The Descent

Of all the obvious insults, the one that stood out most was his  partial  castration.  One of  the  man's  testicles  had  been  yanked  away,  not  cut,  not  even  bitten  –  the  edges  of the  tear  were  too  ragged  –  and  the  wound  had  been  cauterized  with  fire.  The  burn scars  radiated  out  from  his  groin  in  a  hairless  keloid  starburst.  Ike  couldn't  get  over the raw scorn of it. Man's tenderest  part, mutilated, then doctored with a torch.

'Look,' someone whimpered. 'What did they  do to his nose?'

Midcenter  on  the  battered  face  was  a  ring  unlike  anything  he'd  ever  seen  before.

This  was  no  silvery  Gen-X  body  piercing.  The  ring,  three  inches  across  and  crusted with  blood,  was  plugged  deep  in  his  septum,  almost  up  into  the  skull.  It  hung  to  his bottom  lip,  as  black  as  his  beard.  It  was,  thought  Ike,  utilitarian,  large  enough  to control cattle.

Then  he  got  a  little  closer  and  his  repulsion  altered.  The  ring  was  brutal.  Blood  and smoke and filth had coated  it  almost  black,  but  Ike  could  plainly  see  the  dull  gleam  of solid gold.

Ike  turned to his people  and  saw  nine  pairs  of  frightened  eyes  beseeching  him  from beneath hoods and visors. Everyone  had their lights on now. No one was arguing.

'Why?' wept  one of the women.

A  couple  of  the  Buddhists  had  reverted  to  Christianity  and  were  on  their  knees, crossing themselves.  Owen was rocking from side to side, murmuring Kaddish.

Kora came close. 'You beautiful bastard.' She giggled. Ike  started.  She  was  talking  to the corpse.

'What did you say?'

'We're  off  the  hook.  They're  not  going  to  hit  us  up  for  refunds  after  all.  We  don't have  to provide their holy mountain anymore. They've  got something better.'

'Let up, Kora. Give  them some credit. They're  not ghouls.'

'No? Look around, Ike.'

Sure  enough,  cameras  were  stealing  into  view  in  ones  and  twos.  There  was  a  flash, then another. Their  shock gave  way  to tabloid voyeurism.

In    no    time    the    entire    cast    was    blazing    away    with    eight-hundred-dollar point-and-shoots.  Motor  drives  made  an  insect  hum.  The  lifeless  flesh  flared  in  their artificial  lightning.  Ike  moved  out  of  frame,  and  welcomed  the  corpse  like  a  savior.  It was unbelievable. Famished, cold, and lost, they  couldn't have  been happier.

One of the  women  had  climbed  the  stepping-stones  and  was  kneeling  to  one  side  of the nude, her head tilted sideways.

She looked down at them. 'But he's one of us,' she said.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Us. You and me. A white man.'

Someone else framed it in less vulgar terms.  'A Caucasian male?'

'That's crazy,' someone objected. 'Here? In the middle of nowhere?'

Ike  knew she was right. The  white flesh, the hair on its forearms  and  chest,  the  blue eyes,  the  cheekbones  so  obviously  non-Mongoloid.  But  the  woman  wasn't  pointing  to his   hairy   arms   or   blue   eyes   or   slender   cheekbones.   She   was   pointing   at   the hieroglyphics painted on his thigh. Ike  aimed his light at the other thigh. And froze. The  text  was in English. Modern English. Only upside down.

It  came  to  him.  The  body  hadn't  been  written  upon  after  death.  The  man  had written  upon  himself  in  life.  He'd  used  his  own  body  as  a  blank  page.  Upside  down. He'd inscribed his journal notes on the only parchment  guaranteed  to  travel  with  him. Now Ike  saw how the lettering wasn't just painted on, but crudely  tattooed.

Wherever  he  could  reach,  the  man  had  jotted  bits  of  testimony.  Abrasions  and  filth obscured some of the writing, particularly below the knees and around his  ankles.  The rest  of  it  could  easily  have  been  dismissed  as  random  and  lunatic.  Numbers  mixed with  words  and  phrases,  especially  on  the  outer  edges  of  each  thigh,  where  he'd apparently  decided  there  was  extra  room  for  new  entries.  The  clearest  passage  lay across his lower stomach.

'"All the world will be in love with night,"' Ike  read aloud,'"and pay  no worship  to  the garish sun."'

'Gibberish,' snapped Owen, badly spooked.

'Bible talk,' Ike  sympathized.

'No, it's not,' piped up Kora. 'That's not from the Bible. It's  Shakespeare.  Romeo  and

Juliet.'

Ike  felt  the  group's  repugnance.  Indeed,  why  would  this  tortured  creature  choose for  his  obituary  the  most  famous  love  story  ever  written?  A  story  about  opposing clans. A tale of love transcending violence.  The  poor  stiff  had  been  out  of  his  gourd  on thin  air  and  solitude.  It  was  no  coincidence  that  in  the  highest  monasteries  on  earth, men endlessly obsessed about delusion. Hallucinations were  a given up  here.  Even  the Dalai Lama joked about it.

'And  so,'  Ike  said,  'he's  white.  He  knew  his  Shakespeare.  That  makes  him  no  older than two or three  hundred years.'