Elena
The altar looks exactly how we left it when Goatee and Hawaiian Shirt stumbled into the cave with me that first time. I go through the motions, laying my hand on the cave wall close to the stonework, murmuring “Tabi po.” To my surprise, Hemslock does the same. The short clips the crew showed me of him screaming at Taoist priests, being forcibly removed from sacred places, made me think he would be just as discourteous here.
He sees my face, grins. “That’s show business for you. Getting riled up, causing controversy is what gets you the clicks. I can be respectful, if I must.” He looks at the altar, and then up at the open sky above us. It is early enough that the moon is not yet visible; no eye stares down at us yet. “Let’s see what the rest of the cave has to offer. How far in have you been, kid?”
“It’s dangerous to go beyond this altar.”
He only grins. “Talk to me about this place. How did anyone even know about the curse to begin with? Did any of the locals know about Alex Key?”
“Not the details.” We are moving along a smaller passageway, enough for two people to pass, shoulder to shoulder. I find myself beside Gries with Goatee behind us, while Hemslock walks in the lead, tossing questions over his shoulder at me. The bodyguards tail closely behind, the scientists bringing up the rear. “The Diwata’s story has been passed down for generations, longer than even we know.”
“What do they think about Cortes?”
“That he stole gold from the people is known. The Diwata punished him. Legend says that roots grew around Cortes and pulled him screaming into the ground.”
“See, Karl? We didn’t know this about Cortes. There’ll be more stories that people haven’t told us yet.”
“It’s not something you’d find in history books, obviously,” Goatee says shortly. This close, his breath stinks of alcohol. “It’s probably an old wives’ tale that lingered with the locals but never got written down. Who knows, though? Maybe we’ll be the one to find all that missing gold.”
“Was that the case, Alon?”
“The Spaniards destroyed much of our precolonial history when they came here as conquerors. Your American armies arrived afterward and destroyed most of the rest.”
“Don’t blame us, kid,” Goatee snorts. “I wasn’t even alive back then.”
“But we reaped the benefits of that past all the same,” Gries replies. “It’s likely that Lapulapu was as responsible for Cortes’s death as Magellan’s. It explains why he has the journal.”
“I have another question for our tour guide,” Hemslock says. “Those tourists who tried to explore the cave wound up dead or missing. That’s why fifteen dead is an estimate. We haven’t found all the bodies of those who’d disappeared yet. But the science team explored the cave without any mishap. Same with the aviation accident investigators. Now don’t get me wrong—I’m glad. But what makes them different?”
I keep my eyes on the ground, careful not to stumble over the loose roots in the path. “The Diwata only punishes the cruel. They were curious, but respectful.”
“And it doesn’t consider us respectful?” This from Goatee. “I mean, it fucking screamed at me!”
I don’t say anything, choosing diplomacy. Hemslock laughs. “Guess that answers your question, Karl. Hang on. This must be the area.”
He whistles low as we step through the passageway into a wider cavern beyond. There are no altars here, but there is something else.
Staring back at us is a wide, glaring eye carved into the wall, easily twenty feet high. There are crude lines around it, as if to symbolize rays of light. Underneath the eye is a stick figure’s body, simple, almost an afterthought in comparison. One hand is raised, as if to strike.
Jagged-looking drawings of trees surround the figure. “Balete,” Hemslock notes quietly.
“Damn,” Goatee says, staring. “How the hell did they draw them so high up?”
“The size of the cave entrance didn’t clue you in?” the historian points out. “The Diwata was a supposed giant.”
“Hey Denny,” Hemslock says, speaking into his mic. “Are you getting all of this? Beautiful, isn’t it? Portrait of an Artist as a Young God.”
“We found some writings in the cave last time,” the researcher says excitedly, gesturing at the others to draw nearer. She points at a series of inscriptions below the massive figure. “We sent photographs off to be translated—it’s an ancient script, a syntax that I believe is based on Baybayin. This likely dates to what we know of precolonial society in this region.”
“What does it say?” Hemslock asks, reaching out to touch one of the crudely carved letters.
“They’re not sentences, so much as words. This one says ‘Feed.’ This one, ‘Seed.’ The third, ‘Wear.’”
Hemslock grins. “First to feed. Second to seed. Third to wear. So you’re telling me that these writings, likely to have been scrawled here centuries ago, maybe even thousands of years ago, exactly depict the eight deaths riddle.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence not to be. I don’t know how the aviation accident investigators missed all this, but—”
The actor lets out a loud whoop. “Do you hear that?” He laughs into his mic, speaking to the people back at the command center, and addressing some unseen audience at the same time. “We’re on the right path. We now have independent evidence of the eight deaths’ curse beyond Key’s and Cortes’s journals. We’re one step closer to unlocking the Godseye’s mystery. Anything else can we expect to see here?”
“Nothing much, I’m afraid. We explored the next cavern, but we haven’t found any more carvings or drawings. Ground penetrating radar tells us that there’s a couple more tunnels farther out, but there doesn’t seem to be a way for us to get to them from this end. Either those passageways have been blocked off since these caves were formed and there’s no way to access them short of tunneling through the walls—or there’s another entrance to the Godseye that we’ve missed.”
“Did you hear that?” Gries asks suddenly. His face has gone pale in the semi-darkness.
“I don’t hear anything,” Hemslock says intently, watching the other man. “Describe it to me.”
“I can hear someone calling my name.” Sweat streaks down Leo’s face, and it has nothing to do with the heat. “I—it sounds a lot like Elena’s voice.”
Hemslock gestures sharply at the rest of us to fall silent. We wait, tersely, straining to hear.
“There it is again.” Gries is shaking, leaning against the wall like all his strength has been sapped by the sound. “I—I need to find her. I need see who’s been making this—”
“That’s the last thing we’re going to do, Leo,” Hemslock interrupts—firmly, confidently. “Take deep breaths. We didn’t hear anything. Maybe your mind is playing tricks.”
“Our scans are clear,” Goatee says. “Leo, if you’re not feeling well, I think one of us should escort you out, see if—”
“No,” Gries says, shaking his head. “I’m fine. I can go on.”
“No changes in oxygen levels,” the researcher adds. “We haven’t gone deep enough within the cave for any drastic changes. But it might be better to return to the surface, regardless, Mr. Gries. Mr. Hemslock, maybe you should get one of your bodyguards to accompany him to—Mr. Hemslock? Are you okay?”
Hemslock is not okay. He focused on something in the gloom, and there is a very peculiar expression on his face. “You bitch,” he whispers.
“What are you doing?” Goatee yells, but Hemslock is already moving. The camera light on his head winks out without warning as he steps into the darkness and disappears.
Goatee swears and dashes in the actor’s direction, then utters a startled cry. “He disappeared into the wall! No, wait—there’s another passage here!”
He’s right. It’s a narrow squeeze, wide enough to allow only one person through at a time, and half-hidden by some bramble hanging down from the limestone.
“Wait,” the scientist says, alarmed. “We haven’t seen this cavern before. We need to make sure it’s stable—”
No one’s listening. Hemslock’s bodyguards are already pushing through. Goatee swears noisily again and stumbles in after them, his gait uneven.
“Stay here and wait for us,” Gries barks at the alarmed scientists, finally returning to his senses. “Darren? Lamarr? Damn it.” He slaps at the walkie-talkie, but it responds only in bursts of static. “See if any of you can reach the others. Tell them we need backup.” He looks at me. “You’re free to stay here, if you like.”
But I am already shaking my head. “I’m going after him.”
We make into the new cavern by forcing ourselves through the opening in the rock sideways; the tightness feels oppressive, like the walls could crush us at a moment’s notice, the ceiling flatten us. Somehow we make it through and find ourselves standing before another tunnel, larger than any we’ve gone through so far. There are several forks in the path leading to three different passageways, all similar in size. Hemslock stands at the crux where they all meet, unsure of which one to enter. His bodyguards crowd behind him, their hands on their guns.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Goatee bursts out, finally catching up. “Reuben, you’re the last person to lose your head like this, what do you think you’re—”
Hemslock lifts a finger to his lips to silence him. We wait, but we hear no other sound.
“I know what I saw,” Hemslock says, as if trying to convince himself. “No way she—”
He breaks off. When he speaks again, his voice is calm and controlled once more. “You’re right, Karl. Bad of me to have come in without thinking. Denny, do you still copy?”
Apparently outside communication now works despite having traveled deeper into the cave, because he continues talking. “Yeah, thought I saw something and wanted to verify. No, not exactly a ghost—more like a bad memory. Look, that’s not the point. We’ll head back to the first cavern. I—wait. What’s this?”
He crouches down over what looks to be a large briar patch of thorns, his mouth hanging open as he makes another find. “Goddamn. Look at this, Karl. These aren’t rocks. There are remains here. Parts of them, at least. Can’t see a skull, but these bones are human, all right.”
Makahiya plants from within the patch are blooming over the bits of bone, opening and closing, contributing to the blanket of moss.
“No shit,” Goatee says again. “Let me see.”
He leans forward. One of the makahiya plants turns slowly toward him. Its leaves open.
Within, a wide eye stares back.
Goatee rears back with a shout.
Another cry bursts upon us without warning. “Leo!”
“Elena?” Gries spins in a circle, trying to discern where the sound is coming from.
A sob comes from somewhere to my left. “Leo, I’m so sorry.”
I see blonde hair, a flash of a blue dress at the end of one of the tunnels; everything else is obscured by shadows. Without thinking, Leo sprints toward her.
I give chase and grab his arm before he makes it halfway through.
Gries fights me. “What are you doing? I need to get to her!”
“No, sir,” I say, keeping my grip. “I don’t think that’s your wife.”
He stares at me like I’ve spoken in another language, so I repeat myself, emphasizing every word. “Sir, I don’t think that’s your wife.”
He shudders and then this time looks, really looks, at the figure waiting for us at the end of the tunnel.
It doesn’t move. The screaming has stopped. It stands there watching us, waiting for our next move.
“It’s not Elena,” Leo whispers, finally understanding. “What—what—”
The dark figure screams again, and this time it sounds inhuman. It is a horrendous, earsplitting shriek that shakes the cave, sending bits of stone scattering down upon us from the ceiling.
The shriek is followed by strange crackling sounds, like that of twigs and dead leaves being trodden underfoot.
Hemslock jerks his flashlight toward the noise, illuminating a face.
Or what should have been a face.
A large, cavernous mouth takes up the whole of what should have been eyes, nose, ears—it’s a Venus flytrap of a mandible. Something like hair snakes around its head, but the similarities end there, because it moves like every lock is alive. The skin is a brownish gray stretched thickly over bone—if it is truly bone that keeps it upright.
It wears something that could pass for clothes, likely a memory of what Elena Gries used to wear, yet in the next instant shifts into a bareness that has nothing to do with nudity. More branches twist and braid together to create a human form. Makahiya leaves wrap around its shape; they open to reveal eyes within the center of its flowers, lidless and bulging, gazing back at us.
The light catches it again. Something slides out of its mouth, far too long to be a regular tongue.
The figure seems to stretch for one long second—its shape extending toward the ceiling, distorting and lengthening—before it drops to the ground on all fours, arches its back, and crawls toward us, shrieking. Its movements are jerky, crackling—but it’s fast. Too fast.
I haul Gries with me as we flee down to the tunnel where the group is waiting. Hemslock’s bodyguards have all drawn their weapons, and for a moment I think they might start shooting while we are still within their line of fire.
We hit the floor just as the thing dogging our steps jumps again, before Hemslock’s bodyguards start firing.
Their bullets catch the creature squarely in the stomach. It flies backward, crumpling into a heap on the ground.
“Move!” I can hear Hemslock yelling. He grabs me by the arm and hauls me up, watching one of his guards do the same for Gries. Goatee is already through the tight passageway, squirming desperately to scrape himself through the narrow space. Hemslock shoulders his way through with lesser difficulty. Gries is next, and then me, the sounds of gunfire as the bodyguards continue to unload on the creature still ringing in my ears.
We are back in the first cavern, where the stick figure drawing of the Godseye gazes down upon us. Goatee isn’t waiting—he’s already racing for the exit, stumbling slightly, splaying his flashlight frantically around him without looking where he is going. The historian and the researcher are frozen, goggling at us.
“Get out!” Hemslock roars at them, and they scramble to obey.
Another shout, this time from Goatee. He’s tripped over something and sprawls on the ground.
His fingers find roots. They wrap around Goatee’s wrist, multiplying rapidly until they encircle his whole arm. The drunkard yells in horror.
“Karl!” Hemslock grabs at his friend. We all watch as something emerges from the ground before us, the swarming roots and tiny branches reforming into a shape that resembles the monster in the tunnels, but this time it no longer requires a human-like head to manifest a wide mouth.
For a moment it looks like Goatee can get away. Hemslock has whipped out his knife and is trying his best to cut the gnarls from Goatee. He says something to Goatee, but it’s too low for me to hear. I only see Goatee’s face, panicked and afraid, staring wildly back at his friend.
A shadow moves behind them both. Hemslock freezes and looks up—right into the faceless tree creature.
Goatee screams one last time. And then the sea of writhing tendrils fling Hemslock away and descend upon the other man, forming a massive ball of branches that hide him from view.
Hemslock drives the blade frantically into the grotesque, frothing tree-mouth—and it disperses almost immediately, the tangle of tree limbs unknotting, returning to individual roots and giving way, skittering back into the ground.
But as the vegetation recedes, there is empty space where Goatee had once lain—like he had never been there.
***
“What happened?” Chase gasps as we stumble back outside the cave. Gries is a mess. His shirt is stained with dirt, and there are scratches on his face. Hemslock is doubled over, panting, his hands on his knees. The historian and the researcher who had accompanied us collapse on the ground, their knees giving way as they stare listlessly toward the cave, no longer boasting of their discoveries.
“What happened?” Hawaiian Shirt runs up to us, taking in the scene before him. “Reuben, what’s going on?”
“They’re real,” Hemslock says, raising his head. “They’re real, Gerry. What Key claimed, what Cortes wrote—they’re all fucking real.”