The Descent

If I'd like? Dazed, Osprey  took his rucksack  and gently  closed the door behind him. Remembering  his  purpose,  he  headed  west  into  the  sinking  sun.  His  inquiry  dealt with  the  monarchs'  age-old  migration  path.  Danaus  plexippus  laid  its  eggs  in  North America, then died. The  young emerged  with no parents  to guide it, and yet  each  year flew  thousands  of  miles  along  the  same  ancestral  route  to  the  same  destination  in Mexico.  How  could  this  be?  How  could  a  creature  that  weighed  less  than  half  a  gram have  a memory?  Surely  memory  weighed  something.  What  was  memory?  There  was no bottom to  the  mystery  for  Osprey.  Year  after  year,  he  collected  them  alive.  While they  wintered, he studied them in his laboratory.

Osprey  unzipped his daypack  and took out a bundle of  folded  white  boxes,  the  same kind  that  Chinese  food  comes  in.  He  assembled  twelve,  leaving  their  tops  open.  His task  was  simple.  He  approached  a  cluster  of  hundreds,  held  a  box  out,  and  two  or three  alighted inside. He closed the box.

After  forty  minutes, Osprey  had eleven  boxes  dangling by  their  wire  handles  from  a string  around  his  neck.  Hurrying,  badly  distracted  by  the  girl  in  the  van,  he  trotted across  a  sagging  depression  toward  the  final  cluster.  The  depression  gave  way.  With monarchs clinging to his arms and head, he plunged through a hole in the ground.

The  fall registered  as a clatter  of rocks, then sudden darkness.

Consciousness returned  in  bits.  Osprey  struggled  to  take  stock.  He  was  in  pain,  but could move. The  hole  was  very  deep,  or  else  night  had  arrived.  Luckily  he  hadn't  lost his rucksack. He opened it and found his flashlight.

The  beam  was  a  source  of  both  comfort  and  distress.  He  found  himself  lying  at  the pit of a limestone sinkhole, battered  but  unbroken.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  hole  he'd fallen  through.  And  his  landing  had  crushed  several  boxes  of  his  beloved  monarchs. For a moment, that was more defeating than the fall itself.

'Hello,'  he  called  out  several  times.  There  was  no  one  down  here  to  hear  him,  but Osprey  hoped  his  voice  might  carry  through  the  hole  somewhere  overhead.  Perhaps the Mexican  woman  would  be  looking  for  him.  He  had  a  momentary  fantasy  that  she might  fall  through  the  hole  and  they  could  be  trapped  together  for  a  night  or  two.  At any rate,  there  was no response.

Finally  he  pulled  himself  together,  stood  up,  dusted  himself  off,  and  got  on  with trying  to  find  an  exit.  The  sinkhole  was  cavernous,  its  walls  riddled  with  tubular openings.  He  poked  his  light  into  a  few,  thinking  one  of  them  must  surely  lead  to  the surface. He chose the largest.

The  tube  snaked  sideways.  At  first  he  was  able  to  crawl   on  his  knees.   But  it narrowed,  forcing  him  to  leave  his  day-pack.  At  last  he  was  reduced  to  muscling forward  on  elbows  and  belly,  careful  to  scoot  his  flashlight  and  the  remaining  five boxes of live butterflies ahead of him.

The  porous  walls  kept  tearing  his  clothing  and  hooking  his  trouser  cuffs.  The  rock cut his arms. He knocked his head, and  sweat  stung  his  eyes.  He  was  going  to  emerge in tatters,  reeking, farcical. So much for dinner, he thought.

The  tube  grew  tighter.  A  wave  of  claustrophobia  took  his  breath.  What  if  he  got wedged  inside  this  place?  Trapped  alive!  He  calmed  himself.  There  was  no  room  to turn   around,   of   course.   He   could   only   hope   the   artery   led   somewhere   more reasonable.

After  an  awkward,  ten-foot  wrestling  match,  with  both  arms  above  his  head  and pushing mightily with his toes, Osprey  emerged  into a larger tunnel.

His  spirits  soared.  A  faint  footpath  was  worn  into  the  rock.  All  he  had  to  do  was follow it out. 'Hello,' he called to his left and right. He heard a slight rattling noise in the distance. 'Hello?'  he  tried  again.  The  noise  stopped.  Seismic  goblins,  he  shrugged,  and started  off in the opposite direction.

Another  hour  passed,  and  still  the  path  had  not  led  him  out.  Osprey  was  tired, aching, and hungry. Finally he decided  to  reverse  course  and  explore  the  path's  other end. The  trail went up and down, then came to a series  of  forks  he  hadn't  seen  before. He  went  one  way,  then  another,  with  increasing  frustration.  At  last  he  reached  a tubular opening similar to the  one  that  had  brought  him  here.  On  the  chance  it  might return  him  to  the  original  chamber,  Osprey  set  his  butterflies  and  light  on  the  ledge and crawled inside.