The Descent

The  trap  was nothing personal. It  had nothing to do with drawing  him,  Ike  Crockett, into  the  depths.  To  the  contrary,  this  was  just  random  opportunism.  Time  was  not  a consideration.  Even  patience  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  way  trash  fishermen  did, someone  was  chumming  the  occasional  traveler.  You  threw  down  a  handful  of  scraps and maybe  something came, and maybe  it didn't. But who  came  here?  That  was  easy. People like him: monks, traders,  lost souls. But why  lure them?  To where?

His bait analogy evolved.  This  was  less  like  trash  fishing  than  bearbaiting.  Ike's  dad used to do it  in  the  Wind  River  Range  for  Texans  who  paid  to  sit  in  a  blind  and  'hunt' browns  and  blacks.   All  the   outfitters   did   it,   standard   operating   procedure,   like working  cattle.  You  cultivated  a  garbage  heap  maybe  ten  minutes  by  horse  from  the cabins,  so  that  the  bears  got  used  to  regular  feeding.  As  the  season  neared,  you started  putting  out  tastier  tidbits.  In  an  effort  at  making  them  feel  included,  Ike  and his  sister  were  called  upon  each  Easter  to  surrender  their  marshmallow  bunnies.  As he  neared  ten,  Ike  was  required  to  accompany  his  father,  and  that  was  when  he  saw where  his candy went.

The  images  cascaded.  A  child's  pink  candy  left  in  the  silent  woods.  Dead  bears hanging in the autumn light, skins falling heavily  as  by  magic  where  the  knives  traced lines. And underneath, bodies like men almost, as slick as swimmers.

Out, thought Ike.  Get  out.

Not  daring  to  take  his  light  off  the  inner  mountain,  Ike  climbed  back  through  the slot, cursing his loud jacket, cursing the rocks that shifted underfoot, cursing his greed. He  heard  noises  that  he  knew  didn't  exist.  Jumped  at  shadows,  he  cast  himself.  The dread wouldn't leave  him. All he could think of was exit.

He  got  back  to  the  main  chamber  out  of  breath,  skin  still  crawling.  His  return couldn't  have   taken   more   than  fifteen   minutes.   Without  checking  his  watch,   he guessed his round trip at less than an hour.

The  chamber  was  pitch  black.  He  was  alone.  He  stopped  to  listen  as  his  heartbeat slowed, and there  was  not  a  sound,  not  a  shuffle.  He  could  see  the  fluorescent  writing hovering at the far edge of the chamber. It  entwined  the  dark  corpse  like  some  lovely exotic serpent.  He lashed his light across the chamber. The  gold nose ring  glinted.  And something else. As if returning to a thought, he pulled his light back to the face.

The  dead man was smiling.

Ike  wiggled  his  light,  jimmied  the  shadows.  It  had  to  be  an  optical  trick,  that  or  his memory  was  failing.  He  remembered  a  tight  grimace,  nothing  like  this  wild  smile. Where  before  he'd  seen  only  the  tips  of  a  few  teeth,  joy  –  open  glee  –  now  played  in his light. Get  a grip, Crockett.

His mind wouldn't  quit  racing.  What  if  the  corpse  itself  was  bait?  Suddenly  the  text took  on  a  grotesque  clarity.  I  am  Isaac .  The  son  who  gave  himself  to  sacrifice.  For love of the Father. In exile. In my agony of Light. But what could this all mean?

He'd  done  his  share  of  hardcore  rescues  and  knew  the  drill  –  not  that  there  was much of a drill for this one. Ike  grabbed his coil of  9-mm  rope  and  stuffed  his  last  four AA batteries  into a pocket, then looked around. What else? Two protein  bars,  a  Velcro ankle  brace,  his  med  kit.  It  seemed  as  if  there  should  have  been  more  to  carry.  The cupboard was pretty  much bare, though.

Just before departing the main chamber, Ike  cast his light across  the  room.  Sleeping bags lay scattered  on  the  floor  like  empty  cocoons.  He  entered  the  right-hand  tunnel. The  passage snaked downward at an even  pitch, left, then right, then  became  steeper. What  a  mistake,  sending  them  off,  even  all  together.  Ike  couldn't  believe  he'd  put  his little  flock  at  this  kind  of  risk.  For  that  matter,  he  couldn't  believe  the  risk  they'd taken. But of course they'd  taken  it. They  didn't know better.

'Hello!'  he  called.  His  guilt  deepened  by  the  vertical  foot.  Was  it  his  fault  they'd  put their faith in a counterculture buccaneer?

The   going   slowed.   The   walls   and   ceiling   grew   corrupt   with   long   sheets   of delaminating  rock.   Pull   the   wrong   piece,   and   the   whole   mass   might   slide.   Ike pendulumed  from  admiration  to  resentment.  His  pilgrims  were  brave.  His  pilgrims were  foolhardy. And he was in danger.