Only One Man Died (Part 2)

The second instalment of Denarii's prize winning short story

Welcome to Perchance to Dream: Stories by Denarii. I hope to add something here on a regular basis. This is the place where I like to showcase my short stories, memoirs, novel extracts and the occasional piece of comment. If you enjoy this page please consider subscribing or following.

My short story collection Will You Walk into My Parlour? And Other Stories was published in October. It is a collection of tales about all things supernatural, from a piece of flash fiction about a magic potion to a four chapter story concerning an encounter with a Siren. It’s published by Crystal Clear Books. For a debut author it’s selling quite well (according to my publisher at least). It has been issued both as a paperback and as an ebook and can be obtained direct from CCB. Details are here. For a limited period they are offering a 20% discount if you use the code DFM8GC2R at the checkout. It’s also available from other online sources, including Amazon, Bookshop.org and Lulu for the paperback version and Apple Books, Amazon Kindle, Smashwords and other retailers (here) for the ebook. And, of course, from all good bookshops.

My debut novel, with the working title The Reluctant Reaper, which is set in the afterlife, is now well into the editing phase. The novel is planned for released in April. It is the first novel of a trilogy so watch this space for more information as it unfolds.

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Here is the second half of another of my stories which has already been published elsewhere. It is part memoir: the people and the places are real but not all of the events. It placed third in a competition run by the Northwest Ontario Writers’ Workshop in early 2023. It also won first prize in the Henshaw Press short story competition in June of that year and is published on their website, though is not as yet in print.

Only One Man Died

by Denarii Peters

The teenage Denarii is visiting her friend, Ros. After a long summer, the weather has broken and the North-west is experiencing a severe storm. Ros’ brother, Dan, is a member of a cave rescue team which has been sent in search of missing potholers. Dan’s family speculate on the rescue attempt and the dangers Dan and his fellow rescuers are facing.

An hour later there came a loud hiss from the Aga, as though a bucketful of rainwater had found its way down the chimney. The flames dipped and a sudden coldness came into the room.

“Get some more wood, will you, love?”

Mrs. Ellwood held open the thick metal door to the fire chamber while Ros and I headed out of the kitchen and made for the tiny room next to it that held the fuel. It had always struck me as a bit of a risk, storing flammable material inside the house, but that night I was grateful it was there and not kept in a shed outside.

We disentangled several thick branches, gathered up handfuls of tinder dry sticks and, hugging our bounty close to us, we returned to the kitchen and fed the fire. The door was closed on the mini furnace and warmth was restored.

Ros remained on her feet. “We're getting a bit low, Ma.”

“We'll be fine. We'll sort it in the morning.”

“No, I'd like a bit of air. I'll go out and find a few more branches” It was a ridiculous idea. The hedges on the opposite side of the hill, the ones bordering the Vicarage Fields with their buried Roman camp, would be spattered in mud and the trees would be sodden, their branches bent over under the weight of falling water. One wet twig would be enough to drown the flames of the warning, welcoming Aga. But I understood. She was finding it difficult to sit and listen to the two men as they discussed her brother's possible fate. Would he be just caving or would he be diving, forced to swim through an underground tide in bitter cold conditions, all the time surrounded by pitch darkness?

Outside in our own darkness, we tramped along the road, our heads bent, Ros dragging her little trolley behind her, its wheels slipping on the slick surface. We took the path round the side of the castle, past the priory church and on into the gloom. There were no street lights in that place to shed their pale bleary light. The path was little more than a narrow, descending cart track between steep sloping fields. The trolley kept catching its wheels among the stones and turning over. Reaching out to steady it, I slipped and skidded, falling into the clinging, sticky mud. It was so dark out there, with those heavy clouds obscuring the moon and blotting out the stars. I was so cold. We were so wet we might as well have been drowning under a waterfall.

We turned back. At least for Ros and me there were no narrow rock walls to compress our lungs, no twisting tunnels in which to lose our way. But at that moment and without any warning we were tramping through a stream which had not been there only minutes before. The water flowing down the thin dirt and stone path had turned into a torrent. We had to fight the current and were forced to abandon the trolley now too heavy to drag between us.

Yet still the rain and the flashes of lightning persisted. Our shoes filled with mud and we were getting tired.

Ros muttered, “Exposure. Cavers die of exposure more often than drowning.”

But she and I were in no danger. This was Castle Hill, Lancaster and not the depths of Gaping Gill. We were no more than ten minutes from Ros's home. Yet in the darkness behind the priory, with no light and with water clutching at us, threatening to drag us down, I had never been so afraid.

As my teardrops joined the raindrops, ahead of us reared a black shadow darker than the night: the imposing bulk of the priory. We reached out for the stone wall surrounding it, using it to trace our way forward, our frozen fingers trailing through moss which was more like seaweed, over snails more like barnacles and through nettles whose leaves were too sodden to sting.

We rounded the corner and caught sight of the castle's walls where there were lights shining up to illuminate its Norman grandeur, once a stronghold now a prison. Across the shimmering water between the kerbs, swirling around the overflowing drains, lay our route to safety, to shelter. Splashing across another wider, though shallower, river, we arrived back at her door and tumbled inside, filling the hallway with our damp presence, for an instant forgetting about Dan, the caves and the danger he was in. We laughed at our bedraggled reflections in the ancient, tarnished mirror.

In the kitchen no-one was speaking and our laughter was cut short. Ros's parents and brother were clustered round the radio. The authorities had just issued a severe weather warning. No-one was to venture out unless they had to. The A6 had been closed due to a crash involving several cars. It was feared a couple of hikers were lost out on the moors. There was no mention yet of any lost cavers.

Hours later the rain stopped but we did not celebrate the fact. Richard estimated most of the lower reaches of the Gaping Gill system would by that stage be filled with water but there would be no sudden end to the flow. He pointed to several underground streams criss-crossing the map. All of them would have burst their banks. There would be no dry refuge anywhere. I tried not to think of narrow passages filled with ice cold water.

Ros's mother removed the shrivelled, over-cooked potatoes from the oven and threw them in the bin. No-one was hungry. She took fresh ones from a basket, with a fork stabbed them deep into their cores and placed them in their turn into the Aga.

It was almost midnight but no-one suggested we got any sleep.

Yet sleep I did. The room was warm and my own concerns were not as all enveloping as a sister's worry or a parent's fear.

I woke to a pale dawn, the light streaming in through windows over which curtains had not been drawn. The scent of fresh bread had replaced the background smell of baking potatoes. This family had their routines and in routine there is always solace. Fear is diminished when faced with familiarity.

We ate breakfast, not a large meal but despite everything we were hungry.

Dan had been away for over fifteen hours and there had been no word. The radio talked of casualties from the accident on the A6 then interrupted itself with a breaking story about the two hikers who had now been rescued from the fells. There was no mention of Gaping Gill.

Richard thought it might be a good sign since an unfolding tragedy would not have been ignored by the media. But on the other hand had anyone thought to inform the press?

As the hours ticked by, Richard began to fret. “Why does no-one come? Someone from cave rescue should have brought us news by now even if...” He went back to staring at the map.

Outside the window, the sky was a clear, mocking blue. There were no clouds and the sun was already warm enough to dry the road, banishing the temporary river, but it would take many more hours before the waters underground would recede.

An hour later the sound of a car door closing was followed by a knocking. No-one ever knocked on the Elwood's front door. It was always open house. Those who knew them walked right in.

The knock came again and, as Ros opened the kitchen door, we all caught a glimpse of the police car parked beneath the front window.

Her mother sank down at the table as Ros went to let the visitors in.

I heard her cry out before coming back. Dan, exhausted, soaking wet and draped in a thick, grey blanket followed her in.

The policeman was a step behind them. “Bit of a hero, your boy, Mrs Elwood. Saved a baby. Never seen anything like it.”

“A baby? Someone took a baby into the caves?”

“What? Nothing to do with caves. This was on the A6. There were ten or so cars all piled up. We couldn't reach the baby but your Danny did. Like an eel, he was, straight through the passenger window of one car, over the back seat, through that window and into the next. Ripped his coat to shreds on the broken glass but he brought the child out.”

“Shame I could do nothing for the driver.”

“He was beyond help. But it's thanks to you, Danny boy, and the rest of your team helping out till the ambulances got through that only one man died.”

As the policeman departed Richard tapped the map. “What happened to the cavers? Have they been rescued?”

Dan took a long gulp from the glass of beer his father put in front of him. “Huh, we got news of them just as we finished up helping the police. They committed the ultimate sin, that lot, the only one for which a caver can never be forgiven. Before they set out they left plenty of messages, told people when to expect them back and when to begin to worry. Only they never did reach Gaping Gill. The closest they got was the Square and Compass in Clapham. The only liquid they encountered was best Yorkshire Ale.”

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