The Wanderer

by Natalie Maddern

A warm metal bar pressed into Laurel’s back as she struggled to maintain her balance. Despite the early hour, the bus was packed with men, and the air was rich with the ripe fragrance of their confined sweaty bodies and last night’s leftovers. A passenger to her left had settled for a seat on the floor, wedged between his suitcase and her leg. Someone else’s damp arm hairs brushed against her face, simultaneously coarse and soggy. The arm’s owner grasped the overhead handle and leaned into the bend as the vehicle veered left, barely slowing as it rounded the corner. As the bus finally approached her stop, she squeezed through the mob to the rear door.

She stepped off the bus and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. She moved to the edge of the footpath, took a long drink from her water bottle and pulled the flyer from her pocket. The paper was moist and the folds felt soft. She carefully opened it and studied the small map on the back. She glanced at the street signs around her and set off at a brisk pace. Fifteen minutes later, she arrived at the address.

The establishment may have been impressive in the past, but now the intricate stonework had crumbled away from around the windows. A sign clung desperately from the wall, the letters faded from the sun and barely legible. The garden beds were nothing but sunbaked clay, stones and litter that had blown in from the street.

Laurel walked up the path to the door. The timber had splintered in the weather and was cracked and swollen in its frame. She could only pull it halfway open and as she squeezed through the gap, her t-shirt snagged on the wood.

The reception room was larger than she had expected and each of the walls was lined with candles and photographs. The smaller images were mostly faded black-and-white prints of mustached young men wearing headlamps, boilersuits and serious expressions. Some yellowing polaroids had captured blurry figures posing inside large chambers filled with stalagmites and stalactites. The larger frames showcased more recent, crisp digital images of rock formations, men disappearing head-first into crevasses, and a large map detailing the main routes and landmarks of the cave network located underneath the city.

“Szia?”

Laurel turned and looked for the owner of the voice. A handsome middle-aged man with an expressive face leaned on the counter. He looked at her with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, hi,” she replied. “I was hoping to go on the, um, tour today.”

The man blinked.

Laurel willed herself to hold his gaze.

“You want to go caving,” he finally replied, rubbing his chin. He looked at her slowly, his eyes lingering along the way before settling on her hiking boots. She regretted not wearing them in or at least walking through the mud before she arrived.

“We don’t get many girls for caving. You get dirty. It will be dark. Maybe you feel scared. And is sometimes hard.”

“Yes, I want to go caving,” she stated, putting a Ft20,000 note on the counter.

“Hmmm,” he murmured and pocketed the note. He rubbed his chin again and walked towards the rear door. “Today is special tour. It is eclipse this afternoon. We go to lookout at end of tour to watch. It is spectacular. My name is Istvan.”

With one hand on the door, he turned around and grinned.

“Well? Are you coming, Snow White?”

He laughed at her puzzled expression.

“You understand soon.”

***

Through the door was a small dim room. The walls were lined with low shelves, row upon row of hooks, and storage tubs each filled with safety gear, coveralls, ropes and tackle, hard hats, headlamps and harnesses. The far corner housed a row of empty lockers, their doors hanging open and bent at odd angles.

In the centre of the room, a group of men were putting on boilersuits and hard hats. The volume and pace of their conversation suggested lighthearted banter and bravado, and she recognized a familiar Australian twang amongst the chatter. She breathed out in relief.

Istvan passed her a navy boilersuit and a small plastic bag.

“Put on coverall. Precious items and jewelry go in bag and stay here.”

She pulled the suit on over her clothes. She rolled up the long sleeves and cuffed the legs so that she didn’t trip on the excess fabric. She slipped off her rings but put them in her pocket, concealed underneath the boilersuit. She wasn’t leaving anything behind.

Istvan called for the group’s attention. A young man stood beside him.

“This is Rikard. He doesn’t speak much English, but he is excellent navigator. He grew up in the caves. It can be dangerous place. You must follow what I say so we stay safe. Everyone goes home tonight.”

He paused dramatically.

“It is said that after the war, a young soldier—about your age—returned to Budapest. His friends and both his brothers died in battle. He felt shame and guilt that he returned home when others did not, and he went into the caves alone. He lived in Budapest his whole life and knew the routes well. But in fighting he had sacrificed part of his lelkét—how do you say? Uh, his soul—and forgot himself. He lost his way and became mad in the darkness. He never came out.”

Istvan lowered his voice and beckoned them closer. They all leaned forward, drawn into his story.

“But it is said, that when the sun is eclipsed by the moon and darkness spreads over Budapest, the young soldier is drawn out from the bowels of the caves. He stands at the mouth of the cave and looks upon his city and remembers the proud Magyer he once was. In that moment, he is no longer lost.”

The men looked at each other and scoffed, but Laurel smiled. Stories such as these were exactly what she craved.

“Barátok—friends—there are eight going into the cave, and eight will come out. No man, or woman, to be left behind with the lost Magyer. But first, group photo. Helmets on. I call this group, Snow White and Seven Dwarfs,” Istvan said.

He looked at Laurel and winked.

***

It was a short hike from the storeroom to the mouth of the cave. The boys had charged ahead, but Laurel could hear bits of the backpacking anecdotes they shared as if to prove their authenticity as “travelers.”

“...should totally do Machu Picchu. It was epic...”

She smiled to herself. It was always the same.

“...nah, nah mate, you’ve gotta do Gallipoli...”

At some point, someone, somewhere, had determined that “tourist” was a dirty word, but really that’s what they all were. Tourists. They just refused to pay a lot for accommodation or private bathrooms.

“...done cage diving with White Pointers in Port Lincoln....”

They spent so much energy bragging about their inflated backpacking credentials that they missed the unique moments happening around them. Their experiences were reduced to a nothing more than clichés, postcards and countries they’d “done.”

Laurel wasn’t a tourist. She wasn’t even a backpacker. She was a wanderer—a collector of experiences and local legends. She had slept under the stars on five different continents. She had celebrated at weddings and mourned at funerals. She had sung and danced in the sunshine and under the moonlight. She had laughed, and she had cooked, and she had eaten. And most importantly, she had listened and remembered. She had collected the stories shared with her by the people she had met, and she had preserved those stories with all the care of a museum curator.

As they approached the mouth of the cave, she noted that there was nothing distinctive about it. A small sign was positioned on the side of the path, but there were no fences or barriers. The opening was high, and wide enough for them to enter side-by-side. She could see a good distance inside, before the space ahead began to merge into the darkness.

Small pebbles crunched beneath her boots and the air took on an earthy scent the deeper they went, distinct from the world outside. The first chamber was much larger than Laurel had expected. Light from the mouth was still filtering through cracks and crevices in the rock, and she felt her eyes adjusting to the space.

Istvan stopped the group, his face that of the serious tour guide.

“We move into tunnels soon, so we turn our headlamps on now. We take care. The ground is slippery. We do not race. We work together,” he said, pausing theatrically, before continuing with a grin. “Unless you see the lost Magyer. Then I run and you keep up.”

The group traversed the caves, moving from chamber to chamber. Stalactites hung dramatically from the ceiling like the roots of great mountains above the surface, fixing them to the earth, and stalagmites pushed up from the floor like fingers from the underworld, reaching up to grasp at freedom. The deeper they went into the caves, the cooler and damper the air was. The ground beneath their feet became slippery. Whilst Laurel had struggled to keep her footing at the mouth of the cave because of the loose rocks and gravel, she found that here the rock had been worn smooth by the elements, and there were no easy nooks for her feet and hands.

Istvan gathered the group in a small grotto off the main path. They were so deep in the cave that the sunlight had left them long ago.

“Find a place to sit. Lean against the wall. Then we turn off lights,” he said. “You have not experienced true darkness before. Stay calm and don’t stand.”

“Don’t worry Macca. I’ll hold ya hand if ya get ’fraid of the dark,” joked one of the boys.

One by one the lights flicked off.

Istvan was right. Laurel had never been in darkness like this. It was suffocating. It felt as though she was in a vacuum, like the last of the light had taken the remaining air with it, stopping time in the process. She felt the pressure rising in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused her attention on the hard stone underneath her and the cave wall at her back. The surfaces were cool and damp. She forced herself to breath and opened her eyes.

When Istvan spoke, it was as though his voice was all around her, reverberating off the stone surfaces, his body invisible in the dark.

“True darkness makes us feel like we can’t breathe. The edges of our world are gone, and the mind only sees a void. It can’t see the space you have, so the body and the spirit must assure the mind it has what it needs. To survive in caves, you need to be strong in body, in spirit, and in mind,” he said. “Darkness is good reminder that we are not so powerful. We are little speck. We need to learn where we fit in this world and the next. Oké, turn your lamps on. Don’t look straight at the light.”

As the lamps flicked back on, Laurel felt relief rush through her body. The grotto appeared bright and open after the oppressive darkness.

Istvan skillfully guided them through crevices so narrow that the rock pressed against Laurel’s chest and shoulders as she squeezed through, and tunnels so low that they needed to slide through on their bellies. They climbed and crawled and hiked. Despite the low temperature in the caves, she was damp with perspiration.

As the group paused to catch their breath, Laurel found herself next to Istvan.

“It really is spectacular down here. Did you grow up around the caves? Like the lost Magyer? Are your family all cave guides too?” she asked.

Istvan looked over his shoulder, assessing the integrity of her questioning. His face grew serious, his voice deep and hushed.

“The lost Magyer. He was Nagymama’s brother,” he replied, “and his name was Ferenc, which means ‘free.’ Nagymama—uh, my grandmother—said before the war, Ferenc was free, like his name. But he came home; he was not at peace. He was not free anymore. He was not Ferenc anymore.”

It was as though Istvan was talking to the cave itself rather than to her. She held her breath for fear that he would stop. She hoped her silence would encourage him.

“One night, Nagymama was woken by a noise. Outside the window she saw Ferenc walking down the pathway towards the caves. It was the second time she watched her brother walk away from her, not knowing if he would come home. This time he didn’t. She never saw him again. He was never found.”

Istvan turned and look her straight in the eye.

“When I tell his story, when I come to this place, it keeps his spirit alive. He wanders in the caves when I remember him. He wanders out in the world when I share his story with tourists. And when you get to lookout and you watch eclipse, he will see the city through your eyes because you are vándor—a wanderer—too.”

Laurel was mesmerized. Goosebumps ran the length of her arms.

Before she could respond, he jumped up. The moment had passed.

Three of the men looked at Istvan, their faces weary in the lamplight. One of them was rubbing a swollen ankle, his mouth drawn into a grimace.

“Mate, I don’t reckon I can go any farther.”

Istvan rested down on his haunches and gently examined the ankle, shining his headlamp on the injury. He glanced at his watch and then muttered to Rikard. Rikard glanced at the ankle and then nodded.

“Oké.”

“Rikard will take you back. Your friends help. The rest go on or we will miss eclipse. Oké?” Istvan said.

The men nodded. Laurel suspected they were grateful for the opportunity to retreat. She was sure that as this story made it into their repertoire of travel achievements, their role as self-sacrificing heroes—courageous in the face of certain death by sprained ankle—would be embellished for effect.

The four remaining adventurers pressed on through the tunnels inching towards the look out.

The bends became tighter as the tunnels folded back and forth. The crevices became narrower and deeper. Following Istvan’s lead, she breathed in and entered the gap between the stone with her right hand stretched before her. He gently grasped her hand from the other side and pulled her through the opening as the walls pressed against her hip bones and scraped against her cheek. She waited while he helped the boys through behind her.

“Getting a bit bloody tight there, aren’t they?” one of them stated. “Reckon I lost a nut coming through that one.”

“Yeah, look mate, I don’t like the idea of getting wedged in here. I’m more built than she is,” the other added, jerking his head in her direction.

Istvan hesitated and then put his hand on Laurel’s shoulder.

“There is not much farther to go. I think you can make it. I think you are strong enough to get to lookout,” he said.

“Wait a minute mate. You aren’t going to leave us here and go on with her, are you? We didn’t bloody pay to be abandoned underground. You can’t just leave us here!”

Istvan looked at the boys and then back at Laurel. The jovial tour guide was gone. His face was heavy with emotion and she felt the weight and the urgency of what he was asking of her.

“You have made it through the tightest of passages and there are no more intersections. It is important you see eclipse,” he said. “We wait here for your return.”

***

Laurel crawled through the low tunnel and pulled herself upright. She stumbled as her feet slid beneath her. The lamp threw light wildly against the walls and she struggled to remain vertical. Her knees ached and her palms were grazed. She put her hand to her forehead. She could feel the beginning of a small lump forming from when she had bumped her head earlier.

As she continued ahead, she noticed subtle changes to the surface beneath her boots. Now that she was alone, the only sounds were those she made herself. Her increasingly heavy breathing. The crunch of gravel and small rocks that bounced along the passage as she kicked her feet.

It was not much longer before she could see the exit. Fingers of light reached towards her, pulling her out, outside. She was surprised to find the tunnel had deposited her onto a ledge positioned above the city. She felt exposed. The area was bright and open after the confinement of the cave. She sat on the edge of the ledge and gazed out over Budapest.

She had arrived just in time.

Slowly, building by building, the city was blanketed in darkness as the moon eclipsed the mid-afternoon sun. Laurel remembered the darkness within the cave. She was the only one who had made it to the exit.

She was the only one who had shown she was strong in body, in spirit and in mind. She found calmness in this moment, sitting above the city, a small speck in a larger world.

As the sunlight slowly returned, illuminating each façade one at a time, she thought of Istvan working to keep the memory of his ancestor alive. Not only had she added this legend to her collection—she was now a part of this story, for she was the vessel through which Ferenc, the proud Magyer, had seen his city once again.