The Descent

They  continued  through  the  labyrinth,  Ike  leading  his  hostage  by  the  rope.  Like barbarians   approaching  Rome,  they   passed   increasingly   sophisticated   landmarks. They  walked  beneath  eroded  archways  carved  from  the  bedrock.  The  trail  became  a tangle  of  once  smoothly  laid  pavers  buckled  by  eons  of  earth  movement.  Along  one untouched  portion,  the  path  lay  perfectly  flat,  and  they  walked  for  half  a  mile  upon  a mosaic of luminous cobbles.

Among  these  fins  of  rock,  the  thunder  of  waterfalls  was  muted.  The  canyon  floor would have  been  flooded  if  not  for  canals  that  cleverly  channeled  the  water  along  the sides of their path. Here and there  the acequias  had  broken  down  with  time  and  they waded  through  water.  For  the  most  part  the  system  was  intact.  Occasionally  they heard music,  and  it  was  water  passing  through  the  remains  of  instruments  that  were built into the walkway.

They  were  getting  close  to  the  center,  Ike  could  tell  from  the  girl's  apprehension. Also, they  reached a long bank of human mummies bracketing the trail.

Ike  and the girl made their way  between  them. What was left of Walker and his men

had  been  tied  standing  up,  thirty  of  them.  Their  thighs  and  biceps  had  been  ritually mutilated.  They  looked  barrel-chested  because  their  abdomens  had  been  emptied. The  eyes  had been scooped out  and  replaced  with  marble  orbs,  round  and  white.  The stone  eyes  were  slightly  too  large,  which  gave  them  a  ferocious,  bulging,  insect  stare. Calvino  was  there,  and  the  black  lieutenant,  and  finally  Walker's  head.  As  an  act  of contempt, they  had laced Walker's dried heart  into his beard for all  to  see.  If  they  had respected  him as an enemy,  it would have  been eaten on the spot.

Ike  was  glad  now  that  he'd  starved  his  prisoner.  At  full  strength,  she  would  have presented  a  serious  challenge  to  his  stealth.  As  it  was,  she  could  barely  walk  a  mile without resting. Soon she could feast and be free, he hoped. And Ali – the  visitor  in  his dreams each night – would be restored  to him.

On January 23, the girl attempted  to drown herself in  one  of  the  canals,  leaping  into the water  and wedging her body under an outcrop. Ike  had to drag her out,  and  it  was almost too late. He cut the rope gag and  finally  got  the  water  out  of  her  lungs.  She  lay limp by  his knees, defeated  and ill. Exhausted  by  their battle, both rested.

Somewhat  later  she  began  singing.  Her  eyes  were  still  closed.  It  was  a  song  for  her own  comfort,  sung  softly,  in  hadal,  with  the  clicks  and  intonations  of  a  private  verse. At  first  Ike  had  no  idea  what  it  was,  her  singing  was  so  small.  Then  he  heard,  and  it was like being shot through the heart.

Ike  rocked back on his heels, disbelieving. He listened more closely. The  words  were too  intricate   for  his  small  lexicon.  But  the   tune   was   there,   scarcely   a   whisper:

'Amazing Grace.'

The  song sent him reeling. It  was familiar to her, and beloved, he could tell, as  it  was to  him.  This  was  the  last  thing  he  had  ever  heard  from  Kora,  her  singing  as  she  sank into the abyss  beneath  Tibet  so  many  years  ago.  It  was  the  very  anthem  he  had  cast himself  into  the  darkness  for.  I  once  was  lost,  but  now  am  found  /  Was  blind,  but now I see.  She had put her own words to it, but the tune was identical.

He had taken  Isaac's claim of fatherhood to be the  truth,  but  saw  no  resemblance  to that beast  at all. Prompted by  the song, Ike  now recognized Kora's features  in  the  girl. Ike  groped  for  other  explanations.  Perhaps  the  girl  had  been  taught  the  melody  by Kora. Or Ali had  sung  it  to  her.  But  for  days,  he  had  been  carrying  a  vague,  troubling sense of already  knowing her.

There  was  something  about  her  cheekbones  and  forehead,  the  way  that  jaw  thrust forward  in  moments  of  obstinacy,  and  the  general  length  of  her  body.  Other  details drew his attention, too. Could it really  be?  So  much  was  the  image  of  her  mother.  But so much was not, her eyes,  the shape of her hands, that jaw.

Wearily she opened her eyes.  He  had  not  seen  Kora  in  them  because  they  were  not Kora's  turquoise  eyes.  Maybe  he  was  wrong.  And  yet  the  eyes  were  familiar.  Then  it struck  him. She had his eyes.  This was his own daughter.

Ike  sagged  against  the  wall.  Her  age  was  right.  The  color  of  her  hair.  He  compared their  hands,  and  she  had  his  same  long  fingers,  his  same  nails.  'God,'  he  whispered. What now?

'Ma. You. Where,' he said in his fractured  hadal.