THE  CAVERN  OF  DEEP  HARMONY

PART FOUR:

He had been settling through the waters to the bottom of the pool and as he floated downward, the need to breathe became somehow irrelevant. Then, without warning, a shark was in the pool, had grabbed him between rows of razored teeth and was shaking him. Breathing suddenly became a desperate requirement and his throat, his lungs, his diaphragm spasmed with
wrenching coughs so that air might find its way where it needed to go. Coughing was everything there was. Nothing  more, nothing else existed. He had no sense of place or time, only that the air must flow. And when it could, he gasped it in and the gasping was all there was. Being itself was centered in his lungs and all awareness was only there, involved only with that.

As they gradually became satisfied, as their need was met, he lay there over her leg utterly spent. But in the coming of the quiet, pain, too, found entrance. His body was twisted to the right and his left shoulder sent shards of broken pain across his back. Violent coughing had only made things worse. He clamped his teeth on a moan, but the edges of it escaped despite his efforts. Vaguely he was aware Wadsworth was furiously licking his face, as though his tongue could remove the layers of mud. He couldn't, at the moment, remember where he was or why he was stuck in this position that wrenched him to his core and then kept going.  His hearing seemed gone and he didn't know why, didn't remember about the mud. Touching his teeth together produced a horrid gritting feeling and though his eyes stung, they seemed glued shut. He had
to move, had to untwist his body, had to relieve the grating pull on his shoulder. But he couldn't. He opened his mouth but nothing more than a mangled groan could form.

"You say something?" Eden leaned forward, touching the back of his head. She tugged on him, pulling his shoulder so that he came off her leg, his head lolling back against her stomach. Unknown to her, the procedure sent a lightning bolt searing through his back and he passed completely out.  She looked down at his quiet face, so caked with mud she had no idea how old he might be, what he might look like.  The dog was still trying to lick at his face, but she made him stop.

"Don't think that's doing any real good, boy," she said.  "All you're doing is getting mud on your tongue."  Suddenly the tag on his collar caught her eye and she reached out and turned it so she could read it. 'Wadsworth' it said and beneath that was an address in Mount Lebanon,

a suburb south of Pittsburgh.

"Wadsworth?" His ears pricked up at the sound of his name. "What the heck kinda name is

that for a dog?"  Still she was somehow glad for knowing it. "Looks like we're in this together, you and me, boy." She tilted her head, looking around the gully. "And what we're in is a pretty damn steep-sided, wet gully."  She patted the dog's neck. "So you're a local boy, eh? And from

a spiffy neighborhood, too."  She smiled at him. "What's a nice dog like you doin' in a place like this?"  Then she looked down at the head in her lap. And who are you, she wondered, and how

in God's name did you get yourself in a pickle like this?

But the matter confronting her was what was she going to do about it?  His right arm was still trapped by the branch and was completely submerged under the mud. That had to be addressed. But if she lay him back so she could reach the branch, his head would sink back into the mud, which was even deeper now as the flow around them continued.  And it was getting colder.

Why was it getting colder? She looked up at the patch of sky she could see through the canopy

of trees. It was solid grey. Where had the sunshine gone?  She was wet, sitting in deep mud, and the light jacket just wasn't doing much to make that better. And him? He was completely sopping and had no jacket at all. The seriousness of the situation washed over her. She had to think of something and think of it fast. But what? Dammit, what??

She tried scooching forward so his head rested higher on her torso and she was closer to the pinning branch, but it remained out of her reach.  She could just brush it with her fingertips.  There was nothing to rest his head on, nothing but herself.  Or the dog. She eyed him. Was he trained enough that he would do what she needed? Only one way to find out. "Wadsworth,"
she said, "you obviously care about this guy so you've gotta do what I tell you. Ok?"  She slid

to her left, holding the man's head in her hands.  "Here, Wadsworth," she motioned, getting

the dog to come close so that as she kept sliding there was room for him. "Down. Lie down, boy."  Despite the mud, the big dog crouched down. She slid entirely free and gently settled the man's head on the dog's back. "Now don't you move, Waddy. You stay right where you are."

She stood up and squished her way around them to the branch. It wasn't that it was huge, just that it had two sections, a smaller limb growing out of the larger, and as it had fallen into the gully with him, the corner the two parts made had come down on his arm, pinning it like a clamp. The smaller branch had buried its tip deep into the ground. That she discovered with fingers probing through the mud. The larger portion lay over his wrist, its broken end wedged between two big rocks. She positioned herself on the far side of the branch, reached down through the mud and gripped the wood. Tugging as hard as she could, she finally was able to wiggle the smaller piece loose and pulled it back and away from his arm. 

"Did it!" she crowed to the watching dog.

The man moaned again and turned his head,  making it slide off Wadsworth's back. "Oh, no," she cried, slogging toward them, putting a hand out just in time to stop it from hitting the mud.  She knelt there beside the dog, her hand supporting the man's head. The world seemed made entirely of mud. The man was coated completely and only the dog's back, neck and head were not solid with it, though even they had large splashes. She herself was not much better. She wondered what Connie would say if she could see her now, see what she looked like, what she was doing. "She'd probably just be glad I wasn't mooning in the graveyard," she said wryly.

The man seemed to be coming around. His features, well, what she could see of them, tightened in pain and his mouth squared over clenched teeth. Oh, gads, he was hurt. Of course he was hurt. You didn't fall headlong into a gully like this and not be hurt, did you? Somehow she'd just been thinking of him as trapped, that he'd be ok if she just got him loose. He made a small series of grunting sounds as if he were trying to get control of some pain. She felt suddenly awkward and didn't know what to say to him.

"H...hello," she ventured, but he didn't respond. "Can you open your eyes?"  No, of course he couldn't. They were caked with mud. Opening them was probably the last thing he'd want to

do. "Look," she said, "I need to get you out of here." She studied the gully in the direction opposite from the way they'd entered it. It looked like it tapered upwards and they just might be able to make their way to the top. That is, if he could walk. It suddenly dawned on her his legs could be broken. He turned his head again and she knew he was awake, so she got behind him and pushed until he was in a sitting position.

He'd come back to himself with almost a start and felt his head sliding to one side. Then something, someone, seemed to stop it, hold it. He swore he could feel fingers. Whose fingers? Why would someone need to hold his head? He lay there, breathing through the pain in his shoulder, trying to figure out where he was.  So much depended on his sense of hearing, but for some reason the world had gone entirely quiet. That, in itself, was disorienting.  He was cold, terribly cold, and his shoulder hurt like blue blazes.

None of this made any sense. "Think, Marshall," he silently ordered himself. What had he been doing? Pittsburgh? Was he in Pittsburgh? No, that didn't seem right. He'd gone somewhere, hadn't he? His book. That was it. He was working on his book. It was his Sabbatical and he'd gone...where?...to write.  The inn. He was staying at the inn by the lake.  With Wadsworth. Of course, with Wadsworth. Then...what? What day was it?  He couldn't seem to remember what day it was.

Then someone was pushing on him, making him sit up. Oh, God, that hurt! Why couldn't he hear? He needed to hear! He couldn't even smell anything.  He didn't know when he'd ever felt quite so...closed in. It was as though he'd been shoved into some small corner of the world where everything was taken away so that there was nothing left, nothing to let him know where he was. "No," he said to a quiet panic that threatened to rise inside him. "No, I will not permit that."

It was then he felt a hand slide around his right fingers.  Ah, so someone was in this small corner with him. He wanted to speak, to let them know he was aware of their presence, but a small rasping croak was all the sound he could make. His throat felt raw and swollen, his teeth and tongue gritted unpleasantly, and he was very, very thirsty.  But he curled his fingers around the hand, finding it very small compared to his.

Somehow he was on his feet. He felt Wadsworth press against his left leg and the small hand moved, supporting his elbow. He should move his feet. Wherever he was, he should move his feet, take a step. There was some need not to stay where he was. Nothing seemed very clear to him, but he knew that much. He needed to move his feet. But they seemed swallowed, encased
in something and it took great effort just to lift one enough to set it forward. But he did. It was like walking into a wall and yet keeping on going. It was all very...unreal. Existence had been reduced to touch.  That was all that was left, but that was filled with pain. Nevertheless, he put one foot in front of the other, endlessly.  He stumbled often for there were...things...in his way.
He did not discern them as rocks or branches, only as things that must be gotten past though

he could not remember why he must get past them, only that he must. Sometimes the arm went around his waist and he leaned toward the supporting warmth of the being who walked with him...if what he was doing could be called walking.  It was a going forward, a going propelled
by nothing more than sheer, dogged willpower. 

Some while later he felt the land flatten out and the going forward seemed easier, except his feet were heavy with some weight not his own, except despite the shivering cold his shoulder was on fire, except that if he did not get fresh water down his throat the universe would end.

Never would she forget that journey up and out of the gully. The man seemed barely conscious and leaned heavily on her as they made their way through areas of rocks jumbled with weeds and vines, slippery with wet leaves, blocked by branches. How he kept going she'd never know. She didn't even know how she'd kept going.  Just ahead she saw with relief the area where she'd first met Wadsworth. Now the path would be flatter, wider. The trees were not so thick here and she glanced up at the sky. The clouds were a heavy, leaden grey. No, it wouldn't. It simply would not rain on them.

"We've got to hurry," she said, knowing he wouldn't really hear her. "Please, we've got to hurry."

But his full weight suddenly sagged against her, almost making her knees buckle. Bracing herself, she let him slide to the ground as gently as she could. Oh, God. He'd passed out again.  She sat down, leaning against a tree, and pulled his head into her lap again, waiting. A raindrop hit her cheek and as she tilted her head up, a light spattering fell across her face. She blew out a
long breath, tired to the bone, and looked at his face. "I don't suppose you'd wake up now and we could jog to the house?"

The mud on his face had dried to a pasty, light color and she watched the raindrops begin to hit it, making a scattered pattern of dark spots.  He was cold. She knew he had to be cold, and now it was going to rain on him.  She couldn't get him any further. She just couldn't. Wadsworth sat, pressing close to them. What if? She reached into the inner, breast pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen she always kept with her in case some sudden thought for a review should strike her when she was out. She scribbled, "Need help. Am on forest trail. Man hurt. Come ASAP."  Folding it, she slipped it under a tight part of Wadsworth's harness. 

"GO!" she ordered, pointing down the trail. "GO!" 

Wadsworth looked at her a moment, then whined and touched his nose to the man's face. "GO!" she repeated. He hesitated a moment more, not wanting to leave, but seeming to understand what she wanted. He took several steps down the trail, stopped and looked back, whined again, then turned and loped off, disappearing around a curve. "Good dog," she whispered after him, her voice almost breaking.

The rain started in earnest and she leaned forward over him, trying to shelter his face. But a wind had begun to blow and the rain came in at a sharp angle. After a few minutes she became fascinated watching the water wet the dried mud on him. Soon sections of it began to wash away and she started to see areas of his skin, realized that he had a short beard and neatly-trimmed moustache. Using her fingers, she helped smooth away still more of the mud.  He was younger than she'd thought. For some reason she'd begun to think of him as an older man, perhaps in his 50's, though still well-muscled. But he didn't look much older than she did now that she could see his features. He was, in fact, startlingly handsome and reminded her of someone she'd seen somewhere. He was from Pittsburgh. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she'd seen him there in passing. But the more she studied him, the more she thought that wasn't it. But he definitely looked familiar to her. Maybe it was because his eyes were closed she couldn't place him. That
was probably it.

A very sodden dog scratched repeatedly at the door of the Morning Glory Inn. Martha opened it to investigate and saw the shepherd standing there. "Oh, no, you don't, mister!" she said. "You're not coming into my house all wet like that."  She took a few steps back down the hall and peered into the parlor where her husband sat at his desk, doing paperwork. "Harold, did you see Marshall come in? His dog's at the door. Soaking wet, he is, too, and I don't want him inside."

Harold looked up from the e-mail guest registration in his hand. "Can't say as I did, Martha. Saw him this morning before I left for the store. Said he was goin' for a walk. Had his dog with him. You say the dog's on the porch?"  He got up and followed her to the door. Sure enough Wadsworth stood there, wet, splashed with mud, and when he saw Harold, he started barking.

"What's up with you, dog?" Harold said, stepping out on the porch carefully so the animal wouldn't be able to come inside. "Where's your master?" 

Wadsworth turned in a tight circle then looked at Harold and whined. "I swear I think something's up with this dog," he said over his shoulder to Martha, who stood watching through the screen door. "What is is, boy? What's got you all riled up?" Then he saw the bit of damp white paper sticking out from under a section of the harness. "Hold on there. Let me have a look-see at what this is."

He pulled out the folded paper, which was damp enough that it tore completely in half. Holding it together, Harold was still able to read what was written.  "Good Lord, Martha, somebody's gone and got hurt. Note here's askin' for help on the forest trail."

He stepped back in the house, grabbing a raincoat off a hook.  "You call Mike down at the station. Tell him what the note says." He handed the paper to her, stuffing one arm in the raincoat as he talked. "I'm going to take the dog and see what's up." With that he went back out the door and set off at a trot after Wadsworth, who was heading into the woods.

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