Read Online Gravediggers by Christopher Krovatin - Free Book Online Page B

dated back for as long as twelve hundred years, more information can be found at our visitors’ center, ready to go?” I can’t help but blink, trying to digest the blast of information just fired at me, but our tour guide doesn’t even wait for an answer, merely turns and begins leading us into the cave. One by one, we and the rest of our tour group snap on our lamps as the shadows close in.
    A distinctly spooky ambience seems to settle over us as we enter the cave. The air is cool with darkness, and dusty and mildewed in my mouth and nostrils. Every sound seems cacophonous (one of the first self-quizzed vocab words), echoing along every surface. Our guide leads us through a narrow tunnel, the smooth gray stone walls descending around us until we walk in single file and our shoulders occasionally brush the walls. For some time, we amble forward in this way, glowing silhouettes in the light of the lamps. Soon, I feel an involuntary pang of claustrophobia, and I hope we’re not just squeezing our way farther and farther into a stone coffin. My head goes a little light, and my hand reaches out to steady myself against the wall.
    From behind me, a hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. “I think it opens up ahead,” says PJ.
    â€œRight,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Am I that obvious?”
    â€œYou’re breathing really hard,” he laughs. “And besides, I know about freaking yourself out. I’m good at it.” I force a chuckle, if only for the splash of levity.
    PJ is, once again, right. A few feet ahead, the tunnel leads into a dark mouth, which then opens up into a massive brown stone chamber, the air cool and earthy. Perfect blades of light pour in from one or two small cracks in the ceiling, and between that and my headlamp, I can make out the spindly, clawlike stalactites hanging down over us and a huge glittering black pool sitting in the center of the chamber, teethlike stones creating a path across it. Ian whistles, and the sound reverberates in a shrill echo.
    Our tour guide makes another announcement in German, Indonesian, and Mandarin before turning to us. “Here is one of the many underground pools of Bangyan Cave. These lakes are fed by wells beneath the earth’s surface, they are famed for being—”
    â€œHow deep is the average underground pool?” I ask, trying to gather as much information as I can along the way.
    The tour guide stops, his face sour and bunched. “The pools are very deep,” he says. “They are famed for being rich in minerals and—”
    â€œAre there any wildlife that live in them?” I ask.
    â€œLook, gadis ,” says our guide, leaning in close, “I have a rhythm going here. With every question, I must start over. Keep asking them, and we will be here all day.”
    â€œSorry,” I say, though his brush-off has left me angry.
    â€œNever mind us,” says Ian. “Pretend like we’re not even here.”
    We move on to another tunnel, one we have to navigate by getting down on our hands and knees and crawling through. The next cave chamber is decorated with hanging encrustations of epsomite and gypsum that resemble melting candle wax. My mouth opens to ask our tour guide further questions, but I shut it quickly. This man won’t be much help to us, and besides, Ian’s maneuver was the correct one. Our presence should garner as little attention as possible.
    The entrance to Kudus hits me before we even infiltrate the next chamber of the cave. As we crawl nearer and nearer to the mouth of the tunnel, I feel a buzzing deep inside my body, running through my teeth like a live current. There’s a sound, too, not unlike the rushing of water, which grows in my ears until it drowns out the shuffling of the German college student in front of me.
    â€œDo you hear that?” I ask, my teeth chattering.
    â€œHear what?” Ian says, barely audible over the