The Descent

One of his men went forward and started  to  drape  Ike's  clothing  over  his  shoulders.

'Colonel,' the soldier said, 'I think he might be dead. Come feel how cold he is.'

Over  the  next  few  minutes  the  physicians  established  that  Ike  had  slowed  his metabolism  to  a  near  standstill.  His  pulse  registered  less  than  twenty   beats,   his breathing less than three  cycles per minute. 'I've  heard  of  monks  doing  this,'  someone said. 'It's some kind of meditation technique.'

The  group drifted off to eat and sleep.  Later  that  night,  Ali  went  to  check  on  him.  It was  just  a  courtesy,  she  told  herself.  She  would  have  appreciated  someone  checking on  her.  She  climbed  the  footholds  to  his  shelf  and  he  was  still  there,  back  erect, fingertips  pressed  to  the  ground.  Keeping  her  light  off,  she  approached  him  to  drape his  shirt  across  his  shoulders,  for  it  had  fallen  off.  That  was  when  she  discovered  the blood glazing his back. Someone  else  had  visited  Ike,  and  run  a  knife  blade  across  the yoke  of his shoulders.

Ali was outraged. 'Who did this?' she demanded in  an  undertone.  It  could  have  been a soldier. Or Shoat. Or a group of them.

His  lungs  suddenly  filled.  She  heard  the  air  slowly  release  through  his  nose.  As  in  a dream, he said, 'It's all the same.'

*

When  the  woman  parted  from  her  group  and  went  up  a  side  chute  away  from  the river,  he thought she had gone to defecate. It  was  a  racial  perversity  that  the  humans always  went  alone  like  this.  At  their  moment  of  greatest  vulnerability,  with  their bowels open and ankles trapped  by  clothing  and  clouds  of  odor  spreading  through  the tunnel,  just  when  they  most  needed  their  comrades  gathered  around  for  protection, each insisted on solitude.

But to his surprise, the female didn't void her bowels. Rather, she bathed.

She started  by  shedding her clothing. By  the  light  of  her  headlamp,  she  brought  her pubis  to  a  lather  with  the  soap  bar  and  sleeved  her  palms  around  each  thigh  and  ran them  up  and  down  her  legs.  She  didn't  come  close  to  the  fatted  Venuses  so  dear  to certain  tribes  he  had  observed.  But  neither  was  she  bony.  There  was  muscle  in  her buttocks and thighs. The  pelvic girdle flared, a  solid  cup  for  childbearing.  She  emptied

a bottle over  her shoulders and the water  snaked along her contours. Right then, he determined to breed  her.

Perhaps,  he  reasoned,  Kora  had  died  in  order  to  make  way  for  this  woman.  Or  she was  a  consolation  for  Kora's  death,  provided  by  his  destiny.  It  was  even  possible  she was  Kora,  passed  from  one  vessel  to  this  next.  Who  could  say?  In  search  of  a  new home, souls were  said to dwell in the stone, hunting ways  through the cracks.

She  had  the  unblemished  flesh  of  a  newborn.  Her  frame  and  long  limbs  were  not without  promise.  Daily  life  could  be  severe,  but  the  legs,  especially,  suggested  an ability  to  keep  up.  He  imagined  the  body  with  rings  and  paint  and  scars,  once  he  had his  way.  If  she  survived  the  initiation  period,  he  would  give  her  a  hadal  name  that could be felt and seen but never  spoken, just as he had given many others names. Just as he had himself been given a name.

The  acquisition  could  occur  in  several  ways.  He  could  lure  her.  He  could  seize  her. Or  he  could  simply  dislocate  one  of  her  legs  and  bear  her  off.  If  all  else  failed,  she would make good meat.

In  his  experience,  temptation  was  most  preferable.  He  was  adroit,  even  artistic about  it,  and  his  status  among  hadals  reflected  it.  Several  times,  near  the  surface,  he had managed to entice small groups into  his  handling.  Ensnare  one,  and  she  –  or  he  – could  sometimes  be  used  to  draw  others.  If  it  was  a  wife,  her  husband  sometimes followed.  A  child  generally  guaranteed  at  least  one  parent.  Religious  pilgrims  were easy.  It  was a game for him.

He  stayed  inert  in  the  shadows,  listening  for  others  who  might  have  been  drawn here,  human  or  otherwise.  Assured  of  their  seclusion,  he  finally  made  his  move.  In English.

'Hello?' He lofted the words furtively.  He did nothing to disguise his desire.

She  had  turned  for  a  second  bottle  of  water,  and  at  his  voice  she  paused.  Her  head rotated  left  and  right.  The  word  had  come  from  behind,  but  she  was  judging  more than its  direction.  He  liked  her  quickness  of  mind,  her  ability  to  sift  the  opportunities as well as the dangers.

'What are you doing out there?'  the  woman  demanded.  She  was  sure  of  herself.  She made  no  attempt  to  cover  herself.  She  faced  upslope,  nude,  overt,  blazing  white.  Her nakedness and beauty  were  tools for her.