Tunnels

Jehangir dropped down into the tunnel, his bare feet hitting the warm soil with a thud. He moved quickly through the darkness, around corners and bends, through narrow openings and tight passageways. He was truly free beneath the earth, soaring like a bird in the night sky. He inhaled the dense air, filled his lungs, and rejoiced at the peace within him. He was in the womb of the earth, growing to fullness. His eyes closed and he continued along, skipping and ducking, running at full-speed by memory alone.

The tunnels traversed the entire city, twisting and turning like a giant road map, holding up the outside world with nothing more than air and ignorance. Most of the city’s inhabitants did not believe the tunnels existed, let alone how vast and numerous they were. But there were myths, mostly cast aside by the priests who kept the secret deeply. Jehangir held it too, but longed for the day the prophecy would come to pass and the tunnels would bring life to the world above.

He breathed heavily, slipping around the final turn, and climbing up to lean against the hidden doorway to the outside. Without making a sound he slipped out and blended effortlessly with the crowd. Jehangir took a deep breath of the fresh air and casually strolled to the open air market, enjoying the lively sounds of a thousand shoppers buying spices and meats.

From a short distance Absalom nodded to him and waved hello. He noticed Jehangir’s dusty feet, a quick giveaway that he’d come straight from below. Absalom worried someone may notice and follow his hapless friend to the hidden world beneath. His friend was carefree, but Absalom was cautious. He could give away everything.

Jehangir purchased red spices and a tiny bag of black seeds. He slipped them into his pocket and headed back toward the tunnel entrance. Absalom caught up with him quickly.

“What have you got there?” He asked, poking at the hem of his jacket.

“Just some items for the priests,” Jehangir replied, suspicious of Absalom but hiding it well enough.

“What is it?” His friend demanded.

Jehangir took a few steps back and smiled apologetically, “I am sorry, but I cannot tell you. I must go.” He waved his hand as if to hold Absalom back.

But the young man would not let him pass easily. He stepped forward, warning Jehangir, “You should be more careful, my friend. You bring the dust of the tunnels up with you for the world to see. And now you parade around without a care.”

He leaned in closely, whispering in the ancient tongue, “Our silence is our strength.”

Jehangir didn’t care about silence or secrets. What did Absalom know about strength? The tunnels should be open to all. The willful young man’s heart pounded with the belief that the common people should find them. Then the tunnels would be filled and so would the people.

Jehangir made his way back to the dark entrance and slipped quietly inside. His feet took him quickly through the twists and turns once more, but his mind was no longer free and his heart was burdened for Absalom.

He entered the priests’ room at an opening in the bend, handing them the spices and seeds. They thanked him and asked him to stay, but he declined and went on his way. He headed south, toward the river and away from the bustle of the holy fathers and noise above.

He relished in the surrounding stillness, silent but for his steady breathing and pounding footsteps. He drew it in and held it like it was his last breath. In the stillness he found his purpose.

Miles went by underfoot until at last Jehangir emerged at the riverbank and plopped down on the golden sand. He exhaled and took in the water, the sunlight, and the trees. Everything fed him. He was full and fearless when he noticed a trail of smoke on the horizon.

Jehangir stood, watching the scene with utter despair. The smoke rose up like a beacon, sounded by an encroaching army. An invasion! Hundreds of enemy soldiers appeared on the hills, swarming like ants down into the valley, headed for the city, one after another as if there were no end to them. He leapt to his feet and rushed back to the tunnel, ducking in and heading for safety. But he knew in his heart there was not enough time.

He shouted and wailed in the ancient tongue, warning all who could hear him. We must open the tunnels. Lift up the salvation of the depths! Over and over he sang it, relieved to hear it spread from priest to priest, around each corner and to the next and then the next after that. Soon the earth rumbled with their cry. Come beneath. Come within.

The city was alive with fear. They’d seen the approaching horde and taken up whatever arms they could find. But their primitive farming tools would be of no use against these advanced warriors.

Jehangir extolled his fellow priests, “Open the doors!”

He called out in the ancient words. And priest after priest peeked up from the tunnels’ countless hidden entrances, leading the people of the city down deep into the earth to hide. Terrified mothers and children, fathers and brothers, the elderly and the young joined together, squeezing into the secret passageways they, moments before, did not believe existed.

Jehangir stood at one of the many concealed openings waving and motioning. Not one would be lost, he knew it somehow.

Within moments the entire city had vanished into the earth below, leaving cooking pots, open doors, and dust settling in the streets. When the invaders arrived they were met with an eerie ghost town.

The enemy soldiers ransacked the place, looting, destroying, and searching for the hidden inhabitants. Where had they gone so quickly? When the horde was certain they’d frightened everyone off, they sat down around the cooking pots and began to eat what they could find.

Deep below, the priests began to work. With ancient wisdom and methodical precision, they mixed and heated the red spices and black seeds of their secrets, forcing the misty fumes up through tiny ducts in the ground and out into the open air of the city. The enemy, unaware, inhaled the vapors and fell into a drug-induced stupor, hallucinating, confused, and unable to move.  Jehangir watched closely. They’d known all along! The priests had planned this. They’d been hoarding the spices and seeds for months.

He thought of Absalom. Is this why he was so secretive?

The priests whispered amongst themselves, then to the townsfolk within the tunnels. They revealed a cunning plan. Each of them, ordinary or great, priest or peon, had a part to play. As night fell, the tunnels emptied. Single file lines of quiet souls climbed out like spirits into the moonlit air. Each was intent and purposeful. Together they grabbed soldier after soldier, tugging and pulling, carrying if they could, lifting and dragging their helpless victims underground.

Soon the tunnels were full again. Entrances were sealed off, rocks moved and dirt poured, effectively trapping the invading army in the belly of the earth. As the sun rose, the enemy remained in darkness, though they began to awaken. With terror and anguish they dug at the hard dirt and mud, certain the earth had swallowed them up.

The people above cheered. The enemy had been vanquished! But the priests remained grim, as if a heavy weight were upon them.

“Our people do not kill,” the priests intoned. The crowds bowed in respect, but with no other ideas of how to deal with their attackers.

“If we do not kill them, what do we do with them?” The people seemed to ask in unison.

Jehangir knew without being told. Staying out of reach and out of sight, the great priests slipped in to the tunnels at varying intervals and began their purge of the enemy.

The priests up ahead held lamps and torches, designed to appear disembodied. They held them high, the sight of the flames pulling the enemy through the earth like a donkey chasing a carrot. The holy men lining the walls of the tunnels, sheltered and hidden, called out in ominous voices to keep them moving. Not sure what they were seeing, the army followed the tiny dancing flames, hoping they were good. In a panic they made their way farther and farther from the city. Jehangir held his torch up high above his head, making it bob and weave as if on a string. His breath was slow and steady, but silent. Just up above he caught sight of his friend, Absalom. Our silence is our strength, he remembered, finally understanding.

Without warning the enemy army surged out of the tunnel’s sharp entrance and into the hot desert air, 6 miles outside of the city. Jehangir, Absalom, and the other holy men with torches ducked and disappeared in resolute silence, unseen, and returned to the secret entrance. It closed behind them, disappearing behind a wall of sand. With no explanation, the enemy found itself in the middle of nowhere, having seen no one and not knowing how the earth had swallowed them up and spit them out. They fled in terror, toward the mountains in the distance, never to return.