The Descent

After  they  had  passed  deeper  with  the  river's  current,  he  waited  an  hour  for  his eyes  to  recover  from  their  lights.  Muscle  by  muscle,  he  released  himself  from  the cavity.  He  hung  by  one  arm  from  its  slight  lip,  listening  not  so  much  for  stragglers  as for other predators, for there  would  surely  be  those.  Content,  he  let  go  and  landed  on the trail.

In darkness  he  moved  among  their  refuse,  sampling  it.  He  licked  the  foil  of  a  candy wrapper, sniffed the  rock  where  they  had  rubbed  against  it.  He  nosed  at  the  female's bandages, then took them into his mouth. This was the taste  of humans. He chewed. He  trailed  them  again,  running  along  old  paths  worn  into  the  shore  stone,  reaching them as they  camped. He watched.

Many  of  them  talked  or  sang  to  themselves,  and  it  was  like  hearing  the  inside  of their minds. Sometimes his Kora had sung like that, especially to their daughter. Repeatedly,  individuals  would  wander  from  camp  and  place  themselves  within  his reach. He  sometimes  wondered  if  they  had  sensed  his  presence  and  were  attempting to sacrifice themselves  to him. One night he stole through their camp  while  they  slept. Their bodies glowed in the darkness. A  lone  female  started  as  he  slid  past,  and  stared directly at him. His visage  seemed  horrifying  to  her.  He  backed  away  and  she  lost  his image and sank back into sleep. He was nothing more than a fleeting nightmare.

It  was  difficult  to  keep  from  harvesting  one.  But  the  time  wasn't  right,  and  there was  no  sense  in  frightening  them  at  this  early  stage.  They  were  heading  deeper  into the sanctuary  all on their own, and he didn't know  their  rationale  for  coming  here  yet.

And so he ate beetles, careful to mash them with his tongue lest they  crunch.

Day by  day, the river  became their fever.

They  made  a  flotilla  of  twenty-two  rafts  roped  together,  some  lashed  side  by  side, others  trailing  singly  far  behind,  for  the  sake  of  solitude  or  mental  health  or  science experiments  or  clandestine  lovemaking.  The  large  pontoon  boats   had  a  ten-man capacity, including 1,500  pounds  of  cargo.  The  smaller  boats  they  used  as  dinghies  to transport  passengers  from  one  polyurethane  island  to  another  during  the  day,  or  for floating hospital beds when  people  got  sick,  or  for  ranger  duty,  rigged  with  a  machine gun and one of the battery-powered  motors. Ike  was given the only sea kayak.

There  was not supposed to be weather  down  here.  There  could  be  no  wind,  no  rain, no  seasons:  scientifically  unfeasible.  The  subplanet  was  hermetically  sealed,  a  near vacuum,   they'd   been   told,   its   thermostat   locked   at   84   degrees   Fahrenheit,   its atmosphere motionless.

No  thousand-foot  waterfalls.  No  dinosaurs,  for  Christ-sake.  Most  of  all,  there  was not supposed to be light.

But  there  was  all  of  that.  They  passed  a  glacier  calving  small  blue  icebergs  into  the river.  The  ceilings  sometimes  rained  with  monsoon  weight.  One  of  the  mercenaries was bitten by  a plate-armored  fish unchanged since the age of trilobites.

With increasing frequency,  they  entered  caverns  illuminated by  a type  of  lichen  that ate  rock.  In  its  reproductive  stage,  apparently,  the  lichen  extended  a  fleshy  stalk,  or ascocarp,  with  a  positive  and  negative  electrical  charge.  The  result  was  light,  which attracted  flatworms  by  the  millions.  These  were  eaten,  in  turn,  by  mollusks  that traveled  on to new, unlit regions. The  mollusks excreted  lichen spores from  their  guts. The   spores   matured   to  eat   the   new   rock.   Light   spread   by   inches   through   the darkness.

Ali  loved  it.  What  excited  the  botanists  was  not  just  the  production  of  light  energy, but  the  decomposition  of  rock,  a  lichen  by-product.  Decomposed  rock  was  soil,  which meant vegetation, and animals. The  land of the dead was very  much alive.

The  geologists  were  elated.  The  expedition  was  about  to  leave  the  Nazca  Plate  and traverse  beneath  the  East  Pacific  Rise.  Here  the  Pacific  Plate  was  just  being  born  as freshly  extruded  rock,  which  steadily  migrated  west  with  a  conveyor-belt  motion.  It would  take  180  million  years  for  the  rock  to  reach  the  Asian  margin,  there  to  be devoured  –  subducted  –  back  into  the  earth's  mantle.  They  were  going  to  see  the entire Pacific plate geology, from birth to death.

In  the  third  week  of  August,  they  passed  through  the  rise  between  the  roots  of  a nameless seamount,  an  ocean-floor  volcano.  The  seamount  itself  sat  a  mile  overhead, serviced  by  these  ganglia  reaching  deep  into  the  mantle  for  supplies  of  live  magma. The  riverine  walls became hot.