The Descent

'The question is,' said Vera,  'does this overall decline reflect in all the hadals?'

'Satan,' said January. 'Above all, does it affect him?'

'Without  having  met  him,  I  can't  say  for  sure.  But  there   is  always   a  dynamic between  a  people  and  their  leader.  He's  a  mirror  image  of  them.  Kind  of  like  God  in reverse.  We're an image of Him? How about Him as an image of us?'

'You're saying the leader isn't leading? That  he's following his benighted masses?'

'Of  course,'   said  Mustafah.   'Even   the   most   isolated  despot   reflects   his   people. Otherwise  he's  just  a  madman.'  He  gestured  at  the  space  around  them.  'No  different from the knight who built this castle on top of a mountain in a rocky  wilderness.'

'Maybe  that's  what  he  is,'  said  Vera.  'Isolated.  Alienated.  Segregated  by  his  genius. Wandering  the  world,  above  and  below,  cut  off  from  his  own  kind,  trying  to  figure some way  into our kind.'

'Are we so attractive  to them?' January wondered.

'Why  not?  What  if  our  light  and  civilization  and  intellectual  and  physical  health  is their  salvation,  so  to  speak?  What  if  we  represent  paradise  to  them  –  or  him  –  the way  their darkness  and savagery  and ignorance represent  our hell?'

'And Satan's tired of being Satan?' asked Mustafah.

'But  of  course,'  Parsifal  said.  'What  could  be  more  in  keeping?  The  ultimate  traitor. The  Judas of all time. A serpent  ascending. The  rat  jumping off the ship.'

'Or   at   least   an   intellect   contemplating   his   own   transformation,'    said    Vera.

'Anguishing over  his direction. Trying  to decide whether  he  really  can  bring  himself  to cut loose.'

'What's  so  wrong  with  that?'  asked  Foley.  'Wasn't  that  Christ's  agony?  Isn't  that Buddha's conundrum? The  savior  hits  his  wall.  He  gets  worn  out  being  the  savior.  He gets tired of the suffering. It  means our Satan is mortal, that's all.'

January  opened  her  palms  to  them  like  pink  fruit.  'Why  get  so  fancy?'  she  asked.

'The theory  works perfectly  fine with a much simpler explanation. What if  Satan  came up to cut a deal? What if he wants to  find  someone  like  us  as  badly  as  we  want  to  find him?'

Foley's  pencil  fanned  a  nervous  yellow  wing  in  the  air.  'But  that's  what  I've  been thinking!' he said. 'In fact, I think he's already  found us.'

'What?' three  of them asked at once.

Even Thomas raised his eyes  from his dark thoughts.

'If there's  one thing  I've  learned  as  an  entrepreneur,  it  is  that  ideas  occur  in  waves. Ideas   transcend   intelligence.  In   different   cultures.   Different   languages.   Different dreams. Why should the idea of peace be  any  different?  What  if  the  notion  of  a  treaty or a summit or a cease-fire  occurred to our Satan even  as it occurred to us?'

'But you conjecture he's found us.'

'Why  not?  We're  not  invisible.  The  Beowulf  endeavor  has  been  globetrotting  for  a year  and  a  half.  If  Satan  is  half  as  resourceful  as  you  say,  he's  heard  of  us.  And  yes, located us. And perhaps even  penetrated  us.'

'Absurd,' they  cried. But hungered for more.

'Speak from the evidence,' said Thomas.

'Yes,  the  evidence,'  said  Foley.  'It's  your  own  evidence,  Thomas.  Wasn't  it  you  who proposed  that  Satan  might  contact  a  leader  as  desperate  –  and  enigmatic  and  vilified

– as  himself?  A  leader  like  this  jungle  warlord  Desmond  Lynch  went  off  to  find.  As  I recall,  you  once  suggested  Satan  might  want  to  establish  a  colony  of  his  own,  on  the surface,  in  plain  sight  as  it  were,  in  a  country  like  Burma  or  Rwanda,  a  place  so benighted and savage  no one dares cross its borders.'

'You're proposing that I am Satan?' Thomas drolly asked.

'No. Not at all.'

'I'm relieved.  Then who?'

Foley went for broke. 'Desmond.'

'Lynch?' belched Gault.

'I'm quite serious.'

'What  are  you  talking  about?'  January  protested.  'The  poor  man's  vanished.  He's probably been eaten by  tigers.'

'Perhaps.   But  what   if  he  had  secreted   himself  in  our  midst?   Listened   to   our thoughts? Waited for an opportunity like this, a chance to meet  a despot  and  make  his pact? I doubt he'd bid us a fond adieu before disappearing forever.'

'Absurd.'

Foley  laid  his  yellow  pencil  neatly  alongside  of  his  pad.  'Look,  we've  agreed  on several  things. That  Satan is a trickster.  A  master  of  anonymity.  He  survives  through his  disguises  and  deceptions.  And  he  may  have  been  trying  to  strike  a  bargain...  for peace or a hiding  place,  it  doesn't  matter.  All  I  know  is  that  Senator  January  last  saw Desmond alive, on his way  into a jungle no one dares to enter.'

'Do  you  realize  what  you're  saying?'  asked  Thomas.  'I  chose  the  man  myself.  I've known him for decades.'

'Satan is patient. He has loads of time.'

'You're suggesting that Lynch played us along from the beginning? That  he used us?'

'Absolutely.'

Thomas  looked  sad.  Sad  and  decided.  'Accuse  him  yourself,'  he  said.  He  set  his  box on the table amid the fruit and cheeses. Beneath  FedEx  paperwork,  it  bore  diplomatic seals printed in broken wax.

'Thomas, is this necessary?'  January said, guessing.

'This  was  delivered  to  me  three  days  ago,'  said  Thomas.  'It  came  via  Rangoon  and

Beijing. Here's why  I convened this meeting with all of you.'

Lynch's head had been dipped in shellac. He would not have  been  pleased  with  what it had done to his thick Scottish hair, normally parted  at the right temple. Through the slightly parted  lids they  could see round pebbles.

'They  scooped  his  eyes  out  and  put  in  stones,'  said  Thomas.  'Probably  while  he  was still alive. While he was alive, too, they  probably made this.' He  drew  out  a  necklace  of human teeth.  'There  are plier marks  on several.'

'Why are you showing us this?' January whispered.

Mustafah  looked  down  at  his  plate.  Foley's  arms  were  limp  upon  the  chair  rests.

Parsifal  was  astounded:  he  and  Lynch  had  clashed  over  socialism.  Now  the  bleeding heart's  mouth  was  locked  tight,  the  bushy  eyebrows  plasticized,  and  Parsifal  realized he would wonder to his death  about  the  courage  of  his  own  convictions.  What  a  brave bastard, he was thinking.

'One  other  thing,'  Thomas  continued.  'A  set  of  genitals  was  found  inside  the  mouth. A monkey's genitals.'

'How  dare  you,'  whispered  de  l'Orme.  He  could  smell  the  death,  sense  it  in  the other's pall. 'Here, in my  home, at our meal?'

'Yes.  I've  brought  this  into  your  home,  at  our  meal.  So  that  you  will  not  doubt  me.' Thomas  stood,  his  big  knuckles  flat  on  the  oak  plank,  the  insulted  head  between  his fists.