The Descent

De  l'Orme  set  one  hand  upon  Thomas's  forearm.  'Shall  we?'  They  continued  their promenade. There  was no getting lost. The  path  lay  before  them  like  a  ghost  serpent. The  festooned 'mountain' of Bordubur towered  to their north.

'Where do you go from here?' Thomas asked.

'Sumatra.  I've  found  an  island,  Nias.  They  say  it  is  the  place  Sinbad  the  Sailor  met the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea.  I'm  happy  among  the  aborigines,  and  Santos  stays  occupied with some fourth-century  ruins he located among the jungle.'

'And the cancer?'

De l'Orme didn't even  make one of his jokes.

Santos  came  running  down  the  trail  with  an  old  Japanese  carbine  in  one  hand.  He was covered  in mud and out of breath. 'Gone,'  he  announced.  'And  he  left  our  gun  in  a pile of dirt. But first he shot off all the bullets.'

'Off to celebrate  with his grandchildren would be my  guess,' de l'Orme said.

'I'm not so sure.'

'Don't tell me tigers got him?'

Santos lowered the barrel. 'Of course not.'

'If it will make you feel more secure, reload,' said de l'Orme.

'We have  no more bullets.'

'Then we're  that much safer. Now let's continue.'

Near  the  Kali  mouth  at  the  base  of  the  monument,  they  veered  right  off  the  path, passing  a  small  lean-to  made  of  banana  leaves,  where  old  Pram  must  have  taken  his naps.

'You see?' Santos said. The  mud was torn as if in a struggle.

Thomas  spied  the  dig  site.  It  looked  more  like  a  mud  fight.  There  was  a  hole  sunk

into the jungle floor, and a big pile of dirt and roots. To one side lay the stone plates,  as large as manhole covers,  that de l'Orme had referred  to.

'What a mess,' said Thomas. 'You've  been fighting the jungle itself here.'

'In fact I'll be glad to be done with it,' Santos said.

'Is the frieze down there?'

'Ten meters  deep.'

'May I?'

'Certainly.'

Thomas gripped the bamboo ladder  and  carefully  let  himself  down.  The  rungs  were slick  and  his  soles  were  made  for  streets,  not  climbing.  'Be  careful,'  de  l'Orme  called down to him.

'There,  I'm down.'

Thomas looked up. It  was like peering out of a deep grave.  Mud  was  oozing  between the bamboo flooring, and the back wall – saturated  with rainwater  – bulged against  its bamboo shoring. The  place looked ready  to collapse upon itself.

De  l'Orme  was  next.  Years  spent   clambering  around  dig  scaffolding  made   this second nature. His slight bulk scarcely  jostled the handmade ladder.

'You still move like a monkey,' Thomas complained.

'Gravity.'  De  l'Orme  grinned.  'Wait  until  you  see  me  struggle  to  get  back  up.'  He cocked his head back. 'All right, then,' he called  to  Santos.  'All  clear  on  the  ladder.  You may  join us.'

'In a moment. I want to look around.'

'So  what  do  you   think?'   de  l'Orme   asked   Thomas,   unaware   that   Thomas   was standing  in  darkness.  Thomas  had  been  waiting  for  the  more  powerful  torch  that Santos had. Now he took out his pocket light and turned it on.

The  column  was  of  thick  igneous  rock,  and  extraordinarily  free  of  the  usual  jungle ravaging.  'Clean,  very  clean,'  he  said.  'The   preservation   reminds   me  of  a  desert environment.'

'Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,'  de  l'Orme  said.  Without  fear  and  without  reproach.

'It's perfect.'

Thomas  appraised  it  professionally,  the  material  before  the  subject.  He  moved  the light  to  the  edge  of  a  carving:  the  detailing  was  fresh  and  uncorroded.  This  original architecture  must have  been buried deep, and within a century  of its creation.

De  l'Orme  reached  out  one  hand  and  laid  his  fingertips  upon  the  carving  to  orient himself. He  had  memorized  the  entire  surface  by  touch,  and  now  began  searching  for something. Thomas walked his light behind the thin fingers.

'Excuse   me,  Richard,'  de  l'Orme   spoke   to  the   stone,   and  now  Thomas   saw   a monstrosity, perhaps four inches high, holding up its own bowels in offering. Blood was spilling upon the ground, and a flower sprang from the earth.

'Richard?'

'Oh, I have  names for all my  children,' de l'Orme said.

Richard  became  one  of  many  such  creatures.  The  column  was  so  densely  crowded with  deformity  and  torment  that  an  unsophisticated  eye  would  have  had  trouble separating one from the other.

'Suzanne,  here,  she's  lost  her  children.'  De  l'Orme  introduced  a  female  dangling  an infant  in  each  hand.  'And  these  three  gentlemen,  the  Musketeers  I  call  them.'  He pointed at a gruesome trio cannibalizing one another. 'All for one, one for all.'

It  went much deeper  than perversion. Every  manner  of  suffering  showed  here.  The creatures  were  bipedal  and  had  opposing  thumbs  and,  here  and  there,  wore  animal skins or horns. Otherwise  they  could have  been baboons.