The Descent

'Mayday,  mayday,'  he  said,  and  a  vague  sense  of  déjà  vu  tickled  at  the  back  of  his mind. 'This is Professor Wayne Gitner of the University  of Pennsylvania,  a  member  of the  Helios  Sub-Pacific  Expedition.  My  party  is  dead.  I  am  now  alone  and  require assistance. I repeat,  please assist.'

The  battery  died.  He  laid  the  set  aside  and  took  up  his  hammer  and  began  clawing away  at the ceiling. A memory  that wouldn't quite take  shape kept  nagging  at  him.  He just hit harder.

In  mid-swing,  he  stopped  and  lowered  the  hammer.  Six  months  earlier,  he  had listened to his own voice enunciating  the  very  distress  signal  he  had  just  sent.  He  had circled to his own beginning.

For some, that might have  meant a fresh start. For a man like Gitner, it meant the end.

I sit leaning against the cliff while the years go by, till the green grass grows between my feet and the red dust settles on my head, and the men of the world, thinking me dead, come with offerings... to lay by my corpse.

– HAN SHAN, Cold Mountain, c. 640 CE

22

BAD WIND

The Dolomite Alps

The  scholars  had  been  building  toward  this  day  since  their  first  night  together.  For seventeen  months,  their  journeys  –  Thomas's  capriccios  –  had  cast  them  across  the globe  like  a  throw  of  dice.  At  last  they  stood  together  again,  or  sat,  for  de  l'Orme's castle  perched  high  atop  a  limestone  precipice,  and  it  took  very  little  exertion  to  get out of breath.

For  once,  Mustafah's  emphysema  gave  him  the  advantage:  he  had  an  oxygen  set, and  could  merely  crank  the  airflow  higher.  Foley  and  Vera  were  sharing  an  Italian aspirin powder for their headaches. Parsifal, the astronaut, was making a bluff show  of his athletic nature, but looked a bit green, especially as de  l'Orme  took  them  on  a  tour of the curving battlements  overlooking the stepped  crags and far plains.

'Don't  like  neighbors?'  Gault  asked.  His  Parkinson's  had  stabilized.  Couched  in  a large wheelchair, he looked like a Pinocchio manipulated by  naughty children.

'Isn't  it  wonderful?'  said  de  l'Orme.  'Every  morning  I  wake  and  thank  God  for paranoia.' He had already  explained the  castle's  origins:  a  German  Crusader  had  gone mad outside the walls of Jerusalem, and was exiled atop these  rocks.

It  was rather  small for a castle. Built in a perfect  circle on the very  edge of the cliff, it almost  resembled  a  lighthouse.  They  finished  their  tour.  January  was  sitting  where they'd  left  her,  depleted  by  malaria,  facing  south  to  the  sun  with  Thomas.  Down below,  lining  the  dead-end  road,  were  their  hired  cars.  Their  drivers  and  several nurses were  enjoying a picnic among the early  flowers.

'Let's  go  inside,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'At  these  heights,  the  sun  feels  very  warm.  But  the slightest cloud can send the temperature  plunging. And there's  a storm coming.'

Thick logs blazing on the iron grate  barely  took away  the room's chill. The  dining hall was stark,  walls bare, not even  a tapestry  or a boar's head.  De  l'Orme  had  no  need  for decorations.

They  sat around a table, and a servant  came  in  with  bowls  of  thick,  hot  soup.  There were  no  forks,  just  spoons  for  the  soup  and  knives  to  cut  the  fruit  and  cheese  and prosciutto. The  servant  poured wine and then retreated,  closing the doors behind him. De  l'Orme  proposed  a  toast  to  their  generous  hearts  and  even   more   generous appetites.  He  was  the  host,  but  it  was  not  really  his  party.  Thomas  had  called  this meeting,  though  no  one  knew  why.  Thomas  had  been  brooding  ever  since  arriving. They  got on with the meal.

The  food  revived  them.  For  an  hour  they  enjoyed  the  company  of  their  comrades. Most  had  been  strangers  at  the  outset,  and  their  paths  had  intersected  only  rarely since Thomas had  scattered  them  to  the  winds  in  New  York  City.  But  they  had  come to  share  a  common  purpose  so  strongly  that  they  might  as  well  have  been  brothers and sisters. They  were  excited  by  one another's tales, glad for one another's safety. January  recounted  her  last  hour  with  Desmond  Lynch  in  the  Phnom  Penh  airport. He  had  been  heading  to  Rangoon,  then  south,  in  search  of  a  Karen  warlord  who claimed to have  met with Satan. Since then, no one had heard a word from him.

They  waited  for  Thomas  to  add  his  own  impressions,  but  he  was  distracted  and melancholy. He had arrived  late, bearing a square box, all but unapproachable.

'And where  is Santos?' Mustafah asked de l'Orme. 'I'm  beginning  to  think  he  doesn't like us.'

'Off  to  Johannesburg,'   de   l'Orme   said.   'It   seems   another   band   of   hadals   has surrendered.  To a group of unarmed diamond miners!'