The Descent

The  wheat-colored  stone  was  gorgeous  in  his  headlamp.  The  armor  twisted  in  a slight breeze  and fractured  the light into a million points.

Ike  admired  the  soft  leather  thangka  paintings  pinned  to  the  walls,  then  lifted  a fringed corner and discovered that the fringe was made of human  fingers.  He  dropped it,  horrified.  The  leather  was  flayed  human  skins.  He  backed  away,  counting  the

thangkas. Fifty  at least. Could they  have  belonged to the Mongolian horde?

He  looked  down.  His  boots  had  tracked  halfway  across  yet  another  mandala,  this one twenty  feet  across  and  made  of  colored  sand.  He'd  seen  some  of  these  in  Tibetan monasteries before, but never  so large. Like the one beside Isaac in the cave  chamber, it held details that looked less architectural  than  like  organic  worms.  His  were  not  the only  footprints  spoiling  the  artwork.  Others  had  trampled  it,  and  recently.  Kora  and the gang had come this way.

At  one  junction  he  ran  out  of  signs  altogether.  Ike  faced  the  branching  tunnels  and, from   somewhere   in   his   childhood,   remembered   the   answer   to   all   labyrinths: consistency. Go to your  left  or  to  your  right,  but  always  stay  true.  This  being  Tibet  – the  land  of  clockwise  circumambulation  around  sacred  temples  and  mountains  –  he chose left. It  was the correct choice. He found the first of them ten minutes later.

Ike  had entered  a stratum  of limestone so pure and slick it practically  swallowed  the shadows.  The  walls  curved  without  angles.  There  were  no  cracks  or  ledging  in  the rock,  only  rugosities  and  gentle  waves.  Nothing  caught  at  the   light,  nothing  cast darkness. The  result was unadulterated light. Wherever  Ike  turned his lamp beam, he was surrounded by  radiance the color of milk.

Cleopatra  was  there.  Ike  rounded  the  wing  and  her  light  joined  with  his.  She  was sitting  in  a  lotus  position  in  the  center  of  the  luminous  passage.  With  ten  gold  coins spread before her, she could have  been a beggar.

'Are you hurt?' Ike  asked her.

'Just my  ankle,'  Cleo  replied,  smiling.  Her  eyes  had  that  holy  gleam  they  all  aspired to, part  wisdom, part  soul. Ike  wasn't fooled.

'Let's go,' he ordered.

'You go ahead,' Cleo breathed  with her angel voice. 'I'll stay  a bit longer.'

Some people can  handle  solitude.  Most  just  think  they  can.  Ike  had  seen  its  victims in the  mountains  and  monasteries,  and  once  in  a  jail.  Sometimes  it  was  the  isolation that  undid  them.  Sometimes  it  was  the  cold  or  famine  or  even  amateur  meditation. With Cleo it was a little of all of the above.

Ike  checked his watch: 3:00 A.M. 'What about the rest  of you? Where did they  go?'

'Not much farther,' she said. Good news. And bad news. 'They  went to find you.'

'Find me?'

'You kept  calling for help. We weren't  going to leave  you alone.'

'But I didn't call for help.'

She patted  his leg. 'All for one,' she assured him.

Ike  picked up one of the coins. 'Where'd you find these?'

'Everywhere,'  she said. 'More and more, the deeper  we got. Isn't it wonderful?'

'I'm going for the others. Then we'll all come  back  for  you,'  Ike  said.  He  changed  the fading  batteries  in  his  headlamp  while  he  talked,  replacing  them  with  the  last  of  his new ones. 'Promise you won't move from here.'

'I like it here very  much.'

He left Cleo in a sea of alabaster  radiance.

The   limestone   tube   sped   him   deeper.    The    decline    was    even,    the    footing uncomplicated. Ike  jogged,  sure  he  could  catch  them.  The  air  took  on  a  coppery  tang, nameless, yet  distantly familiar. Not much farther,  Cleo had said.

The  blood streaks  started  at 3:47 A.M.

Because  they  first  appeared  as  several  dozen  crimson  handprints  upon  the  white stone,  and  because  the  stone  was  so  porous  that  it  practically  inhaled  the  liquid,  Ike mistook them for primitive art. He should have  known better.

Ike  slowed.  The  effect  was  lovely  in  its  playful  randomness.  Ike  liked  his  image:

slap-happy  cavemen.

Then his foot hit a puddle not  yet  absorbed  into  the  stone.  The  dark  liquid  splashed up. It  sluiced in bright streaks  across the wall, red on white. Blood, he realized.

'God!' he yelled, and vaulted  wide in instant  evasion.  A  tiptoe,  then  the  same  bloody sole landed again, skidded, torqued sideways.  The  momentum drove  him facefirst  into the wall and then sent him tumbling around the bend.

His headlamp flew off. The  light blinked out. He came to a halt against cold stone.

It  was like being clubbed  unconscious.  The  blackness  stopped  all  control,  all  motion, all  place  in  the  world.  Ike  even  quit  breathing.  As  much  as  he  wanted  to  hide  from consciousness, he was wide awake.