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“All clear.”
Sam stomped on the ground once, then again, then six times in quick succession. “I think we’re okay.”
Remi tied off her end of the line and joined Sam at the hole. He unraveled the horse collar and knotted it around the strap on his headlamp, then clicked the lamp on and started lowering it into the hole, counting forearm lengths as he went. The line went slack. At the bottom of the hole, the headlamp lay on its side. They leaned forwa
rd and peered into the gloom.
After a moment Remi said, “Is that a . . . No, can’t be.”
“A skeleton foot? Yes, it can be.” He looked up at her. “Tell you what: Why don’t I go first?”
“Great idea.”
AFTER RETRIEVING THE HEADLAMP, they spent a few minutes tying climbing knots in the rope, then dropped it back into the hole. Sam slid his feet into the opening, wiggled forward, and began lowering himself hand over hand.
Like a geologist examining an exposed cliff face, Sam felt as though he were descending through history. The first layer of material was regular soil, but passing two more feet the color changed, first to light brown, then a muddy gray.
“I’m into the ash layer,” he called.
Clumps and veins of what appeared to be petrified wood and vegetation began appearing in the ash.
His feet touched the bottom of the shaft he’d excavated from above. He kicked toeholds into the sides of the shaft and slowly transferred his weight to his legs until he was certain he was steady. Jutting from the side of the shaft was what they’d thought was a skeletal foot.
“It’s a tree root,” he called.
“Thank God.”
“Next one will probably be the real thing.”
“I know.”
“Stick, please.”
Remi lowered it down to him. Using both hands, he worked the stick first like a posthole digger, then like a pot stirrer, knocking and scraping at the shaft until he was satisfied with the width. Plumes of ash swirled around him. He waited for the cloud to settle, then squatted on his haunches and repeated the process until he’d opened four more feet of shaft.
“How deep so far?” Remi called.
“Eight feet, give or take.” Sam lifted the stick up and slid it into his belt. “We’re going to have to evacuate this debris.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later, Remi called, “Bag coming down.”
One of their nylon stuff sacks landed on his head; knotted to the drawstring was some paracord. Sam squatted down, filled the bag with the debris, and Remi hauled it up. Two more times cleared the shaft.
Sam began lowering himself again. Under the weight of the layers above, the mixture here had become more and more compressed until finally, at the ten-foot mark, the color morphed again, from gray to brown to black.
Sam stopped suddenly. He felt his heart lurch. He turned his head sideways, trying to aim the headlamp’s beam at what had caught his eye. He found it again, then braced his feet against the shaft’s sides to steady himself.
“I’ve got timber!” he called.
There were several seconds of silence, then Remi’s faint voice: “I’m dumbfounded, Sam. Describe it.”
“It’s a horizontal piece about three inches thick. I can see eight to ten inches of it.”
“Three inches thick is too thin to be the spar deck. Could it be the deckhouse roof? The only other raised structures were the stack, the engine-room skylight, the wardroom skylight, and the wheelhouse. Do you see any traces of glass?”
“No. I’m moving on.”
