Making
History
by Oris Bracken
“Chad. --I found the hand lamp.” Dr. Judith Moore balances a heavy battery
lantern with both hands. She aims the
yellow beam at a small lift-seat, swinging empty, twenty meters above the
cavern floor.
“Ugh.” Dr. Chad
Robert used his shirttail to wipe the sweat from his face. “Engine rotor must have slipped out of gear. Rewound the damned cable.”
The old man and young woman stand beside each other looking
at the ceiling. Appraising a dark gash
dabbled by stars. Their entrance. She points the beam at the hole. “By now, the lift generator has burned its
petrol. I don’t hear chugging.”
“You’re
right.” Dr. Robert heard his voice
reverberate over subterranean dripping.
“We shouldn't be
down here after dark.”
“I should have
waited till morning. My stupidity. I just had to get another look at those
fingers, for my report. Especially that
thumb.”
“Don’t blame
yourself. I wanted to come.”
“Stupid.”
Dr. Moore tilts
the hand lamp downward, illuminating stone walls glistening with moisture. She pans the cavern, slowly passing dozens
of unique formations until she comes to a nine-foot tall stalagmite. It has a thick trunk topped by a wet, shiny
bulb. Her eyes widen: “Ho!”
“Wow. I have a great name for that….”
“I’ll bet you
do.” Dr. Moore tossed her head,
flinging back loose strands of long red hair.
She switched off the hand lamp to preserve its nickel-plated tubes and tungsten filament.
Pitch black.
Sound of water
dripping.
“A boy scout’s
fantasy,” Dr. Robert said. “Male
anthropologist spends the night in a cave with female archaeologist.”
“A girl scout’s
dream. But, there’s a damper on this
unique moment of adolescent eros…we’re up to our asses in bat
guano.”
Dr. Robert
laughed and unbuckled two heavy cartridge belts crisscrossing his chest. “I feel silly wearing these. Wish I’d brought the salamander instead of
my carbine.”
“Heat would be
nice. It's damp. I hate this ammonia reek.”
“That new
Ruhmkorff coil is in my rucksack. We
could radio for help…if I could find the sending key. Damn.”
“You and your
wireless gadgets. At least we have tarp
and blanket.”
Dr. Robert smiles
in the darkness. He imagines her
youthful figure, the trimness of her bare legs in khaki shorts and knee
socks. Dr. Moore intuitively smiles
back at the elderly man. “No lusting
allowed, sir.”
“When we get back
people will talk, but it won’t be about us sleeping together.”
“I know they’ll
all be shocked. Our discovery changes
the history of humans, Chad.” She pulls
a large wool blanket from their bulky duffel bag. “Bible preachers won’t like it.”
“No, they
won’t. That’s why, young lady, we need
to construct our formal written report.
Expect a hostile assortment of devil's advocates. No ad-lib.
Your rehearsed Nobel speech will have to blow them away, pun intended.”
She laughs.
“Judith, wait
until your British Museum underwriters hear about this. You’ll be the talk of Russell Square.”
“I’m anxious to
get news of London. I worry about my
parents back home, on Marchmont Street --number 39”. She paused and felt saddened.
“I fear by now, the Prussians have attacked the Isles. Kaiser is crazy as hell.”
“Thank god
President Wilson promised he wouldn’t sacrifice our American boys to those
greedy Wall Street gamblers.”
“Unfortunately
for us Brits, your unrelated namesake, Lord Robert, is calling the shots.”
“I’d rather have
Prince Peter in charge.
“Peter the
anarchist?”
“Why
not?”
“An
anarchist?”
“I
suggest you read his book, Mutual Aid: A Factor of
Evolution.”
“Lets get back on
top the tarp, Chad.”
Dr. Robert takes up the lamp and
illuminates their orange canvas tarpaulin.
He places his rifle and cartridge belts on one corner. Then, each sitting on opposite corners, they
remove their boots. Hunks of bat guano
stick to the soles. They put the four
boots on the remaining corner.
Dr. Moore spreads and folds back their
blanket.
She tucks her knees up under her
chin. Her khaki walking shorts rise to
expose a hint of buttocks. “We'll write
a best seller, Chad.”
“A scientific romance, trapped at
midnight in an underground cathedral.”
He chuckles. “It’s a script for
a bioscope. I see our faces on the
silver screen.”
Dr. Moore touches Dr. Robert’s knee,
then softly takes his hands in hers.
Her voice is pensive: “Chad,
we're fortunate…beyond words. You and I
get to make a major contribution to science.
This is every professional's dream.
No one could ever have guessed we'd find the missing link in the
Andes.
“I mean … how do we explain finding
these bones in South America? This
stuff is supposed to be found in Africa, maybe China.”
“Maybe of another
world.”
“Not from Earth?”
“Late night talk,
not serious.”
“That still
wouldn’t disqualify the bones from being the Missing Link.”
“Hmm.”
“Evolutionist’s
delight, Chad. This will eclipse the
Neanderthal Valley.”
“Hmm. I wonder what’s below this room.” He pulls the blanket up to cover them.
Now they rest
side by side.
Drip…drip…drip...
Sleep.
Near dawn. Dr. Moore is fully awake. “Do you know what?” She rolls onto her right side.
“Ummm.”
“Judging by the size of this mountain of guano, bats must
have lived here thousands of years.”
“Ummm.”
“They lived here
millions of years ago. But this top
layer is fresh, bats still use this cave.”
“It’s a good shelter.”
“You amaze me,
Chad.” Dr. Moore faces him in the
blackness. “I heard, when you were but
a tiny tyke--a pampered rich kid--the Huxleys would invite you into their home. Mrs. Huxley would fill you with fresh baked
molasses cookies, the kind with raisins and nuts … and a tall cool glass of
goat’s milk.”
Dr. Robert rolls over on his back. “Where’d
you hear that?”
“Also heard, your
family moved from Spokane so you could school in London. Heard you went on a summer field trip with
the younger Darwin. That you had the
notorious Professor Bateson for a private tutor.”
“I was
fortunate.”
“Now, here you are, old man. Alone with me! And together we find these fossils. Fortunate? I’d say you’ve
led a charmed life.”
Dr. Robert coughs
to the dark, to cover his pride.
Water
dripping.
“Must be a
melting glacier that keeps this cave alive,” Dr. Moore guessed.
“There’s a large
lake further up the slope, fed by snowcaps.”
The two
scientists lie still on the dry tarp, but with minds active.
“I can’t wait
till we’re back in your lab, Chad. I'm
so honest-to-god excited about finding those pelvis bone fragments. We have a whole hand preserved in guano. Pre-homo, to use Darwin's logic. And, oh, that skull, with its tuft of hair,
its pointed jaw, small teeth.”
“I’m eager to
show Father Teilhard.”
“Chad,
this find is major --like Dubois’.
“Except this is
much older.”
“Major, like that jawbone Charles
Darwin recently found in the Piltdown quarry.”
“That was Charles
Dawson…this is much older.”
“Eerie.” She shakes her head, dizzy from all her new
thoughts. “I can easily imagine reading
about our mysterious cave in a Doyle novel, a lost world.”
“Plus this
snowflake obsidian blade.” Dr. Moore
fingers the sharpened stone hanging from a leather thong around her neck. “This represents advanced knapping
techniques, several million years ago.
How could that be?” She turns on her back. The dim beginning of twilight brightens the entrance slit high
above them.
“Our
camp guides are starting the search for us now. They’ll soon find our flag and generator.” Dr. Robert, too, is on his back. “When we return to camp, remember, be
cautious with our report. Nothing
controversial. I don’t want our
wireless transmitter used to spread fund-killing rumors.”
“You’re
the boss.”
“I’d
wager that somewhere down here we’ll find more bones. Possibly, mummified flesh.
Bat guano is a remarkable preservative.”
The old
man is now silent. The young woman
listens to the dripping water. Her mind
churns with the possibility of finding a preserved carcass. Might happen. What if we find an entire body encased in solidified guano?
“You brought us here, Chad. There weren't supposed to be any people
living in the Americas a hundred thousand years ago. Some one was dead wrong about South America and pre-human
tribes.”
“Archaeologists
and anthropologists, by necessity, have a stumbling history of mistakes.”
“For instance?”
“Burials. Prehistoric burials. It’s in my book.” Dr. Robert rests his hands behind his head and stares toward the
brightening slit. “Think Judith, how
many years did we run around talking about early belief in a hereafter, and all
because of Neanderthal burials? The
thought was: why else would they bury their dead with belongings, except to
prepare for afterlife? A mortal belief
in the eternal soul.
“Then I
discover--burying a person alive was a common Paleolithic form of execution. They had no electric chair. No rope.
No pyre. So it’s stone or
cudgel, then bury the body. And bury
their belongings with them. Swish. Out of sight out of mind.”
Dr. Moore
contributed. “Difficult to know where a
person went.”
“Or, given the lack
of material evidence, if they had ever lived at all.”
Long silence.
“Another
similar example is the common fetal-style burial.” Dr. Robert continues, propped on one elbow. “How many cockamamie theories came from
respected archeologists and anthropologists about why Stone Age bodies were
buried fetal position?
“In my book, I demonstrate that it’s simply easier to bury
someone with their knees underneath the chin and trunk bent. Takes a smaller hole than someone laid
straight. Much less digging. Functional.
Nothing mystical. No
return-to-the-womb symbolism, as Freud theorized.”
“Fascinating.” Dr.
Moore had already read his book, but she loves hearing its radical ideas spoken
directly to her by the old man himself.
She could not have a better mentor.
It’s a bonus that at age seventy-five he’s yet handsome and virile.
“OK, it’s your
turn,” Dr. Robert said.
“Me?”
“Oh, a
challenge.” Dr. Moore pushes back her
long hair and with a twinkle in her blue eyes, smiles. “Alright.
Let me step up to the podium.
I’ll address the awards committee.”
He chuckles.
“Gentlemen, last
month, in the northern Andes, my esteemed colleague and I discovered Darwin’s
famous Missing Link.
“Link is a
mutated protohomo female ape who lived among three types of subhuman
anthropoids.
“In addition to
true apes, there were apemen: animals who were more apes than men. And, there were manapes, who were more men
than apes.
“I believe our
female could mate with all three, but her offspring were mostly manapes.
“When this female
mated with apes, their children were often freaks, or like mules. When our promiscuous apewoman mated with
apemen, she would produce a manape in, perhaps, one of seven pregnancies. But whenever she mated with a manape, her
child was always humanesque, always like the father. It would be a manape or womanape.
“I’ll let the
audience murmur here.”
“Good idea,
you’ll need to.” Dr. Robert chided his
assistant. “Why don’t you say something
controversial?”
“Right.
“To continue….”
she cleared her throat, “there arose in Africa, several specie of both apemen
and manapes. They shared the jungle
bounty.
“Then,
unexpectedly, species separation occurred during a mighty deluge. The apemen couldn’t swim. The aquatically adapted manapes survived by
riding atop rising waters on vine-lashed rafts, guided by pontoon dugouts.
“Thus, the
manapes transported harems of womanapes and their apewomen slaves across the
ocean. Macchu Picchu was their
seaport.”
Dr. Moore sighs. “Up till now, this is just my theory. But finally --we found the bones! We found an apewoman to link it all
together. I have named her Eve. This is a great step in understanding. But, ultimately, Eve confronts this
committee more with questions than answers.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Robert
interjects his fanfare: “Tat daa dhaa!
They cheer. We humbly bow. They cheer some more. We bow again.”
Dr. Moore
applauds, too. Her gay clapping echoes
off the cavern walls.
“Hey, listen,”
Dr. Robert said. “I'm becoming a pretty
good trumpeter.” He takes a deep
breath-- “Ta-Dooouuum!”
“Lovely.” Dr. Moore grins and starts pulling on her
boots. “But fame must wait. May I have the Eveready flashlight, please?”
“Sure.” Dr. Robert feels in his rucksack for the small
flashlight and slides it to her, “Here...”
“Thank you.” She pulls on her other boot and stands,
holding the tube. Flicks on its narrow
ray.
“Nature
calls.”
“Better you than
me. I hate walking over that sticky bat
shit.”
“Please…guano is
the proper description. I’ll be back in
a minute.” Dr. Moore walks off lifting
knees high, her boots making sucking sounds.
“God, Chad,
ammonia smell is awful over here, could knock you out. Must be a vent to the lower chambers.”
“Who knows what
we’ll find down there.”
“Maybe, your
space ship.”
“Yeah.”
A long
pause. The cavern is silent but for
dripping. Faint colors return to the
dark chamber walls.
“Wow. Judith, check the entrance…
spectacular. Here comes the sun.”
Early light from below
the horizon seeped a warm pink glow in the room. The last crickets of night and the first birds of morning
announce the event. A fine ending for
their overnight adventure.
“Oh my god. Agh!
Chad --look at this.”
Dr. Robert can
see a jiggling yellow ray hurriedly coming toward him. Loud, sucking footsteps coming closer. He flips on the hand lantern just in time to
see an alarmed woman step out of the guano and onto their clean tarpaulin.
“Hey!” He points at her gummy boots.
“Chad. Look at this.” Dr. Moore stretches her arm straight out and hands over the
injured, furry, frightened animal to Dr. Robert. Its satin black wings hang limp and one is broken and torn. The bat is quite large.
“Looks
like he's been in a skirmish.”
“Skirmish? That's not what I'm saying … this is a
mutant specie, and furthermore it's a....
My god!
At the intrusive
sound of beating air they had simultaneously lifted their faces toward the
entrance gash. The dawnlight streaks
the high cavern walls in red and yellow.
“Look!” Dr. Robert points up. Several black streams had converged into one
great river. The shifting form was
racing ahead of the eastern sunrise.
“There must be a million of them....”
Dr. Moore
gasped. “We're making history again,
Chad.”
“We’re standing
in the anteroom to the world's largest vampire bat cave.”
“Vampires?” His jaw drops. He blinks. “Here they
come!”
The front edge of the black horde fills
the entry slit. The morning hews of
sunlight are now blocked by the hoard’s giant shadow. They instantly fill the large room with flapping wings in their
rush to escape sunlight.
A
million open mouths. Blood caked on
their lips.
Fangs
white.
How long does it
take a vampire bat’s olfactory receptors to report warm blood? How long before their echolocation sensors
receive the first reflections from two large warm-blooded animals?
An old man and
young woman huddled in fear.
Two hearts
pumping.
The
first time a bat brushes Dr. Moore's cheek, she didn't want to scream. But she does! Another flutter. This one against her exposed and shapely
thigh. “AIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! --MYGOD!”
Dr. Robert grabs
her hand. “Under the tarp!” He pulls the canvas over their heads.
They push through the darkness. Each with one free hand struggling to
protect their eyes and still swat the frantic bats trapped inside with
them. They hear incessant squeaks and
feel the constant thumping of small bodies ricocheting off their covering.
They can’t see.
He knows they’re stumbling in needless
circles. She trips over the rucksack
and falls. Their tarp pulls free!
He trips over her.
He rolls in the sticky guano, coughing,
inhaling the strong ammonia. “--Jesus
Christ.” Dr. Robert reaches blindly to
pull the tarp back over them. What’s
that tingling?
Something
crawling?
Larvae!
Beetle
larvae!
Oh my God! “Get up, Judith!” He pulls her arm. Blood
oozes from his cheeks. Larvae in his
hair. “Run! The lower room….”
The couple lunges
forward. In a few steps they blunder
into a pit of fresh dropped guano!
Dr. Robert finds
he can't move. The sticky filth is
almost up to his knees. Larvae crawling
inside his shirt. He and his young student frantically clinging to one
another. She feels him shudder in her
arms. Dr. Robert stiffens. Heart
failure.
He’s dead.
The unexpected shift of his now dead
weight makes Dr. Moore fall backward.
Flat on her back, knees bent.
Her feet and lower legs remain glued in the guano. She clings to Dr. Robert’s lifeless body,
not wanting to let him go. Not wanting
to be left alone.
The signal goes
out: injured animal!
Large mammal
down!
Thousands of
hungry bat mouths respond. Countless
white worms squirm over each other to get to their hot food. The larvae crawl over her bloody face and
enter into her nose and ears. Dr. Moore
lies frozen in shock. Unable to
move. The ammonia forces her to drift
in and out of consciousness. She can’t
pass out.
Hideous
death.
Dr. Judith Moore
was fully aware of the vampire bats lapping her blood, and beetle larvae eating
her flesh. She lived until
sundown.
A special thank you to Jak Brand for her editing
advice and review.
Making History from ChronosomeCircular
Copyright 2007 by Oris Bracken