"Waking To The Light"
By Debbie Nockels
DISCLAIMER: The characters do not belong to me. They were the creation of the wonderfully talented Ron Koslow, but who else holds copyrights at this date I'm not sure. This is a work of love, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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PART TWO
������ Mechanically, his mind awhirl, Vincent gathered everything up and nodded toward the left-hand tunnel. Catherine led the way, flashlight in hand; he followed about six feet behind. Time passed in a blur of dank walls and rough floors. The ground grew more and more uneven and finally Vincent called to Catherine to stop. He still felt half-stunned but the uncertain footing had drawn him out of his abstraction.
������ "Catherine, I should lead now. The surface grows even rougher ahead and there are several turns which are easy to miss."
������ "And you know the way." Catherine nodded her understanding and pressed against the wall to let him pass. Vincent hesitated momentarily when he eyed the narrow corridor and realized that the only possible way for him to take the lead was to turn his back to the opposite wall and sidle past her, a maneuver which would necessarily cause them to face one another at very close quarters.
������ Even closer than he had thought, he soon discovered, as their bodies wedged tightly together, halting his progress. What. . .? Oh. Of course. The backpacks. What a stupid thing to do. In his case the lapse in common sense was easily traced to his emotional turmoil; Catherine's forgetfulness he was not so sure of - if, indeed, she had forgotten, which he also wasn't sure of. He caught his breath as she turned an enigmatic look on him.
������ "Take it off, Vincent," she murmured throatily. Vincent's mouth opened, but no words emerged. Her hands lifted to his waist, rested there.
������ "The backpack. Take it off." Her fingers traced upward along his chest until they reached the padded straps crossing his shoulders. There they lingered. "Or would you rather stay here awhile?" Her chin lifted invitingly; her lips were soft and full and while he watched they parted, revealing a delicate moistness.
������ The backpack hit the ground with a thud. As if in a dream Vincent found himself sliding his fingers into Catherine's long hair, savoring its silkiness. He bent down and captured her mouth. For long seconds the only noise to be heard was the pounding of his heart and the soft sounds of their kisses.
������ Finally Catherine sighed and leaned away. She smiled shakily up at him. "We better go, Vincent - that is, unless you plan on stopping here for the night."
������ "No," Vincent said quickly, unsure whether another, unthinkable, meaning lay behind the suggestion. "The cavern is only about an hour from here. There's another cave just this side of it that has a freshwater spring. That's where I'd planned for us to sleep." He faltered, made suddenly uneasy by her steady, unreadable gaze.
������ "Ah. That sounds like a very good place to . . . sleep."
������ Surely he had only imagined the suggestive pause, but there was, undeniably, just the hint of a mischievous twinkle in the green eyes. Shying away from the implications, Vincent stepped to the side and took up his packs again. Silently he held out his hand for the flashlight and silently Catherine handed it to him. This last segment was the most difficult part of the trip and required all his concentration. Unfortunately this was a faculty he seemed to have lost somewhere along the line. More than once they were forced to backtrack to search for an elusive branch of tunnel he had passed right by without seeing, even with the help of the flashlight. Catherine made no comment but Vincent writhed in embarrassment.
������ Finally they reached their destination. It was with the utmost relief that Vincent ushered Catherine into the cave where they would spend the night. It was fairly large and the air was fresh and moist, redolent of the mineral-rich waters that bubbled up from the middle of the floor. Instantly Catherine knelt down beside the spring and tested the temperature. She made a moue of disappointment and withdrew her hand.
������ "Ice-cold. Darn; I was hoping it would at least be warm. A bath sounds real good right now."
������ Vincent began opening his pack. Without looking at her, he said mildly, "Catherine, that's our drinking water. I don't think you would want to take a bath in it."
������ "Oh." She gave a sheepish laugh. "No, of course not; I wasn't thinking." He heard her rise and a second later she hunkered down beside him. "So what's the game plan? Can we have a look at the crystals tonight or do we need to wait until morning?"
������ "Morning will make very little difference this far below the surface," he reminded her.
������ Catherine looked abashed. "I forgot," she admitted, then her face brightened. "Then we can go look at the cave tonight!"
������ "If you would like," he acquiesced. "That is, after we set up camp. Aren't you hungry?" Vincent looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Catherine's appetite - or, rather, lack of it - was a familiar topic of discussion between them, Vincent maintaining that she didn't eat enough to keep an anorexic canary alive and Catherine protesting that someday all that food he and Joe kept urging on her would finally catch up with her and one morning she would wake up twenty pounds heavier than when she went to bed, and was Vincent sure he wasn't Italian too, like Joe?
������ Catherine grinned. "Actually, I'm starved! Tell me what needs to be done so we can eat. I've never camped out before, you know."
������ Vincent was surprised. "What about that lake in Connecticut? I thought you and your dad spent the summers there," he said without thinking. A moment later he regretted his thoughtless question, not wishing to remind Catherine of the time when they had planned a trip to that very lake only to see harsh reality shatter that dream as well.
������ Catherine didn't seem upset, however; her look at him was droll. "Vincent, there was a cabin on that property. Dad wasn't exactly the hearty outdoors type. He liked hot and cold running water, comfortable beds and, particularly, indoor plumbing. Speaking of which, excuse me for a minute."
������ She got up and went over to her pack, which she unrolled, disclosing a foam rubber mattress - That's why her pack was so bulky, Vincent realized - and another small bag in its center. This she opened, rummaging inside for something. As she withdrew her arm, Vincent glimpsed a roll of toilet paper in her hand and hastily looked away. She walked to the cave entrance, where she paused, looking in both directions.
������ "There's another small cave about fifty yards down on the left," he suggested, busily intent on pulling cooking items from his pack.
������ She thanked him and her footsteps receded down the tunnel corridor. By the time she returned several minutes later, he had a campfire started and water heating in a small aluminum pan sitting atop a portable grate. Catherine stopped in the doorway and stared thoughtfully at the fire, then without a word disappeared in the direction she had just come from. After a few minutes she was back, this time with a small wad of damp tissue in her hand, which she carefully dropped into the flames. Her manner was completely natural, neither making a big production of her action nor attempting to hide it, and Vincent felt himself relaxing.
������ He poured some of the steaming water into a cup already half full of cold water from the spring, and handed it to Catherine. "Here." She took it and looked at him inquiringly. "To wash your hands with," he clarified. "There's some soap on top of your bag, if you want it."
������ Enlightenment dawned. "Thanks." Ignoring the soap she went over to an area of the cave where the floor exhibited a shallow depression and carefully poured the warm water over her hands, saving the last bit of it to splash on her face. Wiping her hands on her jeans she rejoined Vincent at the fire, setting the mug down next to it. By now a small pot had replaced the pan of water over the fire. Catherine lifted the lid and looked inside. A savory-looking mixture of potatoes, carrots and other assorted vegetables swimming in a rich brown gravy met her eyes. There even appeared to be chunks of meat.
������ "Beef stew?" She looked at Vincent, who nodded.
������ "One of the Helpers sent down some roasts yesterday. This is left over from our dinner last night."
������ "Looks delicious! What else do we have, and how can I help?"
������ Vincent smiled at her eagerness. "We have some of William's yeast rolls and his five-bean salad." Catherine made appreciative sounds. "The dishes and utensils are in my pack, if you wouldn't mind getting them. The stew should be ready in a few minutes but I'm afraid I made the fire too large. If I don't keep stirring, our dinner will scorch."
������ "That's all right." Catherine went to get the items. "Just think how nice that fire will be later tonight. I brought marshmallows!" She set the dishes down and grinned at him, obviously expecting him to share her delight.
������ "Marshmallows?" he said blankly.
������ "Of course! Can't have a campfire without marshmallows; it's illegal or something. Even I know that!" Catherine favored him with a mock glare and made another trip to the food pack.
������ This made no sense to Vincent, who mentally shrugged, confident that in time all would be understood. Catherine returned with the napkins and two large plastic bags containing the rolls (somewhat squashed) and bean salad. These she waved in front of him.
������ "Ziploc bags, Vincent? Isn't that rather wasteful?"
������ Knowing that she was teasing him, he only smiled and answered matter-of-factly, "Not if they're reused, Catherine, as these already have been, more than once. I'll take them back with us to be washed and set aside until the next time they're needed."
������ "Hmmm," Catherine regarded the bags, then him. "Gives a whole new meaning to the concept of recycling. It's too bad my world doesn't do more things like that." She put them down on the ground and went over to the bag that had been packed inside her sleeping roll, pulling forth a dark green bottle. An outside pocket supplied a corkscrew. She brought these over to the fire, where Vincent had begun ladling the stew into the large bowls. He cocked an eye at her offering.
������ "Wine?"
������ "Mmm-hmm; a California merlot. I had some the other day and thought it was very good. I hope you like red wine?" She sounded suddenly anxious.
������ Vincent shrugged. "I haven't had much experience with them. Father prefers white wines and sherry, as you know, and even those we see only rarely." He set a bowl of the stew down in front of Catherine just as she pulled the cork from the wine bottle with a satisfying pop! While unwinding the cork from the screw, she suddenly laughed out loud. He looked at her inquiringly.
������ "I was just remembering the first time I tried to open a bottle of wine
myself. I was seventeen. Dad was out of town, and I decided I wouldn't feel
properly grown-up and on my own unless I had some wine with my dinner. I
was using an old corkscrew and the cork was a particularly stubborn one. It
simply wouldn't budge! Finally I sat down on a chair, put the bottle between
my knees and pulled with all my might. Well, the cork came flying out - and
I hit myself smack in the eye!" She chuckled again and handed him a clear
plastic cup half full of dark red wine.
������ Vincent smiled but also felt concerned. "Catherine, you were all right? There was no injury to your vision?"
������ "No, I was fine - just had one heck of a black eye!"
������ Vincent took a tentative taste of the wine. "How did you explain that to your father?"
������ "I told him the truth." She shrugged, talking around a bite of stew. "I had to - he was positive my boyfriend had hit me and was ready to call the police. Poor Gary; Dad never liked him. He wasn't Mr. Perfect by any means, but there was no violence in him. This stew is wonderful!"
������ She ate a few more spoonfuls then glanced over at Vincent, also busily engaged in eating his dinner. "How do you like the wine?"
������ He took another sip, rolling the liquid over his tongue, savoring the smooth, mellow flavor. "I like it," he decided. "It's . . . different . . . from the white wines I've had before. Drier, maybe?"
������ Taking a sip of her own, Catherine assumed a pompous air. "Robust yet mellow, with a smoky undertone to the delicate bouquet which hints at blackberry mixed with cedar and wild roses."
������ "Wild roses?" he queried with a smile.
������ She waved a hand airily. "Something like that. Frankly, I never understood half of what those 'experts' were talking about."
������ She shot a companionable glance at him. The earlier tensions and suggestive innuendos seemed forgotten, and Vincent felt himself relaxing even more. He accepted another glass of wine, which he finished along with a second roll at the conclusion of their meal. They cleared things away and cleaned up to the accompaniment of comfortable chit-chat. Catherine related the story of her first dance recital and Vincent told about the time Arthur got loose in William's kitchen.
������ By the time the dishes were finished and all supplies packed away, the atmosphere was as natural and unstrained as had
been usual until the last few weeks, though Vincent was definitely feeling a
trifle light-headed from the wine. He excused himself and paid a visit of his
own to the cave Catherine had earlier used. Upon his return, he retrieved
something from his pack then looked at her.
������ "Are you ready to go?"
������ Warmed by her eager assent, Vincent picked up the flashlight. In his other hand he dangled the heavy pouch he'd taken from his things. Catherine nodded toward this. "What's in the bag, Vincent?"
������ "You'll see." He smiled at her and led the way, turning right as they left the cave. About fifty yards down the corridor he saw the opening into the crystal cavern. There he stopped and handed Catherine the flashlight. "Wait here, Catherine. I'll be back in a moment."
������ "Where are you going?" She sounded surprised, even a trifle disturbed.
������ "Just inside the cave," he reassured her. "I'll only be a few minutes." Cautiously he stepped along the narrow crevice which led into the cave. Once inside he worked quickly, pulling three good-sized candles from the bag, lighting them, and affixing them to the gritty floor with a few drops of melted wax. He had long planned this moment, wanting Catherine to experience to the fullest the unique, otherworldly beauty of this crystalline world. Stepping back he surveyed the scene.
������ In an ordinary cave three candles, however large, wouldn't even have begun to illuminate the interior. But here the tiny flickering flames were caught by the crystals and reflected in hundreds of faceted surfaces, until the walls shimmered with soft, dancing lights. He breathed in deeply. The scent of the candles had already begun to permeate the air and the sweet rose fragrance mingled with the wine's heady effect to give him a warm, dizzy glow. Well satisfied with the display, Vincent returned to Catherine.
������ "This way." Taking her hand he led her through the twisting passage, stopping just before the final bend that opened into the cave. "Close your eyes." he told her, knowing that his voice betrayed his excitement but not caring.
������ "Vincent, what on earth - " Catherine began, laughing.
������ "Please," was all he said, but she gave him a searching look then, with a humoring smile, shut her eyes. Carefully he steered her past the sharp outcropping of rock at the elbow of the bend and on into the cave itself. Checking to make sure she still had her eyes shut, he moved behind her and, putting his hands on her shoulders, urged her a few steps forward. "You can look now."
������ Obediently Catherine opened her eyes. The amused smile vanished, replaced by a sharp indrawn breath of wonderment. Slowly her eyes traversed the room, taking in each subdued glimmer of light, each wavering shadow.
������ "Oh, Vincent, it's beautiful!" she whispered. "I never imagined anything like this!" She turned her head and kissed the hand that lay on her left shoulder, at the same time leaning back a little. Without thought he circled one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist, and pulled her against him, holding her in his embrace. The clean fragrance of her hair reached his nostrils and he planted a light kiss on its silkiness. Catherine rested her head against his shoulder and for a while they stood in silence, wrapped in a cocoon of tenderness and beauty tinged with roses and wine. Vincent felt utterly at peace with the world and himself.
������ At long length Catherine sighed and twisted to look at him. "It's getting late," she murmured. Reluctantly yielding to necessity, Vincent blew out the candles and they returned to their sleeping quarters, which seemed dull and mundane after the magical world they had just left. Silently, still caught in the enchantment, they prepared their beds. At Catherine's request, Vincent stepped out into the passageway so she could give herself a quick sponge bath.
������ "Okay, I'm through." Catherine appeared in the entrance, tying the belt of a long flannel robe around her midsection. The hair around her face appeared damp, as did her face. She continued, "I'm going down the hallway again, so you'll have time to change, Vincent."
������ Change? Oh, for bed. Vincent watched after her, bemused, as she walked down the passage, then mentally shook himself and went back inside the cave. Going over to his pack he took out his sleeping pants, then removed his boots and socks and unfastened his trousers. About to slip them off, he paused and listened. Catherine had not yet come back, there was still some hot water left, and he felt incredibly grubby after his long day.
������ All senses nervously alert for Catherine's return, Vincent took a sketchy sponge bath of his own. Having gotten safely through that, he hastily donned his sleeping pants, feeling much better once they were safely on, then reached into his bag for the nightshirt. With arms fully inserted into the sleeves he pulled it over his head just as Catherine's presence unexpectedly announced itself through their bond. In a flash he yanked the shirt down over his torso and whirled to face her, wondering with pounding heart if she had seen anything - wondering also why he hadn't sensed her approach.
������ "Good, I timed that perfectly," Catherine remarked, an ambiguous remark that left him tongue-tied. Finally he stammered, "I didn't hear you coming."
������ "Didn't you?" Catherine smiled enigmatically. She walked over to her sleeping area - on the other side of the fire from his - and picked up two glasses, each about one-third full. "Here, Vincent," she said, bringing him one, "this is the last of the wine, we might as well finish it. Then we'll have the marshmallows."
������ In a state of paralyzed bemusement, Vincent accepted the glass and drank down the contents in two swallows. Catherine raised an eyebrow at his haste but said nothing, sipping her wine more decorously as she settled herself on a small pillow beside the fire. Slowly Vincent followed suit, sitting next to her but not touching her in any way. He noted a plastic bag of large marshmallows on the ground between them and gladly seized upon this topic.
������ "Catherine, what are the marshmallows for?"
������ She looked surprised. "I'm going to toast them, of course."
������ "Toast them?" Vincent supposed he must have sounded blank, for Catherine looked even more surprised.
������ "Haven't you ever toasted marshmallows over a fire, Vincent?" Her voice was disbelieving. Vincent shook his head. "I can't believe it. I thought everyone toasted marshmallows when there was a campfire available." He shook his head again, this time with a slight smile for her incredulity.
������ "Well, Vincent, you've got a treat coming." Again there was an underlying innuendo in her words that robbed him of a reply and sent his eyes flying warily to her face. She was quietly intent on her task, which involved impaling marshmallows over the prongs of an extremely long-handled, two-tined fork. This she stretched out over a portion of the fire where the flames were low. In a few seconds Vincent could see the marshmallows begin to swell then gradually turn darker. Catherine slowly turned the fork, toasting the sugary puffs on all sides. When a light, golden brown had been achieved she pulled the fork away from the flames and pointed it at Vincent.
������ He looked at it askance. "How do you eat them?"
������ "Like this." She pulled one of the tan oblongs off and took a bite out of it. Vincent surveyed the portion left in her hand. "Er, it looks rather messy, Catherine," he said, holding out one of his hands toward her. "It could be rather difficult to remove from . . ." He let his voice trail away. Catherine looked at the fur on his hand then at his mouth then at the marshmallow on the fork.
������ "Hmmm," she said. "They are pretty sticky, all right - hadn't thought of that." She was quiet for a second then said, "I think I've got it." Quickly she ate the rest of her treat and licked her fingers clean, wiping them on her robe. Then she rose and knelt down facing him, pulling the remaining marshmallow off its tine and holding it between two fingers. "Open up."
On to Part Three
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