Fifteen years ago Vincent had almost frozen in this part of his journey, but experience had prepared him, and today he wore extra layers of clothing and tucked his leather gloves into his belt. He had brought several pieces of chalk with him. He would need those to freshen the marks upon the walls after all these years.
Two hours after breakfast, he was well within the maze. He chose his way carefully, knowing confusion here could be disastrous. Midday arrived before he felt the first hints of chilled air. Three hours later he finally arrived at the source of the cold. The maze tunnel opened blindly upon a dark vertical shaft. He was standing on a small ledge with a bottomless pit looming below him and unknown heights towering over his head. The opposite wall of the flue was about fifteen feet straight ahead across the open air. The shaft was cold. Vincent had experiencd severe cold elsewhere, but this cold was unique. It filled his lungs with a paralyzing frost which made breathing almost impossible. Even with his heavy boots and gloves, his extremities would be numb in just a few minutes.
Checking his packs, Vincent put his right arm through the wire handle of the lantern and moved to the rim of the ledge. Thirty feet above him on the opposite side of the shaft he could see the dark opening which was his goal. He frowned. The years had added weight to the frame of the lithe boy who had climbed here before, and he knew this shale rock was fragile. In the light of the lantern he inspected the wall above him and mapped the toe and finger holds in his mind. Carefully, he moved off the ledge, extending his left foot until it found a secure niche. Then pulling his weight up, he planted his fingers and swung his body out into the passage. The frigid air came up under his cloak sending a shiver down his spine. Slowly he pulled himself upward, seeking ridges and cracks, testing his weight against them. More than once his hold was not secure, and the soft rock crumbled. After very long minutes, he could see the opening above him, and it was with relief that he finally felt the rim of the upper tunnel beneath both his hands. With a pull, he dragged his body up over the edge, and at last he lay panting in the cold air on the tunnel floor.
He did not dare stay too long. Rising to his feet, he moved up the channel with the frigid breeze at his back. His heart beat quickly now, not from exertion, but in anticipation of the beauty he was quickly approaching. He came to a narrow fissure, ducked his head, and stepped through.
Snow was not part of Vincent's world. Sometimes on very special occasions Vincent ventured out into the park on cold winter nights and walked in awe through the snow. But the footprints he left behind were evidence of the entrance to his underground world, and the risk was hardly worth the taking. But here, in this Ice Chamber, snow took on a rare beauty.
In the center of the chamber a vent released steam from some part of the earth's core far below. The vapor cooled immediately upon striking the air, and within seconds it was frozen into millions of tiny crystalline flakes. They shot up above the vent and then drifted lazily down, glistening in Vincent's lantern light, falling upon his face and hair, teasing his lips until he caught them on the tip of his tongue. Beneath his boots small drifts crunched with a satisfying crispness. The snow was no deeper now than it had been when he was a boy. He wondered where it went, then decided not to try to explain magic. The wonder of this place created a special spell, and he stored it away to share with Catherine.
But unfortunately the temperature made long-term appreciation impossible. With a sigh he moved on through the chamber to the exit on the far wall. Turning once more to admire the beauty, he left, glad he would return here on his way home.
Beyond the Ice Chamber he entered the remainder of the Great Maze. His way here was clearly marked, and finally near evening he emerged through a crevice high along a wall overlooking a huge cavern. The river flowed here again, having surfaced a short distance away. It was in this chamber Vincent camped and wrote in his journal telling of the wonders he had seen.
Father had sent several books with him, and he had already read all but two. His eyes fell on Catherine's book bag. Opening it, he found the two O'Donnell books. He had heard Catherine read the fable to the boys, but it had been a long time since he had enjoyed its pictures. Laying aside "300 Days", he opened the smaller book. With pleasure, he lost himself in the charming tale. The book was magical, and he could almost hear the music of the fairies. In fact, at one moment, he actually lifted his eyes from the page, thinking he had heard a short sequence of pure sweet notes. He took a drink from his canteen and scolded himself for having such a vivid imagination.
As he put the fable away, he could no longer ignore Brigit's other book. He picked up "300 Days" and ran his fingers over its bright red dust cover. Catherine had said she had read to him from it, but he could not remember. He opened the book's cover and saw Brigit O'Donnell's picture on the inside flap of the dust jacket. She was a pretty young woman, with auburn hair and green eyes. Not as beautiful as Catherine, but charming in a very Irish way. Her smile was sweet, but it did not hide the haunting sadness in her eyes.
Between the book's pages Vincent found a promotional bookmark advertising Brigit O'Donnell's forthcoming tour of the United States. Her book was to be produced as a feature film in California, and she was going to tour her way across the country in a series of personal appearances. Her first interview was to be on a local New York City television program October 30. Then the next night a masked ball was being arranged in her honor. The guest list was closed due to security restrictions. The advertisement went on to detail her further appearances in Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.
He was gazing at Brigit O'Donnell's face, when suddenly a sound made him sit up in surprise. He blinked and held his breath. After long moments, it came again. A blend of harmonics resembling human voices filled the chamber and then was gone. After a few seconds it came again, and this time Vincent was on his feet. The music echoed against the passage walls making its source almost impossible to locate. Then he saw an opening high across the river. Holding his lantern high, Vincent peered into the darkness. The music came again, and this time he could feel a breeze upon his face. Something was singing beyond that opening, but it was across the river, and he had no way to cross. No dry way. For a moment he chose to resist the temptation. The river was very cold, and he had no fire to help dry and warm himself. But then the marvelous harmonies began again, and Vincent's curiosity was more than he could bear.
Unwilling to risk his lantern in the river water, he fashioned a torch from an undershirt and a long handled spoon. After soaking the torch in lantern fuel, he wrapped it in a bread wrapper with extra matches.
He stood to look again at the far wall forty feet away. With a sigh he pulled off his cloak. This was going to be miserable.
Moments later he stood at the river's edge, stripped and determined to learn the secrets of the musical chamber. He waded into the water. There was no painless way to do this. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his body into the icy chill. The river bottom fell away quickly, and he swam in a modified sidestroke, holding his plastic bundle well above the surface. The current was strong, but Vincent was an accomplished swimmer, and within a very short time he was on the opposite shore, wildly shaking himself and wondering at his own foolishness.
Then the music began again, and all thoughts of cold and discomfort were forgotten. Scrambling up the rocky slope, he stopped to light his torch. The low horizontal passage was barely tall enough for him to slide through on his belly. Ducking inside, he pulled himself into the darkness. Dust caked his wet fur as he inched forward, holding the torch before him. Finally the opening widened, and he found himself in an immense cavern. Standing with his torch held high he saw before him a room of huge columns. Stalactites and stalagmites larger than any he had ever seen suggested that this room predated the river itself. Among the spires he saw extensive deposits of crystals sparkling in his light.
And then it began. Far to his right, at the opposite end of the cavern a wind blew into the huge chamber. It twisted between the columns and whistled across the tops of several great hollow cavities which wind and water had created during countless centuries. A low moan reverberated among the towers and reached the crystals high overhead. Suddenly the crystals began to sing as they caught the perfect tones and matched them with their own harmonics. Layer upon layer of pitch and tone merged into a blend of mysterious harmony and natural music. Vincent sank to the floor in stunned appreciation. The flames of his torch responded to the breeze and reflected among the crystals in a dance of light. It was a miracle of sight and sound which defied description.
He sat in wonder until the wind ceased, taking the music with it. Slowly he walked through the cavern, gazing up at the colors of the formations and marveling at their shapes and patterns.
He had no idea how long he had been in the chamber when finally his torch burned low, and he knew he must leave. Regretfully he pulled himself back through the low fissure and slid down the slope to the river. His lantern burned brightly across the water making any other light unnecessary so he extinguished his torch and threw it across the river, sending it clattering to rest near his bedroll. Then he stood upon a boulder at the river's edge and dived headfirst into the frigid depths. Moments later his head broke the surface, and he slung his hair from side to side shaking the water from his eyes and face. Pulling himself through the current with strong strokes, he hesitated long enough to wash away the dirt which clung to his hair and fur.
On the shore he shook himself
again and dried quickly with the lower folds of his cloak. As he dressed,
he looked back at the shadows across the river. He smiled,
feeling almost as if he had trespassed upon the
fairies' music.
Putting Brigit's unread book away, and feeling too weary to write in his journal, he crawled into the warmth of his sleeping bag. Finally the chill passed, and that night he slept very well.