Rain Maker

By Colin Martin

Based almost a century before Dream Master, this, another tense, psychological horror novel is centred upon Ethan, who after surviving the dry and treacherous plains of Colorado, finds consolation in an isolated village on the Kansas border. As he learns that all are suffering from drought, he tries to help one family, but underestimates their intense religious belief and the Preacher that governs them. Forgetting his corrupt past, he believes he can summon rain and rescue the girl he loves but is all what it seems?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496996312

Colin Martin

Colin comes from a small town in the heart of England. Since he was a child, he has been fascinated by films and literature about the supernatural. These include anything from ghosts, monsters, vampires, and witchcraft to dreams, ESP, and UFOs. With such an avid interest in horror films as a child, Colin had repetitive dreams, one of which influenced him to write his first horror fiction novel. It is from his dreams, imagination, personal love, and fears that he conjures ideas for his stories. He believes, although his university degrees may have enhanced his skill to write, it is his creativity and imagination that deliver the best in his writing.

Book preview

PART ONE

ONE

AT FIRST IT CAME FROM some distance, but as he trudged along the base of the ravine, the sound thundered ever near. He strode on; his feet sliding upon the loose gravel of the desiccated rock face, his legs weary and his feet sore, but at least he was sheltered from the burning sun. He glanced back to where he had traipsed the slope, but the rays of the overhead sun obscured his sight.

Echoes resonated all about him, until finally he could make out the sound of galloping hooves coming from the base of the ravine. He slid down the slope, sheltering his eyes from the power of the sun with his hand, trying to see from where the sound was coming. But before reaching the bottom and from around a corner, a horse hurtled past, catapulting him to the ground.

For a moment he lay dazed before scrabbling back up the slope to hide behind a large rock. It was then that he heard footsteps run past. With his mind starved, dehydrated, and the sun blurring his vision, he could only make out a shadow. Climbing high and moving steadily towards the shadow, he made out the figure of a man, of which he gathered was chasing his horse.

Climbing up into the heat of the sun, he reached a high point of the ravine to observe the man on the other side. By now surely his feet were bleeding. Indeed blisters had burst some time ago; miles back, when he crossed the wasteland. Grimacing through the pain, he started to descend the narrow canyon, thinking this was surely his only chance to catch a ride, should the owner oblige? But what if the man was hostile or the horse bolted out into the wilderness?

Suddenly he stopped in his descent, noticing that a group of men were following the tracks of the other. As they raced along and turned the corner, he could see they were armed with primitive weaponry; one man was swinging a noosed rope, whilst another disturbed the dust of the baked ground with a large whip. Others sliced the air with sticks as though they were swords.

As he clambered down the opposite side, he noticed the ravine meander and almost turn back on itself, before coming to a dead end. Sliding down enough to view the lonesome man, he noticed the horse rear upon its hind legs as he tried to console it. With its eyes open wide with fright, the horse kicked out as it attempted to climb the enclosure of steep rock.

Snatching for the reins that draped about the horse’s head, the man was flung into the air as the horse reared. Thrown against the side of the ravine, the man rolled down the grit slope, desperately grasping at the rocks to steady himself. However, after taking grip, he noticed what he had disturbed beneath the shelter of the rocks. But it was too late to pull back his hand; the rattlesnake had already spat at him. And now the creature writhed about as it fell with him down the slope. At the bottom, the horse almost trampled him as it panicked, trying best to escape the slithering reptile. The man tried best to crouch away, desperately trying to avoid the frantic snake, but with the horse tramping above, he was trapped.

It was not long before he observed the crowd of men draw near. Hiding in the shadows of the ravine, he listened to their shouts and chanting.

‘It’s a dead end down there, Preacher!’ a voice shouted, ‘We’ve caught him with nowhere to go!’

‘Yes, look he’s been thrown.’ Another voice directed its voice to the man on the ground. ‘Strained a limb my dear fellow?’

‘Silence!’ a voice commanded as it approached; others standing some distance behind. ‘Get the horse before it bolts!’

‘Bolts to where, Preacher?’ The first voice questioned, drawing nearer. ‘There’s nowhere for it to go!’

‘Between the lots of you if you’re all not careful,’ the clergyman declared, pointing to where they had come. ‘Calm him before he heads for the opening!’

As two men parried the horse to one side, he heard others chant and kick dirt at the man on the ground.

‘What’s this?’ one voice shouted. ‘Disturbed that creature has we?’

‘Look he’s been bitten,’ a second voice announced, watching how the man held his hand in pain.

‘Why it’s had him already,’ the first voice affirmed whilst teasing the snake with his stick.

‘Leave the evil creature alone!’ the clergyman commanded. ‘We shall not interfere with evil justice or to men of unclean spirit.’ The clergyman turned and pointed at the man, who now glanced in fear of the snake. ‘To steal from your fellow man knowing all rely on the noble beast?’ Turning his nose up at the man on the ground he paced towards the horse, trying best to calm the animal. ‘Leave him there… should his master want on to take him, let the Evil One have his soul.’

‘But he is not the first to try Preacher?’ a voice stated from the rear of the crowd.

‘That, he may not,’ the first voice replied coaxing the snake toward the man. ‘But justice has been made and a painful one, but justice nevertheless… and that from one of his master’s evil creatures.’

As the clergyman and two others pulled away the horse, a man noticing the snake writhing upon his stick, catapulted it towards the injured man. Quickly, releasing his swollen hand, the man panicked, trying best to kick the snake from his body. But being aggravated, the snake curled about his leg and punctured deep its fangs through his torn clothing. As the man hollered in pain, the clergyman looked back, but his scream was shrouded by the laughter of the men squabbling near.

‘Luis… Kyle… leave him be!’ the clergyman shouted. ‘Let the wasteland have him… if he not make the devilish caverns.’

The two men, beating there sticks upon the earth, flung dust at the man before turning to chant and curse him for his sinful deed. By now the observer noticed that most of the group were escorting the horse out of the ravine.

‘Should he not be buried, father?’ a young man inquired, trying best to keep up with the group.

‘No Luke,’ the clergyman ordered. ‘He chose the way of the Evil One, so let the evils of the wasteland take him.’

Still perturbed by the image of the snake and by being recaptured, the stallion stamped about; its hefty hooves kicking up clouds of dust that hindered the men trying to harness it. Eventually the man with the rope lassoed the horse’s neck and with another pulling on the reins, calmed the animal before leading it to the entrance of the ravine.

Hiding in the shadow of a rock, the man waited for the commotion to pass before peering more closely at the group. As they guided the horse about a corner and out of sight, the man observed the best he could of the men. Of what he could make out, there were about four or five, most with sticks; the last to disappear; now dragging his whip upon the parched earth. By their dialogue, he gathered they were simple, country folk; men of limited education and nurture, but potent in religious belief.

He too remembered being brought up in a devout environment, but had learned arts and science. Indeed this is what he studied during further education, but graduation was mired by his lack of finance, his mother’s illness, and then there was his brother’s death. This grieved him; thinking should these things not have happened, surely he would have become a physician, or maybe a doctor. But he had tried everything to make ends meet. Riding messages from town to town led to taking wholesale and medical supplies. That then led to dealing in drugs and firearms, until eventually he had to learn to shoot. Indeed he had become a good shot, but needed to be. It was fine money until the arrest warrants plastered his face about towns. Since then, he drifted, not wanting anymore of that lifestyle and moreover, his right hand was no longer fast and steady as it was.

Staring oblivious to where the group had disappeared, his thoughts were severed by the cries from the injured man. He peered over the rock to see him crawling from the snake and out of the heat of the sun. Glancing to see that the crowd had long disappeared, the man grabbed his satchel and slid down the gravel slope.

Although he was out of the sun, the injured man’s eyes were blurred and his head giddy. At first it was his hand that throbbed, but now his leg felt it was on fire. Yet it was numb, cold like the rest of his body, and he was shivering. Suddenly his ears were deafened by a gunshot and so looked up, trying best to make out the figure standing above. As he squinted and his eyelashes flickered, he could only make out the corpse of a headless snake; the one that he had disturbed. Then a figure approached from out of the sun and knelt down before him.

‘Should save me bullets mister,’ the man declared, kneeling to reach for the injured man’s hand, ‘but can’t have him getting the both of us can we?’

‘Please mister,’ the injured man croaked, ‘I’m not all a righteous man, but it was the only way.’

‘What was the only way?’

‘To get away from that town,’ the injured man disclosed, pulling his hand away. ‘The worst thing is… he was my horse… could’ve calmed him if they hadn’t whipped –’

‘Don’t look as you’re going anywhere in a hurry now, but don’t worry now…’

‘You’re not from that town, I know that much!’ he interrupted, coughing.

‘Well, how do you know that?’

‘Your pistol, mister,’ the injured man announced pointing at the dead snake. ‘They don’t like firearms… those religious types.’

‘Don’t worry about me my good man,’ he affirmed, placing his pistol in its holster, ‘but looks like you’re the one in a bad way?’

‘It only spat at me first,’ the injured man declared, looking fearfully at his hand. ‘Only a scratch, but now those bastards… they flung it on my leg… damn do I feel cold.’

‘That’s early symptoms.’

‘Symptoms?’

‘Yes, shock; from the venom that is!’

‘What do you know of it?’

‘My name is Ethan… Ethan Brooks,’ the man announced, reaching again to grasp the man’s injured hand, ‘I was to be a doctor… well… practiced something of a kind.’

‘Well is it bad?’

‘No, just a scratch,’ Ethan confirmed, revolving the man’s swollen hand about, ‘some poison has lanced inside, but I think…’

Ethan bit his teeth about the two scratch marks and sucking hard, tried best to draw blood from the wound.

‘What the…’ the man yelled with discomfort, trying strongly to withdraw his hand, ‘what the hell you doing man?’

But again after spitting to the floor, Ethan clenched his teeth about the edge of his palm and sucked hard.

‘Be still man,’ Ethan commanded pushing him to the ground, ‘this will get the poison out, but not all.’

From his little sachet Ethan withdrew a small bottle of liquid and after placing some on the wound, took a gulp from a small metal hipflask. With his mouth again around the wound he washed the wound until he spat out the mixture.

‘If that’s alcohol, I wouldn’t let those religious types find you with it,’ the man said grimacing at his swollen hand, ‘but what about my leg? I’m sure that son of a bitch bit right through?’

As Ethan ripped open the material about the man’s trouser leg, he indeed found that this wound was more severe. Not only were the puncture marks deeper, but the fangs had injected more venom. By now his leg and foot had bloated to a sizeable proportion; his skin a shiny, pale blue with purple bruise discoloration. Looking with apprehension the man knew by Ethan’s face that it was not good news. However, with his sun heated knife, Ethan drew blood from the wound, applied the same medication and tied some of the trouser material around to slow down the blood flow. By this time the man was emotional; whining about pains in his chest and feeling cold.

‘Man I need a drink of water,’ he said, his mouth also turning somewhat pale blue, his eyes sunken and dark. ‘Do you have any in that bag of yours?’

‘I’m afraid I’m out.’ Ethan admitted, showing his decanter empty. ‘Since my horse got bit like you, I had to walk the wastelands alone, avoiding such creatures.’

‘You had a horse?’

‘Yes, up until several miles back… aside the sands of that desert,’ Ethan said, water swelling in his eyes. ‘I had to shoot the poor girl. I couldn’t leave her in pain like that, but she was too heavy and big to cover; though I tried… guess the birds and alike will have had her by now? I myself, I couldn’t stomach eating her, though it’s been days since…’

‘Noble animals… horses,’ the man said dazed, looking apprehensively to the ground about him. ‘Lead you to water you know… water… eh? That’s what we need!’

‘None around here, I’m afraid.’ Ethan tidied the contents of this satchel.

‘But there is you know my man,’ he muttered, trying to sit up, ‘but not a place for faint hearted… especially one who’s religious like myself… believing in the good Christian book and all.’

‘But the way those men spoke about you?’ Ethan criticised.

‘They’re beliefs are righteous, but not always virtuous,’ he stammered, ‘too extreme if I shall my say. Good at first to take me in, but…’

Ethan paused to think for a moment and then recollected his need for water.

‘To get this water,’ Ethan pried, sitting the man up as he complained of feeling dizzy, ‘where can I get some for my travels?’

‘No good the village, but the Flint Hills you could try,’ the man said, his eyes rolling before focusing on his arm that pointed in the direction. ‘In the deep caverns there is believed to be a cold spring, but it be hard to find, especially when…’

The man started to cough repeatedly.

‘Especially, when what?’ Ethan questioned harshly.

‘The place is cursed,’ he revealed, pressing his hand to his chest. ‘I’m no avid religious man, but I know that devilish creatures hide amongst the dark and ghosts move within the shadows.’ The man spluttered a cough again before he could continue. ‘No villager will go there, even for a last drop of water… as some believe that he resides in there… the Devil himself!’

‘Well to you I must be a stranger,’ Ethan gestured, lifting the strap of his satchel about his shoulder, ‘and to your strong religious beliefs… I had,’ he paused to think about his words, ‘somewhat different upbringing… although my father took us to church, it never seemed important…’ He quietened, muttering sarcastically, ‘not with the path I have had to take.’

The man misheard Ethan’s last words, but continued to question his beliefs, his principles and from where he had come. Ethan however, seeing a decline in the man’s health, ignored his questions and beckoned him to lean against his shoulder to walk.

‘Where could I possibly get help now you fool?’ the man questioned, his face grimacing whilst trying to walk.

‘I’ve found you, haven’t I?’ Ethan stated.

The man grimaced, but rolled his eyes, his forehead perspiring.

‘The Flint Hills, as you said.’ Ethan steadied himself. ‘Where else will you get water? Where else can I boil rags to dress that wound?’

‘Go up there?’ the man questioned; trying best not to expose fear in his voice, but Ethan saw it in his eyes.

‘What else can I do?’ Ethan snapped, his voice disclosing annoyance. ‘I myself have been weak for days… not eaten and have only an empty water flask…’ He continued following the man’s directions whilst assisting him. ‘Just simple medicines, liquor, tobacco and my trusty revolver…’

‘Be sure them lot don’t smell liquor or tobacco on you,’ the man stuttered pointing to an incline of rock, ‘as for the pistol, well it’s an instrument of the devil!’

‘Not to me,’ Ethan affirmed, following in the direction of the Flint Hills, ‘this, my good man is my insurance… my protection against this harsh country… and not just wild animals.’

TWO

‘CONTROL THAT HORSE WON’T YOU,’ the clergyman shouted, ‘before it gets away?’

‘It’s that snake Preacher,’ a man replied holding firm the rope about the horse’s neck, ‘it must have spooked him. Nathan knew how to calm it.’

‘Yes, well it was his animal,’ a young man said, ‘you know before –’

‘Yes, but remember Luke,’ the clergyman interrupted, ‘it was us that saved him and his beast from the perils of the wasteland. It was we that fed him our crops… but then for him to turn on us and steal it back?’

‘But surely, Preacher,’ Luke protested, ‘he does not deserve to die out there?’ Luke paused to see the clergyman stand still with hard staring eyes, ‘that is sir, without a good burial an’ all?’

‘Look my boy,’ the clergyman retorted, grasping the young man’s collar with vigour. ‘What he did is against the nature of our good Lord.’ He paused, as like others, he heard a bang. ‘You have a lot to learn yet my boy, so I will give sermon to revise our ways.’ He turned to face the crowd. ‘Must be the fence… I left it open.’

Watching the clergyman stride on ahead and be the first to reach the desolate outskirts of town, an elderly man approached young Luke.

‘Luke, you’d do well to keep in with his ways.’ The elder man glanced at the crowd near. ‘Only one man opposed the Preacher and he was casted out to the wastelands for his evil ways.’

‘Why, when was this?’ Luke enquired.

‘It has been some year back and we should not speak of it, but the Preacher exposed him as some disciple of the devil.’

‘Go on Isaac,’ Luke beckoned.

‘For years the man lived as a citizen in our village, but when the Preacher found of his different ways, he and his evil book were buried out in the wasteland.’

‘This man… buried alive?’

‘Well,’ Isaac kept his voice quiet. ‘He was buried overnight whilst we gave prayer… only his head above ground. This was the Preacher’s way for him to accept punishment… to forgive on his sins.’

‘What happened, come morning?’ Luke asked his eyes wide with anticipation.

‘He was left overnight whilst we prayed, hoping that the man would repent in his evil way, but when we returned next day, he was gone; only an empty hole to where he had stood buried.’

‘How did he get out?’ Luke pried but suggested. ‘Did some animal take him?’

‘You think that my son,’ Isaac replied mockingly.

‘It is not so,’ another man interrupted, ‘for at dusk and at the foot of the Flint Hills I have seen his spectre… scared me so I raced home like the wind… whoosh!’ Seth drew Luke’s attention to his fast moving hand before continuing, ‘We shall go to heaven for being righteous, but what comes of a man like him I ask you; haunted by the devil himself?’

‘Ignore him,’ Isaac advised, pushing Seth away, ‘but don’t let Preacher know that you’ve heard of this story.’ Isaac paused, holding Luke by the shoulder and stared with sincerity. ‘But I too, will not venture anywhere near those old mines, even if it is said they contain a mountain spring.’

‘Drinking water,’ Luke shouted excitedly, ‘then why do we ration and thirst?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Isaac told, noticing the clergyman glance round. ‘Do not tell of this, it is best to leave that accursed place alone. Besides,’ he said gripping the young man’s shoulder tight, ‘anyone who has taken off to those caverns, have never returned; only shadows of what was once them have returned at nightfall.’

The young man smiled, but changed expression; suddenly realising the candour in his old man’s eyes.

‘But surely if there’s water,’ Luke whispered, ‘even if only for the crops?’

Suddenly putting his finger to his lips, Isaac gestured Luke to be silent.

On the outskirts of their town the posse reached a ramshackle fence that surrounded the town; its once sturdy timber now dilapidated by the forces of nature. Beaten by heat and wind, it was ready to snap like a baked dry biscuit. The clergyman pulled open the gate; the only section repaired somewhat recently by the inhabitants. Wind churned dust up at the men as they jostled around with the horse; the animal’s hooves disturbing the desiccated ground. However, with its eyes obscured by dust clouds and with the authority of several men, the beast had no choice but to be led down to the edge of the village.

Inside the town fence, the first building heading south from the northern crags was a warehouse, which although looked dilapidated, stood secure beside a church opposite. Standing north of the town, the ‘House of the Lord’, as the clergyman called it, was indeed the largest and tallest building; only a marketing hall was nearly equal in height. This building’s pinnacle, although only reaching the base of the church steeple, spread a width double in comparison; it sole purpose, or at least it had been, was to market livestock and arable crops.

Recently however, like the rest of the town’s buildings, it had withered from travelling winds. For months now a dry wind had blown from the north-east and without the rains of spring, the sterile winds from the desert had circled the plains. To the west and below the flint mines north, the once fertile farmland was now suffering without the water collected by the mountain reservoir. This now sat in the hills like some dried out basin with its tributaries clogged by dried up silt.

As gusts of wind swirled dust about with ferocity, the men leading the horse covered their mouths with cloths, scarves; anything to stop the retched grains of sand penetrating their throat.

‘Quickly,’ the clergyman shouted, his effort somewhat subdued by the rising sand storm, ‘get that beast tied up and safe in the stable… then get to your homes. The Lord must be angry that Nathan has turned against his fellow citizens.’

With their words muffled by the howling wind, the clergyman could only see the men acknowledge him.

‘But where are you going Preacher?’ Luke sheltered his mouth with his hat.

‘Don’t worry my boy,’ he stated, signalling him to head for the church. ‘Get inside the church… go the back way and lock the great doors… it looks like this one’s going to last some time!’

After watching Luke run in the direction of the church, the clergyman headed for the old warehouse; his body but a silhouetted figure in the spiralling dust.

After seeing that all others had disappeared to find refuge, the clergyman unbolted the heavy lock on the warehouse door and darted inside. Hearing the wind howl vicious about the rooftop, he paused to look about and above him, but soon strode to one corner of the building. For a moment he stared back at the door, but returned to what he had come to do; move aside sacks of grain. Kicking away straw that lay on the floor, he located a large metal handle on which he started to tug. With all his strength, he levered open a heavy trapdoor, and once hinged upright, he descended wooden stairs to a dark basement below.

THREE

IT WAS NOT THAT THE walk was such a trek, but the incline up to the Flint Hills was steep and mired by jagged rocks. At first, with his arm around Ethan’s shoulder, the man did well to saunter on, but as his weight gradually increased, Ethan knew that the man was tiring; his breath heavy and body weak from the effects of snake venom. In addition, the power of the mid-day sun hindered them; their backs burning and foreheads beaded with sweat. Slowly they reached a pinnacle, where the slope levelled out and rocks arched overhead. Lowering the man to sit beneath a large rock and out of the sun, Ethan noticed a nearby cave entrance.

‘Funny how I still fear this place,’ the man stuttered, his left hand pointing, his other wiping his forehead, ‘after what’s happened an’ all. They say the Lord takes away all your fears when you go.’

‘Look, my good man,’ Ethan announced, glancing back from the entrance of the cave. ‘You’re going nowhere yet… you’ll be alright, when I come back with fresh water, that is.’

‘I’m sure to die then,’ the man spluttered out sarcastically.

‘What from cavern spring water?’ Ethan protested.

‘They’re poisoned waters my friend,’ the man said, his body wavering, his eyes rolling. ‘Anything from that place be accursed.’

‘Bullshit, you idiot,’ Ethan shouted, fidgeting with the contents of his leather satchel. ‘Fresh mountain water raised by subsidence in these parts… probably rich in minerals… that’s all.’

‘It can taste like the springs of heaven my boy, but I won’t touch the blasted stuff, you won’t get me to –’

‘Then old man, how the hell are you going to get better?’ Ethan challenged, his patience riled. ‘You’ll be drinking it if I go to all the trouble. Force it down you, if I must!’

Ethan glanced back at the man to see him now slumped against the rock, his eyes wavering.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can my good…’ Ethan instructed but trailed off, seeing the man’s eyelids shut, his senses disoriented.

Ethan looked into the foreboding darkness of the cave and nervously edged toward the entrance. Cursed? Haunted? What a load of garbage, he thought… religious idiots. But as he approached the cave a cold wind brushed past and made him shudder. Drafts from below, he assured, but then came a long deathly groan that made him stop. How stupid he thought; being frightened by some sound travelling through the hollow caverns, a rush of wind between rocks. But for some reason, holding tight his satchel, he hesitated before entering the cave.

At first he thought his eyes just needed to accustom themselves to the darkness, but sauntering on, he realised how dangerous his task could be. In the pitch black that lay beyond, he could stumble and fall; his calls would never be heard, no matter how loud he hollered. As an idea sprung to mind, he returned to the cave opening; the sunlight a welcoming sight, although it’s rays blistered him again with unbearable heat.

As Ethan tore away at the man’s trouser leg, he noticed how incoherent he was; flinching and muttering sporadically. Gathering enough cloth to tear into strips, Ethan looked sorrowfully at the man; realising that indeed, by the time he got back, the poor man could be dead. But at least he had to try; it was the only humane thing he could do. Besides, he was suffering of thirst himself. The climb had dehydrated him so much that his mind was becoming delusional, his eyes bleary. He shook his head and retrieving the arid branch of which had helped the man in his climb, tied the strips of cloth around one end and sparingly sprinkled liquor from his metal hip-flask.

Before heading back to the darkness of the cave, Ethan glanced back at the man and thought about the others who had plagued the snake; that if indeed these were religious men, surely they had no right to bestow such a punishment. Hesitant in his thoughts, he noticed by his foot a piece of white stone and decided to pick it up. Reassuringly, this would mark the cavern walls like chalk; to draw arrows pointing back. Surely this way, he would find his way back out.

After snatching the man’s only water bottle from his waist, precariously Ethan entered the shadows within the cave. Gradually he become enshrouded by eerie blackness and so fumbled in his satchel to find a small box of his last few matches. Shielded from the cold draft of the tunnel, he lit a match and quickly set it upon the cloth to make a fire torch. It took a while to ignite, but once aflame, he melted a few strips of leather he had stripped from the man’s belt. The rest he kept in his satchel, along with surplus strips of cloth. Cautiously he did not know how long he would be wondering the darkness of the caverns and indeed how deep they would go before he found water. If indeed, he did find water? Satisfied with his torch lighting the shadows ahead, he descended the path, watching careful his footing and how the draft blew against the flame.

For about ten minutes, Ethan weaved his way through tunnels, some so narrow and low that he almost had to crawl, but on walls he kept drawing arrows and to his torch flame he added strips of cloth. Increasingly he became claustrophobic; his mind wavering and the shadows playing tricks upon him. He almost winched on hearing strange noises, until finally and to his relief, he reached an opening.

Waving his torch above his head and swivelling his body to scrutinise the darkness, Ethan realised that the ground was quite flat. He deduced by the aged rail tracks that span beneath his feet, that this was indeed a mining track; one of the distributaries that carried flint, slate and other minerals to the outside.

After walking the way he thought was an entrance, he found it blocked by collapsed earth; great boulders cemented together over what could have been decades. He had heard about men trapped deep in mines with little chance of escape, but did not realise how traumatic it must have been.

Increasingly, after hearing strange noises, Ethan became frightened, but turned his face against the breeze that blew upon his flame. After chalking the passageway he had come, he advanced back into the depths of the tunnel; to where the last miner’s pitchfork had scathed at the earth.

Passing a nearby tunnel that stretched beneath him, Ethan noticed how a breeze turned the flame towards it. How peculiar he thought. A flame would usually blow away from a breeze escaping to the surface, but this one drew upon it as though it was extracting the flame. It was cold near the entrance and he had to button up his shirt, feeling a shiver freeze his body. Maybe he had just got so used to the frenzied heat outside that he trembled uncontrollably, but something else unnerved him. It was not just the cold intake from the tunnel that felt queer, but the draft somehow whispered, as if the entrance was mouthing words, encouraging him to descend.

He felt cold shadows pass around him and mystically tug on his arms, as if they were ghosts of miners, dead from thirst, wishing him to find water. For a moment he thought he heard a voice, and then many voices, encouraging him to enter the passageway, but Ethan shook his head and pulled close his torch. His mind blurred and he quivered before regaining control. The light and heat of the flame aroused his senses, asserting him again of his purpose; the man outside was dying of thirst and snake venom. Quickly he must fill the two empty water bottles and get on his way. But what was the way? Indeed, he had chalked the route out, and so what use would it be to give in now? Unquestionably, this was the only possible passage he could take; all others he had seen were too small, barely large enough to accept his body. What else could he do? It was not that he feared the tunnel below, but the cold could freeze him, the wild draught could extinguish his flame, and then where would he be? Trapped with no-one about; left like his dying friend above. Again he found his mind playing tricks on him.

Grimacing, he pulled open his satchel and wound several strips of cloth around the flame, before squeezing slowly through the passage.

He was right. The suction of the draught pulled upon the flame and so ate away vigorously the material. How long would his torch last? How long before he finally descended the passage? To the best he could, he turned the torch away from the draught, placing it below and sheltering it between his legs. He cursed as sometimes the flame burned at his trouser and boots, but continually he reassured himself, soon he would be out.

Suddenly his predicament hit him and realised how much he depended on the torch; that the flame was all he had to differentiate between the dark and the shadows. Without this light, surely he would be lost; his sanity would be crushed by this foreboding darkness – a cold and claustrophobic horror, before a lonely death.

After several minutes of descent and to his relief, the tunnel levelled out horizontally and grew wide, allowing him to crouch along and again twine cloth around his torch. Noticing the draught upon the flame decrease, slowly he reached the end of the tunnel. The exit exposed a ledge above a cavern, where limestone stalagmites hung close above.