The Descent

His  light  ebbed   to  brown.  Ike   forced   himself  to  rifle  the   pockets   of  his   dead passengers. Surely  someone  had  batteries  or  another  flashlight  or  some  food.  But  the pockets had been slashed and emptied.

The  frenzy  of  it  struck  him.  Why  shred  the  pockets  and  even  the  flesh  beneath them?   This   was   no   ordinary   robbery.   Stopping   down   his   loathing,   he   tried   to summarize  the  incident:  a  crime  of  rage,  to  judge  by  the  mutilations,  yet  a  crime  of want, to judge by  the thievery.  Again it made no sense.

His  light  blinked  out  and  the  blackness  jumped  up  around  him.  The  weight  of  the mountain  seemed  to  press  down.  A  breeze  Ike  had  not  felt  before  brought  to  mind vast  mineral  respiration,  as  if  a  juggernaut  were  waking.  It  carried  an  undertone  of gases, not noxious but rare,  distant.

And  then  his  imagination  became  unnecessary.  That  scratching  sound  of  nails  on stone  returned.  This  time  there  was  no  question  of  its  reality.  It  was  approaching from the upper passageway.  And this time Kora's voice was part  of the mix.

She  sounded  in  ecstasy,  very  near  to  orgasm.  Or  like  his  sister  that  time,  in  that instant just as her infant daughter  came  out  of  her  womb.  That,  Ike  conceded,  or  this was  a  sound  of  agony  so  deep  it  verged  on  the  forbidden.  The  moan  or  low  or  animal petition, whatever  it was, begged for an ending.

He  almost  called  to  her.  But  that  other  sound  kept  him  mute.  The  climber  in  him had  registered  it  as  fingernails  scraping  for  purchase,  but  the  torn  flesh  lying  in  the darkness  now  evoked  claws  or  talons.  He  resisted  the  logic,  then  embraced  it  in  a hurry.  Fine. Claws. A beast. Yeti.  This was it. What now?

The  dreadful opera of woman and beast  drew  closer. Fight or flight? Ike  asked himself.

Neither.  Both  were  futile.  He  did  what  he  had  to  do,  the  survivor's  trick.  He  hid  in plain  sight.  Like  a  mountain  man  pulling  himself  into  a  womb  of  warm  buffalo  meat, Ike  lay down among the bodies on the cold floor and dragged the dead upon him.

It  was  an  act  so  heinous  it  was  sin.  In  lying  down  between  the  corpses  in  utter blackness  and  in  bringing  a  smooth  naked  thigh  across  his  and  draping  a  cold  arm across his chest, Ike  felt the weight of damnation.  In  disguising  himself  as  dead,  he  let

go part  of his soul. Fully sane,  he  gave  up  all  aspects  of  his  life  in  order  to  preserve  it. His one anchor to believing this was happening to  him  was  that  he  could  not  believe  it was happening to him. 'Dear God,' he whispered.

The  sounds became louder.

There  was only one last choice to make: to keep  open or to close his eyes  to sights he could not see anyway.  He closed them.

Kora's smell reached him upon that subterranean  breeze.  He heard her groan.

Ike  held  his  breath.  He'd  never  been  afraid  like  this,  and  his  cowardice  was   a revelation.

They  – Kora and her captor – came around the corner.  Her  breathing  was  tortured. She was dying. Her pain was epic, beyond words.

Ike  felt tears  running  down  his  face.  He  was  weeping  for  her.  Weeping  for  her  pain. Weeping,  too,  for  his  lost  courage.  To  lie  unmoving  and  not  give  aid.  He  was  no different  from  those  climbers  who  had  left  him  for  dead  once  upon  a  mountain.  Even as he inhaled and exhaled in tiny beadlike drops and listened to his heart's  hammering pump and felt the dead close him in their  embrace,  he  was  giving  Kora  up  for  himself. Moment by  moment he was forsaking her. Damned, he was damned.

Ike  blinked  at  his  tears,  despised  them,  reviled  his  self-pity.  Then  he  opened  his eyes  to take  it like a man. And almost choked on his surprise.

The  blackness  was  full,  but  no  longer  infinite.  There  were  words  written  in  the darkness. They  were  fluorescent and coiled like snakes and they  moved.

It  was him.

Isaac had resurrected.

Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore... and you waited with beating heart for something to happen?

– HELEN KELLER, The Story of My Life

2

ALI

North of Askam, the Kalahari Desert, South Africa

1995

'Mother?'

The  girl's voice entered  Ali's hut softly.

Here  was  how  ghosts  must  sing,  thought  Ali,  this  Bantu  lilt,  the  melody  searching melody. She looked up from her suitcase.

In  the  doorway  stood  a  Zulu  girl  with  the  frozen,  wide-eyed   grin  of  advanced leprosy: lips, eyelids, and nose eaten away.

'Kokie,' said Ali. Kokie Madiba. Fourteen  years  old. She was called a witch.