The Descent

'Watching,' he said. 'I've  been watching you.'

Something in her carriage – the line of her neck, the arch of her spine – accepted the voyeurism.  'What do you want?'

'What  do  I  want?'  What  would  she  want  to  hear  so  deep  in  the  earth?  He  was reminded of Kora. 'The world,' he said. 'A life. You.'

She took it in. 'You're one of the soldiers.'

He  let  her  own  desires  pronounce  her.  She  had  been  watching  the  soldiers  watch her,  he  realized.  She  had  fantasized  about  them,  though  probably  no  one  of  them  in particular.  For  she  had  not  asked  his  name,  only  his  occupation.  His  anonymity appealed  to  her.  It  would  be  less  complicating.  Very  probably  she  had  gone  off  alone like this hoping to lure just such a one here.

'Yes,' he said. He did not lie to her. 'I was a soldier once.'

'So, are you going  to  let  me  see  you?'  she  asked,  and  he  could  tell  it  was  not  a  great need. The  unknown was more primary.  Good lassie, he thought.

'No,' he said. 'Not yet.  What if you told?'

'What if I told?' she asked.

He  could  smell  her  change.  The  potent  smell  of  her  sex  was  beginning  to  fill  the small chamber.

'They  would kill me,' he said. She turned out the light.

Ali could tell that hell was starting to get to them.

This  was  Jonah's  vista,  the  beast's  gut  as  hollowed  earth.  It  was  the  basement  of their souls. As children they  had  all  learned  it  was  forbidden  to  enter  this  place,  short of God's damnation. Yet  here they  were,  and it scared them.

Perhaps  not  unnaturally,  it  was   her   they   began   to  turn   to.  Men  and  women, scientists  and  soldiers,  began  seeking  her  out  to  make  their  confessions.  Freighted with myths,  they  wanted out  from  their  burden  of  sins.  It  was  a  way  of  keeping  their sanity. Strangely,  she was not prepared  for their need.

It  was always  done singly. One of them would  drift  back  or  catch  her  alone  in  camp. Sister,  they  would  murmur.  A  minute  before,  they  had  called  her  Ali.  But  then  they would say  Sister, and she would know what they  wanted  of  her:  to  become  a  stranger to them, a loving stranger,  nameless, all-forgiving.

'I'm not a priest,' Ali told them. 'I can't absolve you.'

'You're  a  nun,'  they  would  say,  as  if  the  distinction  were  meaningless.  And  then  it would  start,  the  recitation  of  fears  and  regrets,  their  weaknesses  and  rancor  and vendettas,  their appetites  and  perversions.  Things  they  dared  not  speak  aloud  to  one another, they  spoke to her.

In   ecumenical   parlance,   it   was   now   called   reconciliation.   Their   hunger   for   it astonished her. At  times,  she  felt  trapped  by  their  autobiographies.  They  wanted  her to protect  them from their own monsters.

Ali  first  noticed  Molly's  condition  during  an  afternoon  poker  game.  It  was  just  the two  of  them  in  a  small  raft.  Molly  showed  a  pair  of  aces.  That  was  when  Ali  saw  her hands.

'You're bleeding,' she said.

Molly's smile wavered.  'No big deal. It  comes and goes.'

'Since when?'

'I don't know.' She was evasive.  'A month ago.'

'What happened? This looks terrible.'

There  was  a  hole  scraped  in  the  flesh  of  each  palm.  Some  of  the  meat  looked  cored out. It  wasn't an incision, but it wasn't an ulcer,  either.  It  looked  eaten  by  acid,  except acid would have  cauterized the wound.

'Blisters,' said Molly. Her eyes  had developed dark circles. She kept  her scalp shaved short out of habit, but it no longer suggested  bountiful good health.

'Maybe  one of the docs should take  a look,' Ali said. Molly closed her fists. 'There's  nothing wrong with me.'

'I was just concerned,' said Ali. 'We don't have  to talk about it.'

'You were  implying something's wrong.' Molly's eyes  began to bleed.

Taking  no  chances,  the  team's  physicians  quarantined  the  two  women  in  a  raft tugged a hundred yards  behind the rest.

Ali  understood.  The  possibility  of  some  exotic  disease  had  the  expedition  in  a  state of  terror.  But  she  resented  Walker's  soldiers  watching  them  with  sniperscopes.  She was  not  allowed  a  walkie-talkie  to  communicate  with  the  group  because  Shoat  said they  would only  use  it  to  beg  and  wheedle.  By  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  Ali  was exhausted.

A  quarter-mile  to  the  front,  a  dinghy  detached  from  the  flotilla  and  started  back toward  her.  Time  for  the  daily  house  call.  The  doctors  were  wearing  respirators  and paper scrubs and  latex  gloves.  Ali  had  called  them  cowards  yesterday,  and  was  sorry now. They  were  doing their best.

They  drifted  close  and  nodded  to  Ali.  One  flashed  his  light  on  Molly.  Her  beautiful lips were  cracked.  Her  lush  body  was  withering.  The  ulcerations  had  spread  over  her body. She turned her head from their light.