Софи Келли - Paws Аnd Effect

“Okay,” she said after a moment. Her voice was weak but she was with me for now.

I touched the wall of the well. Please God, let it be dirt and not brick , I thought.

Dirt.

Yes.

The dirt was packed hard and dense with twisted tree roots, but maybe, just maybe I could scrape out enough of a handhold to make it to the top. I felt for a spot about waist-height and tried to make a hole using just my hands. The earth felt like a mix of rocks and clay compacted together, with the tree roots surrounding it all like a net or a web.

“We’re trapped,” Hope whispered.

I choked off a sob and dropped back down beside her. I swiped away the tears that were running down my face with one dirty hand. “No!” I said. “We are not dying down here. We’re getting out and getting Hercules and I’m going to punch John Keller right in the nose and I’m going to like it. And then I’m going to have a bath and a whole pan of brownies.”

Hope made a strangled sound and for a moment I thought she was choking. Then I realized she was laughing. “You are . . . Pollyanna,” she said.

I sniffed and swiped at my eyes again. “Pippi Longstocking,” I said. “That’s who I wanted to be when I was a kid.”

“Who . . .” Hope’s voice trailed off.

“She’s the main character in a series of children’s books. You’ll like them. When we get out of here I’ll check them all out for you.”

She didn’t answer. I nudged her shoulder again. “You have to stay awake, Hope,” I said.

“I am,” she whispered after a moment.

“I need something to dig with.” I felt around the wooden platform, trying to stay away from the spot where I’d touched whatever was rotting down here.

There was water underneath us. Just as air was getting down to us through the spaces in the boards above us that water would come up through the spaces in the dirt and gravel below us. I had to get us out now. I had to find something to dig with. It occurred to me that if I took my sneaker off could I use the sole as a shovel. I wasn’t sure it would work.

I untied my shoe and pulled it off. It was so wet a small stream of water poured out. “Okay, cross your fingers,” I said to Hope. I pressed the sneaker’s upper against the sole and dug at the well wall with it. The wet shoe slipped out of my hand and fell onto the wooden platform. I swore and bent down to retrieve it.

“You said a bad word,” Hope rasped.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My fingers brushed the dead whatever it was. I recoiled, felt around a little more and caught the end of a shoelace.

Hope laughed, the same half-strangled sound as before. “You’re so . . . nice. Not like me.”

I turned the shoe around and attacked the wall with the heel end. “You’re a nice person,” I said.

“No,” she mumbled.

The heel of the shoe didn’t work any better than the toe had. I beat on the wall in frustration. I was standing in water now, I realized. It was rising rapidly.

“What’s wrong?” Hope asked, struggling to get to her feet. Her ankle wouldn’t hold her and she collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

I made a grunt of frustration. “I was trying to use my shoe to dig with but it won’t work. The sole is too rubbery.”

“You need . . . insoles,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you wearing yours?”

“Yes.” Her voice got a little stronger. “Yes.”

I squatted down, felt for Hope’s leg and found her left foot. “I’m just going to take this shoe off,” I said. “I don’t want to take the other one off because your ankle is swelling and I’m afraid we won’t get it back on.”

I stripped the insole out of Hope’s running shoe, picturing it in my mind because I couldn’t see it. The curve of metal was held between two pieces of leather. This might just work. I put Hope’s shoe in her hands. “Cross your fingers,” I said.

She caught my fingers and gave them a squeeze. Her grip was weak. “Thank you,” she said.

I stood up and attacked the wall with the heel end of the insert. Dirt fell onto my arm. “It’s working!”

“Yay . . .” Hope’s voice petered out.

I felt behind me with one hand. I touched the top of her head. “No, no, no. You have to stay awake. I can’t do this by myself.”

“It’s . . . wet.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to get us out. Just don’t go to sleep on me.”

I dug awkwardly with my makeshift trowel. It was slow going and it still felt like the ground was pushing back, trying to fold around us. I started to breathe hard. Were we running out of air? “Talk to me, please?” I asked, my voice as shaky as I suddenly felt.

“You afraid of . . . the dark?” Hope said.

I started to dig again.

“Closed spaces,” I said, grunting with the effort it took to dig. I moved my foot, guessing there must be two inches of water at my feet now. Rain slid down my face. At least that’s what I told myself it was.

I dug what I hoped was a good enough handhold and then reached farther up the wall and began digging again. And I kept talking to Hope, telling her stories, asking questions, trying not to let panic overwhelm me.

Finally I had four steps etched into the wall, the last at the limit of my reach. I crouched down next to Hope. She was sitting in several inches of water. I felt for her arm and put my hands on her shoulders. “We’re going to get out of here,” I said. “I need you to stand up. I’m going to climb up and push the cover out of the way. Then I’m going to help you up. Right now I need you to stand up so I can show you where to put your hands and feet.”

I helped her to her feet and had her feel the wall for the small indentations I made. They suddenly seemed very small.

“When you run a marathon what do you tell yourself when you’re facing those last few miles?” I asked.

“That . . . I’m . . . crazy.”

I smiled even though she couldn’t see it in the darkness. “Okay, three crazy miles to go,” I said. “See you at the finish line.” I felt for my two handholds and put one foot in the bottom indentation I’d made. It slipped out but I kicked my foot in hard and the second time it held. The wall of the cistern was wet and slippery. I hugged it with my body, lifted my right arm and pulled myself up a little higher. Finally after what seemed like an eternity I was right below the wooden cover.

I pushed up with one hand. The cover moved maybe a couple of inches and cold dirty water poured onto my face. I spit and shook my head and pushed again. The wooden square moved a little more this time. I took a deep breath and pushed one more time, groaning with the exertion, and this time the cover lifted and slipped to the side. There was just enough space for me to fit my hand, but that was enough. I pushed, the wood sliding over an inch at a time, but it moved. And finally there was enough space for me to get my arm up over the top. I felt around for the iron ring, grabbed it tightly and flung my other arm out of the hole, grabbing at the ground. For a moment I was suspended by one arm, my body weight pulling at my shoulder. Then I caught a tree root and held on for dear life. I kicked my legs out from the wall of the cistern and used the momentum I’d gained to push back against it when we reconnected, pulling with every last bit of my strength. And somehow I got the top half of my body up onto the wooden cover. I kicked my legs again, rolled hard to the right and I was out.

I lay there for a moment like an overturned bug, rain falling on my face. Then I rolled to my side, got on all fours and pulled the cover all the way back from the opening of the hole. I crouched at the edge but I couldn’t see anything. Or anyone.