The Descent

In his last instant, a song came to him. It  surged upon his hearing, all but  impossible, so beautiful. A child monk's pure voice? A tourist's  radio,  a  bit  of  opera?  He  realized  it was the parakeet  caged in the courtyard.  In his mind, he  saw  the  moon  rise  full  above the mountains. But of course the animals would wake  to  it.  Of  course  they  would  offer their morning song to such a radiance. De l'Orme  had  never  known  such  light,  even  in his imagination.

Beneath the Sinai Peninsula Through the wound, entrance. Through the veins, retreat.

His quest  was done.

In the nature of true  searching, he had found himself. Now his people  needed  him  as they  gathered  in  their  desolation.  It  was  his  destiny  to  lead  them  into  a  new  land,  for he was their savior.

Down he sped.

Down from the Egypt  eye  of  the  sun,  in  from  the  Sinai,  away  from  their  skies  like  a sea  inside  out,  their  stars  and  planets  spearing  your  soul,  their  cities  like  insects,  all shell   and   mechanism,   their   blindness   with   eyes,   their   vertiginous   plains   and mind-crushing  mountains.  Down  from  the  billions  who  had  made  the  world  in  their own  human  image.  Their  signature  could  be  a  thing  of  beauty.  But  it  was  a  thing  of death. Their  presence  had  become  the  world,  and  their  presence  was  the  presence  of jackals that strip the muscle from your  legs even  as you try  to outrun them.

The  earth  closed  over  him.  With  each  twist  and  bend,  it  sealed  shut  behind  him.  It resurrected  senses long buried.

Solitude! Quiet! Darkness was light.

Once  again  he  could  hear  the  planet's  joints  and  lifeblood.  Stirrings  in  the  stone.

Ancient events.  Here, time  was  like  water.  The  tiniest  creatures  were  his  fathers  and mothers. The  fossils were  his children. It  made him into remembrance  itself.

He let  his  bare  palms  ricochet  upon  the  walls,  drawing  in  the  heat  and  the  cold,  the sharp   and  the   smooth.  Plunging,  galloping,  he  pawed   at   the   flesh  of   God.   This magnificent rock. This fortress  of their being. This was the Word. Earth.

Moment  by  moment,  step  by  step,  he  felt  himself  becoming  prehistoric.  It  was  a blessed release  from human habits.  In  this  vast,  capillaried  monastery,  through  these openings  and  fretted  spillways  and  yawning  chthonic  fistulae,  drinking  from  pools  of water  older  than  mammal  life  altogether,  memory  was  simply  memory.  It  was  not something to be marked  on calendars or stored in books or labeled in graphs  or  drawn on maps. You did not memorize memory  any more than you memorized existence.

He  remembered  his  way  deeper  by  the  taste  of  the  soil  and  by  the  drag  of  air currents  that  had  no  cardinal  direction.  He  left  behind  the  cartography  of  the  Holy Land  and  its  entry  caves  through  Jebel  el  Lawz  in  the  elusive  Midian.  He  forgot  the name  of  the  Indian  Ocean  as  he  passed  beneath  it.  He  felt  gold,  soft  and  serpentine, standing from the walls, but no longer recognized  it  as  gold.  Time  passed,  but  he  gave up counting it. Days? Weeks?  He lost his memory  even  as he gained it.

He saw himself and  did  not  know  it  was  himself.  It  was  in  a  sheet  of  black  obsidian. His image rose up as a black silhouette within the blackness. He  went  to  it  and  laid  his hands on the volcanic glass and stared  at his face reflecting back.  Something  about  the eyes  seemed  familiar.

Onward  he  hurtled,  weary,  yet  refreshed.  The  depths  gave  flesh  to  his  strength. Occasional animals provided him  the  gift  of  their  meat.  More  and  more,  he  witnessed life  in  the  darkness,  heard  its  chirps  and  rustling.  He  found  evidence  of  his  refugees and, long before them, of hadal nomads and religious travelers.  Their  markings  on  the walls filled him with grief for the lost glory of his empire.

His people had fallen from grace, steeply  and  deep  and  for  so  long  they  were  hardly aware  of  their  own  descent.  Yet  now,  even  in  their  emptiness  and  misery,  they  were being  pursued  in  the  name  of  God,  and  that  could  not  be.  For  they  were   God's children, and had lived in the wilderness  long  enough  to  wash  their  sins  into  amnesty. They  had  paid  for  their  pride  or  independence  or  whatever  else  it  was  that  had offended  the  natural  order,  and  now,  after  an  exile  of  a  hundred  eons,  they  had  been returned  to their innocence.