The Descent

Abruptly  the thought of lying still became  unbearable.  He  rolled  away  from  the  wall and let gravity  guide  him  onto  his  hands  and  knees.  Hands  bare,  he  felt  about  for  the headlamp  in  widening  circles,  torn  between  disgust  and  terror  at  the  viscous  curd layering  the  floor.  He  could  even  taste  the  stuff,  cold  upon  his  teeth.  He  pressed  his lips shut,  but  the  smell  was  gamy,  and  there  was  no  game  in  here,  only  his  people.  It was a monstrous thought.

At last he snagged  the  headlamp  by  its  connecting  wire,  rocked  back  onto  his  heels, fumbled with the switch. There  was a sound, distant or near, he couldn't tell.  'Hey?'  he challenged. He paused, listened, heard nothing.

Laboring against his own panic,  Ike  flipped  the  switch  on  and  off  and  on.  It  was  like trying  to  spark  a  fire  with  wolves  closing  in.  The  sound  again.  He  caught  it  this  time. Nails scratching rock? Rats? The  blood scent surged. What was going on here?

He  muttered  a  curse  at  the  dead  light.  With  his  fingertips  he  stroked  the  lens, searching  for  cracks.  Gently  he  shook  it,  dreading  the  rattle  of  a  shattered  lightbulb. Nothing.

Was  blind,  but  now  I  see ....  The  words  drifted  into  his  consciousness,  and  he  was uncertain  whether  they  were  a  song  or  his  memory  of  it.  The  sound  came  more distinctly.  'Twas  grace  that  taught  my  heart  to  fear. It  washed  in  from  far  away,  a woman's  lush  voice  singing  'Amazing  Grace.'  Something  about   its  brave   syllables suggested less a hymn than an anthem. A last stand.

It  was Kora's voice.  She  had  never  sung  for  him.  But  this  was  she.  Singing  for  them all, it seemed.

Her  presence,  even  in  the  far  depths,  steadied  him.  'Kora,'  he  called.  On  his  knees, eyes  wide in the utter  blackness,  Ike  disciplined  himself.  If  it  wasn't  the  switch  or  the bulb... he tried the wire. Tight at the ends, no lacerations. He opened  the  battery  case, wiped his fingers clean and dry,  and carefully  removed  each  slender  battery,  counting in  a  whisper,  'One,  two,  three,  four.'  One  at  a  time,  he  cleaned  the  tips  against  his T-shirt,  then  swabbed  each  contact  in  the  case  and  replaced  the  batteries.  Head  up, head down, up, down. There  was an order to things. He obeyed.

He snapped the plate back onto the case,  drew  gently  at  the  wire,  palmed  the  lamp. And flicked the switch.

Nothing.

The  scratch-scratch  noise  rose  louder.  It  seemed  very  close.  He  wanted  to  bolt away,  any direction, any cost, just flee.

'Stick,' he instructed himself. He said it out loud. It  was  something  like  a  mantra,  his own,  something  he  told  himself  when  the  walls  got  steep  or  the  holds  thin  or  the storms mean. Stick , as in hang. As in no surrender.

Ike  clenched  his  teeth.  He  slowed  his  lungs.  Again  he  removed  the  batteries.  This time  he  replaced  them  with  the  batch  of  nearly  dead  batteries  in  his  pocket.  He flipped the switch.

Light. Sweet  light. He breathed  it in.

In an abattoir of white stone.

The  image of butchery  lasted one instant. Then his light flickered out.

'No!' he cried in the darkness, and shook the headlamp.

The  light  came  on  again,  what  little  there  was  of  it.  The  bulb  glowed  rusty  orange,

grew  weaker,   then   suddenly   brightened,   relatively   speaking.   It   was   less   than  a quarter-strength.  More than enough. Ike  took  his  eyes  from  the  little  bulb  and  dared to look around once more.

The  passageway  was a horror.

In  his  small  circle  of  jaundiced  light,  Ike  stood  up.  He  was  very  careful.  All  around, the walls were  zebra-striped  with crimson streaks.  The  bodies had been  arranged  in  a row.

You  don't  spend  years  in  Asia  without  seeing  a  fair  share  of  the  dead.  Many  times, Ike  had sat by  the burning ghats at  Pashaputanath,  watching  the  fires  peel  flesh  from bone.  And  no  one  climbed  the  South  Col  of  Everest  these  days  without  passing  a certain  South  African  dreamer,  or  on  the  north  side  a  French   gentleman   sitting silently by  the trail at 28,000 feet. And then there  had been that time the  king's  army opened  fire  on  Social  Democrats  revolting  in  the  streets  of  Kathmandu  and  Ike  had gone  to  Bir  Hospital  to  identify  the  body  of  a  BBC  cameraman  and  seen  the  corpses hastily lined side by  side on the tile floor. This reminded him of that.

It  rose in him again, the  silence  of  birds.  And  how,  for  days  afterward,  the  dogs  had limped  about  from  bits  of  glass  broken  out  of  windows.  And  above  all  else,  how,  in being dragged, a human body gets  undressed.