Eleven
Later I would learn that Glens Falls, New
York, is about 175 miles east of Niagara Falls—a drive of some three hours in
normal circumstances. Which, of course, these were not. And, once again, the
fog cleared in what seemed like mere moments, and we were no longer on I-90
heading east but on I-87 heading north—and, to judge by the traffic signs and
billboards—very near to Glens Falls.
Soon the fog in my head cleared, as well,
and I looked around to see who was with me in the car: just Mr. Leon and I. I
didn’t even bother to ask what had happened. By now I figured I was in some
kind of waking dream and would soon snap awake back into my dark reality—the
one without Gil.
“There’s an exit up ahead,” said Mr.
Leon.
“Leading to …?”
“The Falls,” he said. “Glens Falls.”
And in moments I saw the sign. We left
I-87, found our way to Glen Street, turned right when we saw the sign for …
Cooper’s Cave. I smiled. A name that fit—that’s for sure. There was a little
parking lot there, and we walked down to the Hudson River on the walkway the
city had provided.
And we realized that if James Fenimore
Cooper were standing with us right now, he would not know where he was.
But then he was standing there with us.
***
Cooper looked right at me and said,
“You’re right. I would not have recognized where I was.”
“How could you possibly know—” I began.
“What you were thinking?” he asked.
I stared at him. Just shook my head in
absolute puzzlement. Cooper was dressed in clothing from the early nineteenth century—as
Godwin had been—but, once again, the other sightseers near us paid not a
flicker of attention to him.
“And you are really James Fenimore
Cooper?” I asked. “You wrote The Leatherstocking Tales.”
“I am. I did.”
“Father and I read those books together.
We really liked them.”
“I know you did,” he said. “And I presume
that’s why you’re here? Because you wanted to see the birthplace of the idea
for The Last of the Mohicans?”
“Yes and no,” I said. He looked a little
crestfallen. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I am thrilled to stand where
you did in 1824.”
He brightened.
“But my father is missing—and I thought I
might find some kind of clue here.”
Cooper nodded and smiled in a
compassionate way.
Meanwhile, Mr. Leon had somehow acquired
a pair of binoculars and was studying the falls and the cavern—not all that far
away. “It’s still there,” he said. Which was kind of surprising—so much had grown up around it—so much made by human beings.
“Obviously,” he continued, “we cannot go
take a look right now—too many people around. But later—tonight …”
“Good idea,” said James Fenimore Cooper,
and we headed back toward the Karmann Ghia. But when, after a few steps, I
turned around to check on him, he had vanished.
***
“I suppose you don’t know where
Cooper went?” I asked Mr. Leon.
“No idea.”
Right.
We drove to a fast-food drive-thru,
got some food and drinks, and sat in the parking lot and ate it. After I took my
last bite, here came Old Friend Fog, and when it cleared, the sun had set, and,
we had parked not far away from the Falls—not down in its parking lot but up on
the street. We didn’t want any cruising cops to see our car and start snooping
around.
The ever-resourceful Mr. Leon had somehow
acquired a couple of small flashlights—though he told me we would not be
switching them on until we we were out of sight of the street. “Don’t want to
attract any attention,” and he said—as if I hadn’t figured that out!
We knew that the cave had been
closed to tourists since 1962.[i] And we realized,
having seen it in the daylight, that we would need to be very careful—the rocks
and the river had looked unforgiving. Even under the sun.
We reached the viewing platform and knew
we needed to descend to the level of the river. Mr. Leon, however, did not seem
bothered. He flicked on his flashlight by the railing and showed me that
someone—who?—had hung there a rope ladder.
I started to ask, “How did that—?”
But Mr. Leon put his finger to his lips.
I knew what that meant: Shut up!
So I did.
We slowly, carefully descended the
swaying ladder until we reached the rocky ground. Mr. Leon had switched the
flashlight off during the descent, but once we both were down (he had gone
first), he flicked it back on, and we proceed cautiously toward the cave.
Ot course, the river was in our way.
There was no direct path to the cave. Now what? I thought.
And, once again, Mr. Leon answered me
without my having said a thing. “I’ve got something for us,” and he
pointed his light toward the river, where a small boat was moored.
“How did you—” I began.
Mr. Leon didn’t answer. I guess it didn’t
matter—I wouldn’t have understood what he said anyway, or he would have been so
vague and dismissive that I wouldn’t have gained an atom of knowledge.
He climbed in the boat first, then let
the light lead me into it.
I untied the rope that held the boat
there, and off we swiftly went toward Cooper’s Cave.
***
It took only a moment to reach the cave—though
we had to endure the splashing from the Falls itself as we passed them. We
moored again on the cave side of the river, stepped out of the boat, and looked
toward the cave as the flashlight beams danced across it.
I was afraid.
But Mr. Leon led the way, using the light
only occasionally to help us avoid falling—or some other disaster.
Inside at last, I looked around as Mr.
Leon let the light wander across the walls, the ceiling, the depths of the
place.
I whispered, “It doesn’t look as if
anyone’s been here.”
He whispered back, “Well, Vickie, they
would hardly operate close to the entrance, would they?”
I thought, I’ve been saying too many
stupid things lately.
“Yes, you have,” muttered Mr. Leon.
I decided I would neither talk nor think
anymore—as if that’s even possible!
We slowly moved toward the back of the
cave, where we saw, just as James Fenimore Cooper wrote about in The Last of
the Mohicans, another opening to another cave.
And as we stepped inside, we heard a voice,
a voice I recognized.
“We’ve been expecting you,” said Dr.
Eastbrook.
A glaring light nearly blinded me, and a
false, rocky doorway descended from the ceiling to block the entrance. And, of
course, our exit.
I felt Mr. Leon moving past me, toward Dr.
Eastbrook. “Sorry it took so long,” said Mr. Leon.
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