The Bone House - By Stephen R. Lawhead Page 0,112

learned a new trick. Kit endured this enthusiastic buffeting. “No, really. It was nothing,” he told them. Turning to Big Hunter, he pressed the primitive’s hand. “Thank you.” He gazed into the bearded faces around him and, with all the sincerity he could muster, said, “Thank you all for saving me.”

The celebration finished and the primitives started back to the settlement. Through gestures and proddings they gave Kit to know that they expected him to accompany them. But Kit had a better idea.

“No, wait!” he insisted, planting his feet. Stepping quickly behind the nearest bush, he removed his soiled underwear and, with some regret, left them. He washed as best he could in the shallow stream, then emerged from the bush to rejoin the party. Pointing up the valley, he indicated one of the tiered ledges of the gorge and said, “I need to check on something.” He knew full well that there was not the shred of a chance that any of them would understand him, but it was a relief to talk and he harboured the small hope that he might make them understand—in the manner of British tourists abroad who, not knowing the local patois, just speak English—but loudly. “Up there. I have to go there. Won’t take a minute.” Kit spread his arms and then drew a circle that included them all. “You can come with me. In fact, I hope you will.” He turned and made a show of starting off. “Come on!” He made a sweep of his arm as if calling the start to a marathon. “Let’s go, chaps!”

He stepped off a half-dozen paces and glanced back to see them still standing there watching him. On a sudden inspiration, Kit made the gesture Big Hunter had made with him earlier—the curved hand “come along” motion. Then, with a single grunt of command, Big Hunter started after him, and the rest fell into step. As they walked, the sky began to lighten, and Kit was glad to see that he remembered this region of the gorge. He walked with purpose, urging on his new friends at each turn.

The sun was rising by the time they reached the cutting Kit recognised as the ley trail leading down into the valley. “Here it is!” he cried, pointing like a wild man at the long, sloping incline. “This is the place!”

He made such a show of his excitement that the primitives stood bewildered by his odd behaviour, murmuring among themselves. “Wait here,” he told them, holding up his hands. “Just wait right here.”

With that, he turned and started up the trail. His entourage followed, so Kit had to repeat the “Stay put” gesture—as one would with a dog determined to follow its master to school—until they at last got the message. As soon as he turned away, he took the ley lamp from his pocket and made a quick survey of the site. The device was dead. No warmth. No little lights. Nothing at all to suggest the ley might be active.

Thinking that perhaps the instrument had been knocked around so much it had stopped working, he shoved it back in his pocket and instead took a few running steps down the centre of the ley. When he failed to raise so much as a tingle on his skin, he stopped, drew a deep breath, cleared his mind, and then with deliberate steps began walking swiftly up the inclined ley, fully confident that this time he would be transported.

Again his expectation was confounded. Kit closed his eyes and tried again. But upon opening his eyes he found he was still in the same place, same world, same time as before. If he had travelled at all it was only the few paces between the place he started and the place he stopped. Growing frustrated and a little desperate now, he tried three more times in quick succession before finally admitting defeat. The ley was not open and not active.

He gave up and walked back down to the valley to join the waiting primitives, who were watching him with undeniable expressions of concern on their broad, hairy faces. “Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said. “I’ll try again later.”

In fact, over the next days he did try again—four times, twice more in the morning, and twice in the evening—each time making the arduous trek from the place he called River City Camp to the ley. Four times—with no better result than before. Though he resisted the idea

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