The Descent

In  their  listlessness,  the  hadals  imparted  a  sense  of  having  reached  the  end  of  the earth.  It  had  always  been  a  mystery  to  Ali  why  refugees  –  no  matter  what  race  – stopped where  they  did, why  they  didn't keep  going on. There  was  a  fine  line  between a refugee  and  a  pioneer;  and  it  had  to  do  with  momentum  once  you  crossed  a  certain border. Why had these  hadals not continued deeper?  she wondered.

They  climbed  a  hill  in  the  center  of  the  city.  At  the  top,  the  remnants  of  a  building stood  above  the  amberlike  flowstone.  Ali  was  led  into  a  hallway  that  spiraled  within the ruins. Her prison cell was a library. They  left her alone.

Ali looked around, astounded by  the treasury.  This was to be her hell, then, a library of  undeciphered  text?  If  so,  they'd  matched  the  wrong  punishment  with  her.  They had left a clay lamp  for  her  like  those  Ike  had  lit.  A  small  flame  twitched  at  the  snout of oil.

Ali  started  to  explore  by  its  light,  but  wasn't  careful  enough  carrying  it,  and  the flame  guttered  out.  She  stood  in  the  darkness,  filled  with  uncertainty,  scared  and lonely.  Suddenly  the  journey  caught  up  with  her,  and  she  simply  lay  down  and  fell asleep.

When Ali woke, hours later, a second lamp was flickering in the room's far corner. As she approached the flame, a figure rose against the wall, wrapped in  rags  and  a  burlap cloak. 'Who are you?' a man's voice demanded. He sounded weary  and spiritless,  like  a ghost. Ali rejoiced. Clearly he was a fellow prisoner. She wasn't alone!

'Who are you?' she asked, and folded the man's hood back from his face. It  was beyond belief. 'Thomas!' she cried.

'Ali!' he grated. 'Can it be?'

She embraced him, and felt the bones of his back and rib cage.

The  Jesuit had the  same  furrowed  face  as  when  she'd  first  met  him  at  the  museum in New York.  But his brow had  thickened  and  he  had  weeks  of  grizzled  beard,  and  his hair  was  long  and  gray  and  thick  with  filth.  Crusted  blood  matted  his  hair.  His  eyes were  unchanged. They'd  always  been deeply  traveled.

'What  have  they  done  to  you?'  she  asked.  'How  long  have  you  been  here?  Why  are you in this place?'

She  helped  the  old  man  sit,  and  brought  water  for  him  to  drink.  He  rested  against the wall and kept  patting her hand, overjoyed.  'It's the Lord's will,' he kept  repeating. For  hours  they  exchanged  their  stories.  He  had  come  looking  for  her,  Thomas  said, once  news  of  the  expedition's  disappearance  reached  the  surface.  'Your  benefactor, January,  was  tireless  in  reminding  me  of  the  Beowulf  group's  responsibilities  to  you. Finally I decided there  was only one thing to do. Search for you myself.'

'But that's absurd,' said Ali. A man his age, and all alone.

'And yet,  look,' said Thomas.

He'd  descended  from  a  tunnel  in  Javanese  ruins,  praying  against  the  darkness, guessing  at  the  expedition's  trajectory.  'I  wasn't  very  good  at  it,'  he  confessed.  'In  no time I got lost. My  batteries  wore down. I ran out  of  food.  When  the  hadals  found  me, it  was  more  an  act  of  charity  than  capture.  Who  can  say  why  they  didn't  kill  me?  Or you?'

Ever  since,  Thomas  had  languished  among  these  mounds  of  text.  'I  thought  they'd leave  my  bones here among the books,' he said. 'But now you're here!'

In turn,  Ali  told  of  the  expedition's  sad  demise.  She  related  Ike's  self-immolation  in

the hadal fortress.  'But are you sure he died?' Thomas asked.

'I saw it myself.' Her voice caught. Thomas expressed  his condolences.

'It was God's will,' Ali recovered.  'And it was His will  that  led  us  here,  to  this  library. Now  we  shall  attempt  to  accomplish  the  work  we  were  meant  for.  Together  we  may come closer to the original word.'

'You are a remarkable  woman,' Thomas said.

They   set   about   the   task   with   acute   focus,   grouping   texts    and   comparing observations. At first delicately, then avidly, they  examined the books, leaves,  codices, scrolls,  and  tablets.  None  of  it  was  shelved  neatly.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  mass  of writings  had  accumulated  here  like  a  pile  of  snowflakes.  Setting  the  lamp  to  one  side, they  burrowed into the largest pile.

The  material on  top  was  the  most  current,  some  in  English  or  Japanese  or  Chinese. The  deeper  they  worked,  the  older  the  writings  were.  Pages  disintegrated  in  Ali's fingers. On others, the ink had foxed through layer  after  layer  of writings. Some  books were  locked  tight  with  mineral  seep.  But  much  of  it  yielded  lettering  and  glyphs. Luckily the room was spacious,  because  they  soon  had  a  virtual  tree  of  languages  laid out on the floor, pile by  pile of books.