The Descent

It  was easy  to anticipate the end. His battery  began to fail. To either side,  the  hadals had moved closer. The  light faded to a dim  ball.  Osprey  shook  the  flashlight  hard,  and the  beam  brightened  momentarily,  and  the  hadals  withdrew  another   five   or  ten yards.  He  sighed.  It  was  time.  C'est  la  vie.  He  chuckled,  and  laid  the  blade  along  his wrist.

He  could  have  waited  until  the  last  instant  of  light  before  making  the  cuts,  but feared they  might  not  be  done  well.  Too  shallow,  and  it  would  simply  be  a  painful  nip

at the nerves.  Too deep, and the  veins  might  convulse  and  close  off.  He  needed  to  get the strokes  right, while he could still see.

He pulled evenly.  Blood jumped from the steel. It  leaped out of him.  In  the  shadows, he heard the hadals murmur.

Carefully he switched the knife to his left hand and  did  the  opposite  wrist.  The  knife fell from his  grip.  After  a  minute  he  felt  cold.  The  pain  at  the  end  of  each  arm  turned to  a  dull  ache.  His  blood  spread  on  the  stone  floor.  It  was  impossible  to  separate  the dying light from his fading vision.

Osprey  laid  his  head  back  against  the  wall.  His  thoughts  settled.  Increasingly,  a vision  of  the  beautiful  Mexican  woman  had  begun  visiting  him.  Her  face  had  come  to replace his butterflies, all of  whom  had  died  because  his  light  was  not  enough.  He  had arranged  each  monarch  beside  him,  and  as  he  slumped  sideways,  their  wings  lay  like orange and black tissue on the ground.

Off  in  the  distance,  the  hadals  were  chirping  and  clicking  to  one  another.  Their agitation was obvious. He smiled. They'd  won, but they'd  lost.

The  light shrank. It  died.  Her  face  rose  in  the  darkness.  Osprey  let  out  a  low  moan. The  blackness pillowed him.

On the brink of unconsciousness, he felt the hadals pounce on him. He smelled  them. Felt them grabbing  at  him.  Tying  his  arms  with  rope.  Too  late,  he  realized  they  were binding tourniquets above  his wounds. They  were  saving his life.  He  tried  to  fight,  but was too weak.

In  the  weeks  ahead,  Osprey  returned  to  life  slowly.  The  stronger  he  got,  the  more pain  he  had  to  endure.  He  was  carried  sometimes.  Occasionally  they  forced  him  to walk  blindly  down  the  tunnels.  In  pitch  darkness,  he  had  to  rely  on  every  sense  but sight.  Some  days  they  simply  tortured  him.  He  could  not  imagine  what  they  were doing to him. Captivity  tales swirled in his head. He began  to  rave,  and  so  they  cut  his tongue out. That  was near the end of his sanity.

It  was  beyond  Osprey's  comprehension  that  the  hadals  summoned  one  of  their finest  artisans  to  peel  the  upper  layers  of  skin,  no  more,  from  tip  to  tip  of  each shoulder  and  down  to  the  base  of  his  spine.  Under  the  artisan's  direction,  the  wound was  salted  to  prepare  his  canvas.  Its  seasoning  took  days,  requiring  more  abrasion, more salt. Finally an outline of veins and border  was  applied  in  black,  and  left  to  grow over. After  another three  days,  a rare  blend of bright ochre powder was laid on.

By that time, Osprey's  wish had come  true.  He  was  mad  from  pain  and  deprivation. His insanity had nothing to do  with  the  hadals  freeing  him  to  roam  in  their  tunnels.  If madness was the password, then most of  their  human  captives  would  have  been  free. Who could understand such creatures?  Human  quirks  and  fallibilities  were  a  constant source of puzzlement.

Osprey's  freedom was a  special  case.  He  was  allowed  to  go  wherever  his  whim  took him. No matter  which band he strayed  behind, they  made sure to feed him, and  it  was considered meritorious to protect  him  from  dangers  and  guide  him  along  the  trail.  He was never  given supplies  to  carry.  He  carried  no  claim  mark  or  brand.  No  one  owned him. He belonged to everyone,  a creature  of great  beauty.

Children were  brought  to  see  him.  His  legend  spread  quickly.  Wherever  he  went,  it was  known  that  this  was  a  holy  man,  captured  with  small  houses  of  souls  around  his neck.

Osprey  would never  know what  the  hadals  had  painted  into  the  flesh  of  his  back.  It would have  pleased him no end. For, every  time he moved, with every  breath  he took, it seemed  the man was carried along by  iridescent orange and black wings.

The frontier is the outer edge of the wave – the meeting-point between savagery and civilization... the line of most rapid and effective Americanization. The wilderness masters the colonist.

– FREDERICK JACKSON TURNER, The Significance of the Frontier in

American History

9

LA FRONTERA

The Galápagos Rift System, latitude 0.55°N