Hailsham Festival Adult Short Story Winner
Gareth Jones has written several books and his winning entry is included in his latest compilation of short stories available on Amazon entitled The Pheasant that Refused to Fly.
His entry, The Cave, was inspired by a visit to a valley in the Andes (pictured), where he wrote his first draft.
The Cave
The Warriors made it for us. The Cave was a place to be safe when the wars went badly. There was a block on rollers that we could push into position.
To get out we would break the bottom of the sand chamber beneath it and as the sand drained the stone would fall.
There were narrow vents for light and air which came out high above on top of the unassailable cliff.
There was a spring and dried meats.
There were only children in our valley. The others lived at the entrance. Strong and agile and always engaged in the war.
If they lived to become old, they chose their time to turn away from the moon and walk over the mountain.
We played. Swimming, cartwheeling, running. Lying in the ferns watching the Condors drift across the sky.
That day began like any other.
We ate at the lake side. We raced each other to the great stone. We played.
The sun was high when the horn sounded. We all froze. Then we ran to the Cave and scrambled in. As one we pushed the block across the rollers. As one we sighed with relief as it closed out the last chink of light. No one could hurt us now.
We waited. The vents brought us sounds of battle. The cries of the wounded, and then the stillness of the dead.
We knew to wait for the victory bell before we left our hiding place. We slept.
When we woke we wondered if the bell had rung. There were no sounds of war. We decided to wait.
We picked up the charcoal and ochre and began to draw. We drew ourselves playing in the valley. We drew the old people walking over the mountain. We drew the warriors in their armour, resplendent with the feathers of the Condor, and we drew the Condor itself, high above us.
We slept.
On waking, we decided to break the sand chamber. We picked up the sharpened stones and smashed the clay. The sand began to drain, we scooped it away to make space for the rest.
The stone jolted, juddered, jammed.
Fear sprang at us from the shadows. We rushed at the block and heaved. We moved around and pushed in different ways until, exhausted, we fell to the floor.
We slept, waiting for rescue.
A sound woke us. Dust danced. The stone moved. Voices ran in with the light.
The stone was dragged clear. We recoiled into the shadows.
These were not our people, nor yet were they our enemies. They were strange.
They came in. They pointed at the drawings. The light splashed on the floor and cast shadows amongst the bones.
We ran between them, out in to the light.
We looked at each other and knew.
The bell had never rung.
We turned towards the west and began our walk over the mountain.
