The Descent

They  walked  up  the  path  by  flashlight,  carrying  musty  umbrellas  wrapped  against their  bamboo  handles.  The  air  was  so  heavy  with  water  it  was  almost  not  air.  Any instant  now,  it  seemed,  the  sky  must  open  up  and  turn  to  flood.  You  could  not  call these  Javanese  monsoons  rain.  They  were  a  phenomenon  more  like  the  eruption  of volcanoes, as regular as clockwork, as humbling as Jehovah.

'Thomas,'  said  de  l'Orme,  'this  pre-dates  everything.  It's  so  very  old.  Man  was  still foraging  in  the  trees  at  this  time.  Inventing  fire,  fingerpainting  on  cave  walls.  That  is what frightens me. These  people, whoever  they  were,  should not have  had the tools  to knap flint, much less carve  stone. Or  do  portraiture  or  erect  columns.  This  should  not exist.'

Thomas considered. Few  places on earth  had more human antiquity than Java.  Java Man  –  Pithecanthropus  erectus ,  better  known  as  Homo  erectus  –  had  been  found only  a  few  kilometers  from  here,  at  Trinil  and  Sangiran  on  the  Solo  River.  For  a quarter-million years,  man's ancestors had  been  sampling  fruit  from  these  trees.  And killing and eating one another, too. The  fossil evidence was clear about that as well.

'You mentioned a frieze with grotesques.'

'Monstrous  beings,'  de  l'Orme  said.  'That  is  where  I'm  taking  you  now.  To  the  base of Column C.'

'Could  it  be   self-portraiture?   Perhaps   these   were   hominids.  Perhaps   they   had talents far beyond what we've  given them credit for.'

'Perhaps,' said de l'Orme. 'But then there  is the face.'

It  was the face that had brought Thomas so far. 'You said it's horrible.'

'Oh, the face is not  horrible  at  all.  That's  the  problem.  It's  a  common  face.  A  human face.'

'Human?'

'It could be your  face.' Thomas looked sharply at the blind man. 'Or mine,'  de  l'Orme added. 'What's horrible is its context. This ordinary face looks upon scenes of savagery and degradation and monstrosity.'

'And?'

'That's  all.  He's  looking.  And  you  can  tell  he  will  never  look  away.  I  don't  know,  he seems  content.  I've  felt  the  carving,'  de  l'Orme  said.  'Even  its  touch  is  unsavory.  It's most  unusual,  this  juxtaposition  of  normalcy  and  chaos.  And  it's  so  banal,  so  prosaic. That's  the most intriguing thing. It's  completely out of sync with  its  age,  whatever  age that may  be.'

Firecrackers  and  drums  echoed  from  scattered  villages.  Ramadan,  the  month  of Muslim fasting, had just ended  yesterday.  Thomas  saw  the  crescent  of  the  new  moon threading  between  the  mountains.  Families  would  be  feasting.  Whole  villages  would stay  up  until  dawn  watching  the  shadow  plays  called  wayang,  with  two-dimensional puppets making love and doing battle  as shadows thrown upon a sheet. By dawn,  good would triumph over  evil, light over  darkness:  the usual fairy tale.

One  of  the  mountains  beneath  the  moon  separated  in  the  middle  distance,  and became the ruins of Bordubur. The  enormous stupa was supposed  to  be  a  depiction  of Mount  Meru,  a  cosmic  Everest.  Buried  for  over  a  thousand  years  by  an  eruption  of Gunung Merapi, Bordubur was  the  greatest  of  the  ruins.  In  that  sense,  it  was  death's palace and cathedral all in one, a pyramid for Southeast Asia.

The  ticket  for  admission  was  death,  at  least  symbolically.  You  entered  through  the jaws  of  a  ferocious  devouring  beast  garlanded  with  human  skulls  –  the  goddess  Kali. Immediately  you were  in a mazelike afterworld. Nearly  ten thousand square meters  – five square kilometers – of carved  'story  wall' accompanied each traveler.  It  told a tale almost  identical  to  Dante's  Inferno  and  Paradiso.  At  the  bottom  the  carved  panels showed humanity trapped  in sin, and depicted hideous punishment by  hellish  demons. By  the  time  you  'climbed'  onto  a  plateau  of  rounded  stupas,  Buddha  had  guided humanity out of his state  of samsara and into enlightenment. No time for that  tonight. It  was going on two-thirty.

'Pram?'  Santos  called  into  the  darkness  ahead.  'Asalamu  alaikum.'  Thomas  knew the greeting. Peace unto you. But there  was no reply.

'Pram  is  an  armed  guard  I  hired  to  watch  over  the  site,'  de  l'Orme  explained.  'He was  a  famous  guerrilla  once.  As  you  might  imagine,  he's  rather  old.  And  probably drunk.'

'Odd,' Santos whispered. 'Stay  here.' He moved up the path and out of sight.

'Why all the drama?' commented Thomas.

'Santos?  He  means  well.  He  wanted  to  make  a  good  impression  on  you.  But  you make him nervous. He has nothing left tonight but his bravado, I'm sorry  to say.'