Chancho and the others followed the glittering, faintly luminescent hides through winding crawlspaces for half an hour until they stood inside a much larger subterranean room.

Without a sound the leader left to spread advance word of their arrival. Chancho’s jaw dropped as he gazed around the room. For a hundred feet the walls of the cave were lined with tiny, twinkling lights—nothing like open flames or oil lamps. His hosts paid no attention as he stepped toward the nearest ones. Upon touching the gently buzzing light, he suddenly realized it was electric.

The whole length of the room buzzed with electric lights, frustrating every potential shadow. The glorious effect drove away every ounce of foreboding he had felt about being underground. Any sense of claustrophobia disappeared. “Electric lights.” He whispered to himself. “Increíble.”

 Stalactites hung from the ceiling while helictites decorated the walls. One wall contained dozens of large crystals, glowing with luminescence. Chancho inched away from the entrance as the cave dwellers who had accompanied them began to spread out and find places to rest. Only one of them remained behind to guard the entrance. It appeared they were indeed guests.

Curiosity overwhelming his fear, Chancho discovered the narrow cavern to be more of a passage. Generally oblong in shape, over a hundred feet long and twenty feet across at its widest point, narrower necks broke the space up into a series of chambers sometimes connected with multiple windows and passageways.

As Chancho advanced along the main path it became clear others were in the cavern as well, many others. Almost every new chamber held either an individual or a family, each of them staring intently at him. Self-conscious, he looked down at himself. Bedraggled and dirty, he had gone from flood to cave, and his arm was dripping blood onto the rock floor.

Without noise an elderly woman approached him, giving him a slight start. She nodded, indicating his wound, and beckoned him to follow. He looked back the way he had come. Muddy sat near the enterance, his hulking presence a smudge against the glowing rock wall of the cave. No harm in seeking medical attention, I suppose.

Taking a wooden box from a shelf carved in the rock, the woman nodded for him to sit. She studied his arm, clucking softly to herself, before removing a small tin can from the box. She unscrewed the top to reveal a brush dripping with black ooze. Gently scraping off the excess, she scooted closer to Chancho.

He held out his arm. With toothless grin she snatched his arm out of mid air lightning quick and lavished the medicinal ooze on the wound. Chancho clutched his arm, gritting his teeth. He squeezed his eyes tight, the flesh of his arm boiling.

Then a subtle pinching nipped the edge of his wound. Opening his eyes, he saw a huge, black beetle gnawing at his arm. He barked while fumbling backwards off his perch. Before he could get to his feet another sound swelled within the cavern like owl’s wings beating the air. He stood, trying to identify the source, but it surrounded him, echoing off every wall.

Finally he looked back at the old woman. She was laughing, quaking almost silently, creating only a small guttural sound in the back of her throat. All around him, everyone was laughing—at him. Their laughter filled the space with a pulse, creating the sensation of being a baby in a womb. The sound, the light, the presence of so many others, it warmed him. Retaking his seat in front of the old woman, he did his best to mimic their laughter.

She steadied herself and took the beetle between her finger and thumb. She held it close to a sticky gauze which it seized hungrily in its pincers. After a few seconds the beetle, encrusted with strands of gauze, ate at the skin around the rough edges of his wound. As it did so the sticky strands wove in and out, back and forth, across the wound with the movement of the beetle’s pincers. Chancho gripped his elbow, holding his arm still. Amazingly, the blood that had been seeping from the wound clung to the clot forming between the black ooze and the strands of gauze.

The old lady put the beetle back in its cage and dropped it in the box. With a clean cloth dipped in water she dabbed the wound gently. The throbbing subsided. If he hadn’t been looking at the wound he wouldn’t have known it was there. “Increíble,” he whispered. Before he could think about the language barrier he asked the woman, “What was that?” The woman smiled. “Oh, sorry. I forgot—”

“Guano.”

Chancho flinched, “You speak English?”

The woman cocked her head, giving him another toothless grin. Her yellow eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, her cheeks irritated and red. “Guano.”

“Guano?” Chancho finally understood. He put his nose to the wound and sniffed. “Ay caramba. Guano.” He closed his eyes and started to laugh, this time assimilating the native form much more naturally. While he was laughing the same gravelly voice he had heard outside announced from behind him in adequate English, “The chief is ready to meet you.”

Nena, Muddy and Chancho were ushered through a series of narrow passageways and small rooms until they entered a luxurious, yawning cavern. It buzzed with the gentle hum of electric lights, the walls smooth and curving like the dried bones of a giant. Several surfaces boasted ornate paintings and tapestries varying from story panels to impressionistic art.

The room so overwhelmed them it took several moments to realize a man sat on the far end among a heap of cushions. Their escort indicated they were to move forward. Nena found it natural to take the lead, still the voice of negotiation for her people. But this time she negotiated with her people as well, and had no idea of what to negotiate.

She played through several possibilities in her mind. What sort of recompense would the cave dwellers want now that the three of them knew of their existence? Would it be as easy as swearing to remain silent, or would there be blood? And even more basic, who where these people? And what were they doing here?

Finally the chief spoke, in English. “Welcome. I hope you have not been treated too roughly. We are not accustomed to guests.” He was a short man, elderly, but not infirm, with white, wispy hair. His nose hooked so sharply it jutted towards the ground. But his eyes pierced them and his gaze was strengthened by his jaw. He invited them to join him on the cushions. 

As they sat Nena responded. “We were treated no worse than I would have expected from proud Kickapoo warriors.” She crafted her words so as to compliment her host while portraying personal strength.

The chief nodded. “We have not maintained much of a warrior tradition, but we do what we must to survive.”

He was self-deprecating, surprising Nena. Maybe these where not to be negotiations after all. “It looks to me you are doing much more than merely surviving. These caves are truly remarkable.”

“Thank you, we are proud of them. At first everything we did was from necessity. But that was over ninety years ago. During my lifetime we have shifted our focus to discovery. It has made life underground,” he hesitated, “more pleasant.”

Nena did not know where to go next with the conversation, but before she could continue Chancho interrupted.

“It’s simply amazing. How do you generate electricity for your lights?” He waved his arms about energetically as he spoke.

The chief shook briefly with silent laughter. “Yes, we’ve only had those for the last several years. I am proud to say they are a product of my granddaughter, Crystal.She was the one who first thought of gathering the cave winds to turn wheels producing electricity. We have three small generators that create power for our lights.”

“Wonderful!” Chancho clapped. “Like windmills for pumping water. It’s so simple.”

The chief smiled, “Sometimes it’s the simplest solutions that are the hardest to see.”

Chancho nodded.

Nena asserted herself back into the conversation. “So you have been living here secretly all these years?” She emphasized the word ‘secretly.’

“Yes,” the chief closed his eyes before continuing, “we have remained hidden.” He opened them. “You are from Mexico, correct?”

“Yes. My people still live there. I moved north,” she indicated Muddy with a point of her chin, “for my man.”

The chief nodded. “Many of us were also from Mexico. We were part of the Kickapoo who left to return to Indian territory, but we did not make it. It was reported that Indian territory was shrinking as its inhabitants grew. Without a home ahead of us or behind us we decided to go no further.”

Nena could no longer contain her excitement, “Then you are indeed relatives.”

The chief continued, “At first we used the caves only for shelter at night and for temporary defense against our enemies. Then it became plain that we would never be safe in a world no longer our own. Not just our land had been taken, but our way of life. Finally, the simple answer came to light. We discovered the vastness of the caves out of curiosity. We carved homes from them out of necessity, until the space within the earth finally became a place to ourselves.”

Chancho asked, “How many of you are there?”

“That, I will not say, but there are many.” The chief looked from person to person, gripping them with his piercing eyes. “The only question remains, will you be numbered with them.”

Nena glanced at the others, unsure how to answer.

“As you have observed, our existence here depends on secrecy. A secrecy we have maintained with diligence for over three generations. It would not do for us to betray those efforts with neglect.”

Nena tensed. It had been a negotiation all along, only she had been lulled asleep during the process. Her mind flashed in an effort to detect what ground she had lost. What strength could she still bring to bear? Would they be required to stay?

The chief continued, “It has also become apparent we cannot remain detached from the world above us.” His eyes flashed to each of them in turn. “We need friends. Allies. Family,” he nodded more to himself than anyone else, “who live on the surface. We need a connection to the outside world we can trust will not betray our secret. I am asking you to be that connection.”

Nena was shocked. She looked at Muddy, who raised his eyebrows. She turned toward the chief. “But you don’t—”

“Not one of you has looked selfishly or acted selfishly toward each other or your surroundings since you have entered my sight. We live closely with each other. It has become impossible to hide our intentions. Yours are as clear to me as my own. You,” he nodded toward Nena, “are upset for letting down your guard. Your only intent upon entering was to negotiate the safety of your people. You,” he indicated Muddy, “are unable to disguise your love and passion for your woman, and your concern about troubles that await you on the surface. And you,” he nodded toward Chancho, “you have made my decision easy. You have shown no interest in your own safety, only the pure joy of discovery.”

“I know,” he continued, “your time is short with us, and so I make my invitation bluntly. I know you will not threaten our safety.” He looked Nena in the eyes. “Neither will we threaten yours.” He looked at Chancho, “But will you join our people?”

Nena looked into Muddy’s eyes. He trusted her completely. She shifted her gaze to Chancho, whose eyes swam with tears he could not hold back. She knew he felt an outcast, without family. To an extent they all did. But for Chancho, the chief’s offer represented the fulfillment of one of his deepest dreams—to be part of a people.

Chancho gripped both Nena and Muddy by their arms and smiled at them before looking longingly into the chief’s deep gaze. “Si, señor. We will.”