The Descent

Often,  before  the  others  woke  each  morning,  Ali  would  see  him  flickering  off  upon the black water,  not a riffle in his wake. At such  times  she  wishfully  imagined  this  was the real man within him. The  sight of him slipping monk-like into the wilderness  made her think of the simple force of prayer.

He  quit  using  paint  and  simply  blazed  the  wall  with  a  pair  of  chemical  candles  and went  on.  They  would  float  past  his  cold  blue  crosses  glowing  above  the  waters  like  a neon  JESUS  SAVES .  They  followed  him  through  the  apertures  and  rock  meatus.  He would  be  waiting  on  a  scarp  of  olivine  or  reefs  of  iron,  or  sitting  in  his  night-colored kayak,  holding on to an outcrop. Ali liked him at peace.

One  day  they  drifted  around  a  bend  and  heard  an  unearthly  sound,  part  whistle, part wind.  Ike  had  found  a  primitive  musical  instrument  left  by  some  hadal.  Made  of animal  bone,  it  had  three  holes  on  top  and  one  on  the  bottom.  They  beached,  and some of the flute players  took turns trying  to make it work for them.  One  got  a  trickle of Bach out, another a bit of Jethro Tull.

Then they  gave  it back to Ike,  and he played  what  the  flute  was  meant  for.  It  was  a hadal  song,  with  clots  of  melody  and  measured  rhythm.  The  alien  sound  spellbound them,  even  the  soldiers.  This  was  what  moved  the  hadals?  The  syncopation,  the cheeps and trills and sudden grunts, and  finally  a  muffled  shout:  it  was  an  earth  song, complete with animal and water  sounds and the rumble of quakes.

Ali  was  mesmerized,  but  appalled,  too.  More  than  the  tattoos  and  scars,  the  bone flute declared  Ike's  captivity.  It  was  not  just  his  proficiency  and  memory  of  the  song, but also his obvious love for it. This alien music spoke to the heart  of him.

When Ike  was done, they  clapped uncertainly.

Ike  looked at the bone flute as if he'd never  seen such a thing, then  tossed  it  into  the river.   When  the   others   had  left,   Ali  fished  along  the   bottom   and  retrieved   the instrument.

They  made a sport of sighting hadal footpaths. Where the caverns  narrowed and  the shore  vanished,   they   spied  foot-   and  handholds  traversing   above   the   waterline, linking  the  riverside  beaches.  They  found  strands  of  crude  chains  fixed  to  the  walls, rusting  away.  One  night,  failing  to  find  a  shore  to  camp  upon,  they  tied  to  the  chains and  slept  on  the  rafts.  Perhaps  hadal  boatmen  had  used  the  lengths  of  chain  to  haul upriver,  or  hadals  had  clambered  barefoot  across  the  links.  One  way  or  another,  the ancient thoroughfare had clearly been connected.

Where  the  river  widened,  sometimes  sprawling  hundreds  of  meters  across,  the water  seemed  to stop and they  sat  nearly  becalmed.  At  other  times  the  river  coursed powerfully.  You  could  not  call  rapids  what  they  occasionally  ran.  The  water  had  a density to it, and the cascades poured with Amazon-like torpor.  Portaging  was  seldom necessary.

At  the  end  of  each  'day,'  the  explorers  relaxed  by  small  'campfires'  consisting  of  a single  chemical  candle  laid  on  the  ground.  Five  or  six  people  would  gather  around  to share its colored light. They  would  sit  on  rocks  and  tell  stories  or  mull  over  their  own thoughts.

The  past became more explicit. They  dreamed more vividly.  Their  storytelling  grew

richer.  One  evening,  Ali  was  consumed  by  a  memory.  She  saw  three  ripe  lemons  on the wooden cutting board in her mother's kitchen, right down to the sunlight spangling off their pores. She heard her mother singing while they  rolled pie  dough  in  a  storm  of flour. Such images occurred to her more  frequently,  more  vividly.  Quigley,  the  team's psychiatrist,  thought  the  distracting  intensity  of  their  memories  might  be  a  form  of dementia or mild psychotic episode.

The  tunnels and caves  were  very  quiet. You  could  hear  the  hungry  flipping  of  pages as people read the paperback  novels circulating among them like  rumors.  The  tap-tap of  laptop  keyboards  went  on  for  hours  as  they  recorded  data  or  wrote  letters  for transmission at the next  cache. Gradually  the  candles  would  dim  and  the  camp  would sleep.