The Descent

'Not   hadals,'    said    Gitner,    whose    specialty    was    petrology,    the    history    and classification  of  rocks.  He  had  lost  a  brother  in  the  national  guard  several  years  ago, and hated the hadals. 'They're  vermin who have  burrowed into  the  earth.  That's  their nature, like snakes or insects.'

One of the volcano people spoke. With her shaved  head and long  thighs,  Molly  was  a figure  of  awe  to  the  porters  and  mercenaries.  'There  might  be  another  explanation here,' she said. 'Look at this.' They  gathered  beneath a broad section of  ceiling  she  had been studying.

'Okay,' Gitner said, 'a bunch of stick figures and boobie dolls. So what?'

At  first  glance,  that  did  seem  to  be  the  extent  of  it.  Wielding  spears  and  bows, warriors  mounted  wild  attacks  on  one  another.  Some  had  trunks  and  heads  made  of twin  triangles.  Others  were  just  lines.  Crowded  into  one  corner  stood  several  dozen Venuses loaded with vast  breasts  and obese buttocks.

'These  look like prisoners.' Molly pointed at a file of stick figures roped together.

Ali  pointed  at  a  figure  with  one  hand  on  the  chest  of  another.  'Is  that  a  shaman healing people?'

'Human  sacrifice,'  muttered  Molly.  'Look  at  his  other  hand.'  The  figure  was  holding something  red  in  one  outstretched  hand.  His  hand  was  resting  not  on  top  of  the figure's chest, but inside it. He was displaying a heart.

That  evening,  Ali  transferred  some  of  her  sketches  of  the  cave  art  onto  her  day map. She had conceived the maps as a private  journal. But, once discovered,  her  maps

quickly became expedition property,  a reference  point for them all.

From her work on digs near Haifa and in Iceland, Ali came armed with the  trappings of  the  trade.  She  had  schooled  herself  in  grids  and  contours  and  scale,  and  went nowhere without her leather tube for rolls  of  paper.  She  could  wield  a  protractor  with command,  cobble  together   a  legend  from  scratch.   They   were   less   maps   than  a timetable  with  places,  a  chronography.  Down  here,  far  beneath  the  reach  of  the  GPS satellite,  longitude  and  latitude  and  direction  were  impossible  to  determine.  Their compasses  were  rendered  useless  by  electromagnetic  corruption.  And  so  she  made the  days  of  the  month  her  true  north.  They  were  entering  territory  without  human names, encountering locations that no one knew existed.  As they  advanced,  she  began to describe the indescribable and to name the unnamed.

By  day  she  kept  notes.  In  the  evening,  while  the  camp  settled,  Ali  would  open  her leather  tube  of  paper  and  lay  out  her  pens  and  watercolors.  She  made  two  types  of maps,  one  an  overview,   or  blueprint,   of  hell,  which  corresponded   to  the   Helios computer  projection  of  their  route.  It  had  dates  with  the  corresponding  altitudes  and approximate locations beneath various features  on the surface or the ocean floor.

But it was her day  maps, the second type,  that were  her pride. These  were  charts  of each  day's  particular  progress.  The  expedition's  photographs  would  be  developed  on the surface someday, but for now her small watercolors and line  drawings  and  written marginalia  were  their  memory.  She  drew  and  painted  things  that  attracted  her  eye, like  the  cave  art,  or  the  green  calcite  lily  pads  veined  with  cherry-red  minerals  that floated  in  pools  of   still   water,   or   the   cave   pearls   rolled   together   like   nests   of hummingbird eggs. She tried to convey  how it  was  like  traveling  through  the  inside  of a living body at times, the joints and folds of the earth, the liver-smooth  flowstone,  the helictites  threading  upward  like  synapses  in  search  of  a  connection.  She  found  it beautiful. Surely  God would not have  invented such a place as His spiritual gulag.

Even   the   mercenaries   and  porters   liked  to  look  at   her   maps.  People   enjoyed watching  their  voyage  come  alive  beneath  her  pen  and  brush.  Her  maps  comforted them. They  saw themselves  in the minutiae.  Looking  at  her  work,  they  felt  a  sense  of control over  this unexplored world.

On  June  22,  her  day  map  included  a  major  piece  of  excitement.   '0955,   4,506

fathoms,' it read. 'Radio signals.'