The Descent

Ike  had known vertigo  in  his  day,  but  never  anything  like  this.  The  sky  plummeted overhead.  The  boulevard  spilled  every  which  way.  Nauseated,  he  staggered  into  a blare  of  car  horns.  He  fought  the  terrifying  sense  of  open  space.  Through  a  tiny aperture  of tunnel vision, he struggled to a wall bathed in sunlight.

'Get  off,  you,'  a  Hindi  accent  scolded  him.  Then  the  shopkeeper  saw  his  face  and retreated  back inside.

Ike   laid  his  cheek   against   the   brick.   'Eighteenth   and   C   streets,'   he   begged   a passerby.  It  was a woman in heels. Her staccato abruptly  hurried in a wide arc  around him. Ike  forced himself away  from the wall.

Across the street,  he began the awful climb up a  hillock  girdled  by  American  flags  at

full mast. He lifted  his  head  to  find  the  Washington  Monument  gutting  the  sheer  blue belly  of  day.  It  was  the  cherry  blossom  season,  that  was  evident.  He  could  barely breathe  for the pollen.

A  flock  of  clouds  drifted  overhead,  gave  mercy,  then  vanished.  The  sunlight  was terrible.  He  moved  on,  flesh  hot.  Tulips  shattered  his  vision  with  their  musket  fire  of brilliant  colors.  The  gym  bag  in  his  hand  –  his  sole  luggage  –  grew  heavy.  He  was panting for air, and that  stung  his  old  pride,  a  Himalayan  mountaineer  in  such  a  state at sea level.

Eyes  squeezed  tight  behind  his  dark  glacier  glasses,  Ike  retreated  to  an  alley  with shade. At  last  the  sun  sank.  His  nausea  lifted.  He  could  bare  his  eyes.  He  roamed  the darkest  parts  of the city by  moonlight, urgent as a fugitive.

No  prowling  for  him.  He  raced  pell-mell.  This  was  his  first  night  aboveground  since he  was  snowbound  in  Tibet  long  ago.  No  time  to  eat.  Sleep  could  wait.  There  was everything  to see.

Like  a  tourist  with  the  thighs  of  an  Olympic  sprinter,  he  plunged  tirelessly.  There were  ghettos and Parisian boulevards and bright restaurant  districts and august gated embassies. Those he dodged, holding to the emptier places.

The  night was gorgeous. Even dimmed by  urban  lights,  the  stars  sprayed  overhead. He breathed  the brackish tidal air. Trees  were  budding.

It  was  April,  all  right.  And  yet,  as  he  hurtled  across  the  grass  and  pavement  and leaped  over  fences  and  dodged  cars,  Ike  felt  only  November  in  his  soul.  The  night's very  mercy  condemned  him.  He  was  not  long  for  this  world,  he  knew.  And  so  he memorized the moon and the marshes  and  the  ganged  oaks  and  the  braid  of  currents on the slow Potomac.

He did  not  mean  to,  but  he  came  upon  the  National  Cathedral  atop  a  lawned  hill.  It was  like  falling  into  the  Dark  Ages.  An  entrenched   mob  of  thousands   of  faithful occupied  the  grounds,  their  squalid  tent  city  unlit  except  for  candles  or  lanterns.  Ike hesitated,  then  went  forward.  It  was  obvious  that  families  and  whole  congregations had  come  here  and  were  living  side  by  side  with  the  poor  and  insane  and  sick  and addicted.

Flying buttresses  dangled huge Crusade-like  banners  with  a  red  cross,  and  the  twin Gothic towers  flickered in the cast of great  bonfires. There  wasn't a cop in sight. It  was as  if  the  cathedral  had  been  relinquished  to  the  true  believers.  Peddlers  hawked crucifixes,  New  Age  angels,  blue-green  algae  pills,  Native  American  jewelry,  animal parts,  bullets  sprinkled  with  holy  water,  and  round-trip  air  travel  to  Jerusalem  on charter  jets.

A  militia  was  signing  up  volunteers  –  'muscular  Christians'  for  guerrilla  strikes  on hell.  The  muster  table  was  piled  with  literature  and  Soldier  of  Fortune  magazines, and  manned  by  frauds  with  Gold's  Gym  biceps  and  expensive  guns.  A  cheap  training video showed Sunday-school flames and actors made up  as  damned  souls  pleading  for help.

Right beside the TV  stood a woman missing one arm and  both  her  breasts,  naked  to the  waist,  daring  them  with  her  scars  like  glory.  Her  accent  was  Pentecostal,  maybe Louisiana,  and  in  her  one  hand  she  held  a  poisonous  snake.  'I  was  a  captive  of  the devils,' she was testifying. 'But I was rescued.  Only  me,  though,  not  my  poor  children, nor all the other good Christians down deeper  in the House. Good Christians in need  of righteous  salvation.  Go  down,  you  brothers  with  strong  arms.  Bring  up  the  weak. Carry  the light of the Lord  into  that  Stygian  dark.  Take  the  spirit  of  Jesus,  and  of  the Father,  and the Holy Spirit....'