background in foreign languages, but this was like no language he'd ever seen. Where's this from? he asked the old man, holding it aloft.

Don' know, came the reply. Pretty though, ain't it? He spat in the direction of an ancient, crusty spittoon.

Yes, it is.

Kids found it on an abandoned farm near here, the old man said. I liked it, so I bought it. Sell it to ya at a good price.

Do you know what the writing means?

Nope, sure don’t.

Nodding again, he set it back down on the table and moved off, picking up an old brass skeleton key. The goblet probably wasn't worth much; he suspected that nothing in this room was valuable. But it was different, and unique; and anything one of a kind interested him.

How much for it? he asked, cocking his head casually back toward the goblet.

The old man spat. Fifty bucks.

Fifty! I thought you said a good price. I'll give you ten.

The old man hobbled over to the table, and picked up the goblet. Thirty.

Fifteen, and that's my last offer.

The old man grinned for the first time, showing stained, ancient teeth. Seen your car, he said shrewdly.

Shit, he muttered. I knew I should've left that damn car at home.

The old man chuckled, the sound of it rolling out in guttural heaves as he hobbled over to a counter to make out a receipt. Brian opened his wallet and pulled out three tens, knowing he was paying too much for this one-of-a-kind piece of junk. But he appreciated a good sales process, and he was quite sure the old man needed the money way more than he did.

Where'd they find it? he asked.

Down the road a piece, the old man answered. Old Ketterly place, I think. Been abandoned for years, because it's a worthless piece o' property. Too many cliffs.

How would I get there? he asked, handing the old man the cash.

Take a left out of the driveway. Turn right at the first dirt road. Property starts about two miles down.

Do you think it might be for sale?

Probly. Ain't worth nothin'.

How much land is there?

The old man paused, rubbing his gnarled chin. Close to three hundred, I think. But most of it's on top the cliffs. Can't get trucks or tractors up there, so no one wants it. What’s below is all woods.

Sounds interesting. Brian picked up the goblet and studied it while the old man finished writing the receipt in a shaking hand. I'm satisfied, he said. I have a unique piece and some information, and you got a good price, old man.

The elder man chuckled. It's Walter. Walter Skingan. Let me know if you buy that land, and we'll have coffee."

Brian Holliday. I'd love to. You can tell me how you got to be so good at haggling.

The old man chuckled again. You make it easy, with that limousine o' yours. Hardly need the skill! He leaned forward confidentially, and pointed a gnarled finger. You ain’t gonna build a resort or condominium up there, are ya?

No. I’m looking for just the opposite, someplace remote.

Walter chuckled. Ketterly place’ll do fine, then. Been abandoned a long time. Don't you go payin' the first price you hear, or even the second. I know Ketterly's grandson. He'll take whatever he can get.

Thanks, Walter, I appreciate the information. You said Ketterly’s grandson owns it now?"

Butch Ketterly outlived both his boys, so it went to one of his grandsons after he passed. Kevin, I think. I’d imagine he still owns it. Lives in Florida.

How old was the guy? Brian asked.

Old, Walter chuckled. Way over a hundred, I’d guess. He’d never tell me what his secret was, neither.

You look like you’re doing just fine yourself.

Walter nodded. It’s the clean livin’, son. And the air up here. Clean, is what it is.

I’d like some of that myself, Brian laughed.

He followed Skingan's directions, the goblet on the seat beside him. It might look good in the den, he thought. The other rooms were too sterile for it; most of the house was too sterile for him, and too silent. But he wasn't there much anyway, always flying off to some battle zone someone called a business and trying to make some sense out of it.

It wasn't that he didn't like his job; it had been fun for the first six years, and he was good at it. He was better than good - he had a real talent for it, a fact that was helped by his boyish good looks and soft features. His dark hair was always a bit unkempt, as if he'd just walked a windy street; his gray eyes spoke of kindness and a bit of naivety. Anyone that looked at him always saw the thin, quiet boy next door who always found himself the subject of bullies.

No one ever thought of Brian as tough, and that was what gave him his advantage. He could walk into tense, potentially explosive situations and diffuse them with relative ease. He'd laid off or fired hundreds of people, and every one of them had walked away without blaming him for what had happened.

As good as he was, the last four years had become progressively more difficult. No matter how it looked, shutting down companies and firing all those people was stressful, and that stress had manifested itself into insomnia, and bad dreams. Herford Tesh was one of the smaller management companies in Hartford, but they treated him well and paid him handsomely for the aggravation. But he couldn't sleep, and lately he was beginning to develop dark circles under his eyes. He suspected that there was more to life; somewhere there had to be a place he could just be himself. And if he couldn't quit, at least he could build a retreat; someplace remote and uncivilized, and that might be enough to rejuvenate his soul.

He looked forward to the physical labor of cutting down trees or building a cabin. He'd always been active, but at thirty-two he was beginning to get soft, and he hated himself for it. He'd clawed his way through high school, and then through college, sometimes working two jobs to generate extra money. Then he'd joined Herford Tesh right after graduating, and spent the last ten years clawing his way up through the ranks there. But now most of his time was spent eating airline food and pouring over numbers behind a desk. He needed a physical challenge and he needed to do it soon or he'd be spending money on a shrink, and the fear of it coming to that had driven him here, to these mountains, every weekend for the last month.

He reset the trip odometer when he turned onto the dirt road Walter had described. Tall pines huddled close together on both sides of the road, their branches linked impossibly together in a mixture of grays and greens. Tangles of bushes and saplings littered the ground beneath, blocking out much of the light and making it difficult to see more than a few feet in. 'Looks wild," he thought with a grin.

At just under two miles he found what he thought might've once been a driveway. It was a thin flat strip diving under the trees, and appeared slightly more symmetrical than the surrounding land. He pulled the car over and climbed out, then angled across the road. It did seem to have been a drive once, but was now filled with briars and brush. Following it, he struggled through the dense undergrowth, over the slowly rising terrain.

About a quarter mile in he discovered the old Ketterly homestead. It consisted of a huge farmhouse complete with a wooden porch and wooden pillars that spanned the front, a barn for horses and livestock and hay, and a smaller building that may have been a bunkhouse at one time. The buildings were falling apart, just like Skingan had said. There were holes in the roofs and floors, all the windows and frames missing or splintered, the wood gray and soft; the result of too many seasons. He tiptoed gingerly around the structures for a half hour, prying into every room and hole.

Finally tiring of the house, he struggled through the brush toward the back of the property. Sure enough, about two hundred yards behind the structures he came to the base of a cliff. He paused, and looked up the twenty or so feet. It wasn't quite vertical; there were outcroppings and bushes growing out of the various crags and crevices, and it was climbable, but Skingan had been right about one thing; no one would ever get a piece of machinery up to the top of it. He walked along it a few hundred feet before returning to the clearing.

After rummaging through the smaller building he returned outside and paused in what would've been the front yard. There were scattered hardwoods here, so tall they formed a canopy over the entire clearing. And although he knew the sun shone overhead, the entire area, perhaps a hundred yards long and wide, was dimmed in a half-light because of it.

He nodded silently. This was it, the place he was looking for. Anyone else would've laughed at him for thinking that, but he did. It felt right, here. It needed an incredible amount of work, and he'd be better off starting from scratch, but he knew he wouldn't. The old Ketterly place was going to be his, and he'd fix it up like it had been before, only better. Besides, what else did he have to do with his spare time except shut down another company?

He turned on his heel and strode from the forest, late for his meeting with Kelly but confident he'd found his getaway.

It took almost two months to close the deal. Ketterly had been more than agreeable to selling, as he’d given up any hope of ever dumping the place. But he wanted to get as much as he could, and the negotiating process took almost four weeks to complete. And after that was the endless trail of papers overnighted from his attorney to Ketterly three states away. But when it was all done, Brian walked away from the deal owning three hundred and forty six prime Vermont acres for what he considered pennies on the dollar.

He left work early the first Friday after the deal closed, and hurried home through the early afternoon scream of traffic tie-ups and car horns. He'd been busy the past few weeks with the closing but he'd also had plenty of time to shop, and he'd done that with vigor. He looked at the pile in his living room, and took a last inventory. Pots, pans, food, and more important items like bug spray were here, along with a brand new chain saw, lanterns, a sleeping bag, a kerosene space heater, axes and rakes, and three bags of necessities like shaving cream and toilet paper and a five gallon jug of water.

He packed the Blazer with the supplies, and by five o'clock when others were struggling toward home through the rush hour traffic, he was speeding north toward his new estate in the mountains.

Exactly three hours later he pulled to a stop and surveyed the driveway on his new property. The first order of business tomorrow would be to clear it so he could get the Blazer near the house, but for now it meant parking by the road and taking lots of trips back and forth the quarter mile to the house. He sighed, retrieved a set of tree clippers from the car and set to work on the brush. Slowly, using the Blazer's headlights, he cleared a small space so he could get the majority of the car off the road.

At midnight, exhausted but satisfied, he spread out his sleeping bag in the front foyer, ate a cold meal retrieved from the cooler, then fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next day he was up early. After a cold breakfast and his first constitutional around the estate, he set to work clearing the narrow path that would become his driveway. He concentrated on the larger brush, knowing that the Blazer, being four-wheel drive, would make its own road to some extent. He enjoyed the work; this June day was warm and quiet, and he stopped more often than he should, listening to the peaceful silence around him.

By afternoon he had a rough, winding path cleared, and drove the Blazer through it, yelling wildly as it careened through the undergrowth. Once at the building he spun around and drove just as wildly back, seeming like a man out of control, but forming two distinct ruts through the forest at the same time. He finally pulled to a halt in front of the house and shut the motor off, laughing. Country living was in his blood, he could feel it. He just hoped that no one had been watching him. If they had, they'd have questioned his sanity, no doubt about it. He laughed again, and headed for the house.

The next weekend was much the same, as were the ones following it. He spent the better part of the summer weekends working on the place and living in a sleeping bag in the front hall. The basic structure was the first order of business, followed by the roof and the first story windows. The local hardware owner, Frank Billings, knew him by sight now and always had lots of friendly advice whenever he stopped in to buy materials. It seemed that he'd become sort of a celebrity in town, being the only one brave enough to risk a go at the Ketterly place. He suspected that they considered him foolish for taking this kind of project on, but that knowledge didn't bother him in the least. He'd invite them all when it was a showplace again, and then they'd be able to see what he'd done. Results were always more impressive, he knew, the less you had to start with.

CHAPTER TWO

Gatemaster

The summer passed by quickly, and turned to hints of autumn. It was late August, and here in the Green Mountains the cool nights were already warning of the coming snows. Brian had made definite progress on the dilapidated estate; now there was a clear stone and dirt driveway winding through the woods, the yard had been cleared, and the roof of the main house repaired. He’d had power brought in for practicality’s sake, but had spent the extra money to have it run underground, wanting to preserve the rustic feel. He’d almost had a phone line run as well, then decided against it, figuring that no one around knew him well enough to call him anyway, and if he really needed to contact the outside world there was always his cellphone. Windows on the first floor had been replaced, but he knew that winter would be upon him before he could make enough repairs to make the place habitable.

Finally, just before Labor Day he made a few calls; one to his attorney and the other to an old friend of his, Alan Whitacre, setting a meeting with the latter for the following evening at a small bar in West Hartford. Alan was a few years younger, and as different from Brian as the stars and moon - where Brian excelled at all costs, Alan tended to take things as they came. When Brian had begun moving up through the ranks of corporations, Alan had learned how to build houses and work with his hands. And most of all, while Brian's career had been blossoming, his friend's had puttered along from job to job. He was an excellent carpenter, but there wasn't much work for a mild mannered perfectionist in an age where houses were being slapped together in weeks. But through all the differences they'd remained friends, and still found time to socialize a few times each month.

I was intrigued by your call, Alan said as they shook hands.

Well, I know you love the country, he replied. I thought you might enjoy living in it for a while.

Alan laughed. You bet. What’s the catch?

No catch, he answered. You're an experienced carpenter, you're out of work, and I have a farm in the country that I need fixed up.

And you're offering me free rent and a salary?

Maybe, he explained. If you like it, I'll cover all the expenses, and leave you with capital for materials. The place is paid off, and I could set up a fund for utility payments that you could pull from. I'd come up and help you on weekends and holidays, but for the most part the project would be yours. You wouldn't be rich, and the farm needs lots of work. It's really rough.

Doesn't bother me, Alan replied. Besides, you know how I love working with old wood and crooked walls. And what do I have here? No work, and no life to speak of. When can I see it?

I'm going up there for a week starting Labor Day weekend. Why don't you come with me and see what you think? If you like it, you can stay.

Alan smiled slightly and leaned back in the bar stool, nodding. I'll pack a toothbrush, he said quietly.

Once the Blazer was loaded that Friday evening, he picked up Alan and they started the drive north. They were both excited, and chatted happily about the farmstead and all the work it needed as they weaved in and out of the holiday traffic and harried commuters, slowly making progress toward the wilderness.

It was close to nine when he finally pulled in the drive. He took Alan on a tour of the house and grounds, explaining his progress and long term plans to restore the property. They spent almost an hour pouring over every inch of the estate, discussing the possibilities.

Finally they unpacked the Blazer, filling one of the small rooms with the boxes and bags they'd brought with them. Brian plopped down in the middle of the mess and began re-packing some of the items into the bright purple pack he'd purchased at the outfitter's store a few days earlier. He'd purchased a crossbow, thinking that it would afford good protection if he needed it. He'd also purchased a hunting knife, and a sleeping bag, along with an assortment of dried foods and juices - enough to last a few days.

What’s all that? Alan asked curiously.

I’m going exploring in the morning, he answered, checking his inventory. I thought you could use some time to get used to the place, and I'm going to spend a few days checking out the property that’s on top of the cliffs. It'll give you some time to see if you like living here. And if you can stand the silence.

Suits me just fine, Alan replied. But what'll I do while you're gone?

Brian laughed, tossing him a MasterCard. I’d start with the rest of the windows. We passed through Townsend on our way up, which is where you'll find the grocery store, and the local hardware store. Frank Billings is the owner. Blazer keys are around here somewhere, and there's plenty of cash in the account that card's on. I've already set up the fund through my attorney, so he'll watch over it and make sure the bills get paid. I’ve also got a long term lease set up in your name, so there’ll be no problems associated with you staying here. What else could you want?"

Alan whistled. You're pretty sure I'm going to stay, aren't you?

Brian shrugged. ‘This'll give you a chance to see if you like the area, and the challenge. We'll sort the rest of it out when I get back."

Suits me, Alan repeated. Just don't leave until we've located those car keys.

He woke early, and after a hearty breakfast he gathered his supplies and waved goodbye to Alan, who was already busy measuring walls and preparing his plan of attack for the repairs. He turned to the woods behind the house, and strolled through the tall hardwoods, winding his way around the patches of briars and thickets. The leaf covered ground crunched under his feet, and the branches above him glowed with life, lime green with hints of crimson.

Soon he came to the base of the massive cliff that stretched above him; the barrier that separated him from his other two hundred acres. It was a nearly vertical rise, twenty or more feet, with sharp gray rocks spiking out every so often from the moss and lichen, big boulders protruding from its face, and an occasional bush or briar that had been tenacious enough to grow on it's face. It appeared climbable, if he was careful. Turning, he walked along its base a few hundred yards, looking for a likely place to try it.

Finally he started up, grabbing roots and finding handholds in crevices. It was a little easier than it had first appeared, but not much, and he scaled the rock slowly, checking his foot and handholds to make sure he wouldn't fall.

When he finally reached the top he turned and looked over the expanse. He could see over the top of the trees to the next hilltop, and a dozen beyond that, all crowded together as if huddling against the coming snows. Inward, the forest rose gently away from him; tall lanky hardwoods arched skyward, the undergrowth below them much thinner than below. Leaves were hinting of color. A chill breeze tugged at his clothes, the winds of the changing of seasons.

'Winter's close,' he thought, scanning the vista. 'Good thing Alan’s here.'

He strolled along its edge for some time, enjoying the view and the cool pre-autumn air. There didn’t seem to be any way he’d ever find an easier way to get up here, unless he could figure out a way to build a staircase. It might work, but with all of the needed repairs to the house, it would be some time before he’d have the time to get around to a frivolous activity like that. Perhaps a few years from now, when the place was more livable, he’d be able to spend the time to take that task on.

Finally tiring of the view he started into the woods, and within a few dozen yards was struggling with thick, prickly briars that tore at his clothes and scratched his hands and face. He backed out and tried again another hundred yards further down, but found the same problem. Briars had overtaken the ground in this forest, and soon he was struggling to make any headway at all. I need a damn machete, he said to himself. If I don’t, I’ll never get anywhere! Sighing, he resigned himself to climbing down the cliff and going back to the house once more.

He found a spot that appeared to have plenty of footholds and gently lowered himself over the edge. Caution was the word here, and he reached out with his fingers and feet, tentatively testing each new hold before he relied on its ability to hold his weight.

About half way down his feet landed on solid earth, and he turned to look. There was a flat shelf here, thick with briars but sufficiently wide, five or six feet at least. It rose to his left, and he wondered if it might offer an easier path to the top. If he cleared it, and it kept rising. . . he followed the path upwards, fighting his way through the bushes and thorns, swearing when they tore at his hands. He looked up and saw the path disappear in front of him.

Damn, he said aloud.

He struggled forward anyway, just to be sure. Surprisingly enough the shelf did continue, angling around a cleft in the rock that he hadn't noticed before. He followed it, turning the corner. There, in front of him was a huge gaping hole - the entrance to a cave. Its entrance was angled and set back in ten or more feet, which would make it virtually invisible from the base of the cliff. He might never have found it if he hadn't dropped right onto the path.

He gazed at the opening for some time. A cool breeze wafted out of it, slightly stale and unused. His excitement rose. A cave on his property! There was no telling how far it might go, or what was inside. There could be Indian relics there, bones or arrowheads perhaps, or some other