Restless Soul

“More baht, right?” the Australians said practically in unison. “For the Shan.”

Zakkarat poled them across to the far side of the cave.

“Follow me, please.” He led them up a fairly steep rise to a ledge that overlooked a cavern.

“No rails,” the ecowife noted. “We’ve been to quite a few caves. Not near the safety standards as in Carlsbad Caverns and Mammoth Cave. Or even that Mark Twain one in Missouri. They all had railings.”

Zakkarat’s course took them around a deep sinkhole and to another chamber from which tunnels branched away. Scattered road cones and faded danger signs blocked off a few of the passages, and Annja suspected there was a risk of cave-ins. Another sign, more recent from its bright paint, dangled from a rusty chain. It read Do Not Pass—Low Oxygen.

“See here? Cave painting. Authentic.” Zakkarat pointed to a spot midway up the wall. “One of seven in this cave. But the only one I can show you today. Most paintings are where it is under excavation. Archaeologists from Bangkok found a skeleton under a rock shelf, supposed to be twenty thousand years old. The oldest skeleton found in Northern Thailand. The dig is off-limits, and the skeleton predates the coffins you will see. But this cave painting you can look at. Do not touch, though.”

Annja squinted to make out a faded design. At first glance it looked like a shadow or a smudge. Beneath it, affixed to the stone, was a large black-and-white photograph of what the painting had looked like before tourists had rubbed it away by touching it. The photograph clearly showed a deer, an arrow and the sun overhead.

“There’s writing on the photograph,” Luartaro said. He leaned close and almost touched the picture. “A date. This photograph was taken thirty years ago.”

“Pity that people have to ruin things,” Annja said. “Inadvertent or no, people don’t understand how precious the past is. I wonder what the artist was like. He or she probably painted it with burned bamboo. A lot of bamboo still grows around here.”

“The cave paintings off-limits today are in better condition,” Zakkarat said. “Perhaps it is why they stay off-limits.”

Zakkarat led them up a damp slope, then down, stepping over and through pools of water and past columns that dripped with moisture and glimmered like jewels in the gaslight. They walked down a set of rickety wooden steps, and they reached the river again.

“A beach, I say,” the Australian man grumbled. “That’s where we’re going next. With a book in one hand and a drink in the other. I’ll sit on my bum and soak up the sun. Aruba, I think. Or maybe Jamaica. Rum and cola from a bottomless glass with one of those paper parasols in it.”

Zakkarat pushed the raft into a darkness that his small lamp couldn’t keep at bay. Bats screeched from high overhead and fluttered their wings. The air turned thick with the smell of guano.

“God, the stink. It’s incredible. I can’t believe we paid to smell this stuff.” This came from the ecowife. She doubled over and retched. Her husband hunched over, too, and held his stomach.

“It is the bat droppings,” Luartaro said. “That is what stinks so bad. Thousands of bats. Probably hundreds of thousands. Far more than there were in the other chamber. Amazing. The smell is truly amazing.”

“Amazingly awful,” Annja said. She could tell that even he was affected by the intense smell. She cupped her hand over her nose and mouth and tried not to gag.

Her stomach roiled. She’d been in caves many times before, but none of those had such a large bat population.

Their guide seemed inured to it.

She was grateful when the raft docked and Zakkarat took them up an incline and through a short tunnel that opened into a chamber filled with what looked like coffins.

Though musty and close, the air was considerably better there. No bats were present.

“As I mentioned before, the tribes not afraid of this place stole from it,” Zakkarat said. His voice took on a sad tone. “Stole from this chamber and others. Stole some of our history.”

He turned up the lantern, and the Australians gasped as more details were revealed.

The coffins were hollowed-out teak logs ranging from seven to nine feet long and were relatively well preserved.

“The pamphlet said they date back at least two thousand years,” Luartaro said.

The logs had been intricately carved, and one had deep designs of leaves and vines on it. There were heavy pottery remnants, too, and Zakkarat said the tribes no doubt stole all the good, intact pieces.

Perhaps they’d also stolen the bodies, as Annja couldn’t see a single bone left behind. She shuddered as she stepped close to the largest coffin, as if a cold wind had just whipped across her skin. Her skin prickled, as if tiny red ants were crawling over her.

Were there real spirits here? Were they trying to tell her something? Perhaps they were upset at the presence of tourists who had come to disturb their eternal rest. Maybe they were angry that their remains and relics had been stolen and were seeking justice or retribution. She could provide neither for them.

Sometimes she had an innate sense that something was wrong or that a problem needed addressing. She’d thought it came from inheriting Joan of Arc’s legacy and the sword, but she’d eventually realized it was more than that. Even when she was growing up in the orphanage in Louisiana, she’d had an uncanny knack for knowing when things were amiss or when something untoward was about to happen.

“What?” she mumbled. “What is wrong here?”

“What?” Luartaro touched her shoulder. “I did not catch what you said, Annja.”

“Are there more chambers here with coffins?” Annja directed the question to Zakkarat and hugged herself when she felt the chill intensify. A heartbeat later the odd feeling vanished.

“Not here, in this cave. Not anymore. But there are other spirit caves nearby in this very mountain range,” Zakkarat said. “Many more coffins in them. Soa Hin, Tukta. There is a place called ‘spirit well,’ too, but part of it collapsed and it is not safe. But this cave, Tham Lod, is easiest on the feet and easiest to reach. This is where I take the tourists. It has some of the best limestone formations.”

The Australian man snorted, and Jennie patted his back sympathetically.

“Pi Man Cave, too, has teak coffins,” Zakkarat continued. “Many, many more coffins there. Ping Yah and Bor Krai, too. Not so easy as this to get to. More climbing and squeezing.”

“But you’ve been there,” Annja prompted.

“Yes. Have taken a few people there, to Ping Yah and Bor Krai and Pi Man. But only a few, and that was quite some time ago. There are maps you can buy with directions of how to get there, but I am better than a piece of paper. I am a very good guide.”

“Take us there, please,” Annja said. “To Ping Yah and Pi Man.” The tingling she’d felt moments ago came back stronger and raised goose bumps on her arms.

The cold sensation was almost numbing. She rubbed her arms to keep from shivering. If the answer to her unease was here in this chamber, she couldn’t see it. The answer had to rest elsewhere in the mountains.

“Take me to see more of these coffins,” she said.

Annja felt for the sword at the edge of her mind, seeking its comfort.

“How many baht, Zakkarat?” she pressed. “For you to take me.”

“Us,” Luartaro corrected.

“Take us to Ping Yah and to Pi Man and Tukta and wherever else there are more of these coffins. Places tourists don’t go.” She stood a better chance of investigating without others around.

“You’re crazy,” the Australian man grumbled.

Zakkarat scratched his head. “Not easy going like this place. We would need a little equipment for steep places. Not much, some ropes and pitons, a safety line. Helmets. Maybe a pulley—”

“Do you—”

“Yes, I have some caving equipment. My father and I used to—”

“How much?” Annja knew the price didn’t matter.

“Five hundred baht.”

“Done.”