The Descent

It  was becoming a  parlor  game.  Their  fear  was  shifting  to  morbid  delight.  Forensics as recreation.

'Who is this guy?'  one woman asked.

'A slave?'

'An escaped prisoner?'

Ike  said  nothing.  He  went  nose-to-nose  with  the  gaunt  face,  hunting  for  clues.  Tell your journey, he thought. Speak  your escape.  Who shackled  you with gold?  Nothing. The  marble eyes  ignored their curiosity. The  grimace enjoyed its voiceless riddles. Owen had joined them on the shelf, reading from the opposite shoulder. 'RAF.'

Sure enough, the left deltoid bore a  tattoo  with  the  letters  RAF  beneath  an  eagle.  It was right side up and of commercial quality. Ike  grasped the cold arm.

'Royal Air Force,' he translated.

The  puzzle  assembled.  It  even  half-explained  the  Shakespeare,  if  not  the  chosen lines.

'He was a pilot?' asked the Paris bob. She seemed  charmed.

'Pilot. Navigator. Bombardier.' Ike  shrugged. 'Who knows?'

Like  a  cryptographer,  he  bent  to  inspect  the  words  and  numbers  twining  the  flesh. Line  after  line,  he  traced  each  clue  to  its  dead  end.  Here  and  there  he  punctuated complete  thoughts  with  a  jab  of  his  fingertip.  The  trekkers  backed  away,  letting  him work through the cyphers.  He seemed  to know what he was doing.

Ike  circled  back  and  tried  a  string  in  reverse.  It  made  sense  this  time.  Yet  it  made no  sense.  He  got  out  his  topographical  map  of  the  Himalayan  chain  and  found  the longitude  and  latitude,  but  snorted  at  their  nexus.  No  way,  he  thought,  and  lifted  his gaze across the wreckage  of a human body. He looked back at the map. Could it be?

'Have some.' The  smell of  French-pressed  gourmet  coffee  made  him  blink.  A  plastic mug slid into view. Ike  glanced up. Kora's blue eyes  were  forgiving.  That  warmed  him more  than  the  coffee.  He  took  the  cup  with  murmured  thanks  and  realized  he  had  a terrific  headache.  Hours  had  passed.  Shadows  lay  pooled  in  the  deeper  cave  like  wet sewage.

Ike  saw  a  small  group  squatting  Neanderthal-style  around  a  small  Bluet  gas  stove, melting snow and brewing  joe.  The  clearest  proof  of  their  miracle  was  that  Owen  had broken  down  and  was  actually  sharing  his  private  stock  of  coffee.  There  was  one hand-grinding  the  beans  in  a  plastic  machine,  another  squeezing  the  filter  press,  yet another   grating   a   bit   of   cinnamon   on   top   of   each   cupful.   They   were   actually cooperating. For the first time in a month, Ike  almost liked them.

'You okay?'  Kora asked.

'Me?' It  sounded strange, someone asking after  his well-being. Especially her.

As  if  he  needed  any  more  to  ponder,  Ike  suspected  Kora  was  going  to  leave  him. Before  setting  off  from  Kathmandu,  she'd  announced  this  was  her  final  trek  for  the company. And since Himalayan High Journeys was  nothing  more  than  her  and  him,  it implied a larger  dissatisfaction.  He  would  have  minded  less  if  her  reason  was  another man, another country, better  profits, or higher risks. But her reason  was  him.  Ike  had broken her heart  because he was Ike,  full of dreams and childlike naïveté.  A  drifter  on life's  stream.  What  had  attracted  her  to  him  in  the  first  place  now  disturbed  her,  his lone  wolf/high  mountains  way.  She  thought  he  knew  nothing  about  the  way  people

really  worked,  like  this  notion  of  a  lawsuit,  and  maybe  there  was  some  truth  to  that. He'd  been  hoping  the  trek  would  somehow  bridge  their  gap,  that  it  would  draw  her back to the magic that drew  him. Over  the past two years  she'd  grown  weary,  though. Storms and bankruptcy  no longer spelled magic for her.

'I've  been  studying  this  mandala,'  she  said,  indicating  the  painted  circle  filled  with squirming  lines.  In  the  darkness,  its  colors  had  been  brilliant  and  alive.  In  their  light, the  drawing  was  bland.  'I've  seen  hundreds  of  mandalas,  but  I  can't  make  heads  or tails  out  of  this  one.  It  looks  like  chaos,  all  those  lines  and  squiggles.  It  does  seem  to have  a center, though.' She glanced up at the mummy, then at Ike's  notes.  'How  about you? Getting anywhere?'

He'd  drawn   the   oddest   sketch,   pinning  words   and  text   in  cartoon  balloons  to different positions on the body and linking them with a mess of arrows and lines.

Ike  sipped at the coffee. Where to begin? The  flesh declared a maze, both in  the  way it  told  the  story  and  in  the  story  it  told.  The  man  had  written  his  evidence  as  it occurred to him, apparently,  adding and revising and contradicting himself,  wandering with his truths.  He  was  like  a  shipwrecked  diarist  who  had  suddenly  found  a  pen  and couldn't quit filling in old details.

'First of all,' he began, 'his name was Isaac.'