The Ruins (17 page)

 The
sound seemed to be coming from the opening beyond Pablo's
body now, just inside the mouth of the shaft. Eric limped past Pablo,
the air growing noticeably cooler. The chirping retreated, as if to
draw him down the shaft. He hesitated, frightened suddenly. "I don't see it," he called. And then the
chirping fell silent. "It's stopped," he
yelled. He counted to ten inside his head, waiting for it to start
again, but it didn't. When he peered up at the mouth of the
hole, the heads had vanished and the sky had taken on a reddish tint.
The sun was beginning to set.

 He
hobbled back to Pablo's body. He could sense him moving in
the darkness, shifting his head, but he remained silent. He
didn't resume his moaning or muttering, and this frightened
Eric.

 "Pablo?"
Eric said. "You okay?" He wanted the Greek to start
speaking again, but he just lay there, motionless now. Eric reached for
the lamp, found it, reached for the matches, and…they
weren't there. He patted at the rocky floor of the shaft, in
a slowly widening circle, with a sense of growing panic. He
couldn't find the box.

 There
was a creaking sound above him, and he looked up. The sky was rapidly
growing dark, but he could see something silhouetted against it, an
oblong shape, almost filling the hole. They'd finished their
backboard, were setting it into place. He kept patting at the ground,
reaching farther and farther away from himself, then returning to the
lamp, starting outward again. But the matches weren't there.

 The
creaking grew louder, steadier, and he glanced up again. They were
lowering the backboard into the shaft. "Eric?" he
heard Amy call.

 "What?"
he yelled.

 "Light
the lamp!" She was on the backboard, he realized, dropping
slowly toward him.

 He
stood up, limped a step, thinking that he might've been
holding the matches when the chirping began, might've carried
them with him as he started off to discover the source of the sound,
only, absentmindedly, to set them down again. It didn't make
sense, and he didn't really believe in it, but then he took
another step and his foot hit something, kicking it, and he knew by the
noise it made, by the way it felt against his foot, that it was the box
of matches. He lowered himself carefully to his hands and knees, began
to pat the ground, searching.

 The
creaking continued. The sky had grown dark now; he couldn't
see the backboard any longer, but he could sense its approach. "Light the lamp, Eric," Amy called again. She was
closer now, and there was an urgency to her voice. She sounded scared.

 He
kept patting at the ground. He was in a corner of the shaft that the
vine had colonized fairly aggressively; his hands kept getting tangled
in its tendrils, giving him the eerie sensation that the plant was
purposefully impeding him. When he finally found the box of matches, it
was buried underneath the vine, almost completely covered by it. Eric
had to tug it free, tearing at the plant, its sap sticking damply to
the fingers of his left hand, cool at first, then suddenly burning.

 "Eric?"
Amy shouted again. She was almost upon him.

 "Just
a sec," he called. He hobbled back to the lamp, crouched over
it, lifted its glass globe. He didn't realize how badly his
hand was trembling until he struck the first match: he was shaking so
much that it immediately fluttered out. He had to take a moment, two
deep breaths, working to calm himself, then try again. This time, he
was successful—he lighted the lamp—and there Amy
was, barely fifteen feet up, peering anxiously down at them, dropping,
dropping, dropping.

 He
had to turn away from the lamp's brightness after so many
hours sitting in the dark, but, even so, the flame was somehow fainter
than he'd remembered—or than he'd hoped,
perhaps. Much of the shaft remained shadowed, impenetrably so. His hand
was burning from the vine's sap. He wiped it on his pants,
but it didn't help.

 When
the backboard came within reach, he took hold of it, guiding it
slightly to the right so that it would come to rest at
Pablo's side, but then, with three feet still to go, it
jerked to a halt, almost toppling Amy off her perch.

 "Amy?"
Jeff called from above.

 "What?"
she shouted.

 "Have
you reached them?"

 "Almost.
A few more feet."

 There
was a brief silence while this information was absorbed. Then: "How many?"

 Amy
leaned, peered down off the backboard at Pablo's broken body. "I don't know. Three?"

 "It's
the end of the rope," Jeff called. There was a pause. Then: "Can you still do it?"

 Amy
and Eric looked at each other. The whole point of the backboard was to
keep Pablo's spine straight while he was lifted: without it,
there'd be twisting or bending, which would, of course, cause
further damage to his injured body. But if they decided to wait, it
meant winching the backboard back up, taking it off the rope, braiding
another length of nylon, reattaching the backboard, dropping the whole
thing down the shaft once more, all of this attempted in complete
darkness.

 "What
do you think?" Amy asked Eric. She was still crouched on the
backboard, though she could've easily slid to the ground. It
seemed as if she didn't want to attempt this, as if she felt
it might commit her to a task she was still hoping she could evade.

 Eric
struggled for something that might approximate thought; it
wasn't easy. He noticed a shovel leaning against the far wall
of the shaft—a camp shovel, the type that could be folded up
and carried in a backpack—and he spent a long moment staring
at it, trying to imagine a way in which it might be useful to them. He
couldn't come up with anything, though, and when the
words
grave
digger
popped into his head, he almost flinched, as if
he'd picked up something hot.

 "We
can undo the backboard," he said. "Put him on it,
then lift it up and tie it back on."

 "By
ourselves?" Amy asked. It was clear she didn't
think this was possible.

 Eric
shook his head. "They'll have to lower someone else
to help. Stacy, I guess. Two of us to lift him, one to tie the
knots."

 They
thought about this for a moment, imagining all the steps, the time it
would take.

 "We'll
need to blow out the lamp," Eric said. "Wait for
her in the dark."

 Amy
shifted her weight, and the backboard began to swing. Eric extended his
hand, stopped it. He thought she was going to climb off it, but she
didn't.

 "Or
we can just lift him ourselves," he said.

 Amy
was silent, staring down at Pablo. Eric wished she'd say
something. He couldn't do this by himself.

 "It's
only a few feet."

 "If
he twists—"

 "I
could take his shoulders. You take his feet. One, two,
three—easy as that."

 Amy
frowned, uncertain.

 Eric
lifted the lamp, tilted it, examining its reservoir, the diminishing
pool of oil. "We have to decide," he said. "The light's not going to last."

 "Amy?"
Jeff called.

 They
both craned their heads to look, but it had grown too dark up there to
see him.

 "We're
gonna
try it,"
she yelled.

 Eric
held the backboard steady while she climbed off, then he set the oil
lamp on the ground. Amy gathered the belts from the sleeping bag,
dropped them next to the lamp. Pablo was watching them, his eyes moving
back and forth from one to the other.

 "We're
going to pick you up," Amy said to him. She made a lifting
motion with her hands, palms open, then pointed to the backboard. "We're going to put you onto here, and then hoist
you up and out."

 Pablo
stared at her.

 Eric
moved to the Greek's head; Amy stood at his feet.

 "His
hips," Eric said.

 Amy
hesitated. "You sure?"

 "If
you lift from his feet, he'll bend at the waist."

 "But
if I lift at his hips, won't he end up arching his
back?"

 They
both stared down at Pablo, picturing these two different scenarios. It
was a bad idea, Eric knew. They should send the backboard back up, have
them lengthen the rope. Or at least have Stacy come join them. He
glanced toward the lamp. It was nearly out of oil.

 "At
his knees," Eric said.

 Amy
considered this, but not long enough. A handful of seconds, and then
she crouched over Pablo's knees. Eric bent, sliding his hands
under the Greek's shoulders. He could feel the cut on his leg
stretching, tearing, beginning to bleed again. Pablo groaned, and Amy
started to pull away, but Eric shook his head.

 "Quickly,"
he said. "On three."

 They
counted together: "One…two…three."

 And
then they lifted.

 It
was a disaster—far worse than Eric had feared. It seemed to
take forever, and yet it happened so fast. They'd barely
gotten him off the ground before Pablo began to scream—even
more loudly than before, if possible, a pure shriek of pain. Amy almost
gave up, almost set him back down on the ground, but Eric shouted at
her—"No!"—and she kept going.
Pablo's body sagged at the waist; he began to thrash his
arms. His scream went on and on. His body was too heavy for Amy; she
couldn't keep up with Eric. The Greek's shoulders
were level with the backboard now, but his knees were still a good foot
beneath it, and it looked as if Amy might not be able to lift them any
higher. The bend at Pablo's waist increased. His right arm,
flailing, hit the backboard, and it began to swing wildly back and
forth.

 "Lift!"
Eric shouted at Amy, and she tried to hoist Pablo's legs
higher, lunging, the Greek's torso twisting, his screams
going higher.

 Afterward,
Eric wasn't even certain how they managed it. It was as if
he'd had some sort of blackout in those final moments. He had
the impression that they'd been reduced, finally, to making a
lurching sort of toss toward the swaying backboard, throwing the
Greek's body onto it. All he knew was that he felt terrible,
as if he'd absentmindedly stepped on an infant. Amy had begun
to cry, was standing there, looking stricken.

 "It's
okay," Eric said. "He'll be
okay." He didn't think she could hear him, though,
because Pablo was still screaming. Eric had the urge to vomit, his
tongue going thick, bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to
breathe. His leg was bleeding again, draining wetly into his shoe, and,
once more, he was abruptly conscious of his bladder. "I have
to pee," he said.

 Amy
didn't even look at him. She stood with her hand over her
mouth, watching Pablo shriek, the lower half of his body perfectly
still while his arms flailed about, the backboard continuing to swing
to and fro. Eric limped to the wall, unzipped, began to urinate. By the
time he was through, Pablo had started to quiet. His eyes were tightly
clenched; there were beads of sweat standing on his forehead.

 "We
have to tie him down," Amy said. She'd stopped
crying, was wiping at her face with her sleeve.

 There
were four belts on the ground beside the oil lamp; Eric stripped off
his, added it to the pile. Amy picked up two of them, buckled them
together so that they formed one long strap. She draped this over
Pablo's chest, sternum-high, pulled it tight, knotted it in
place. The Greek's eyes remained shut. Eric put two more
belts together, handed them to Amy, and she repeated the procedure,
securing Pablo at his thighs.

 "We
need another one," Eric said, holding up the last remaining
belt.

 Amy
leaned over Pablo, carefully undid his buckle, started to pull his belt
free of its loops. The Greek still didn't open his eyes. Eric
handed her the belt he was holding, and she used these last two to tie
Pablo across his forehead. Then they stepped back to examine their
work.

 "It's
okay," Eric said again. "He'll be
okay." Inside, he felt wretched, though. He wanted Pablo to
open his eyes, wanted him to start muttering again, but Pablo just lay
there, swaying slightly on the backboard, the beads of sweat continuing
to form on his forehead, growing larger and larger, and then suddenly
collapsing, rolling sideways down his skull. Eric could feel the blood
filling his shoe. His elbow was hurting, his hand burning. There was a
bruise on his chin, and his back was itching—he was covered
with bug bites from their long walk through the jungle. He was thirsty,
hungry; he wanted to go home—not simply back to the relative
safety of their hotel,
but
home
. And it wasn't possible, he knew. Nothing was going to be
okay. Pablo was terribly hurt, and they were part of this, part of his
pain. Eric felt like weeping.

 Amy
lifted her head toward the darkness above them. "Ready!" she yelled. And then: "Go
slow!"

 They
were just starting to raise him, the windlass beginning to creak, the
backboard climbing past Eric's face, moving
upward—above him, beyond his reach now—when the
lamp dimmed, flickered, and went out.

J
eff," Stacy said,
her voice quiet, almost a whisper, but tense, too—he could
hear an urgency in it.

 He
and Mathias were working the windlass's crank, struggling to
keep it slow and steady, and he answered without looking at her. "What?"

 "The
lamp went out."

 Now
he turned, Mathias and he both, pausing to stare at the mouth of the
shaft. It had gone dark, like everything else around them. The sky was
clear; there was starlight but the moon hadn't risen yet.
Jeff tried to recall if he'd seen it in the preceding
nights—what stage it was at, what time it ought to
appear—but all that came to him was the image of a cantaloupe
slice hanging just above the horizon on one of their first evenings at
the beach. Whether it had been rising or sinking, waxing or waning, he
couldn't guess. "Call to them," he told
her.