The mouth of the old tunnel gaped before him with overbearing menace. As he picked his way carefully through the pooling waters that spilled from its opening he felt insignificant against this backdrop of antique human engineering; it appeared to him at one with its surroundings as nature slowly but surely reclaimed her own.
And yet there was still this juxtaposition of hewn rock set into the deep cutting, overcrowded with vegetation; fern and nettle, sapling and briar. What hands must have placed these rocks? What brute force, what muscle and sinew of horse? No machinery did this work, this was made with rope and spades by men long since forgotten, likely from across the sea. The hardest work men can undertake, and now it lay, meaningless, forgotten, derelict. High above his head the bank reared above the opening, crowded with trees and threatening a rockfall.
As he continued to approach he noted the gentle rhythm of the river some hundred metres behind had started to diminish, as though the tunnel’s dark expanse was devouring natural sound. He was deep in the cutting, the banks either side now well above his head, the pooling water deeper now, with tumbled rocks underfoot threatening to upset him. He was close enough to examine the great arch of stones before him, held together with the magnificent capstone at its heart.
Each piece of the construction surely measured a metre in each dimension and was left rough and unfinished to the exterior, as if dressing these was an expenditure too much for the undertaking to bear. Or perhaps the architect’s desire was for it to appear natural, as though to admit that, despite the toil and the feat had accomplished, nature would eventually always win.
For as long as he’d come here, first as a child on a day out picnicking with his grandparents and then many further times over the years, the mouth of the tunnel had showed signs of blockage. Bricks, block-work, clasped gates, metal barriers – all had been put in place over the years, been painted with spray cans, and had eventually been broken or pulled away. The desire to enter the darkness was too great, it appeared; not just for him but for others as well. He recalled his beloved grandfather holding his hand at this spot, explaining how perilous this place had become.
‘Why is it dangerous, Grandpa?’ he’d asked.
‘Well, it hasn’t been looked after, my little man. It’s unsafe. The bricks and mortar are old, some of them have fallen away. You don’t want one landing on your head!’
They stood together, taking in the moment, the sweet smell of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco heavy in the air as he clutched at the old man’s green corduroy trousers.
‘And, of course, you don’t want the phantom train to run you down, either.’ His grandfather had chuckled as he looked up, aghast.
He now picked his way across the threshold and into the tunnel proper; the rails long gone, the floor a mess of rocks and the tunnel walls now blackened brick, curving over his head to form a canopy long since stained with the coal dust of a hundred years past. It was still lit by daylight here in these first few metres but ahead the darkness was absolute. No light at the end of this tunnel; he knew it to be a mile long and curved through the hillside so even if the other end were unblocked no light would make it from one end to the other.
He shivered. There was a coldness and an unfamiliar smell, unlike anything else; an aroma of time, old time. Not repulsive by any means, an earthy, natural smell. It made him feel connected for a moment with the people long gone, the builders, the travellers, the age long past where crowded tobacco-drenched carriages hurtled through the space where he stood.
How far would he dare to go? Just to where the light started to decrease? But wouldn’t that change as he ventured further in? Perhaps just a few metres, then turn and judge if the light was changing?
He realised that he’d always done this, always faltered at this point. The safety of the woodland and confinement of the space contradicted each other. The thought of that ghostly train hurtling out of the darkness to billow through him, the fear that the brickwork may somehow collapse onto him, always held him back.
He was older now than the errant child that surely ventured 15 or 20 metres inside. He didn’t recall exactly how far he had explored but things were different now – he had responsibilities, dependants, people who relied on him. A mortgage. The carefree child was gone, as distant as the memory of those afternoon picnics on the banks of the river.
It was too much, the darkness. He turned, to take a step back towards the light.
And yet, no.
Something had changed within him recently. He hadn’t become more brave, that was certain. But perhaps it was some acceptance of mortality that comes with age, a sense of not caring so much anymore. Of not being as willing to give in to old emotions.
There was part of him now that didn’t really fear death in the way he assumed everyone always did. It wasn’t that he felt some heroic, warrior-like embrace of the glory that death brings, more an understanding that it is absolute, it will happen absolutely and perhaps sooner rather than later wouldn’t be quite so bad. Better a rockfall in a tunnel and the mystery and newspaper column inches that would bring than some degenerative disease or loss of bodily function that would see him stare pitifully in the bathroom mirror every morning, clinging to life like a limpet against the relentless tide.
He turned again to face the darkness.
Of course! His smartphone had a torch. Of all the times he had been here, this was the first time he’d had a torch in his pocket. Never before – who takes a torch on a woodland stroll? But now, today, for the first time, he had the means of walking the entire length of the tunnel. The blackness would be gone, if he remained true and the tunnel remained unblocked.
Further on he went, the bright LED illuminating the wet arched brickwork, the rough stones underfoot that kids for generations had thrown as far in as they could. The light picked out the constant drip-drips that fell from the ceiling, like sparks falling faster than the eye could take them in, forming the pools and streams that lay underfoot and trickled out of the tunnel mouth. The ground became smoother and more even as he made his way past the limit that even the most hardy rock-thrower could manage. Eventually the tunnel floor reverted to what it was like when the rails were torn out in the 1960s. The sleepers were still there, rotting now, still encased in the rubble that held them in place. The stones must have quartz in them, he thought; he could see it twinkling and dancing underfoot.
Further now, the furthest he had ever been. Perhaps the furthest anyone for a generation had been. No graffiti or wrappers here, just the smell and the concentrated noise of water dripping and coagulating.
A glance behind showed the entrance partially obscured; the tunnel was starting on its gentle curve already and soon the mouth would be visible no more. That was his goal, he decided: to go as far as he could, so that when he extinguished his light he would be in total blackness.
Off with the light.
He was surprised by how far evidence of daylight persisted. Each time he let his eyes adjust, the rods and cones of his vision shifting, altering the way they interpreted the darkness, he would see the hint of lighted brickwork in the distance behind him.
And then, finally, blackness. Full dark, surrounding him. He felt a conflicting sense of pride and confinement. But what was the point to all this?
It was then that he heard a cough from just ahead. A man’s cough. He reeled, fumbling with the smartphone, knowing that to put the torch back on he had to open the home screen which would illuminate his face before he could find the fucking app to switch it on.
Was someone approaching? No, that was his heart.
Come on, come on, how is this taking so long? Should he start to run? But finally it was done, light returned and the empty tunnel lay before him.
Every so often the tunnel walls had recesses, to all appearances arched doorways but in reality they went nowhere, they were there so anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in the tunnel when a train was approaching could get to safety. There was one now, on the right, not ten metres away, its depths hidden from view by the shadow of its entrance.
The cough had been the sort to clear a throat, as if speech would surely follow. He was still frozen in place. Waiting. Listening. Nothing happened. Should he turn and flee? No, he had to see, even though he was terrified of what he might find. He moved to the far left of the tunnel so as to give him a view inside the recess at the earliest opportunity.
A step at a time, edging along, the recess coming more into view. And there, on the floor, was clothing. Someone was here! Some rags or blankets… then a black-booted foot with green-trousered legs, and finally the old man was revealed. He wore a thick, warm coat and his hair was longer, hanging around his face like the vegetation around the tunnel mouth.
He didn’t blink in the light but held his grandfather’s gaze as he approached. No surprise or fear showed on the old man’s weathered face. He sat outstretched with his back against the archway wall and as he drew nearer the old man started to scramble to his feet.
The unexpected presence of his grandfather here, and the terror of this movement, were overwhelming.
‘You did it,’ said his grandfather.
‘I don’t understand. You died… how can you be here?’
‘It hardly matters,’ said the old man, ’Not why I am here nor how I came to be here. What is important is that you finally came.’
‘Why?’ The man stammered, struggling to calm his breathing. His earlier panic was subsiding as intrigue and confusion set in. He stalled as though he stood on a vast cliff, his very nature preventing him from looking over the edge.
‘Because you have mastered this darkness. Because now you know that you’re not afraid. All you needed was to prove it to yourself.’