Gehret was measuring the space separating them, an estimation he pegged at three feet, maybe less. He girded his muscles and raised his right arm high overhead, about to implement a wild design intended to extricate himself from his smothering grave.
Rikki saw the reckless set of the mercenary’s features, he saw his adversary’s uplifted arm, and he guessed what was coming next. The mercenary was going to try and grab hold of him and use his body to stay afloat!
Sergeant Gehret took a deep breath, then rose as far as he could and lunged at the Warrior. And missed. The man in black flipped onto his back as Gehret’s hand descended, and the mercenary, unable to check his swing, was horrified as his arm sank into the quicksand up to his elbow.
He attempted to jerk his arm free; instead, the sandy substance enclosed him to his chin.
The Warrior turned his head to the right.
Gehret gazed into the martial artist’s eyes, his own conveying his overwhelming desperation. “I don’t want to die,” he said plaintively.
“We are all called to the higher mansions eventually,” Rikki said softly.
The quicksand was rising toward Gehret’s lower lip. He mustered a halfhearted grin. “I never thought it would be like this, you know?”
Rikki did not respond.
Inexorably, the quicksand reached Gehret’s lower lip and he sputtered.
For the last time his eyes locked on the man in black. “Life is so damn unfair!” he stated, and went under.
Rikki observed the quicksand swirl and roil as the mercenary fought his fate to the end. A grimy hand poked from the ooze, its fingers stiffening, clawing at the sky as if the very air could somehow provide support. For a moment the hand waved back and forth, and then the fingers went limp and the arm was claimed by the primeval muck.
Somewhere, a bird was greeting the new day with a cheery song.
Somewhere, crickets were chirping.
Somewhere, a frog croaked.
Flat on his back on the surface of the quicksand pool, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi suddenly felt very, very alone. He gazed at the steadily brightening sky, at the arrival of the new day, and he wondered if he would be alive to see the sun set. Such a morbid thought disturbed him. A Warrior must maintain a positive attitude; anything less could result in the Warrior’s premature demise.
A beautiful yellow and black butterfly flitted over the pool, passing within several inches of the Warrior’s nose.
Rikki admired the insect’s delicate structure and the beating of its frail wings. Life could be so sublimely glorious, so full of promise and marvels.
He was not yet ready to interrupt his quest for perfection by passing to the other side. He would not forsake life while a breath remained.
But how was he to escape the quicksand?
Rikki’s feet were nearer to the drop-off than his head. He tilted his chin, tucking it against his chest, and peered between the black shoes especially constructed for him by the Family Weavers at the earthen slope. His only hope lay in reaching that four-foot-high drop-off.
A bee buzzed past his head.
What were his options? Simply surging to his knees and diving was out of the question; the quicksand would not bear his weight and his doom would be sealed. Wriggling toward it was an attractive idea, but he ran the risk of working his body lower into the mire before he reached the drop-off and becoming inextricably trapped. What was left? Swimming?
Ridiculous.
There was movement to his right.
Rikki glanced in that direction and spotted a small green snake moving across the quicksand to the far side. The snake’s negligible weight was insufficient to cause it to sink, and lacking appendages or limbs to be sucked under the surface, it traversed the pool with indifferent ease.
What was the lesson learned?
Rikki stared at the drop-off again, pondering the significance of the snake’s safe passage. As he’d learned from his study of Zen, enlightenment was a state of being attained by blending the soul with the cosmos. And life’s lessons were learned by a scrupulous attention to details; even the smallest, most inconsequential happening could be fraught with import.
So what had the snake taught him?
Stay flat. Keep the head up. Keep the arms close to the body and the legs tucked tight together. Distribute the weight as evenly as possible. And don’t stop. Not for a second.
What about technique?
Should he wiggle toward the drop-off or roll? Rolling would bury his shoulders in the quicksand. Therefore, wiggling was the only alternative.
He hunched his shoulders, tightened his superbly muscled abdomen, and tentatively slid his legs toward the drop-off. The soles of his shoes crept less than an inch closer. He relaxed, breathing rejularly. At this rate, hours would be encompassed in the effort.
A red-shouldered hawk winged above the landscape.
Rikki recalled a comment Geronimo had once made: “My ancestors saw signs in everything. They viewed the sighting of a hawk as a particularly good omen.” He hoped Geronimo was right.
The drop-off beckoned.
With the focused determination of a skilled martial artist, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi applied himself to the task at hand. The technique was always the same: a barely perceptible compacting of his slim shoulders, then a bunching of his stomach, followed by stretching his legs as far as they would go. Over and over and over he repeated the procedure. Sweat coated the pores of his face and neck.
The minutes lengthened into hours.
Three times he paused to rest and gather his strength. His abdomen became sore, and his shoulder muscles periodically cramped. He resisted the discomfort, concentrating on the drop-off.
Hour succeeded hour.
The sun angled toward the meridian.
Rikki narrowed the gap to ten inches. He halted, taking a brief break.
Muffled footsteps sounded from the north, the tread of someone advancing stealthily through the undergrowth.
Alarmed, the Warrior craned his head. The footsteps were drawing ever closer to the pool. If the mercenaries found him stuck in the quicksand, rendered powerless, they wouldn’t hesitate to finish him off.
He had to hurry.
Rikki renewed his effort, moving twice the speed as before. The ache in his stomach became increasingly severe. Earlier he’d aligned the katana and the M-16 along his left leg. The strain of insuring they were held horizontal and not allowed to dip into the quicksand was taking an acute toll on his left arm.
Nine inches separated him from the drop-off.
Eight inches.
Seven.
Rikki scanned the underbrush bordering the quicksand to the north.
The footsteps slowed, then seemed to cease.
So close, and yet so far!
Rikki stared at the drop-off, calculating. If he stayed where he was, he risked being slaughtered. He was near enough now to justify a gamble, a move that would either succeed in liberating him from the muck or result in a decidedly distasteful outcome. The quicksand gave the impression of being firmer near the bank, augmenting his chances.
A twig snapped in the woods to the west. Had the mercenaries changed direction?
Further delay could prove fatal.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi launched himself toward the dropoff, elevating his body from the waist up and lunging, his arms at full extension. His fingers dug into the yielding soil, but even as they did, his legs were sucked under, the sandy ooze enveloping him to the waist. He struggled to get a firm grip on the drop-off, but his hands were slipping through the dirt.
The quicksand was pulling him down.
Rikki employed all of his strength, his fingers buried in the earth to the knuckles.
With the irresistible force of gravity on its side, the quicksand was winning the elemental battle. The sand rose to the Warrior’s arms.