The Descent

Ali's  map  grew  more  dreamlike.  In  lieu  of  a  definite  east-west  orientation,  she resorted  to what artists  call  a  vanishing  point.  That  way,  all  the  features  on  her  chart had  the  same  reference  point,  even  if  it  was  arbitrary.  Not  that  they  were  lost,  in general. In very  broad terms,  they  knew exactly  where  they  were,  a  mile  beneath  the ocean  floor,   moving   west   by   southwest   between   the   Clipperton   and   Galápagos fracture  zones.  On  maps  showing  seafloor  topography,  the  region  above  was  a  blank plain.

On foot they  had averaged  less than ten miles a  day.  In  their  first  two  weeks  on  the river,  they  floated  ten  times  that,  almost  1,300   miles.  At   this  rate,   if  the   river continued, they  would reach the underbelly of Asia within three  months.

The  dark water  was not quite dark; it had a faint pastel phosphorescence. If they  kept their  lights  off,  the  river  would  surface  from  the  blackness  as  a  phantom  serpent, vaguely  emerald. One of the  geochemists  opened  his  pants  and  demonstrated  how,  in drinking the water,  they  now pissed streams  of faint light.

Aided  by  the  river's  subtle  luminescence,  the  patient  ones  like  Ali  were  able  to  see perfectly  well  in  the  surface  equivalent  of  near-night.  Light  that  had  once  seemed necessary  now  hurt  her  eyes.  Even  so,  Walker  insisted  on  strong  lights  for  guarding their flanks, which tended to disrupt the scientists' experiments  and observations.

The  scientists  took  to  floating  their   rafts   as  far   as  possible  from  the   soldiers' spotlights.   No   one   thought    twice    about    their    growing    segregation    from    the mercenaries until the evening of their camp of the mandalas.

It  had  been  a  short  day,  eighteen  easy  hours  with  few  features  to  remark  on.  The small armada of rafts  rounded a bend, and a spotlight picked  out  a  pale,  lone  figure  on a beach in the distance. It  could only be  Ike  at  a  campsite  he  had  found  for  them,  and yet  he didn't answer their calls. As they  drew  closer, they  saw he was sitting facing the rock wall in a classic lotus position. He was on a shelf above  the obvious camp.

'What's this crap?' groused Shoat. 'Hey, Buddha. Permission to land.'

They  came on shore like an invasion party,  swarming from their rafts  onto  dry  land, securing their hold. Ike  was forgotten  as  people  ran  about  claiming  flat  spots  for  their sleeping places, or helped unload the rafts. Only after  the  initial  flurry  did  they  return their attention to him.

Ali joined the growing crowd of onlookers. Ike's  back was to them. He was naked.  He hadn't moved.

'Ike?'  Ali said. 'Are you okay?'

His  rib  cage  rose  and  fell  so  faintly,  Ali  could  barely  detect  the  movement.  The fingers of one hand touched the floor. He was much  thinner  than  Ali  had  imagined.  He had  the  collarbones  of  a  mendicant,  not  a  warrior,  but  his  nakedness  was  not  the source of their awe.

He  had  once  been  tormented:   whipped,  carved,   even   shot.  Long,  thin  lines  of surgical scar tissue bracketed  his upper  spine  where  doctors  had  removed  his  famous vertebral  ring. This whole canvas of pain had been  decorated  –  vandalized  –  with  ink.

In their waving lights, the  geometric  patterns  and  animal  images  and  glyphs  and  text were  animated on his flesh.

'For pity's sake.' A woman grimaced.

His  wickerwork  of  ribs  and  embellished  skin  and  scars  looked  like  history  itself, terrible  events  laid  one  over  another.  Ali  could  not  get  the  thought  out  of  her  head: devils had handled him.

'How long's he been sitting like this?' someone asked. 'What's he doing?'

The  crowd  was  subdued.  There  was  something  immensely  powerful   about   this outcast.  He  had  suffered  enclosure  and  poverty  and  deprivation  in  ways  they  could not  fathom.  And  yet  that  spine  was   as  straight   as  a  reed,   that   mind  intent   on transcending it all. Clearly he was at prayer.

Now they  saw that the wall  he  was  facing  contained  rows  of  circles  painted  onto  the rock.  Their  lights  bleached  the  circles  faint  and  colorless.  'Hadal  stuff,'  a  soldier  said dismissively.

Ali  went   closer.   The   circles   were   filled   with   lightly   drawn   lines   and   scrawls, mandalas of some kind. She suspected that in darkness  they  would glow.  But  trying  to glean information from them with so many lights on was useless.

'Crockett,'  snapped  Walker,  'get  control  of  yourself.'  Ike's  strangeness  was  starting to frighten people, and Ali suspected the colonel was intimidated by  the extent  of  Ike's mute suffering, as if it detracted  further  from his own authority.

When Ike  did not move, he said, 'Cover that man.'