The Descent

(HarperCollins),  provided  the  basis  for  my  own  Shroud  chapter.  'Egil's  Bones,'  by Jesse L. Byock (Scientific American, January 1995),  provided me a  disease  to  go  with my  masks.  Unveiled:  Nuns  Talking, by  Mary  Loudon  (Templegate  Publishers),  gave me  a  peek  behind  the  veil.  Stephen  S.  Hall's Mapping  the  Next  Millennium  (Vintage) opened my  mind to  the  world  of  cartography.  Peter  Sloss,  of  the  Marine  Geology  and Geophysics    Computer    Graphics    at    the    National           Oceanic                                                                                          and            Atmospheric Administration,    generously    displayed    his    state-of-the-art  mapmaking.           Philip Lieberman's The  Biology and Evolution of  Language  (Harvard)  helped  me  backward

into  the  origins  of  speech,  as  did  Dr  Rende,  a  speech  language  pathologist  at  the University  of  Colorado.  Michael  D.  Coe's  Breaking  the  Maya  Code   (Thames   and Hudson),  David  Roberts's  'The  Decipherment  of  Ancient  Maya'  (Atlantic  Monthly, September   1991),   Colin   Renfrew's   'The   Origins   of   Indo-European   Languages'   ( Scientific American, October 1989), and especially Robert Wright's 'The Quest  for  the Mother  Tongue'  (Atlantic   Monthly,  April  1991)   gave   me  a  window  on  linguistic discovery.  'Unusual  Unity'  by  Stephen  Jay  Gould  (Natural  History,  April  1997)  and

'The African Emergence and Early Asian Dispersals of the Genus Homo' by  Roy Larick and  Russell  L.  Ciochon  (American   Scientist ,  November-December   1996)   got  my wheels  seriously  spinning  and  led  me  to  further  readings.  Cliff  Watts,  yet  another climber and friend, guided me to an  internet  article  on  prions,  by  Stanley  B.  Prusiner, and  gave  medical  advice  about  everything  from  altitude  to  vision.  Another  climber, Jim  Gleason,  tried  his  damnedest  to  keep  my  junk  science  to  a  minimum,  all  in  vain I'm  afraid  he'll  feel.  I  only  hope  that  my  plundering  and  mangling  of  fact  may  pave some amused diversion.

Early  on,  Graham  Henderson,  a  fellow  Tibet  traveler,  gave  my  journey  direction with  his  observations  about  The  Inferno.  Throughout,  Steve  Long  helped  map  the journey,  both  on  paper  and  in  countless  conversations.  Pam  Novotny  loaned  me  her Zen-like   patience   and  calm,  in  addition  to  editorial  assistance.   Angela   Thieman, Melissa  Ward,  and  Margo  Timmins  provided  constant  inspiration.  I  am  grateful  to Elizabeth  Crook,  Craig  Blockwick,  Arthur  Lindquist-Kliessler,  and  Cindy  Butler  for their crucial reminders of a light at the end of the tunnel.

Finally,  thank  you,  Barbara  and  Helena,  for  putting  up  with  the  chaos  that  finally came to order. Love  may  not conquer all, but happily it conquers us.

BOOK ONE

DISCOVERY

It is easy to go down into Hell...; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air – there's the rub....

– VIRGIL, Aeneid

1

IKE

The Himalayas,

Tibet Autonomous Region

1988

In the beginning was the word. Or words.

Whatever  these  were.

They  kept  their lights turned  off.  The  exhausted  trekkers  huddled  in  the  dark  cave and faced the peculiar writing. Scrawled  with  a  twig,  possibly,  dipped  in  liquid  radium or  some  other  radioactive  paint,  the  fluorescent   pictographs   floated  in  the   black recesses.  Ike  let  them  savor  the  distraction.  None  of  them  seemed  quite  ready  to focus on the storm beating against the mountainside outside.

With night descending and the trail erased  by  snow  and  wind  and  their  yak  herders in mutinous  flight  with  most  of  the  gear  and  food,  Ike  was  relieved  to  have  shelter  of any kind. He was still pretending for them that this was  part  of  their  trip.  In  fact  they were   off  the   map.  He'd  never   heard   of  this  hole-in-the-wall   hideout.   Nor   seen glow-in-the-dark  caveman graffiti.

'Runes,' gushed a knowing female voice. 'Sacred runes left by  a wandering monk.' The  alien  calligraphy  glowed  with  soft  violet  light  in  the  cave's  cold  bowels.  The luminous hieroglyphics reminded Ike  of  his  old  dorm  wall  with  its  black-light  posters. All  he  needed  was  a  lash  of  Hendrix  plundering  Dylan's  anthem,  say,  and  a  whiff  of plump Hawaiian red sinsemilla. Anything to  vanquish  the  howl  of  awful  wind. Outside in the  cold distance, a wildcat did growl...

'Those  are  no  runes,'  said  a  man.  'It's  Bonpo.'  A  Brooklyn  beat,  the  accent  meant Owen.  Ike  had  nine  clients  here,  only  two  of  them  male.  They  were  easy  to  keep straight.