The Descent

Farther  out,  another  set  of  lights  came  on.  The  plain  was  littered  with  hundreds  of inert  cannonballs.  Manganese   nodules,  Ali  knew   from  her   reading.  There   was   a fortune  in  manganese  out  there,  and  yet  it  had  been  bypassed  for  the  sake  of  far greater  fortune deeper  down.

The  vista  was  like  a  dream.  Ali  kept  trying  to  make  sense  of  her  place  in  this inhuman geography. But with each further  step, she belonged less and less.

A  gruesome  fish  with  fangs  and  a  greenish  light  bud  for  bait  steered   past   the window. Otherwise  it was lonely out there.  Dreamless. She held the orange.

After  an  hour,  the  pod  started  down  again,  this  time  slower.  As  it  descended,  the ocean  floor  rose  to  eye  and  ceiling  level,  then  was  gone.  There  was  a  brief  lighted glimpse  of  cored  stone  through  the  window.  Then  quickly  the  glass  fell  black  and  she was looking at herself again.

Now  it  begins,  thought  Ali,  the  edge  of  the  earth.  And  it  was  like  passing  inside herself.

INCIDENT AT PIEDRAS NEGRAS

Mexico

Osprey  crossed  the  bridge  like  a  turista,  on  foot,  wearing  a  daypack.  He  left  the sunburned   GIs   behind   their   sandbags   in   Texas.   On   the   Mexico   side,   nothing suggested an international border, no barricade, no soldiers, not even  a flag.

By  arrangement  with  the  local  university,  a  van  was  waiting.  To  Osprey's  great surprise,  his  driver  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  he'd  ever  seen.  She  had  skin  like dark  fruit,  and  brilliant  red  lipstick.  'You  are  the  butterfly  man?'  she  asked.  Her accent was like a musical gift.

'Osprey,'  he stammered.

'It's  hot,'  she  said.  'I  brought  you  a  Coca-Cola.'  She  offered  him  a  bottle.  Hers  was beaded with condensation. Lipstick circled the tip.

While she drove,  he learned her name. She was an  economics  student.  'Why  are  you

chasing  the  mariposa?' she  asked.  Mariposa  was  the  Mexican  term  for  the  monarch butterfly.

'It's my  life,' he answered.

'Your whole life?'

'From childhood. Butterflies. I was drawn by  their  movements  and  colors.  And  their names.  Painted  Ladies!  Red  Admirals!  Question  Marks!  Ever  since,  I've   followed them. Wherever  the mariposas migrate, I go with them.'

Her smile made his heart  squeeze.

They  passed  a  shantytown  overlooking  the  river.  'You  go  south,'  she  said,  'they  go north. Nicaraguans, Guatemalans, Hondurans. And my  own people, too.'

'They'll  try  to  cross  over  tonight?'  Osprey  asked.  He  looked  past  their  white  cotton pants and decaying tennis shoes and  cheap  sunglasses  to  glean  hints  of  ancient  tribes, Mayan, Aztec, Olmec. Once upon a  time,  their  ancestors  might  have  been  warriors  or kings. Now they  were  paupers, driftwood aiming for land.

'They  kill themselves  trying  to leave  their origins. How can they  resist?'

Osprey  glanced  across  the  Rio  Grande's  coil  of  brown,  poisoned  water  at  the  butt side  of  America.  Heated  to  mirage,  the  buildings  and  billboards  and  power  lines  did seem  to  offer  hope  –  provided   you   could  factor   out  the   necklace   of  razor   wire glittering  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the   sparkle   of  binoculars  and  video   lenses overseeing the passage. The  van continued along the river.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

'To the highlands around Mexico City. They  roost in the mountain fir stands through the winter. In the spring they'll return  this way  to lay their eggs.'

'I mean today, Mr Osprey.'

'Today. Yes.'  He fumbled with his maps.

She  stopped  suddenly.  They  had  reached  a  place  overcome  by  orange  and  black wings. 'Incredible,' Ada murmured.

'It's  their  rest  stop  for  the  night,'  Osprey  said.  'Tomorrow  they'll  be  gone.  They travel  fifty  miles  every  day.  In  another  month,  all  of  the  masses  of  monarchs  will reach their roost.'

'They  don't fly at night?'

'They  can't  see  in  the  darkness.'  He  opened  the  van  door.  'I  may  take  an  hour,'  he apologized. 'Perhaps you should return  later.'

'I'll  wait  for  you,  Mr  Osprey.  Take  your  time.  When  you're  finished,  we  can  have dinner, if you'd like.'