The Descent

If not for Kora, he would  have  talked  himself  out  of  further  descent.  In  a  sense,  she became  a  scapegoat  for  his  courage.  He  wanted  to  turn  around  and  flee.  The  same foreboding that had paralyzed  him in the other  tunnel  flared  up  again.  His  very  bones seemed  ready  to  lock  in  rebellion,  limb  by  limb,  joint  by  joint.  He  forced  himself deeper.

At last he  reached  a  plunging  shaft  and  came  to  a  halt.  Like  an  invisible  waterfall,  a column of freezing air streamed  past from reaches too  high  for  his  flashlight  beam.  He held his hand out, and the cold current  poured through his fingers.

At the very  edge of the precipice,  Ike  looked  down  around  his  feet  and  found  one  of his six-inch chemical candles. The  green glow was so faint he had almost missed it.

He  lifted  the  plastic  tube  by  one  end  and  turned  off  his  headlamp,  trying  to  judge how  long  ago  they  had  activated  the  mixture.  More  than  three  hours,  less  than  six. Time   was   racing   out   of   his   control.   On   the   off-chance,   he   sniffed   the   plastic. Impossibly, it seemed  to hold a trace  of her coconut scent.

'Kora!' he bellowed into the tube of air.

Where  outcrops  disturbed  the  flow  of  wind,  a  tiny  symphony  of  whistles  and  sirens and bird cries answered  back, a music of stone. Ike  stuffed the candle into one pocket. The  air  smelled  fresh,  like  the  outside  of  a  mountain.  Eke  filled  his  lungs  with  it.  A rush  of  instincts  collided  in  what  could  only  be  called  heartache.  In  that  instant,  he wanted what he had never  really  missed. He wanted the sun.

He  searched  the  sides  of  the  shaft  with  his  light  –  up  and  down  –  for  signs  that  his group had gone  this  way.  Here  and  there  he  spotted  a  possible  handhold  or  a  shelf  to rest  upon, though no one –  not  even  Ike  in  his  prime  –  could  have  climbed  down  into the shaft and survived.

The  shaft's  difficulties  exceeded  even  his  group's  talent  for  blind  faith.  They  must have  turned around and gone some other way.  Ike  started  out.

A hundred meters  farther  back, he found their detour.

He had walked right past the opening on  his  way  down.  On  the  return,  the  hole  was practically blatant – especially the green glow ebbing from its canted throat. He had to take  his pack off in order to get through the small  aperture.  Just  inside  lay  the  second of his chemical candles.

By comparing the two candles –  this  one  was  much  brighter  –  Ike  fixed  the  group's chronology. Here indeed  was  their  deviation.  He  tried  to  imagine  which  pioneer  spirit had  piloted  the  group  into  this  side  tunnel,  and  knew  it  could  only  have  been  one person.

'Kora,'  he  whispered.  She  would  not  have  left  Owen  for  dead  any  more  than  he.  It was she who would be insisting on probing deeper  and deeper  into the tunnel system. The  detour led to others. Ike  followed the side tunnel to one fork, then another, then another.  The  unfolding  network  horrified  him.  Kora  had  unwittingly  led  them  –  him, too – deep into an underground maze.

'Wait!' he shouted.

At  first  the  group  had  taken  the  time  to  mark  their  choices.  Some  of  the  branches were  marked  with a simple arrow arranged with rocks. A few showed the right way  or the  left  way  with  a  big  X  scratched  on  the  wall.  But  soon  the  marks  ended.  No  doubt emboldened  by  their  progress,  the  group  had  quit  blazing  its  path.  Ike  had  few  clues other than a black scuff mark  or a fresh patch of rock where  someone  had  pulled  loose a handhold.

Second-guessing  their  choices  devoured  the  time.  Ike  checked  his  watch.  Well  past midnight. He'd been hunting Kora and the  lost  pilgrims  for  over  nine  hours  now.  That meant they  were  desperately  lost.

His  head  hurt.  He  was  tired.  The  adrenaline  was  long  gone.  The  air  no  longer  had the  smell  of  summits  or  jetstream.  This  was  an  interior  scent,  the   inside  of  the mountain's lungs, the smell of darkness.  He  made  himself  chew  and  swallow  a  protein bar. Ike  wasn't sure he could find his way  out again.

Yet  he  kept  his  mountaineer's  presence  of  mind.  Thousands  of  physical   details clamored  for  his  attention.  Some  he  absorbed,  most  he  simply  passed  between.  The trick was to see simply.

He came upon a glory hole, a huge, unlikely void within the mountain. His light beam withered in the depths and towering height of it.

Even  worn  down,  he  was  awed.  Great  columns  of  buttery  limestone  dangled  from the  arched  ceiling.  A  huge  Om  had  been  carved  into  one  wall.  And  dozens,  maybe hundreds,  of  suits  of  ancient  Mongolian  armor  hung  from  rawhide  thongs  knotted  to knobs and outcrops. It  looked like an entire army  of ghosts. A vanquished army.