The Descent

'Isaac?'  asked  Darlene  from  the  assembly  line  of  coffee  makers.  They  had  stopped what they  were  doing to listen to him.

Ike  ran  his  finger  from  nipple  to  nipple.  The  declaration  was  clear.  Partially  clear.  I

am Isaac , it said, followed by In my exile/In my agony of Light.

'See these  numbers?' said Ike.  'I figure this must be a  serial  number.  And  10/03/23

could be his birthday,  right?'

'Nineteen twenty-three?'  someone asked. Their  disappointment  verged  on  childlike. Seventy-five  years  old evidently  didn't qualify as a genuine antique.

'Sorry,'  he  said,  then  continued.  'See  this  other  date  here?'  He  brushed  aside  what remained of the pubic patch. '4/7/44. The  day  of his shoot-down, I'm guessing.'

'Shoot-down?'

'Or crash.'

They  were  bewildered.  He  started  over,  this  time  telling  them  the  story  he  was piecing together.  'Look at him. Once upon a time, he was  a  kid.  Twenty-one  years  old. World  War  II  was  on.  He  signed  up  or  got  drafted.  That's  the  RAF  tattoo.  They  sent him to India. His job was to fly the Hump.'

'Hump?'  someone  echoed.  It  was  Bernard.  He  was  furiously  tapping  the  news  into his laptop.

'That's what pilots called it when they  flew supplies to bases  in  Tibet  and  China,'  Ike said.  'The  Himalayan  chain.  Back  then,  this  whole  region  was  part  of  an  Oriental Western Front. It  was a rough go. Every  now and then  a  plane  went  down.  The  crews rarely  survived.'

'A fallen angel,' sighed Owen. He wasn't alone. They  were  all becoming infatuated.

'I  don't  see  how  you've  drawn  all  that  from  a  couple  of  strands  of  numbers,'  said Bernard.  He  aimed  his  pencil  at  Ike's  latter  set  of  numbers.  'You  call  that  the  date  of his  shoot-down.  Why  not  the  date  of  his  marriage,  or  his  graduation  from  Oxford,  or the date he lost his virginity?  What  I  mean  is,  this  guy's  no  kid.  He  looks  forty.  If  you ask  me,  he  wandered  away  from  some  scientific  or  mountain-climbing  expedition within  the  last  couple  years.   He  sure   as  snow  didn't  die  in  1944   at   the   age   of twenty-one.'

'I  agree,'  Ike  said,  and  Bernard  looked  instantly  deflated.  'He  refers  to  a  period  of captivity.  A long stretch.  Darkness. Starvation. Hard labor.' The  sacred deep.

'A prisoner of war. Of the Japanese?'

'I don't know about that,' Ike  said.

'Chinese Communists, maybe?'

'Russians?' someone else tried.

'Nazis?'

'Drug lords?'

'Tibetan bandits!'

The  guesses weren't  so wild. Tibet  had long been a chessboard for the Great  Game.

'We saw you checking the map. You were  looking for something.'

'Origins,' Ike  said. 'A starting point.'

'And?'

With  both  hands,  Ike  smoothed  down  the  thigh  hair  and  exposed  another  set  of numbers. 'These  are map coordinates.'

'For where  he got shot down. It  makes perfect  sense.' Bernard was with him now.

'You mean his airplane might be somewhere  close?'

Mount Kailash was forgotten. The  prospect of a crash site thrilled them.

'Not exactly,'  Ike  said.

'Spit it out, man. Where did he go down?'

Here's where  it got a little fantastic. Mildly, Ike  said, 'East of here.'

'How far east?'

'Just above  Burma.'

'Burma!'  Bernard  and  Cleopatra  registered  the  incredibility.  The  rest  sat  mute, perplexed  within their own ignorance.

'On the north side of the range,' said Ike,  'slightly inside Tibet.'

'But that's over  a thousand miles away.'

'I know.'

It  was  well  past  midnight.  Between  their  cafe  lattes  and  adrenaline,  sleep   was unlikely  for  hours  to  come.  They  sat  erect  or  stood  in  the  cave  while  the  enormity  of this character's journey sank in.

'How did he get here?'

'I don't know.'

'I thought you said he was a prisoner.'

Eke exhaled cautiously. 'Something like that.'

'Something?'

'Well.' He cleared his throat softly. 'More like a pet.'

'What!'

'I don't know. It's  a phrase he  uses,  right  here:  "favored  cosset."  That's  a  pet  calf  or something, isn't it?'

'Ah, get out, Ike.  If you don't know, don't make it up.' He hunched. It  sounded like crazed drivel to him, too.

'Actually  it's  a  French  term,'  a  voice  interjected.  It  was  Cleo,  the  librarian.  'Cosset means lamb, not calf. Ike's  right, though. It  does refer  to a pet. One that is fondled and enjoyed.'

'Lamb?'  someone  objected,  as  if  Cleo  –  or  the  dead  man,  or  both  –  were  insulting their pooled intelligence.

'Yes,'   Cleo   answered,   'lamb.   But   that   bothers   me   less   than   the   other   word,

"favored."  That's  a pretty  provocative  term,  don't you think?' By the group's silence, they  clearly had not thought about it.

'This?'  she  asked  them,  and  almost  touched  the  body  with  her  fingers.  'This  is favored?  Favored  over  what  others?  And  above  all,  favored  by  whom?  In  my  mind, anyway,  it suggests some sort of master.'