The Descent

Ike    had    never    had    much    stomach    for    caving.    The    enclosure    made    him claustrophobic. Just the same, he had good instincts  for  it.  On  the  face  of  it,  ascending a  mountain  was   the   exact   reverse   of  descending  into  a  cave.   A  mountain  gave freedoms  that  could  be  equally  horrifying  and  liberating.  In  Ike's  experience,  caves took  away  freedom  in  the  same  proportions.  Their  darkness  and  sheer  gravity  were tyrants.  They  compressed  the  imagination  and  deformed  the  spirit.  And  yet  both mountains  and  caves  involved  climbing.  And  when  you  came  right  down  to  it,  there was  no  difference  between  ascent  and  descent.  It  was  all  the  same  circle.  And  so  he made swift progress.

Five  minutes deep, he heard a sound and paused, 'Owen?'

His  senses  were  in  flux,  not  just  heightened  by  the  darkness  and  silence,  but  also subtly  changed.  It  was  hard  to  put  words  to,  the  clean  dry  scent  of  dust  rendered  by mountains  still  in  birth,  the  scaly  touch  of  lichen  that  had  never  seen  sunshine.  The visuals  were  not  completely  trustworthy.  You  saw  like  this  on  very  dark  nights  on  a mountain, a headlight view  of the world, one beam wide, truncated, partial.

A  muffled  voice  reached  him.  He  wanted  it  to  be  Owen  so  the  search  could  be  over and  he  could  return  to  Kora.  But  the  tunnels  apparently  shared  a  common  wall.  Ike put  his  head  against  the  stone  –  chill,  but  not  bitterly  cold  –  and  could  hear  Bernard calling for Owen.

Farther  on,  Ike's  tunnel  became  a  slot  at  shoulder  height.  'Hello?'  he  called  into  the slot. For some reason, he felt his animal core bristle. It  was  like  standing  at  the  mouth of  a  deep,  dark  alleyway.  Nothing  was  out  of  place.  Yet  the  very  ordinariness  of  the walls and empty  stone seemed  to promise menace.

Ike  shone  his  headlamp  through  the  slot.  As  he  stood  peering  into  the  depths  at  a tube  of  fractured  limestone  identical  to  the  one  he  was  already  occupying,  he  saw nothing  in  itself  to  fear.  Yet  the  air  was  so...  inhuman.  The  smells  were  so  faint  and

unadulterated  that  they  verged  on  no  smell,  Zen-like,  clear  as  water.  It  was  almost refreshing. That  made him more afraid.

The  corridor  extended  in  a  straight  line  into  darkness.   He  checked   his  watch: thirty-two  minutes  had  passed.  It  was  time  to  backtrack  and  meet  the  group.  That was the arrangement, one hour, round trip. But then, at the far edge of  his  light  beam, something glittered.

Ike  couldn't  resist.  It  was  like  a  tiny  fallen  star  in  there.  And  if  he  was  quick,  the whole  exercise  wouldn't  last  more  than  a  minute.  He  found  a  foothold  and  pulled himself in. The  slot was just big enough to squeeze  through, feetfirst.

On the other side of the wall, nothing had changed. This part  of  the  tunnel  looked  no different  from  the  other.  His  light  ahead  picked  out  the  same  gleam  twinkling  in  the far darkness.

Slowly  he  brought  his  light  down  to  his  feet.  Beside  one  boot,  he  found  another reflection identical to the one glinting in the distance. It  gave  the same dull gleam.

He lifted his boot. It  was a gold coin.

Carefully,  blood  knocking  through  his  veins,  Ike  stopped.  A  tiny  voice  warned  him not to pick it up. But there  was no way...

The  coin's  antiquity  was  sensuous.  Its  lettering  had  worn  away  long  ago,  and  the shape was asymmetrical, nothing stamped by  any  machine.  Only  a  vague,  amorphous bust of some king or deity  still showed.

Ike  shone his light down the tunnel. Past  the next  coin he saw a  third  one  winking  in the blackness. Could it be? The  naked Isaac had fled from some precious  underground reserve,  even  dropping his pilfered fortune along the way.

The  coins  blinked  like  feral  eyes.  Otherwise  the  stone  throat  lay  bare,  too  bright  in the  foreground,  too  dark  in  the  back.   Too  neatly   appointed  with  one  coin,  then another.

What if the  coins  had  not  been  dropped?  What  if  they'd  been  placed?  The  thought knifed him. Like bait.

He slugged his back against the cold stone. The  coins were  a trap.

He swallowed hard, forced himself to think it through.

The  coin was cold as ice. With  one  fingernail  he  scraped  away  a  veneer  of  encrusted glacier dust. It  had been lying here for years,  even  decades  or  centuries.  The  more  he thought about it, the more his horror mounted.