The tunnel curved, then curved back. Dakota propped his torch against the wall and sat down, hands clasped together, his black brows furrowed. Patience kept Dakota alive in his line of work. Here was a tunnel hand-scraped through hard basaltic rock, by a civilization no one even knew existed, in the heart of the mountains of Kirgizskaja. Russians of the victorious Revolution were on the hunt for him in the valley below, as if they knew something important and were protecting it. When one wishes to go from here to there under a mountain, one scrapes a tunnel as straight as possible. This tunnel curved back and forth like a snake. A great deal of time and sweat wasted because -- why? Religion? A snake cult? Boredom? But then, in the dim light, Dakota noticed the small indentations running along the smoother rock near the ceiling? |
