The Descent

They  looked to  the  hole  of  spouting  water,  and  a  shape  sprang  through  the  torrent. It  was  long  and  black  with  mottled  gray,  Ike's  empty  sea  kayak.  Next  appeared  his paddle. Ike  came last.

He  held  onto  the  gunnel  of  his  kayak,  half  cooked.  When  his  strength  returned,  he emptied  the  craft  of  water  and  got  himself  in  and  came  paddling  down  to  them.  He was burned, but whole, right down to his shotgun.

It  had  been  the  closest  of  calls,  and  he  knew  it.  He  took  a  deep  breath,  shook  the water  from his hair, and did his best  to stop down the big grin. He looked each  of  them in the eye,  last of all Ali.

'What are we waiting for?' he said.

Many hours later, the expedition finished its marathon beneath the  seamount.  They pulled  onto  a  shoal  of  green  basalt  in  cooling  air.  There  was  a  small  stream  of  clear water.

The  two lucky  soldiers  were  returned  to  Walker,  naked.  Their  gratitude  to  Ike  was obvious. The  colonel's shame at abandoning them was like a dangerous cloud.

For  the  next  twenty  hours,  people  slept.  When  they  woke,  Ike  had  stacked  some rocks to pool the stream  for them to drink. Ali had never  seen him so happy.

'You made them wait,' he said to her.

In  full  view  of  the  others,  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  Maybe  that  was  the  safest  way he could think to do it. She went along with it, even  blushing.

By  now,  Ali  was  beginning  to  recognize  the  archangel  inside  Ike's  sausage  skin  of scars and  wild  tattooing.  The  more  she  trusted  him,  the  more  she  did  not.  He  had  an esprit,  an  air  of  immortality.  She  could  see  how  each  brush  with  great  risk  would serve  to feed it, and how eventually  even  a kiss might destroy  him.

Naturally, they  called the river  Styx.

The  slow current  lofted them. Some  days  they  barely  dipped  a  paddle,  drifting  with the  flow.  Hundreds  of  miles  of  shoreline  stretched  by  with  elastic  monotony.  They named  some  of  the  more  prominent  landmarks,  and  Ali  jotted  the  names  down  to enter  onto her maps each night.

After  a  month  of  acclimation,  their  circadian  rhythms  were  finally  synched  to  the changeless  night.  Sleep  resembled  hibernation,  profound  crashes  into  dream,  REMs practically  shaking  them.  Initially  they  lapsed  into  ten-hour  stretches,  then  twelve. Each  time  they  closed  their  eyes,  it  seemed  they  slept  longer.  Finally  their  bodies settled  on a communal norm: fifteen hours. After  that  much  sleep,  they  would  usually be good for a thirty-hour  'day.'

Ike  had  to  teach  them  how  to  pace  such  a  long  waking  cycle,  otherwise  they  would have  destroyed  themselves  with  exhaustion.  It  took  stronger  muscles  and  thicker calluses and constant attention  to  respiration  and  food  to  stay  mobile  for  twenty-four hours or more at a time.

If not for their watches, they  would have  sworn their biological clocks were  the same as on the surface. There  were  many  advantages  to  this  new  regimen.  They  were  able to  cover  vastly  more  territory.  Also,  without  the  sun  and  moon  to  cue  them,  they began to live, in a sense, longer.

Time  dilated.  You  could  finish  a  five-hundred-page  novel  in  a  single  sitting.  They developed  a  craving  for  Beethoven  and  Pink  Floyd  and  James  Joyce,  anything  of magnum-opus length.

Ike  tried  to  instill  in  them   new   awareness.   The   shapes   of  rocks,   the   taste   of minerals, the holes of silence in a cavern:  memorize it  all,  he  said.  They  humored  him. He knew his stuff, which took the burden  off  them.  It  was  his  job,  not  theirs.  He  went on trying. Someday you won't have  your  instruments and maps, he said. Or  me.  You'll

need to know  where  you  are  with  your  fingertips,  by  an  echo  receding.  Some  tried  to emulate  his  quiet  manner,  others  his  unspoken  authority  with  things  violent.  They liked how he spooked Walker's solemn gunmen.

That  he had been a mountaineer was obvious in his  economy  and  care.  From  his  big stone  walls  in  Yosemite  and  his  Himalayan  mountains,  Ike  had  learned  to  take  the journey  one  inch  at  a  time.  Long  before  the  underworld  ever  came  into  his  life,  Ali realized,  it  was   the   climbing  that   had  shaped   Ike's   tactile   perceptions.   It   came naturally to him  to  read  the  world  through  his  fingertips,  and  Ali  liked  to  think  it  had given him an edge even  on his  first  accidental  descent  from  Tibet.  The  irony  was  that his talent for ascent had become his vehicle for the abyss.