Page 58 of Katabasis

Well, she supposed it was obvious why not.

She could convince herself all she wanted that this was a rescue.

But it had never been about the recommendation letters.

It was only about revenge, and bloody control, and having Grimes understand at last how it felt to be someone else’s toy.

It was only a fever dream. And Peter was too smart to for a second believe otherwise.

“Though I don’t think it would make me feel better.

” Alice drew her knees up to her chest. “That’s the problem.

I hoped it might—but the more I think about it, the more I realize, I only want this because it’s what he would have done.

It is such a perfectly Grimes solution, you know.

Brutal, efficient, shocking. He never went halfway, he only ever went through.

And some part of me, deep down, is actually excited.

Because I keep imagining him waking up to see what I’ve done.

” She gave a helpless laugh. “And I keep fantasizing he might actually look around and tell me good job .”

“You know,” said Peter, “I do think he would.”

“He’s stamped on our minds,” said Alice.

“Oh, yes.” Peter cast her a sad sideways smile. “Can’t get him out.”

They both stared down at the notebook.

Alice had not revisited these pages since she scribbled her notes.

She was amazed now by the sight of her own handwriting, a frenzied scrawl that looked nothing like her usual neat script.

She remembered those final hours of research, sitting hunched over Erichtho’s writing beside a dim and buzzing lamp, forcing her hand to keep up with her racing thoughts.

At points she had pressed so hard against the page that the lead broke, leaving charcoal smudges.

Peter’s notebook looked tame by comparison.

Her own looked like the work of a lunatic.

In a small voice she asked, “So you don’t think I’m mad?”

Peter reached out; his fingers wrapped around hers.

And although all they did was sit, silent, and although still they had no solution and no way out, somehow Alice felt more clearheaded than she’d been in a very long time.

She felt still, her thoughts settled. As if she had been flailing through the air, flapping and choking, and here at last someone had granted her a place to land.

Time slipped forward. The skull continued to cuckoo. At first Alice kept checking her watch, but soon she stopped bothering. Minutes, hours, it did not matter. They had no way out.

The Kripkes had not come. This gave Alice some small twinge of hope—that perhaps the Kripkes had forgotten about them, that perhaps instead of a terrible bloody death they would only die a stifled, quiet one.

The Kripkes were in no hurry. They didn’t need to grapple with two adults.

They only needed to wait them out. And the Kripkes had all the time in the world.

She considered weeping about it, but it was too hot and dry; at this point she didn’t have the moisture in her body to condense into tears.

Was this the end, then? She took stock of her life, all her dreams and efforts and desperate aspirations, and could not feel anything other than a pathetic amusement at where she had ended up.

She’d taken a class on Greek philosophers during her first year of college, before she discovered she was allergic to philosophy.

She didn’t care much for Socrates, but she did like the way Aristotle wrote about the world, the soul, the form of living creatures.

He had such faith in their drive to flourish.

And she remembered reading Aristotle’s argument about how any living being, even the most primitive organism, was animated by an idea of the good.

Even the plant turned its face toward the sun.

Even the tiniest ant sought food; the brainless worm sought soil.

It was all so easy for living creatures—all except people, except people like her , who had a knack for seeking only that which made them miserable.

All her life, it seemed, she had run headfirst in precisely the wrong directions. It was not for lack of opportunity. She knew very well where the sun shone, and yet was bound by impulse to bury herself in the dark.

Perhaps human intelligence was a mistake, and everyone who celebrated the escape from the Garden of Eden was wrong. Perhaps the gift of rationality did not outweigh the debilitating agony that came with it.

Or perhaps people like Alice were just fundamentally broken.

Perhaps they were wasted on life; perhaps dying was the best thing for her.

Perhaps she was less like Aristotle’s plant and more like Freud’s organisms, who were driven compulsively toward death, toward the tranquil, inanimate state of things before they had the misfortune of being born. She voiced this theory to Peter.

“Hm,” he said. “I don’t think we compulsively seek death.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I just think we got tangled up. But we’re still trying to face the light.”

They chatted for a bit. Mindless memories, bland observations. Meals they’d once had. Books they’d once read. Once or twice Alice made Peter laugh, and that seemed the greatest victory she could accomplish in the moment; that she could still elicit his hiccupping laughter.

Their voices grew hoarse, their tongues dry, their voices soft. At last they lapsed into silence.

Alice supposed there were worse ways to die. At least she knew she had nothing to be afraid of. At least she was not dying alone.

And she could not deny the part of her that was relieved at the fact that finally it was all out of her hands; that there was no longer any point to the scheming and spell casting and struggling. At last there was a punctuation mark to it all, and she had no control over it. This was a comfort.

“Alice.” Peter nudged her shoulder. “Alice?”

She blinked awake. “Yes?”

“I’ve been lying to you.”

“No you haven’t,” she mumbled. “Don’t say that.”

“The equation you found.” He sat up straight. “You were right. It wasn’t just my playing around. It is, in fact, my dominant strategy to get Professor Grimes out of Hell.”

“Oh, we were having such a good moment.” Alice let her arm fall limp against his. This confession did not bother her as much anymore—now that they were going to die, knowing Peter would have killed her had he gotten his way was disappointing, but not a surprise. “Please don’t ruin it.”

“You don’t understand,” said Peter. “I wasn’t going to trade you. I never would have traded you. I was going to trade myself.”

“But you can’t,” said Alice. “Axiom of... you can’t. I tried.”

“Well, no,” said Peter, “I would have asked you to do it for me.”

It was so hot, Alice thought. So damn hot.

She couldn’t tell if the buzzing came from without or within.

But she could let her mind slide, and think only about the buzzing, and not about the implications.

Oh, sweet blankness; the absence of thought.

She should have been born a rock. She considered acting like one; playing deaf, just letting Peter’s words slide off her like water.

But he looked so very distressed. He was clearly not going to let this one go.

She pulled together the energy to ask, “Why?”

“Well, because I killed him.” Peter’s face worked terribly. “I mean, his death is my fault. Not yours. So it stands to reason I should bring him back.”