INTO THE DARKNESS
Thomas O'Reilly Collab post w/ @Kuno - Peter O'Keefe
When the mind pressed to hinder the progress, Tom had learned to push the vessel to march forward. Over and over again for so long that the mind learned to tolerate it for the sake of coexistence. After entering and exiting the seemingly neverending tunnels several times, his head gave in and began to cooperate with the task at hand. Although heavy and too close for his liking, the carved walls surrounding them no longer felt suffocating, and perhaps being in the company of a man that hated it all a tad bit more placed things in a healthy perspective? Or, maybe, as in love with solitude as he was, Thomas adapted to appreciate a necessary company of a compatriot.
O'Reilly passed some distance going first, measuring in steps, placing markers, and making notes as he went. He crossed the first section in relative silence, quite frankly forgetting that striking a conversation would perhaps be of a benefit to them both. But there was only as much obliviousness he could have afforded. If not the light shining from Peter's flashlight over his back, then it was a movement of the carvings that it had caused that caught Thoma's attention, making him pause briefly.
The carvings and depictions once swarming in rich details gave no significance to his curious observation as the figures proceeded to hurry along the silent corridor. He understood Volkov's and Greene's obsession with the culture they so rowdily infiltrated. However, his priorities lied elsewhere, and he flagged the point mindful of the carvings in his way, throwing a single glance back at O'Keefe before proceeding to march forward. This time, the mind outsmarted the vessel as it dropped its guard, and Thomas spoke up, breaking the ancient silence that pushed his words right back at him, rejecting them with an echo.
"So!"
So what?
So, What was it that dragged a man back into the pit so far when they had a home to fall back to?
"Was it just the coin?" Thomas decided to finish his thought out loud as per his primary instinct.
"Or ye simply could not resist the excitement," he scoffed, amused with the idea. Peter O'Keefe hardly seemed like a man of risk, but one could never know with certainty.
The dark clung to every surface of that wretched space, barely abated from the two men's forms by the lamp's light. Momentarily, it darted away from the strange friezes canvassing the walls as the lamp bobbed, lowering until it was just level with Peter's face.
His stare alone was answer enough.
"Lessen' I lost soul and mind both, I'd wager it's the coin, fellow. I don't take foosterin' round places like this a pleasure," Peter replied evenly. The angry squint of his eyes glanced away back to the looming, bloated darkness before them, and he raised his lamp once more to shine ahead, unfurling the shadow's edges.
"Feckin' hell, this place is a damned god-forsaken terror."
As it was to be expected, Peter's reaction visibly amused Thomas, which he coronated with a smug smirk of "Made-you-say-it-ness."
He didn't buy it, granted. The honest coin could have been earned closer to home. There always had to be a speck of lunacy to re-enter the pit knowingly, or at least that was the impression the former expedition members gave away. Everything else was an excuse.
Resuming the task, Thomas focused towards the opening in front of them that O'Keefe referred to, lifting his light. The pitch-black blob briefly obtained some depth under the flashlights' beams. From where they stood, the room ahead was a simple abysmal opening leading. Well. Somewhere else.
A "god-forsaken terror," was it?
"We define ay god-forsaken terror very differently, me friend," Thomas chuckled. But who was he to diminish someone else's terror from where he stood? Perhaps he gave no weight for the reasoning behind it, but different skins wore different realities, and for the sake of respect towards his fellow Irish, Tom ceased what may have come off as disregard or disrespect.
"Well," he exclaimed once he had approached the entrance.
"If ye so prefer, ye could be my eyes from 'ere. I'm ay big lad. I can be on me tod." Partially a jest and partially a suggestion. Thomas left the man to decide for himself which part he would acknowledge. Shining light towards the ground and making a full circle, he studied the surrounding walls.
He may not have believed savage, vengeful ghosts were waiting behind every corner, but traps and other ancient contraptions placed within the ruin were very much a possibility. Without much hesitation, once he deemed the area safe to cross, Thomas stepped deeper into the dark maw of the room. Soon after, a prolonged whistle sounded as the beam of light danced around the area.
"They weren't messin' around, were they?"
"Pah."
The tap of boot and crutch followed at an uneven pace. The angry stare that had marred Peter's features had morphed into something less severe. Something more cautious, perhaps. And just a touch scared.
To each man was eked out their lot in life. Peter had chosen his: the life of a globetrotting rifleman. Highly profitable - but dangerous. There would always be risks. But he had survived so long as he had because he was able to keep his wits about him. To be housed in a structure to which he held a deep distrust for…
and to be reliant on his compromised body in such a dark, ominous place...
Fear of the unknown. It was intrinsic to every man.
Peter raised his lantern again, casting the reach of his light across the wild wall carvings. He eyed them with unease, eventually glancing asides towards Thomas.
"Careful of your footing." He had said it before but couldn't help saying it again.
"Might be snakes and other devils about."
The darkness was velveteen and seemed to breathe, each contraction and relaxation at the whim of the lantern, the jolt of the flashlight. Indeed, it was more than dark inside of the long room, which, the longer they walked, was revealed not necessarily to be a room at all— but a hall. On their right, at intervals, there were "windows," rectangular and twice the height of a man, but they had long ago been subsumed by the encroaching roots of strangling fig trees.
On their left, girding the wall, the motif of a massive snake's undulating body served as the bottom border of a monolithic mural. There, a city was laid out, people and animals locked in daytime labor, square buildings interspersed with trees carved from a white stone that stood out from the city's red. The light could only show a small portion of the city, the rest sprawling ahead of them. The building could only continue forward, with no turns to speak of.
Thomas studied the wall, partially hidden by the intertwined roots. The scene depicted was interrupted by smaller sections of tree roots that latched onto any protruding stone edge they could find.
"Beautiful tree," he grumbled as he placed his flashlight into the holster, freeing both of his hands.
"But rootin' them bastards out is brutal." And just as if they insisted on living up to O'Reilly's expectations, the roots held as stubbornly as they could against the pulls and tugs, ripping only one piece at a time and only where they were already somewhat dry. After a few tugs, an additional portion of the image was revealed.
Dusting off his palms, he turned around, following the river of roots that intertwined the stone all over the ground, in some places showing up thicker and healthier than others.
"Snakes, devils'n'broken neck," Thomas referred to the hazard of the tangled rug of roots as he was assessing the right point to cut them off on, unsheathing his machete.
"Crack on," he invited Peter to join the action, and the latter man's attention snapped to him.
"This ain't gonna clean itself. Better not to worry 'bout these damn things on the way back."
"Right you are."
He would need both hands for this. Gingerly, Peter eased his weight off the crutch and back onto his injured leg, taking care to wait for the initial sting to ease before moving. He hung the lantern atop the crutch and stepped away towards a patch of gnarled roots opposite Thomas.
The other Irish said nothing, even though he was very well aware of his comrade's injury. Instead, he allowed him his own free will to decide what he can and can't do and, so far, it seemed to be a silent consensus between the two. Men's pride was a finicky thing.
With the swing of the machete, Thomas cut into one of the thicker lines with honest effort. Even so, the line would not give in as quickly, and it took several swings to detach it from the group, along with many other smaller sections.
"We'll leave the mural to the experts," he jested through grunts as he tossed a portion of roots aside, away from the direct path through the hall.
"I ain't in the mood to justify damaging it to Greene. And perhaps it'll occupy our comrade some and keep her from takin' a hike this time," he chuckled, although it wasn't a laughing matter.
After a brief pause that he took to cut through the creeping foliage further, he spoke up casually, face deep into the work.
"What's her thing anyway? Volkov. Are we to worry 'bout her goin' mental on us again?" It was a genuine question with no disrespect intended, although the selection of words was as unfortunate as it always was with O'Reilly.
From across the way, the sister sound of a blade's hacking stopped. Peter stared.
"Mental? I don't know what you mean…"
Oh, but the man surely had ideas. He was disquieted by the notion of another upset from Ana. He still had yet to get answers for her sudden change of mind towards moving into the temple, and he had worried that something had elapsed in the short period he'd been detained. Now it was only a matter of what.
"What's this all about then? I'm after seeing the woman, and she's fairly fine. Though I suspect the nerves are tossed about some as are wont to do." The cutting of the roots resumed, though in a slow, distracted manner.
"They're not suited for these things. Women, I mean. She'll be -"
"I am[/] not 'okay'. No one here is." Ana's words rung in his head, and for a moment the Irishman paused. He sniffed a bit, shaking his head.
"Just needs time to adjust," Peter finished carefully.
It was a lie too good to be true.
"Ah! To adjust. Aye. 'Course," Thomas nodded readily, briefly giving up on machete to grab the intertwined veins and tug on them violently with both hands until they began to rip. He expected the vague response he had received, but it disappointed him nevertheless. Tossing pulled roots aside, he nodded again. With it, he verified the direction of the conversation.
"First time she stepped in, she ran out in panic even faster, droppin' everythin'," He described matter-of-factly.
"And now," he resumed the hacking,
"she does not think twice to come back in. Now, I've seen plenty of unstable lasses, but I've never thought Volkov to be one of 'em. Nor that her mind was so quick to go down the shitehole. Seemed a bit… outta place." He paused briefly - just enough for his words to soak up into the darkness.
"But I guess ye got the point, buck. Women." Thomas laughed out briefly, waving it off.
"Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Who knows what's goin' on up in those heads of theirs."
Tom's curiosity was far from over. If anything, the man's sudden hesitance gave it more weight. There was no need for verbal confirmation. For the time being, Thomas doubted less that he was hitting the nails in the head.
"But there's time," he added.
"We better be makin' sure those snakes don't bite a soul."
What souls?
Peter was surprised by how quick the bitter thought came. It was uncharacteristically cruel, and it was unfair to say such a thing to his fellow man. The expedition was wearing on him significantly, doing far more than testing his "mettle", so they said. As the negative thoughts roiled, the rifleman chose not to give air to them, opting instead to nod - even if Thomas could not see it.
"Aye," Peter echoed softly.
"Yourself included."
"Oh, feck off," Thomas slid backward, caught by surprise.
For the man saw a flash of scales by the other man's left boot. Uncovered, no doubt, by the navigator's enthusiastic effort. One strong kick sent the snake sailing through the air into the black abyss. Peter stared after it for a bit before turning and giving Thomas' shoulder a light pat.
"Sorry, Thomas. I've been coarse and sour - just me dislike for the place is all. Not on you." He didn't attempt to smile, but the look on his face was genuine enough.
The justification of his behavior wasn't necessary to O'Reilly, but appreciating the honesty for once, he nodded with understanding.
"To be dead honest with ye, I'd say yer full of bullshite if ye weren't," he laughed, pushing the remaining roots out of the way, bit more attentive about the critters it may conceal.
"And if anything, I know I am only improving yer mood." Evident jest was a self-inflicted jab about his own need to make things harder for his conversational partners.
"Ye don't need to go puttin' on a holy show. I like it no more than ye do." It could have been for reasons slightly more different, but the sentiment was the same. He had no doubt that the place was once one of the crowned jewels of the jungle, but he sure as hell did not go out of his way to appreciate something he couldn't see in the first place. It's not to say that Thomas O'Reilly did not have an imagination. It was more the case of extreme selectiveness. When you felt like things would go south at any moment, the imagination had the intention to piss off right out the window.
"I'll take the path a touch further. See if we can't uncover a fair bit more 'fore returning, eh?"
"Ah, would ye look at him!" Thomas exclaimed with a wide grin, tightening the machete back against his hip.
"Appetite for an adventure opened up all o' sudden? Aye," he chuckled, gesturing down the hall.
"We should at least secure any other entrances to this area," he concluded, resuming the mapping moving forward.
"Tell ya what. We will demand one helluva drink when we get back."