The Descent

Stripped of clan, with his woman dead, he  was  rootless  now  and  the  world  was  vast. There  were  so  many  new  regions  and  species  to  investigate,  so  many  destinations calling  to  him.  He  could  have  forsaken  the  hadal  tribes  and  gone  deeper  into  the planet, or even  returned  to the surface. But he had chosen his path a long time ago. After  many hours the ascetic tired. It  became time to rest.

He left the trail racing. One hand touched the rock wall. With  an  intelligence  all  their own,  his  fingertips  found  random  purchase.  Part  of  his  brain  changed  direction  and told the hand to pull, and his feet  went with him. He could  have  been  running  still,  but suddenly  he  was  climbing  at  a  gallop.  He  scuttled  diagonally  up  the  arched  sides  to  a cavity  near mid-ceiling, alongside the river.

He smelled the cavity  to know what else had burrowed here, and when.  Satisfied,  he drew himself into the stone bubble. He  wedged  his  limbs  tight,  socketed  his  spine  just so,  and  said  in  full  his  night  prayer,  part  supplication,  part  superstition.  Some  of  the words  were  in  a  language  that  parents  and  their  parents  and  their   parents   had spoken.  Words  that  Kora  had  taught  their  daughter.  Hallowed  be  Thy  name,  he thought.

The  paladin  did  not  close  his  eyes.  But  all  the  while  his  heart  was  slowing.  His breathing  almost  stopped.  He  grew  still.  My  soul  to  keep .  The  river  flowed  beneath him. He went to sleep.

Voices woke him, ricocheting off the river's  skin. Human.

The  recognition  came  slowly.  In  recent  years  he  had  purposely  tried  to  forget  this sound. Even in the mouths of quiet  ones,  it  had  a  jarring  discord.  Bone-breaking  in  its aggression.  Barging  everywhere,  like  sunlight  itself.  It  was  no  wonder  that   more powerful  animals  ran  from  them.  It  shamed  him  that  he  had  once  been  part  of  their race, even  if it had been over  a half-century  ago.

Here, speech was different. To articulate was just that, to join things together.  Every precious  space  –  every  tube,  every  burrow,  every  gap  and  hollow  –  relied  on  its connection to another space. Life in a maze depended upon linkage.

Listen  to  humans,  and  their  very  speech  denied  the  construct.  Space  addled  them. With nothing above  their  heads,  no  stone  to  cap  the  world,  their  thoughts  went  flying off  into  a  void  more   terrible   than   any   chasm.   No   wonder   they   were   invading willy-nilly. Man had lost his mind to heaven.

Gradually  he  filled  his  lungs,  but  the  water  smell  was  too  powerful.  No  chance  of scent. That  left him echoes to reckon with. He could have  left long before they  arrived. He waited.

They  arrived  in  boats.  No  point  guards,  no  discipline,  no  caution,  no  protection  for their  women.  Their  lights  were  a  river  where   a  trickle   would  have   sufficed.  He squinted through a tiny hole between  his fingers, insulted by  their extravagance.

They  poured  beneath  his  cavity  without  a  single  glance  up.  Not  one  of  them!  They were  so  sure  of  themselves.  He  lay  still  in  the  ceiling  in  plain  view,  a  coil  of  limbs, contemptuous of their self-assurance.

Their  rafts  strung  through  the  tunnel  in  a  long,  random  mass.  He  quit  counting heads to focus instead on their weak  and strays.

There  was little to recommend them. They  were  slow, with dulled senses, and  out  of synch.  Each  conducted  himself  with  little  reference  to  the  group.  Over  the  next  hour he  watched  different  individuals  imperil  the  group's  safety  by  brushing  the  walls  or casting  aside  bits  of  uneaten   food.  It   was   more   than  sign  they   were   leaving   to predators.  They  were  leaving  the  taste  of  themselves.  Every  time  one  rambled  his hand  along  the  rock,  he  painted  human  grease  on  the  wall.  Their  piss  gave  off  a pungent signature. Short of opening their  veins  and  lying  down,  they  could  have  done nothing more to invite their own slaughter.

The  ones  with  tiny  hurts  did  nothing  to  disguise  their  pain.  They  advertised  their vulnerabilities,  offered  themselves  as  the  easiest  quarry.  Their  heads  were  too  big, and  their  joints  were  askew  at  the  hips  and  knees.  He  couldn't  believe  that  he  had been  born  like  them.  One  changed  little  bandages  on  her  feet  and  threw  the  old bandages into the water,  where  they  washed to shore. He could  smell  her  details  from up here.

There  were  many  women  among  them.  That  was  the  unbelievable  part.  Chattering and  oblivious.  Unguarded.  Ripe  women.  In  such  a  fashion,  Kora  had  come  to  him  in the darkness, long ago.