Page 21 of Katabasis
For a moment neither of them spoke. They did not want to answer that question. They did not even want to crack it open. To do so would involve a great number of admissions. And Alice, at least, was not ready to make those admissions.
“I think we should search them all.” Alice hugged her arms against her chest. “Let’s—let’s just be thorough.”
Peter looked as though he wanted to say something else. But a moment passed, and he deflated. “Fine.” He closed the notebooks. “We’ll have to move fast, then. We only have seven days. That’s fewer than one for each court.”
“How do you figure seven days? I have twice that.”
“Well, Hecate’s scrolls—”
“Hecate’s scrolls imply that mortals can only last in Hell for seven days before they expire due to bodily needs,” said Alice. “I interpret that as concerns about food and water, and not a strict limit.”
“Interesting.” Peter frowned. “I translated it as the limitation of the soul.”
“If she meant the limitation of the soul, she would have said so,” said Alice. “It’s a distinct term in the Greek. There’s textual evidence from books eight, ten, and twelve—”
“Okay, okay.” Peter held up his hands. “You’re right.”
“Anyhow, since Hecate could not have predicted the innovations of Lembas Bread or Perpetual Flasks, we know we can survive for far longer than she supposed,” said Alice. “You shouldn’t take seriously anyone who’s expressed an opinion on food before the twentieth century.”
“No, you’re right.” Peter nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never thought about texts like this before.”
“What, in terms of close reading?”
“I just mean—I don’t know, taking into account when they were written, and the author’s social context, and such.”
“Historicization, Murdoch. That’s what we call it. What, do you just take everything you read at face value?”
“I mean, if the math checks out.”
“Unbelievable,” said Alice. “This is why everyone hates logicians.”
“It’s acompliment, Law. I am showing you some disciplinary respect.”
“Well, don’t bother,” she said, though she did feel a stupid flutter in her chest. Lab work used to be like this, she thought. Peter’s jabs, her rebuttals; two different methodologies clashing until, always, they settled on some compromise that was closer to the truth. Oh, but this hurt—she had not realized how much she had missed this. “It’s condescending.”
In short order they packed up camp and shoved everything into their rucksacks. Alice stretched and winced as she stood. She’d forgotten how much climbing could ravage one’s muscles. She hurt all over, and her knees buckled when she stepped. She’d really mistreated her body these last few months; she’d hardly slept, she’d barely eaten, she certainly hadn’t exercised. She hoped the remaining trials of Hell would be more metaphysical than physical. She ought to have done a push-up at least.
Peter cleared his throat. “By the way, Law?”
She noticed with alarm that his face had turned the shade of moss. He looked like he was trying to swallow his own tongue.
“I just... want you to know that I respect you very much.”
Alice wished the ground would swallow them both up. “Oh, don’t do this.”
“As well as your bodily integrity. And I am very sorry to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“My God, Murdoch, please—”
“Therefore, I feel—I mean, I think it is best that we do not share the blanket anymore. I will simply bear the cold. I shall not mind the chill, if I am asleep. I think anything is tolerable when one is asleep. And if there is anything I can do to make you feel safer—I mean, that is, more comfortable around me—”
“Murdoch.” She pressed her hands against her face. How unfair this was, she thought. As if she had never seen him asleep. As if she had not curled in next to him many times, their breathing deep in matching rhythm, both of them murmuring about stars and numbers until their conjectures bled over into dreams. It used to be so easy. Yet here they were, negotiating space like strangers. “Shut. Up.”
He did not. “We can even sleep in shifts, if you like. Take turns. Whatever makes you—oh, God.” His eyes went wide. He pointed. “The wall.”
Alice turned. The mass of bones was growing translucent before her eyes. She reached out, panicked, and her fingers went right through bone, as if the wall were nothing more than a shimmering mirage. It lingered several seconds more and then faded away completely, so that they were once again surrounded on all sides by endless, gray silt.
“There is no way out,” Alice murmured. This was the opening epigraph to Penhaligon’s treatise. She had skimmed over it during her first read-through, figuring this was just another one of Penhaligon’s attempts at poetry. But it turned out this was literally just how Hell worked. “No way out but through.”
