by Jeff Long
“I’m so relieved,” Mustafah admitted. “I thought I was the only one coming to these extraordinary conclusions.”
“We should stick to what we know,” Foley prudishly reminded them.
“Okay,” said Vera. And it only got wilder.
He was a he, they agreed. Except for the four-thousand-year-old Sumerian tale of Queen Ereshkigal, or Allatu in the Assyrian, the monarch of the underworld was mainly a masculine presence. Even if the contemporary Satan proved to be a council of leaders, it was likely to be dominated by a masculine sensibility, an urge toward domination, a willingness to shed blood.
They extrapolated from prevailing views of animal behavior about alpha males, territorial imperative, and reproductive tyranny. Diplomacy might or might not work with such a character. A clenched fist or an empty threat would probably just incite him. The hadal leader would not be stupid: to the contrary, his reputation for deception and masks and inventiveness and cunning bargains suggested real cross-cultural genius.
He had the economic instincts of a salt trader, the courage of a soloist crossing the Arctic. He was a traveler among mankind, conversant in human languages, a student of power, an observer able to blend in without notice, an adventurer who explored at random or for profit or, like the Beowulf scholars and the Helios expedition who were exploring his lands, out of scientific curiosity.
His anonymity was a skill, an art, but not infallible. He had never been caught. But he had been sighted. No one knew exactly what he looked like, which meant he did not look like what people expected. He probably didn’t have red horns or cloven hooves or a tail with a spike at the tip. That he could be grotesque or animalistic at times, and seductive or voluptuary or even beautiful at other times, suggested a switch of disguises or of lieutenants or spies. Or a lineage of Satans.
The ability to transfer memory from one consciousness to another, now clinically proven, was significant, said Mustafah. Reincarnation made possible a “dynasty” similar to that of the Dalai Lama theocracy. That was a jolt, the notion of Satan as an ongoing religious monarchy.
“Buddhism with extreme prejudice,” quipped Parsifal.
“Perhaps,” de l’Orme proposed irreverently, “Satan would be better off just dying out and becoming an idea, rather than struggling to be a reality. By sniffing around man’s camp all these years, the lion has degenerated into a hyena. The tempest has become just a puff of bad wind, a fart in the night.”
Whether the literature and archaeological and linguistic evidence were describing Satan himself or rather his lieutenants and spies, the profile was consistent with an inquiring mentality. No doubt about it, the darkness wanted to know about the light. But to know what? Civilization? The human condition? The feel of sunbeams?
“The more I learn about hadal culture,” Mustafah said, “the more I suspect a great culture in decline. It’s as if a collective intellect had developed Alzheimer’s and slowly begun to lose its reason.”
“I think of autism, not Alzheimer’s,” said Vera. “A vast onset of self-centered presentness. An inability to recognize the outside world, and with that an inability to create. Look at the artifacts coming up from subplanetary hadal sites. Over the last three to five thousand years, the artifacts have been increasingly human in origin: coins, weapons, cave art, hand tools. That could mean that the hadals turned away from menial and artistic labor as they pursued higher arts, or that they jobbed the day-to-day minutiae out to human artisans whom they’d captured, or that they valued stolen possessions more than homemade ones.
“But match it with the decline in hadal population over the past several thousand years. Some demographic projections suggest they might have numbered over forty million individuals subglobally at the time Aristotle and Buddha lived. The figure is probably less than 300,000 at present. Something’s gone terribly wrong down there. They haven’t grown more sophisticated. They haven’t pursued the higher arts. If anything, they’ve simply become packrats, storing their human knickknacks in tribal nests, increasingly unaware of what they have or where they are or even what they are.”
“Vera and I have talked about this at length,” said Mustafah. “There’s a tremendous amount of fieldwork to be done, of course. But if you go back a million years in the fossil record, it appears the hadals were developing hand tools and even amalgamated metal artifacts far ahead of what humans were producing on the surface. While man was still figuring out how to pound two rocks together, the hadals were inventing musical instruments made of glass! Who knows? Maybe man never did discover fire. Maybe we were taught it! But now you have these grotesque creatures reduced to savagery, their tribes draining off into the deepest holes. It’s sad, really.”
“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—a
nd 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.
“My friends,” he said, “we have reached the end.
They could not have been more stunned if he had produced a second head.
“The end?” said Mustafah.
“We have failed.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Vera objected. “After all we’ve accomplished.”
“Do you not see poor Lynch?” Thomas said, holding the head aloft. “Can you not hear your own words? This is Satan?”
They did not answer. He set the horrible artifact back into the box.
“I’m as responsible as you,” Thomas told them. “Yes, I spoke to the possibility of Satan visiting some despot tucked away in a remote wasteland, and that misled you. But isn’t it just as possible Satan would have desired to meet and appraise a different kind of tyrant, say, the head of Helios? And because we met with Cooper at his research complex, does that mean another one of us must be Satan, perhaps even you, Brian? No, I think not.”
“Fine, I flew off the curve,” said Foley. “One wild deduction should not impeach our search.”
“This entire endeavor is a wild deduction,” Thomas said. “We’ve seduced ourselves with our own knowledge. We’re no closer to knowing Satan than when we began. We are finished.”
“Surely not yet,” said Mustafah. “There’s still so much to know.”
Their faces all registered that sentiment.
“I can no longer justify the hardships and danger,” said Thomas.
“You don’t need to justify anything,” challenged Vera. “This has been our choice from the start. Look at us.”
Despite their ordeals and the assault of time, they were not the spectral figures Thomas had first collected in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and sparked to action. Their faces were bronzed with exotic suns, their skin toughened by winds and the cold, their eyes lit with adventure. They had been waiting to die, and his call to arms had saved their lives.
“Clearly the group wants to keep going,” said Mustafah.
“I’m just starting in with new Olmec evidence,” Gault explained.
“And the Swedes are developing a new DNA test,” said Vera. “I’m in daily contact. They think it suggests a whole new species branch. It’s just a matter of months.”
“And there was another ghost transmission from the interior,” said Parsifal. “From the Helios expedition. The date code was August 8, almost four months ago, I know. But that’s still a full month more recent than anything else we’ve managed to receive. The digital string needs enhancement, and it’s only a partial communication, something about a river. It’s not much. But they’re alive. Or were. Just months ago. We can’t just cut loose from them, Thomas. They’re depending on us.”
Parsifal’s remark was not meant to be cruel, but it drove Thomas’s chin down to his chest. Week by week, his face had been growing more hollowed. Haunted, it seemed, by what he had put in motion.
“And what about you?” January asked more gently. “This has been your quest since before any of us came to know you.”
“My quest,” Thomas murmured. “And where has that brought us?”
“The hunt,” said Mustafah, “has intrinsic value. You knew that in the beginning. Whether we ever sighted our prey, much less brought him to earth, we were learning about ourselves. By fitting our own foot into Satan’s tracks, we’ve come that much closer to dispelling ancient illusions. Touching the reality of what we really are.”
“Illusion? Reality?” said Thomas. “We’ve lost Lynch to the jungle. Rau to his madness. And Branch to his quest. And sent a young woman to her death in the center of the earth. I’ve taken you from your families and homes. And every day we continue brings new risks.”
“But, Thomas,” said Vera, “we volunteered.”
“No,” he said, “I can no longer justify it.”
“Then leave,” came de l’Orme’s voice.
Out the window behind his head, dark thunderheads were piling for an afternoon storm. His face was positively radiant with the reflected flames. His tone was stern. “You may hand the torch on,” he told Thomas, “but you may not extinguish it.”
“We’re too damned close, Thomas,” January said.
“Close to what?” Thomas asked. “Among us, we have over five hundred years of combined scholarship and experience. And where have we gotten with it in a year and a half of searching?” He dropped the strand of Lynch’s teeth into the box, like so many rosary beads. “That one of us is Satan. My friends, we’ve looked into the dark water so long it has become a mirror.”
A streak of lightning lanced between two limestone towers in the middle distance. Its thund
er cracked through the room. Down below, the hired drivers and nurses fled for the cars just as a mountain squall attacked.
“You can’t stop us, Thomas,” said de l’Orme. “We have our own resources. We have our own imperatives. We’ll follow the path you opened to us, wherever it may lead.”
Thomas closed the box and rested his fingers on the cardboard.
“Follow it then,” he said. “This pains me to say. But from this day on you follow your path without the blessing and imprimatur of the Holy Father. And you follow it without me. My friends, I lack your strength. I lack your conviction. Forgive me my doubt. May God bless you.” He picked up the box.
“Don’t go,” whispered January.
“Good-bye,” he said to them, and walked into the storm.
It had ceased to be a
blank space of delightful
mystery.…
—JOSEPH CONRAD, Heart of Darkness
23
THE SEA
BENEATH THE MARIANA AND
YAP TRENCHES, 6,010 FATHOMS
The sea stretched on. They had been walking for twenty-one days. Ike kept them on a short leash. He set the pace, resting every half hour, circulating among them like Gunga Din, filling their water bottles, congratulating them on their endurance. “Man, where were you guys when I needed you on Makalu?” he would say.
Next to Ike, the strongest was Troy, the forensics kid, who’d probably been watching Sesame Street at the time Ike was battling his Himalayan peaks. He did a fine job trying to be Ike-like, solicitous and useful. But he was wearing down, too. Sometimes Ike posted him at the front, a place of trust, his way of honoring the boy.
Ali decided the best help she could be was to walk with Twiggs, whom everyone else wanted to hogtie and leave. From the moment he woke, the man whined and begged and committed petty thefts. The microbotanist was a born panhandler. Only Ali could deal with him. She treated him like a teenage novitiate with pimples. When Pia or Chelsea marveled at her patience, Ali explained that if it wasn’t Twiggs, it would be someone else. She had never seen a tribe without a scapegoat.