The Descent

'Oh,  child,'  January  whispered  happily,  and  Ali  laid  her   cheek   against   the   hair cropped short and gone white. She breathed  in the smell of her.

'The  guards  told  us  you've  been  here  an  hour,'  January  said,  then  spoke  to  a  tall man who had  trailed  behind  her.  'Isn't  it  what  I  predicted,  Thomas?  Always  charging out ahead of the cavalry,  ever  since she was a child. It's  not for nothing they  called  her Mustang Ali. She was a legend in Kerr  County. And you see how beautiful she is?'

'Rebecca,'  Ali  rebuked  her.  January  was  the  most  modest  woman  on  earth,  yet  the

worst  braggart.  Childless  herself,  she  had  adopted  several  orphans  over  the  years, and they  had all learned to endure these  explosions of pride.

'Oblivious,  I'm  telling  you,'  January  went  on.  'Never  looked  in  a  mirror.  And  when she entered  the convent, it was a dark day. Strong Texas  boys, she  had  them  weeping like widows under a  Goliad  moon.'  And  January,  too,  Ali  recalled  of  that  day.  She  had wept  while  she  drove,  apologizing  again  and  again  for  not  understanding  Ali's  calling. The  truth  was that Ali no longer understood it herself.

Thomas  stayed  out  of  it.  For  the  moment,  this  was  the  reunion  of  two  women,  and he  kept  himself  incidental.  Ali  acquired  him  with  a  single  glance.  He  was  a  tall,  rangy man  in  his  late  sixties,  with  a  scholar's  eyes  and  yet  a  hard-beaten  frame.  He  was unfamiliar  to  Ali,  and  though  he  was  not  wearing  a  collar,  she  knew  he  was  a  Jesuit: she had a sense for them. Perhaps it was their shared oddity.

'You must forgive me, Ali,' January said. 'I told you  this  would  be  a  private  meeting. But I've  brought some friends. Of necessity.'

Now Ali saw two  more  people  circulating  through  the  far  end  of  the  exhibit,  a  slight blind  man  attended  by  a  large  younger  man.  Several  more  elderly  people  entered  a far door.

'Blame  me,  this  was  my  doing.'  Thomas  offered  his  hand.  Apparently,  Ali's  reunion was at an end. She had thought the entire day  belonged to her  and  January,  but  there was business looming. 'I've  wanted to meet  you, more  than  you  know.  Especially  now, before you started  out for the Arabian sands.'

'Your sabbatical,' the senator said. 'I didn't think you'd mind my  telling.'

'Saudi  Arabia,'  Thomas  added.  'Not  the  most  comfortable  place  for  a  young  woman these days.  The sharia  is  in  full  enforcement  since  the  fundamentalists  took  over  and slaughtered the royal family. I don't envy  you, a full year  draped in abaya.'

'I'm not thrilled with the prospect of being dressed  like a nun,' Ali agreed.

January  laughed.  'I'll  never  understand  you,'  she  said  to  Ali.  'They  give  you  a  year off, and back you go to your  deserts.'

'But I know the feeling,' Thomas said. 'You must be eager  to see the glyphs.' Ali grew more  wary.  This  was  not  something  she  had  written  or  told  to  January.  To  January, Thomas    explained,    'The    southern    regions    near    Yemen    are    especially    rich. Proto-Semitic pictograms from the Saudis' ahl al-jahiliya, their Age of Ignorance.'

Ali  shrugged  as  if  it  were  common  enough  knowledge,  but  her  radar  was  up  now. The  Jesuit knew things about her. What more? Could he  know  of  her  other  reason  for this  year  away,  the  step  back  she  had  taken  from  her  final  vows?  It  was  a  hesitation the  order  took  seriously,  and  the  desert  was  as  much  a  stage  for  her  faith  as  for  her science. She wondered if the mother superior had sent this  man  covertly  to  guide  her, then  dismissed  the  thought.  They  would  never  dare.  It  was  her  choice  to  make,  not some Jesuit's.

Thomas seemed  to read her misgivings. 'You see, I've  followed  your  career,'  he  said.

'I've   dabbled   in  the   anthropology   of   linguistics   myself.   Your   work   on   Neolithic inscriptions and mother languages is – how to put this? – elegant beyond your  years.' He was being careful not to flatter  her, which was wise. She was not easily courted.

'I've  read  everything  I  could  find  by  you,'  he  said.  'Daring  stuff,  especially  for  an American.  Most  of  the  protolanguage  work  is  being  done  by  Russian  Jews  in  Israel. Eccentrics with nowhere to  go.  But  you're  young  and  have  opportunities  everywhere, yet  still you choose this radical inquiry. The  beginning of language.'

'Why  do  people  see  it  as  so  radical?'  Ali  asked.  He  had  spoken  to  her  heart.  'By finding our way  back to the first words, we  reach  back  to  our  own  genesis.  It  takes  us that much closer to the voice of God.'

There,  she thought. In all its naïveté.  The  core of her search, mind and soul.  Thomas seemed deeply  satisfied. Not that she needed to satisfy  him.