The Descent

The  wine  had  an  extra   kick   to  it,  or  the   depths   had  lowered   her   inhibitions. Whatever,  she made herself bold. She went directly  to him and said, 'Wanna dance?' He  pretended  to  have  just  noticed  her.  'It's  probably  not  a  great  idea,'  he  said,  and didn't move. 'I'm rusty.'

He was going to make her work for this? 'Don't worry,  I've  had my  tetanus  shots.'

'Seriously, I'm out of practice.'

And I'm in practice?  she didn't say.  'Come on.'

He  tried  one  last  gambit.  'You  don't  understand,'  he  said.  'That's  Margo  Timmins singing.'

'So?'

'Margo,'  he  repeated.  'Her  voice  does  things  to  a  person.   It   makes   you   forget yourself.'

Ali  relaxed.  He  wasn't  rejecting  her.  He  was  flirting.  'Is  that  right?'  she  said,  and stayed  right  there  in  front  of  him.  In  the  pale  light  of  the  tunnels,  Ike's  scars  and markings had a way  of blending with the rock. Here, lit  brightly,  they  were  terrible  all over  again.

'Maybe  you  would  understand,'  he  reconsidered.  Ike  stood  up,  and  the  shotgun came with him; it had pink climber's webbing for a  sling.  He  parked  it  across  his  back, barrel down, and took her hand. It  felt small in his.

They  went to where  the  others  had  cleared  away  rocks  for  a  makeshift  dance  floor. Ali felt eyes  following them.  Paired  with  partners  of  their  own,  Molly  and  some  of  the other women were  grinning  like  maniacs  at  her.  Oddly,  Ike  had  been  designated  part of their Ten  Most Wanted  list.  He  had  an  aura.  It  cut  through  the  vandalized  surface. People wondered about him. And here Ali was, getting  first  crack  at  him.  She  vamped like it was the prom, waving her fingers at them.

Ike  acted  smooth  enough,  but  there  was  a  young  man's  hesitation  as  he  faced  her and  opened  his  arms.  She  hesitated,  too.  They  got  themselves  arranged,  and  he  was just  as  self-conscious  about  their  physical  touch  as  she  was.  He  kept  the  bravado

smile, but she heard his throat clear as their bodies came together.

'I've  been meaning to talk with you,' she said. 'You owe me an explanation.'

'The animal,' he guessed. His disappointment was blunt. He stopped dancing.

'No,'  she  said,  and  got  them  in  motion  again.  'That  orange.  Do  you  remember?  The one you gave  me on the ride down from the Galápagos?'

He backed off a step  to get a look. 'That  was you?' She liked that. 'Did I look so pathetic?'

'You mean like a rescue  job?'

'If you want to put it that way.'

'I  used  to  climb,'  he  said.  'That  was  always  the  biggest  nightmare,  getting  rescued. You do your  best  to stay  in control. But sometimes things slip. You fall,.'

'I was in distress, then.'

'Nah.' Now he was lying.

'So how come the orange?'

There  was no particular answer  she  wanted  here.  Yet  the  circle  needed  completing. Something  about  that  orange  demanded  accounting  for,  the  poetry  in  it,  his  intuition that  she  had  needed  just  such  a  preoccupation  at  just  that  moment.  It  had  become something  of  a  riddle,  this  gift  from  a  man  so  raw  and  brutalized.  An  orange?  Where had  that  come  from?  Perhaps  he'd  read  Flaubert  in  his  previous   life,  before   his captivity.  Or  Durrell,  she  thought.  Or  Anaïs  Nin.  Wishful  thinking.  She  was  inventing him.

'There  it was,' he said simply, and she got a sense he was delighting  in  her  confusion.

'It had your  name on it.'

'Look, I'm not trying  to obsess  here,'  she  said.  Immediately  his  words  about  staying in  control  came  drifting  in.  She  faltered.  He'd  pegged  her  problem,  cold.  Control.  'It was just so right, that's all,' she murmured. 'It's been a mystery  to me, and I never  got a chance to say  –'

'Strawberry  blondes,' he interrupted.

'What?'

'I  confess,'  he  said.  'You're  an  old  weakness  of  mine.'  He  didn't  qualify  between  the universe  of blondes and the singularity of this one.

It  took  Ali's  breath  away.  Sometimes,  once  men  found  out  she  was  a  nun,  they would  dare  her  in  some  way.  What  made  Ike  different  was  his  abandon.  He  had  a carelessness in his manner that was not  reckless,  but  was  full  of  risk.  Winged.  He  was pursuing  her,  but  not  faster  than  she  was  pursuing  him,  and  it  made  them  like  two ghosts circling.

'That's it, then,' she said. 'End of mystery.'

'Why say  that?' he said.

This was turning out to be a nice dance.

'I like her singing,' she said.

He  took  in  her  long  body.  It  was  a  quick  glance.  She  saw  it,  and  remembered  his scrutiny of the periwinkles on her sundress. He said, 'You do live dangerously.'

'And you don't?'

'There's  a difference. I'm not a dedicated, you know,' he faltered, 'a professional...'

'Virgin?' she boldly finished. The  wine was talking. His back muscles reflexed.

'I was going to say  "recluse."'

Ike  pulled  her  tighter  and  stroked  his  front  across  hers,  a  languorous  swipe  that moved her breasts.  It  drew  a small gasp out of her.

'Mister  Crockett,'  she  scolded,  and  started  to  pull  away.  Instantly  he  let  go,  and  his release startled  her more. There  was no time for elaborate decisions. Scapegoating the wine, she scooped him close again, got his hand seated  at the hollow of her spine.

They  danced  without  words  for  another  minute.  Ali  tried  to  let  herself  be  taken away  by  the music. But eventually  the songs would stop and they  would  have  to  leave

the safety  of this brightly lit floor and resume  their investigation of the dark places.

'Now it's your  turn to explain,' he said. 'Just how did you end up here?'

Unsure  how  much  he  really  wanted  to  hear,  she  edited  herself.  He  kept  asking questions,  and  soon  she  found  herself  defining  protolanguage  and  the  mother  tongue.

'Water,'  she  said,  'in  Old  German  is  wassar,  in  Latin   aqua.  Go  deeper   into  the daughter  languages,  and  the  root  starts  to  appear.  In  Indo-European  and  Amerind, water       is         hakw ,    in    Dene-Caucasian                                              kwa .    The   furthest   back   is     haku,    a computer-simulated proto-word. Not that anyone uses it anymore. It's  a buried  word, a root. But you can see how a word gets  reborn through time.'

'Haku,'  Ike  said,  though  differently  than  she  had,  with  a  glottal  stress  on  the  first syllable. 'I know that word.'

Ali  glanced  at  him.  'From  them?'  she  asked.  His  hadal  captors.  Exactly  as  she'd hoped, he had a glossary in him.

He winced, as with a phantom pain, and she caught her breath. The  memory  passed, if that's what it was. She decided not to pursue it for the moment,  and  returned  to  her own  tale,  explaining  how  she  had  come  to  collect  and  decipher  hadal  glyphs  and remnant text.  'All  we  need  is  one  translator  who  can  read  their  writings,'  she  said.  'It could unlock their whole civilization to us.'