Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's
THE LOST WORLD - Something Shiny
Introduction: Stuck, beyond hope of escape, Marguerite clings to the edge of darkness with only her thoughts.
The Plateau, Summer 1922
She wasn't sure when it had happened, but Marguerite had given up. In a haze of thirst, hunger and fatigue she slipped in and out of sleep. Above her, scant light revealed slight textures in the cave ceiling; below, a cavity of darkness held her pinned and helpless.
The unbearable part was, she had shimmied down into this tight crevasse on purpose. Now, only her forehead rose above the narrow split in the cave floor. A loose stone, no bigger than her own fist, had rolled down along her body and lodged itself between her calf and the crevasse wall; pinning her leg just above the ankle. Once there, the irregular surface of the tapered pit held the stone locked in place. No amount of shifting or pulling had seen it free.
Fighting against the stone had only sapped her strength and the damage she had done to her leg was growing worse with time. After more than 30 hours Marguerite had given up.
Her eyes closed and she drifted for a moment... an hour... or more? Then there were voices and laughter.
"It's not funny, Roxton," her own voice said.
"It's a little funny," she heard John saying. Marguerite's eyes snapped wide and she sucked in a sharp, painful breath.
"John," she whispered, her voice thin and dry. But the cave was black. The ambient light from the entrance had faded. The day had come and gone and she was still alone.
In mad panic, she pulled herself upward with all of her strength. White flares lit her vision. Desperate to dislodge the rock, she reversed direction and jammed down on her leg. She felt the grinding of bone and coughed out spittle and tears. Chest heaving in agony, she lay cradled in the stone— her leg still firmly pinned within the chasm.
"Let me guess..." Again, she heard John's voice. She knew that this must be a trick of her imagination, but still, she strained her ears against the darkness.
Faint wind echoed in the cave…
A distant drip of water…
And then, "Now, why would Marguerite Krux climb down into a hole?" John's words were full and clear.
Marguerite blinked into the darkness and whispered his name again. Even she could hear the pathetic doubt in her own voice, but she was passed that; she just wanted him to be there— and so he was.
"Let me guess. You climbed down there looking for something shiny?"
"The water, John. I need water," the words were barely audible. She hadn't drunk since the trail nearly two days previous and in those first hours trapped she had shouted until her lungs could give no more.
"My pack," she tried again. One arm was pinned to her side, the other was above the crevasse and lay bent onto the cave floor. She pointed into the black.
She waited. In a distant recess of her mind she knew that John wasn't really there. Asking for the water had been too much. That realization was creeping forward and she pushed it away.
"Something shiny, yes," she said and waited, desperate to hear his voice again.
With more motion than sound, she forced a yell, "John!"
Tears burnt at her eyes as he finally spoke. "Only you, Marguerite— risk life and limb for just one more shiny pebble."
Her response came back a weak mumble, but her thoughts were clear enough. "It was a beauty, John, enough to buy Avebury ten fold."
As she surrendered to Roxton's familiar laugh a trace of hope warmed her chest. Every bit counted now. There was a smile in his tone and she pictured the glint in his eyes. "So that's what you want," he was saying.
"If I could reach this bloody gem, I'd trade it for that canteen up there," she thought the words more than said them. Tilting her head back she forced a little laugh of her own. Again, she could make out features on the cave ceiling; somewhere outside, the sun had crested the Plateau.
On the cave floor, just out of reach, was the silhouette of her daypack. She searched hard, squinting her eyes, and then she saw him— an outline squated low against the rough wall. There was the top of his hat, a shoulder and knee; it took her a long time, but there in the dark, sat John.
She wanted to ask him to slide her pack closer, but to do that the man would have to move, and well...
Instead, she said, "I have to tell you something." Only Marguerite knew what she was saying now; her words had devolved to a disjointed mutter. But John could understand— he was there now and everything was going to be alright.
"I'm not going anywhere." His voice held a calm reassurance and she clung to every word. If she fell asleep again it would likely be her end. She needed Roxton to keep her awake— to help call out if a searcher should come nearby.
Her head rolled back and she could see the hunter's faint silhouette. The afternoon sun would light the cave directly from the west. In a few hours it would be bright enough to see John clearly, if she lasted that long.
"I climbed down here for you, John."
"This is my fault?" There was amusement in his surprise.
"Yes. You strut about like happily ever after is a birthright."
"I don't strut," he corrected.
"Ok, you walk. Have you ever even been hungry, John; I mean days-on-end hungry?"
"No."
"...or had no roof when it was raining?" she continued. "In my world, happily ever after costs money.
"I would never let that happen to you, Marguerite."
"But what if you're not real, John?" She tried to tilt her head back to see Roxton's silhouette. "No more real than that pile of rocks," her mumbling was barely audible now; she was falling asleep. "What if we're not real..."
"Wake up!" Roxton's voice was nearly a shout and her eyes slowly opened to the sound.
Marguerite felt the cold stone gripping her body. She was confused in the darkness and had forgotten where she was. From her angle she could see the top of Roxton's outline. The cave had gotten brighter and for a moment the man seemed to be a trick of ambient light against the rugged rock wall.
"Is that you?" she asked weakly. She knew the answer, but she needed so much for him to be there.
"I'm here, Marguerite." His voice brought on a swell of tears, and with them, a thread of hope. "I'll always be here."
"How can you know that, John, things change."
"Not us."
"You say that now. But it's a lot easier to leap when you know there's a net."
"I'll help you dig up every gem on this plateau, Marguerite— if that's what it takes. We'll build you the shiniest net ever made."
"I'd like that." There was a weak smile on her face but her muttering had slowed to a stop.
Roxton's voice turned urgent and loud, "We won't need a net, Marguerite! We're real."
It was enough to open her eyes one last time. "We'll see," was all she said.
The western sun refracted dimly through the cave and she could now see the silhouette for what it truly was. She closed her eyes to sleep.
"Not real," she mumbled, "not real."
Roxton shouted her name, then again, but her body was failing. Sleep was all she wanted now… she felt his hand take hers.
"Marguerite," the word came soft, gentle and distant as his hand brushed her cheek.
A glimmer of torchlight, warm… a canteen pressed to her dry lips… Marguerite drifted, semiconscious. She felt herself being moved from side-to-side and a crooked stick working the fist-sized stone up her body. Then she was lifted from the dark hole and was now cradled in John's arms.
How long it had taken, she didn't know. It was only then that she saw the cave around her. She looked down at the jagged gap that had held her captive. Extending just her wrist, she pointed.
Roxton followed the line of her hand. There, embedded in the side of the crevasse was a large gemstone. "You want that?" he asked.
She corrected him with a tilt of her head, guiding his sight to the bloodied rock that now lay loose on the cave floor.
Still holding her, he knelt and picked up the stone that had nearly ended her life. She took it and held it close to her chest, then lay her head onto his shoulder.
As John carried her from the cave, she murmured words too low for him to hear, "You are real."
END