Robert Hughes - The Power and the Prophet

Centuries, by the look of things. Did anyone alive even know these pumps existed? His father surely didn’t. But they were here, and he was grateful. Each time he reached a cavern, he crawled inside its mouth and sat, dangling his legs over the edge, gazing out to the distant west while he rested his shoulders and arms.

How far up had he climbed? He wondered as he crawled into yet another pumping cavern. How much further to go? Surely it couldn’t be much. But he’d thought that while sitting in the mouth of the last cavern, which seemed now to be miles below. It was midafternoon, and he longed for sleep, but this cave, like the rest, was full of water. There was no place to stretch out. He dared not nap on this narrow ledge. If he dropped off to sleep here, he could very well slip to his death. Yet even as he reminded himself of the danger, he was starting to doze. He woke with a jerk and immediately forced himself back out of the cavern and onto the pipe. He tried looking up to see the top, but the sun was now above him, and he couldn’t stand the glare. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” he grunted. All that mattered was for him to keep on climbing until there was no more pipe to climb.

Suddenly that happened. But he felt no elation. Despair came instead. For he looked into yet another cavern—larger than the others, much larger—yet still a water-filled cavern. And the pipeline had ended.

He craned his head, shielding his eyes against the sun with one hand as he gripped the pipe with the other. He couldn’t be sure; it appeared that the top of the cliff was only another fifteen feet above his head. But he couldn’t get to it!

He crawled into the mouth of this last cavern. Once again he sat dangling his feet, but this time he faced the water. What was he going to do? He tilted his head back and studied the cliff face above him once again. It was smooth. There wasn’t a handhold in sight, even if he could have gotten up to it. He held off the panic as long as he could, but it finally broke through and he had to grip the ledge with both hands to keep from tumbling backward in shock. He was trapped!

The sun touched the western horizon before Rosha finally stopped despairing and started thinking. Once he did, it didn’t take him long to reason out a solution to his dilemma.

There was no relay pump in this cavern. More important, there was no sign that there ever had been.

That was curious.

Why would it have been removed? Why would another pump be needed this close to the top of the plateau? Another thing, the water here was relatively clear, not brackish like that in the dark pools he’d passed on his way up. Rainwater? Perhaps, but the overhang/was too severe to allow any but the most slanting rains to penetrate the cavern. Besides, rain came mostly from the sea of the east, not from the west. It wasn’t rain-water—at least not rain that had blown into the cavern. He was convinced, finally, that this pool was connected underwater to the main reservoir. He didn’t need to climb any higher. He needed to swim down and under the wall instead.

Or so he hoped. It seemed logical enough. Certainly it was worth a try. But what would he find under this chilly water? A connecting tunnel too narrow for a man to pass through? Or perhaps an ancient grill put in place to prevent anyone from doing just what he was attempting? Rosha shrugged. He’d done far too much thinking for one day. Better just try it.

First he ate the rest of his food. He knew it wasn’t wise to swim right after eating, but he was famished.

He chewed well, concentrating on clearing his mind, then scooped up a handful of water to wash down his meal. Next he made a quick check to insure that everything he’d brought with him was securely tied to him. He took a deep breath and dove in.

He didn’t fight his way down. He didn’t need to—his mail shirt and heavy sword carried him toward the bottom. He kept his eyes open, struggling to see through the ink. He wished it was noon instead of dusk.

The high sun shining down on the reservoir might have made the tunnel visible—if there was a tunnel. He had to go by feel.

His feet at last touched rock—a gently sloping wall—and he crouched against that slime-covered granite and pushed off toward the far side. His lungs began to burn. He swam with heightened urgency. He couldn’t tell how far he’d gone. His chest pleaded for air, and he decided to go up for a breath and try again later. He didn’t make it. His head bumped rock before it broke the surface. He was already in the channel, and he had no idea how long it was. A frantic desperation surpassing anything he’d felt on his long climb seized him as he propelled himself forward. He swam in terror, the great sword around his neck weighing upon him like an anchor, his mail shirt feeling like a full suit of armor. He swam as far as he could,closing his eyes against the sting in his lungs, fearing every moment that he’d crash against another wall and be lost. His reserves of strength had been depleted by the long day’s climb. He could go no further. He fought his way up, lashing at the water, angry at it for obstructing him, angry at himself for his foolishness, angry at death for taking him so casually—

Then he was out. His head broke the surface of the reservoir, and he sucked in the twilight sky. His gasps for air substituted for a victory shout. He had made it to the top! He would not permit the great distance that still separated him from his goal to intrude into his wheezing of celebration. He was alive, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

He had to get out of the water—his shirt would pull him back under if he didn’t. He glanced around.

While moments before he had been wishing it was noontime, he was suddenly glad it was dusk. There were sentries positioned around the lake. At least, he thought they were sentries—obviously, they weren’t taking their responsibilities seriously. Evidently they were set not to guard the lake but the plateau, for no head was turned toward the water. All eyes were fixed either on the purple sunset or on the faces of their lovers. Since there seemed little chance of invasion up the sheer walls of the cliff, sentry duty around the rim provided a wonderful opportunity for intimate trysts.

Rosha made his way toward the nearest shore, carefully keeping his head down. Soon his feet touched the bottom, and he rested for a moment, neck-deep in the water. He wondered why these guards had been posted at all—to watch the skies for flying powershapers? It didn’t matter. What was important was for him to reach the fortress that loomed over the lake at least a mile away. It wouldn’t do for him to clamber up out of the water behind some passionate couple. Rosha decided to make his way to the rear of the High Fortress through the water. He started walking.

The High Fortress was impregnable. He knew that. Every lad in the Mar knew that before the age of ten. Then again, every Mari boy also knew that there was no way onto the High Plateau save by the Down Road. Rosha had proved today that that was a myth. Could the castle’s invincibility be a myth as well? The fortress stood atop a rock ridge that jutted six hundred feet above the level of the lake. From this angle, he thought he could make out ledges and projections that made scaling it a possibility. Perhaps he could climb to the top of the ridge, then scale the back wall. Obviously the guards did not fear an approach from the lake. Could it be that the rear of the castle was as poorly guarded? He calculated the possibilities as he slogged the last hundred feet. The closer he got, the more possible the task appeared.

It was night when he reached the rock wall. He was weary beyond all belief. But he couldn’t rest here.

He had to climb at least part of the way. He started up. Thirty feet above the level of the lake he found a crevice in the granite and beamed with excitement. It looked big enough—he shoved himself into it, and found to his great relief that it was large enough to hold him securely. In moments he was lost in delightful sleep, safe from prying eyes.