The Descent

It  occurred to her that he might be a hadal  disguised  with  human  frailties.  Then  she saw  by  the  faint  light  of  the  stone  that  he  was  indeed  a  human,  and  was  indeed wounded. By his markings she read that he had been  a  captive  once,  and  immediately knew which one. From  their  legends,  she  recognized  the  renegade  who  had  caused  so much  destruction   to  her   people.  He  was   renowned.   Feared   and  despised.   They considered  him  a  devil,  and  the  story  of  his  deception  was  taught  to  children  as  an example of estrangement  and disorder.

He  spoke  to  her  in  pidgin  hadal,  his  clicks  and  utterances  almost  impenetrable.  His pronunciation was  barbaric,  and  his  question  was  stupid.  If  she  understood  correctly, the  traitor  wanted  to  know  which  way  the  center  lay,  and  that  alarmed  her,  for  the People  could  scarcely  bear  more  harm.  He  gestured  downward  in  the  direction  they were  already  headed.  Thinking  he  might  be  lost,  and  could  be  made  more  lost,  she calmly indicated the opposite direction. He smiled knowingly and patted  her head – an egregious if playful insult – and said something in  his  flat  language.  Then  he  tugged  at her leash and started  her down the trail.

At  no  time  in  the  mercenaries'  captivity  had  the  girl  been  very  concerned.  She  had been alone among them,  and  that  was  like  being  a  shadow  to  your  own  body.  Her  life was  simply  a  part  of  the  greater  sangha, or  community,  and  without  the  sangha  she was  essentially  dead  to  herself.  That  was  the  way.  But  now  this  terrible  enemy  was bringing her  back  to  life,  back  into  the  People's  midst,  and  she  knew  he  meant  to  use her  against  the  sangha  in  some  way.  And  that  would  be  worse  than  a  thousand deaths.

Ike  had  spent  a  week  finding  the  girl,  and  then  another  week  baiting  her.  Where  the trail  led,  he  could  only  guess.  But  she  had  seemed  set  on  following  it,  and  so  Ike

trusted  it somehow led to where  he wanted to go.

For  seven  months  he  had  been  gathering  evidence  of  the  hadals'  diaspora.  Stop, open  your  senses,  and  you  could  feel  the  whole  underworld  in  motion,  almost  as  if  it were  draining into a deeper  recess.  This deepening pit, he felt certain, was that  recess. It  was  reasonable  to  think  it  might  lead  to  the  center  of  that  mandala  map  they  had found  in  the  fortress.  Somewhere  down  here  must  lie  the  hub  of  all  subterranean roads. There  he would find an answer to the riddle of the People's  vanishing.  There  he would find Ali. With the girl in hand, Ike  felt ready  at last to proceed.

Knowing she would try  to kill herself rather  than abet  his  invasion,  Ike  searched  the naked  girl  twice.  He  ran  his  fingers  along  her  flesh  and  found  three  obsidian  flakes embedded  subcutaneously  –  one  along  the  inside  of  her  bicep,  the  other  two  on  her inner thighs – for just such an emergency.  With the knife, he made  quick  incisions  just large enough to extrude  the tiny razor blades and rid her of those options.

This was the hostage he'd needed, but also she was a hadal captive  who, like  himself, had  managed  to  thrive  among  the  hadals.  Ike  studied  her.  Virtually  every  human prisoner  he'd  encountered  down  here  had  been  sickly  and  demented  and  merely waiting for use as pack animals,  meat,  or  sacrifice,  or  to  bait  other  humans  down.  Not this one. As much  as  one  could  command  her  own  destiny,  she  commanded.  Thirteen years  old, Ike  guessed.

The  girl was not as imposing as she looked. In fact, she was  almost  slight.  Her  secret lay  in  her  stately  presence  and  wonderful  self-sufficiency.  Ike  saw  the  clan  marks around  her  eyes  and  along  her  arms,  but  didn't  recognize  the  clan.  Clearly  she  had been raised a hadal from early  on.

Just  as  clearly  she  had  been  cultivated  for  important  breeding.  Her  breasts  were immaculate  and  unpainted,  two  white  fruits  standing  out  from  the  accumulation  of tribal  symbols  covering  the  rest  of  her  body.  In  that  way,  suckling  infants  were granted  peace  for  their  first  month  or  so  of  life.  With  time  the  child  would  begin learning the way  by  reading her mother's flesh.

Over  the  past  two  weeks  he  had  watched  her  purify  herself  with  blood  and  water repeatedly,  washing  the  mercenaries'  sins  off  her  body.  She  smelled  clean,  and  her bruises were  healing quickly.

Her  only  other  possession  besides  the  obsidian  blades  was  her  trail  food,  a  poorly cured forearm and clawed hand with the Helios  wristwatch  still  attached.  Much  of  the good meat was gone. She'd  been  getting  down  to  the  bone.  Ike  had  passed  the  rest  of Troy  twelve  days  ago.