King in the Mountain

Beans was enjoying the view; a stunning drop over the rolling green hill, with the river in the distance and the sun baking the fields in that way that hit just right in the British summer. Combine that with a couple tabs of molly, a few beers and the knowledge that that Asian bird – Priya? Divya maybe? Definitely a -ya in there, or was she just a yah-girl? – was waiting for him back at the main stage. Topping it off with one of the most majestic pisses of his life...well, he’d had worse days.

It was when his head started to spin that things started to go wrong. He reached for a tree trunk that turned out not to exist; that ‘missed step’ feeling, normally no big deal, went on for a second too long and Beans, even as fucked up as he was, knew that was probably trouble.

He fell. Fuck! Was his last clear thought.

The slope was steep and thankfully, in an extremely painful way, lined with scrubby trees and small bushes which meant his descent didn’t built to terminal velocity. The sensation of literally bouncing off the ground was only unpleasant – thank god for drugs eh? This is how all the fuckers survive car crashes – but rolling like a cheese redoubled the nausea in a fairly catastrophic way.

Landing with a final thump that drove the air from his lungs, Beans let himself stare at the sky for a moment while his brain caught up. A beautiful, impossible blue marred only the contrails of about four or five jets in the sky. It was actually quite pleasant, the fizzy holes in his brain tuning the rhythmic throbbing of his bruises to the drum & bass echoing from above. It was the smell of his vomit, and a little bit of friendly fire from his interrupted comfort break, that stirred the rational part of his brain to get moving. Nothing felt broken at least.

There’s plenty worse smelling blokes back in the dance pit, I’ll just grab a water for a rinse and a White Monster for my nerves and we’ll be back in business.

He rolled onto his side, or would have done if there’d been any ground there. He had another clear thought, the same one as before. This fall was steeper, with no friendly cushioning vegetation. He felt the sharp crack of his forearm breaking as he hit the ground this time and yep, this time the drugs weren’t quite enough.

“Fuck!”

He curled around his arm. This’ll need A&E for sure, and I won’t be getting the ticket money back either.

He lay there for a while – the bruises no longer fellow ravers. Beans knew he should move; lying here wasn’t going to solve anything but, while he could feel the imperative crashing against his brain with increasing urgency, his limbs showed no inclination to follow orders. Instead, he tried to find the sun in the sky again, that had been nice. ‘Had’ being the key word you moron. I can’t see the sun, can you?

Oh.

Turns out there had been a steep slant to this fall, the blue rectangle of the surface only visible at an angle. He felt like he’d fallen down a tilted coffin-shaped chimney. A pretty fucking big one, mate. Must’ve been sixty metres, maybe more.

Beans felt the stirrings of real “I might be fucked here” panic. Getting slowly to his feet, he crouched, fighting the desperate urge to force his back against the angled roof. He could feel his throat tightening with a claustrophobic panic he hadn’t felt in years. His mind flashed back years – memories of a slate grey sky, camouflaged legs looming over his heads and thundering Welsh voice.

“You get in that fucking tube right now Maguire, or I’ll stuff you up like a shagging suppository!”

“I can’t Colour, I can’t!”

He’d tried, he really had. The trapezium had been a cake-walk and he’d laughed at the other lads who’d cringed out there. Now it was his turn and the thought of forcing himself into that concrete tube running under the assault course – the stagnant water, the weight of it, boots kicking into his face from the front and shoving hands from below meaning he couldn’t turn, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking get out!

The Colour Sergeant had seen some of this in his face.

He knelt and, in a human voice Maguire didn’t know he had, said “Listen boyo, I get it. Nobody likes it, but it’s gotta be done. Especially if you want to pass the course”. He watched Maguire’s face, seeing it hadn’t helped. “Look butt, stand up.”. Beans had hesitated, sure it was some trick of the training staff. “Butt, I’m not fucking with you. Come round here to the side and really look at it”.

The Colour, five foot three in high heels if was lucky, lifted the six foot Beans by the scruff of his overalls as if he was nothing. Despite that, the touch had a warmth. He’d manoeuvred Beans to the side, waving off one of the other trainers, who’d only nodded and turned to catch up to the rest of the platoon as they’d continued the course.

“Look, Maguire, isn’t it? You’ve done well lad, you’ve got the right stuff. You just need to get yourself through a fifteen metre tube and catch the rest and no more will be said about the matter. If you don’t...well I can’t pass you bud, no matter how quick you are. Them’s the rules”.

Maguire nodded, hearing the words “Yes Colour” come out his mouth. Somebody’s mouth at least – the part of him that was him had retreated, coiling up away from the outside world.

He already knew which train he was going to have to get to reach home.

Colour Sergeant Jones smiled. If Beans hadn’t been feeling his future collapsing around him, that would have been enough to frighten him through the hole regardless. Jones had manoeuvred him back to the start of this section, a long deep pit filled with mud and sheep-shit, crossed overhead by razor wire. Beans had felt his body moving, knowing it wasn’t going to be enough.

The Colour Sergeant had re-donned his drill sergeant persona – the lilt of his accent drowned out by sheer volume. “FUCKING COME ON MAGUIRE! GO ON, GO ON, GO ON! GET THROUGH IT AND CATCH THE PACK!”.

The inner Beans, the part that had bloomed slightly at hearing his real name, actually thought he might be able to do it. The crawl and the exertion were over too quickly however, and now the hole loomed as wide as a maw. He got his hands onto the concrete rim, cold and rough, and his head into the dark before he froze. It was the angle of the water, tilting deeper, hiding pure darkness and fear and the crushing weight of everything.

“FUCKING COME ONNNN!”

Beans pulled his head out, already flooding with shame. “I can’t Colour, I just...can’t.” He could fear the tears in his eyes and the break in his voice.

Pathetic.

“Can’t means won’t and won’t means gaol” replied the man.

“What?” The Colour Sergeant frowned, apparently unaware he’d spoken. “Recruit Maguire, are you refusing to attempt the obstacle?”

“I’m sorry Colour, I’m sorry”.

The man’s face didn’t move.

“It’s not me you’re letting down, lad. I say again, are you refusing to attempt the obstacle. I will consider your answer final”.

Beans breathed deeply. What a fucking stupid thing to chuck a future away on. “I am refusing the obstacle, Colour”.

The Welshman frowned, genuinely disappointed and somehow slightly hurt. Beans remembered that look.

“Recruit Maguire, step away from the obstacle and return to the start line to await further instructions”.

He’d turned to go, before stopping. The man’s real voice returned, “I hope to see you again boyo, don’t let this be the end”.

It had been though. Beans had told himself he’d go back, he’d take a caving course or something to get it out his system but never had. Life had gotten in the way, as it does, and now it had just become a mantra – a fail-safe that he could soothe himself after a long day on the phones. I don’t need this job, I’ll just get my fitness sorted and join back up. The slight burn on the back of his neck if he ever had to say this out loud betrayed the lie, and he’d lost his interest in war films ever since.

Now, it seemed the hole had come for him instead. He looked up at the sky, out of reach and the felt the panic clawing at the back of his mind, thoughts of dying in this fucking hole, not two hundred metres from a fucking festival, crawling over his mind like rats.

Good riddance – at least the hole was big enough to fit you, you fat fuck.

He tried to climb, anyway.

It was that or dying here alone in the dark.

Reaching out one arm and trying to dig into the compacted dirt, it crumbled beneath his hand, revealing stone beneath. Great. He brushed more - stone all around, like a well but lightly grooved, not enough to get a handhold in. Pulling a lighter from his shorts, he flicked it on. Curling designs he recognised from history books and children’s cartoons; looping dragons and flattened bears. He’d seen the Sutton Hoo helmet at a museum once and a similar design seemed to be stamped again and again, superimposed over a sword.

This would be fascinating if I wasn’t so fucked.

The lighter struggled, flickering in the breeze.

Breeze?

He followed the thread of air, putting his life in the hands of a cheap plastic lighter. There was a small hole, likely made by a rat or badger or some sort of wildlife, at the back of the shaft. And thats what it is, a shaft; the whole thing’s stone and pretty, means somebody must’ve made it, means there must be another exit. Q E fucking D. Unless it’s a tomb obviously. Another thought he refused to acknowledge.

It was a hard decision for Beans to put the lighter back in his pocket, probably one of the hardest he’d made, but with a busted hand he couldn’t dig and see at the same time. He dug, thanking God that it was such a sunny day; although at this depth the light was dim and the air cold as a fridge. He dug steadily, slightly worried that the badger might take a chunk out of him with every handful. The drugs must still be working! He laughed. He laughed harder when he realised he couldn’t stop singing an old nursery rhyme while he scooped handfuls of cold earth.

We can’t go over it// we can’t go under it// We have to go through it!

Somehow this still beat working at the fucking call centre. And then, hallelujah!, he felt his arm burst through into air on the other side. We have to go through it!! He sat back on his arse now, feeling the chill as he did so.

Lots of fucking ways to go out on this one eh? Druggie frozen on a 30-degree day, fat bloke starved hundreds of metres from a burger van, man terrified of enclosed spaces buried alive.

The thought of being made into a headline made him furious. Why couldn’t anything ever be fucking fair?! He was meant to die a fucking war hero, not like this. He kicked hard, knowing he was essentially having a tantrum but fuck it, it was getting the job done, so why not. He heard the mass of earth moving, inch by inch as it slid into the unknown space on the other side. He felt the last one, the goal-scorer, the back of the net bicycle kick as it went through.

Causing that avalanche of loose earth was one of the most satisfying moments of Beans’s life – even with everything that came after.

Unfortunately it also brought down some on this side, the ‘wall’ Beans was sitting in front collapsing on top of him, thankfully harmlessly, apart from the indignity of swallowing a lot of dust and the pain of trying to shield his face with his broken arm.

He flicked his lighter on, revealing the sealed gap he’d re-opened was really some sort of archway – the packed dirt he was sitting on making him level with the top of it. That wasn’t what was so interesting. What was interesting was the symbol again – the helmet and the sword, only this time now worn and held by a full-sized man- deeply carved and looming over the gateway.

He knew Anglo-Saxon art, a bit anyway, and he knew they liked their artistic depictions of men in the stick variety, colours if you were lucky. Not this one though, this one was life-like, the helmet’s face guard removed to show a middle-aged man, lightly bearded and with the tired posture of a man used to people bringing their problems his way. Somebody’s dad essentially, a lot of people’s dad, maybe. The sculptor had even carved his eyes closed, a deep sigh captured in marble for the ages.

“Sorry bud, if this is your grave I’d prefer not to share it. Care to point me to the exit instead?”.

The eyes opened, catching Beans own.

Oh no they fucking didn’t. They fucking did not, did not, did not! It’s just the candlelight, the angle, the exhaustion, the fear, the hysteria, the fucking MDMA thats making up most of your blood right now.

Beans spun the lighter’s wheel again, another hard decision in a hard day. The shittest day I’ve ever had really. If I survive this I’m pulling a sicky next week at work, I’ve earned it. The light returned. See, they were always open, they’re just looking up at the sky.

Except now the man’s posture was different, coiled tightly, as if straining to reach the surface. Had that arm always been reaching out towards him, like someone trying to shoulder a wounded comrade’s weight?

Of course it had, you melt. Maybe it’s to show how he’s a helper of the people or something.

He caught himself. “Beans mate, stop debating fucking statuary and get fucking going”.

He shuffled forward, letting his legs dangle into the pitch black. As his hand settled on the lintel, ready to shove himself forward, the texture stopped him frozen. Cold and rough. His mind flashed back again, the dark mouth of both holes merging into one.

Fuck’s sake. I can’t even die, I’ve got to die a fucking coward as well.

He felt the wind strongly now, blowing into the blackness of the chamber beyond. Beans had a pretty good idea on what he was going to find on the other side, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. There was only one thing this place could be.

He felt the angle of the sun behind him, breaking through the clouds above and lining up just right. Something about it warmed more than his back. He turned for another look. That guy was definitely not fucking winking before.

“You know what, freaky statue man, you’re right.? I’ve either got to do it, or I am no-shit going to die down here. And frankly, as a bloke I liked once said, I don’t think I’m going to let this be the end”.

Beans pushed off, falling into what came next.

Maguire landed.