Chapter 26, “The Cave,” Sarah Northrup Ridge
The Man in the Hat belched and laughed, passing the bottle back and forth to Whitmore and the Pan Man. If the squatters kept drinking at this pace, they might not notice if I was missing from the end of the rope. I smeared dripping blood from one wrist onto the other, wriggling my still-bound hand free. With a spontaneous decision, I released the rope and dashed to slide, feet first, then wiggling into the hole to follow the roots underground.
The drop was further than I expected, and I toppled to my knees, propelled forward when my feet splashed in yesterday’s rain. I had not thought about the drop. I had not thought about the fall. I had not thought about the dark. My bleeding hands stopped my fall. I soaked them in the pool of water at my knees and pulled the bloody handkerchief from my pocket to bind the torn skin of one wrist. My knees bled from scrapes and my stockings were bloody to my shins. Inside, the air was like frozen frost. The numb tips of my fingers could still reach the cave’s opening, but the last day’s light was insufficient to light my path any further than a few steps. My hand grazed the rock behind my back. I sat among the puddles, mute, expecting the dreaded eyes and otherworldly voice of Man with the Hat. Silent tears spilled down my cheeks. But for now, I was hidden beyond his reach. Not only cold but wet, I might freeze to death before anyone found me.
The longer the upper hole was quiet, the more I relaxed. I cupped the cold water from the puddle and patted it on my face, down my neck to counter the fever I felt. The longer I remained invisible to my captors, the faster my witness rejoined me. I became whole again. I listened outside this pit of earth. A whippoorwill called the sundown. An owl hooted with melancholy and offered his tender empathies. Their sounds echoed off the rock walls. I warmed from their companionship.
But while I became invisible to the Man in the Hat, I was also invisible to Arch who would be at least a day’s travel behind me. That was the best I could hope for. The worst I could imagine was snowfall, to leave me starving and freezing alone. No. There was a worse outcome—raped, abandoned, found dead. My hands and feet tingled. My breath was too loud. I prayed, Jesus, please light my way for this innocent baby. In that moment of faith, the child inside me spread a hand to mirror mine resting atop my belly. I kept my eyes closed and asked forgiveness for burying us alive in this cave. But I had no choice.
Leaves fell through the opening and feet darted above me. I wriggled, pushing my back against the cavern wall, pulling my feet close to my chest. The Man with the Hat never asked my name, and I never offered it. He had nothing to call, nothing to yell. Recognizing his oversight, he kicked leaves around the cave opening where I hid. I preferred starvation, frozen into a block of ice, than answering his call.
He shouted. “Red . . . You’ll show when you get hungry enough. We’ll camp right here. I ain’t going no further.”
His volume varied, as if he walked in circles, sending his snide voice in differing directions. As he spoke, the tone and bustle above me continued. Men’s voices and horse whinnies became more distinct while they searched for me. I smelled salt pork slung on an iron pan, the same one that clanked in front of me. I salivated while listening to their exchange.
“She ain’t gone far. She just hiding,” The Man in the Hat said.
“I can’t find her. Can you?” Whitmore gave his sarcastic reply as the Pan Man laughed.
“I will.” The Man in the Hat spoke, then he swore after. Leaves crunched under his boots near the bluff’s opening. His legs blocked their firelight. Then, his hand came through the void. I covered my mouth to block the sound of my rapid breathing.
“We still got the extra horse,” Whitmore said, “even if she’s up and climbed a tree.”
The Man in the Hat walked away and said, “She’s pregnant. She couldn’t fit in that hole, and she ain’t up no tree, you drunk bastard.” The Man in the Hat cursed me, knowing that my absence guaranteed the trio’s empty bottles and empty pockets.
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History is better than fiction.
We all leave a legacy.
As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-four years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing it herself, hearing voices from the past. Heather earned her MFA in creative writing in 2022 and is teaching high school as well as college composition courses.
Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Miserables. But by far, her favorite role has been as a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a RN. Alas, there’s only one English major in her house.
Heather continues writing the Ridge Family Saga. Her current work-in-progress, Stands, concludes the Ridge Family Saga.
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