A forgotten place

The cave was a sacred one, dark and beautiful. The few who knew of this cave—before it was forgotten—once said that deep within lay the embers, long ago fossilized, of the first ritual of fire. If such embers did exist, they would likely never be found. Every passage leading away from the cavern near the cave-mouth narrowed until progress could only be made at a crawl, and these tunnels were twisting and treacherous. Bones littered the maze from creatures who had lost their way.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Stalagmites rose from the ground, uneven spikes wetted by droplets of water that seeped through the limestone above, the drip, drip, drip broken only by the fluttering of fruit-bats coming home to hide from the morning light. The bats chittered and jostled as they settled, and just as every dawn for the past four hundred and fourteen summers, a peculiar shape, sinuous and broad, formed where none chose to hang. Underneath this pattern the ground shook: up and down, up and down. The rhythm of waves that are born in the sea and die on the sand.

In and out, in and out—

Breathing. Slow, ever so slow, yet steady and strong.