rocking chair. “That’s the Stamps Pit Cave in Tennessee. A vertical climb of 200 feet.”
“Is it like … dangerous?”
“Not for me.”
“Oh.”
The cat, which had been eating from a bowl at Monroe’s feet, hopped up onto his lap and began washing its paws.
“Can we talk business, Mr. Huff?” I asked, trying to sound mature.
“Talk.”
Monroe Huff was grinning, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if it was a cheery grin or an evil grin.
“There’s a cave we’d like to find and explore,” I began, fighting to get each word out. “We don’t know exactly where it’s located, but we have a map.”
“What kind of map?”
“Uh, sort of a special map,” I said, searching for the right words.
Yeah, special. A special one-dollar fake map.
Suddenly, the whole thing seemed childish, and I had the urge to turn and run out of the cabin. Sure, we had a map, if you could call it that. A map that had been around for years. A map that everyone in the county had seen. Why in the world had I thought the map was something special?
“What kind of special map?” Monroe asked, stroking his cat.
“A treasure map,” Kiki said.
“A treasure map?” Monroe snorted a horselaugh. “You kids have been watching too much TV.” Monroe laughed again, louder and longer. After his laughter had died, he said, “You kids ever explore a cave?”
We shook our heads.
“You can get bad lost in caves,” Monroe said, leaning forward in his rocking chair, his eyes roving, wild. “Most people think cave exploring is like walking down a lighted, four-lane highway, with road signs marking the way.” He leaned back and began rocking, his finger tracing the cat’s right ear.
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Some caves are like rat mazes, with miles and miles of tunnels. Some of those tunnels intersect, but most don’t. Take the Mammoth Springs Cave system in Kentucky, for example. It snakes its way underground for 350 miles.” Monroe leaned forward again, his eyes sparkling with what must have been good memories. “I know. I hiked and crawled and stooped every muddy, rocky, watery mile of it.”
I started to speak, but I wasn’t fast enough.
“You,” Monroe said, leveling a finger at Kiki. “What’s a Bachman knot?”
Kiki shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“You’ve never heard of it and yet you want poor old Monroe to risk the only good life he has for you?”
He next trained his finger at me. “What’s Moon Milk?”
“I-I don’t have a clue,” I said, wishing at the moment that I was somewhere else.
“You don’t have a clue and yet you want a man named Monroe Huff to crawl into Mother Cave on your behalf?”
Now his finger was aimed at Pia. “Tell me, sweet pea, does water run uphill?”
Pia shook her head. “No way.”
Monroe threw his head back and laughed again. “Wrong. I’ve seen water run uphill in many a cave.”
“Mr. Huff,” I said, “all we want is—”
“Caves are cold and dark, and filled with rabid bats and bottomless holes.” His finger ran up and down the cat’s nose, and in a low voice, he said, “Mother Cave is the last frontier for those of us seeking to escape into the dark unknown.”
There was complete silence. Even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping.
Then in a slow, spooky voice Monroe said, “Go home, children. Ask yourselves this question: Will traveling deep inside the womb of Mother Cave bring you closer to the one true God? Do that, and then come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked, disappointed.
“Tomorrow.”
Cradling the cat in his arms, Monroe got up from the rocking chair and went to the door. He pulled his sunglasses down, opened the door, and looked up into the afternoon sky. “I see a bad moon rising, children,” he said. He motioned us to leave. “Tomorrow.”
9
We decided that Monroe Huff was not the guide of our dreams—he was way too creepy—and early the next morning Kiki did a quick
“Is it like … dangerous?”
“Not for me.”
“Oh.”
The cat, which had been eating from a bowl at Monroe’s feet, hopped up onto his lap and began washing its paws.
“Can we talk business, Mr. Huff?” I asked, trying to sound mature.
“Talk.”
Monroe Huff was grinning, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if it was a cheery grin or an evil grin.
“There’s a cave we’d like to find and explore,” I began, fighting to get each word out. “We don’t know exactly where it’s located, but we have a map.”
“What kind of map?”
“Uh, sort of a special map,” I said, searching for the right words.
Yeah, special. A special one-dollar fake map.
Suddenly, the whole thing seemed childish, and I had the urge to turn and run out of the cabin. Sure, we had a map, if you could call it that. A map that had been around for years. A map that everyone in the county had seen. Why in the world had I thought the map was something special?
“What kind of special map?” Monroe asked, stroking his cat.
“A treasure map,” Kiki said.
“A treasure map?” Monroe snorted a horselaugh. “You kids have been watching too much TV.” Monroe laughed again, louder and longer. After his laughter had died, he said, “You kids ever explore a cave?”
We shook our heads.
“You can get bad lost in caves,” Monroe said, leaning forward in his rocking chair, his eyes roving, wild. “Most people think cave exploring is like walking down a lighted, four-lane highway, with road signs marking the way.” He leaned back and began rocking, his finger tracing the cat’s right ear.
“Nothing could be further from the truth. Some caves are like rat mazes, with miles and miles of tunnels. Some of those tunnels intersect, but most don’t. Take the Mammoth Springs Cave system in Kentucky, for example. It snakes its way underground for 350 miles.” Monroe leaned forward again, his eyes sparkling with what must have been good memories. “I know. I hiked and crawled and stooped every muddy, rocky, watery mile of it.”
I started to speak, but I wasn’t fast enough.
“You,” Monroe said, leveling a finger at Kiki. “What’s a Bachman knot?”
Kiki shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
“You’ve never heard of it and yet you want poor old Monroe to risk the only good life he has for you?”
He next trained his finger at me. “What’s Moon Milk?”
“I-I don’t have a clue,” I said, wishing at the moment that I was somewhere else.
“You don’t have a clue and yet you want a man named Monroe Huff to crawl into Mother Cave on your behalf?”
Now his finger was aimed at Pia. “Tell me, sweet pea, does water run uphill?”
Pia shook her head. “No way.”
Monroe threw his head back and laughed again. “Wrong. I’ve seen water run uphill in many a cave.”
“Mr. Huff,” I said, “all we want is—”
“Caves are cold and dark, and filled with rabid bats and bottomless holes.” His finger ran up and down the cat’s nose, and in a low voice, he said, “Mother Cave is the last frontier for those of us seeking to escape into the dark unknown.”
There was complete silence. Even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping.
Then in a slow, spooky voice Monroe said, “Go home, children. Ask yourselves this question: Will traveling deep inside the womb of Mother Cave bring you closer to the one true God? Do that, and then come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked, disappointed.
“Tomorrow.”
Cradling the cat in his arms, Monroe got up from the rocking chair and went to the door. He pulled his sunglasses down, opened the door, and looked up into the afternoon sky. “I see a bad moon rising, children,” he said. He motioned us to leave. “Tomorrow.”
9
We decided that Monroe Huff was not the guide of our dreams—he was way too creepy—and early the next morning Kiki did a quick
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