The Descent

'Your  hunch  may  be  right,'  de  l'Orme  said.  'At  first  I  thought  these  creatures  were either  depictions  of  mutation  or  birth  defects.  But  now  I  wonder  if  they  are  not  a window upon hominids now extinct.'

'Could  it  be  a  display  of  psychosexual  imagination?'  Thomas  asked.  'Perhaps  the nightmare of that face you mentioned?'

'One  almost  wishes  it  were  so,'  de  l'Orme  said.  'But  I  think  not.  Let  us  suppose  our master  sculptor here somehow tapped into  his  subconscious.  That  might  inform  some of these  figures. But this isn't the work of a single  hand.  It  would  have  taken  an  entire school of artisans  generations  to  carve  this  and  other  columns.  Other  sculptors  would have  added  their  own  realities  or  even  their  own  subconscious.  There  should  be scenes of farming or hunting or court life or the gods, don't  you  think?  But  all  we  have here is a picture of the damned.'

'But surely  you don't think it's a picture of reality.'

'In  fact  I  do.  It's  all  too  realistic  and  unredemptive  not  to  be  reality.'  De  l'Orme found  a  place  near  the  center  of  the  stone.  'And  then  there's  the  face  itself,'  he  said.

'It's not sleeping or dreaming or meditating. It's  wide awake.'

'Yes, the face,' Thomas encouraged.

'See for yourself.' With a flourish, de l'Orme placed  the  flat  of  his  hand  on  the  center of the column at head level.

But  even  as  his  palm  lighted  upon  the  stone,  de  l'Orme's  expression  changed.  He looked imbalanced, like a man who had leaned too far forward.

'What is it?' asked Thomas.

De  l'Orme  lifted  his  hand,  and  there  was  nothing  beneath  it.  'How  can  this  be?'  he cried.

'What?' said Thomas.

'The face. This is it. Where it was. Someone's destroyed  the face!'

At  de  l'Orme's  fingertip,  there  was  a  crude  circle  gouged  into  the  carvings.  At  the edges,  one  could  still  make  out  some  carved  hair  and  beneath  that  a  neck.  'This  was the face?' Thomas asked.

'Someone's vandalized it.'

Thomas scanned the surrounding carvings. 'And left the rest  untouched. But why?'

'This  is  abominable,'  howled  de  l'Orme.  'And  us  without  any  record  of  the  image. How  could  this  happen?  Santos  was  here  all  day  yesterday.  And  Pram  was  on  duty until... until he abandoned his post, curse him.'

'Could it have  been Pram?'

'Pram? Why?'

'Who else even  knows of this?'

'That's the question.'

'Bernard,'  said  Thomas.  'This  is  very  serious.  It's  almost  as  if  someone  were  trying to keep  the face from my  view.'

The  notion  jolted  de  l'Orme.  'Oh,  that's  too  much.  Why  would  anyone  destroy  an artifact simply to –'

'My  Church  sees  through  my  eyes,'  Thomas  said.  'And  now  they'll  never  see  what there  was to see here.'

As  if  distracted,  de  l'Orme  brought  his  nose  to  the  stone.  'The  defacing  is  no  more than a few hours old,' he announced. 'You can still smell the fresh rock.'

Thomas  studied  the  mark.  'Curious.  There  are   no  chisel  marks.   In   fact,   these furrows look more like the marks  of animal claws.'

'Absurd. What kind of animal would do this?'

'I agree. It  must have  been a knife used to tear  it away.  Or an awl.'

'This is a crime,' de l'Orme seethed.

From high above, a light fell upon the two old  men  deep  in  the  pit.  'You're  still  down there,' said Santos.

Thomas  held  his  hand  up  to  shade  the  beam  from  his  eyes.  Santos  kept  his  light trained    directly    upon   them.    Thomas    felt    strangely    trapped    and   vulnerable. Challenged.  It  made  him  angry,  the  man's  disrespect.  De  l'Orme,  of  course,  had  no

inkling of the silent provocation. 'What are you doing?' Thomas demanded.

'Yes,'   said  de  l'Orme.   'While   you   go   wandering   about,   we've   made   a   terrible discovery.'

Santos moved his light. 'I heard noises and thought it might be Pram.'

'Forget Pram. The  dig's been sabotaged, the face mutilated.'

Santos  descended  in  powerful,  looping  steps.  The  ladder  shook  under  his  weight. Thomas stepped  to the rear  of the pit to make room.

'Thieves,' shouted Santos. 'Temple thieves.  The  black market.'

'Control yourself,' de l'Orme said. 'This has nothing to do with theft.'

'Oh, I knew we shouldn't trust  Pram,' Santos raged.

'It wasn't Pram,' Thomas said.

'No? How do you know that?'

Thomas was shining his light into a corner  behind  the  column.  'I'm  presuming,  mind you. It  could be someone else. Hard to  recognize  who  this  is.  And  of  course  I've  never met the man.'

Santos  surged  into  the  corner  and  stabbed  his  light  into  the  crack  and  upon  the remains. 'Pram.' He gagged, then was sick into the mud.