Excavation (32 page)

Norman turned to Denal, fingering the gift with an embarrassed grin. “Does this clash with my shirt?” he asked, and limped onward. The photographer seemed oblivious to what they had stumbled upon.

Sam and Maggie, though, stood frozen at the village's edge. In his mind, Sam stripped away the jungle growth from the homes and erased the people and animals from the streets. He recognized the layout of this town. The central plaza, the spoked avenues, the terraced homes…it was the same spread as the necropolis below!

Maggie grabbed his elbow. “Do you know what this place is?” she whispered, staring up at Sam with huge eyes. “This is not some Quechan tribe, eking out a fist-to-mouth existence.”

Sam nodded. “These are Denal's ancestors,” he said, coming to the same conclusion as Maggie, his voice numb with shock.

They had stumbled upon a
living
Incan village!

 

As the sun set, Philip heard a noise he had not thought to hear: the rasp of static from the camp's radio. He jolted to his feet, knocking over the camp stool on which he had been sitting. Friar Otera and the other Dominicans were all down at the excavation site. A pair of experienced miners had arrived just past noon today and were helping direct the Quechan laborers.

Philip tore open the communication tent's flap and dived into its shadowed interior. He snatched up the receiver. “Hello!” he yelled into the handpiece. “Can anyone hear me?”

Static…then a jittery response. “…ilip? It's Sam! The walkie-talkie's battery…We made it out of the caves…”
Garbled static flared up.

Philip adjusted the radio's antennae. “Sam! Come back! Where are you?”

Words fought through the static. “We're in one of the volcanoes…east, I think.”

Philip's heart sang. If the others were safe, there was no further reason to continue to excavate the shaft. It was all over! He'd be able to leave soon! He pictured his own apartment back at Harvard, where his books, computer, and papers were all neatly organized and cataloged. He glanced down at his torn shirt and filthy pants. After this expedition, he was done with fieldwork forever!

His glee made him miss some of Sam's last words, but it no longer mattered. “…helicopters or some other aerial surveillance. We'll set up a signal fire on the ridge. Search for us!” Sam asked one final question. “Have you got word to Uncle Hank yet?”

Philip frowned and hit the transmitter. “No, but I'm sure word's reached Cuzco by now. Help's arriving here already. It shouldn't be long.”

A squelch of static erupted when Philip released the button.

Sam's voice was more faded. “You won't believe what we've found up here, Philip!”

He rolled his eyes. Like he really gave a damn. But Sam's next words drove away even his profound apathy: “We've found a lost Incan tribe!”

Philip hit the transmit button. “What?”

“…too long a story…battery weak…call same time tomorrow.”

“Sam, wait!”

“Search for our signal fire!” Then the static ground away all further communication.

Philip tried for another few minutes to raise Sam again, but to no avail. Either the battery had grown too weak, or the bastard had switched off his walkie-talkie. Philip slammed
the receiver in place. “Fucker!”

Suddenly the slap of canvas drew his attention around. The slender figure of Friar Otera slid within the tent. The tall monk straightened by the doorway, outlined by the setting sun behind him, his face masked in shadows. “Who were you talking to?” the man asked—harshly.

Philip guessed the monk was fatigued by the day's efforts at digging. Standing, Philip welcomed him further inside. “It was Sam!” he said excitedly. “He and the others made it out of the caverns!”

Philip was pleased to see the man's shocked expression. “How? Where are they?”

After quickly retelling Sam's story, Philip concluded, “We'll need some way to spot his signal fire…a helicopter or something.”

The friar nodded, eyes hooded. “That's good,” he mumbled.

“But that's not even the biggest news,” Philip said smugly, as if the discovery had been his own. “Sam thinks he's found an actual group of Incas up there, some lost tribe.”

Friar Otera's eyes flicked toward the student.

Philip gasped at what he glimpsed in those hard eyes, something feral and dangerous. He stumbled back a step, tripping over a discarded mug. By the time he caught himself, Friar Otera was already at his side, gripping his elbow tightly.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

Cringing, Philip glanced up. Whatever he had seen in the friar's eyes had vanished. Only warmth and concern shone in the monk's face. It must have been a trick of the light before. Philip cleared his throat. “I…I'm fine.”

Friar Otera released his elbow. “Good. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you.” He turned away. “I must share your good news with the others,” he said, then bowed out of the tent.

Philip let out a long sigh of relief. He didn't know what it was about Friar Otera that made him so edgy. The guy was only a dirt-water monk after all. Still, Philip had to rub the goose bumps from his arms. Something about that man…

 

Sitting with Maggie on the stairs at the edge of the plaza, Sam stared at the firelit celebrations below. Torches and fires dotted the open space in the center of the Incan village. Musicians bore instruments of every size and shape: drums made of llama skin, tambourines ringing with tiny silver cymbals, trumpets made of gourds and wood, flutes constructed of reeds or various lengths of cane, even several pipes fashioned from the large pinions of the mountain condor. All across the town, voices sang in celebration at the arrival of the newcomers.

Earlier, before the sun had set, the village shaman, or
socyoc
, had tossed his mystical
chumpirun
, a set of small colored pebbles, upon the ground to tell their fortune. The grim-faced, tattooed man had studied the stones, then risen up, arms high, and declared Sam's group to be emissaries of
Illapa
, the god of thunder. He had ordered this night's celebration in their honor.

Against their objections, the small group had been bustled off and treated like visiting royalty. Washed, groomed, and dressed in clean native wear, the team had regathered for the night's feast and celebration. The dinner had been endless, course after course of local fare: roasted guinea pig, bean stew with bits of parrot meat, a salad made of spinachlike amaranth leaves chopped with a type of native carrot called
arracacha
, and herbed pies made from
oca
, a relative of the sweet potato. After not eating for so long, the group had stuffed themselves, refusing nothing offered lest it offend their hosts.

Only Norman had eaten sparingly. He had started to run a fever from his injuries and retired early to the stone-and-mud hut assigned them. Denal had gone shortly thereafter,
not sick, just sleepy-eyed and exhausted, leaving Sam and Maggie to oversee the remainder of the night's celebration alone.

Yawning, Sam ran a hand over the knee-length beige tunic he now wore and readjusted the short, knotted
yacolla
cape that he had slung over one shoulder. Unwilling to part with his Stetson, he tugged the hat lower over his brow.

Once comfortable, he leaned back on his hands. “How could these folks have remained hidden here for so long?” he mumbled.

Maggie stirred beside him. “Because they wanted it that way.” She was decked out in a long sienna tunic that reached to her ankles. It was secured by an ivory white sash and matching shawl. She fingered the gold dragon pin holding the shawl in place. “Did you notice that most of the village is purposefully hidden in the jungle? Almost camouflaged. I doubt even satellite scans could pick out this hidden town, especially with all the geothermal activity around here. It would confound any thermal scans.”

Sam stared at the misted night skies. Few stars could be seen. “Hmm. You may be right.”

Maggie changed the tack of the conversation. “So, Sam, how does it feel to be a messenger of the thunder god?”

He smiled lazily. “Prophetic pebbles or not, I think that shaman must have heard echoes of our rifle blasts. I think that's why he associated us with
Illapa
.”

Maggie glanced quickly at him. “I never even considered that. It's a great theory.”

Sam enjoyed the praise, grinning slightly.

“But what about the necropolis down below? How does that fit in? It's almost a mirror image of this place.”

Sam frowned. “I don't know. But considering its location, it may have something to do with the Incas' three levels of existence. If this village was considered to be part of the middle or living world—of
cay pacha
—then the village below this one would certainly be thought of as
uca pacha
,
the lower world.”

“The world of the dead.”

“Exactly…a necropolis.”

Maggie's brows drew together in thought. “Hmm…maybe. But if your theory is sound, where's the third village?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Incas were very structured. If they built matching cities in the lower and middle worlds, where's the village of the upper world, of
janan pacha
?”

Sam shook his head, growing tired. “I don't know. But we'll get more answers tomorrow. For now, let's just enjoy the celebration in our honor.” He raised his mug of
chicha
, a fermented corn drink, and took a long sip. He grimaced at the bitter taste.

Maggie settled back. “Not to your liking,” she teased.

“It'll never replace a cold bottle of Bud. But, sheesh, this brew packs quite a kick.” Sam found himself becoming a little light-headed. By then, the celebration had run long into the night. Even the moon had set.

Maggie smiled and leaned into him a bit. He took a chance and put his arm around her. She did not pull away or make a joke of it. Sam took another swig of the corn beer. He hoped the moment's warmth was not all from the fermented brew.

Before them, a new group began an elaborate dance around the central fire pit. The celebrants, both men and women, wore gold or silver face paint and danced in precise rhythm to a tune played on the skull of some jungle deer, the horns of which acted as a flute.

“It's beautiful,” Maggie said. “Like a dream. Stories we've read come to life.”

Sam pulled her closer to him. “I only wish Uncle Hank were here to see it.”

“And Ralph, too,” Maggie said softly.

Sam glanced at the woman in his arms. She was staring
into the firelight, her eyes ablaze, the warm glow bathing her face.

She must have sensed his scrutiny. She turned to him, their faces close, too close. “But you were right, Sam,” she said softly. “Before…when you said the dead don't begrudge the living. You were right. We're alive…we're here. And we mustn't waste this gift with guilt an' sorrow. That would be the true tragedy.”

He nodded. “It's wrong to live a life as if you were dead.” His voice was just an exhaled whisper. Sam remembered the years following the loss of his parents. He and his uncle had shared their sorrow together, leaning on each other. But in truth, the two of them were not unlike Maggie. In part, they, too, had barred outsiders, using their shared tragedy as a barrier against getting close to others. He didn't want to do that any longer.

Sam dared to inch a little nearer to Maggie.

She stared up into his eyes, her lips slightly parted.

He leaned nearer, his heart thundering in time with the drums—then suddenly the music ended. A heavy silence descended over the plaza.

Maggie glanced away at the interruption, ending the intimate moment. “It seems the party's over.”

Sam's heart squeezed tight in his chest. He could not trust his voice. He swallowed hard, freeing his tongue. “I…I guess it is,” he choked out.

A figure crossed toward them. It was the shaman, whose name they had learned was Kamapak. On his tattooed face, he wore a wide smile as he approached, climbing the stairs. Sam and Maggie rose to greet him. He babbled in his native tongue, arms lifted in both thanks and farewell, clearly wishing them a good night's rest. Already the fires around them were being extinguished.

Standing, Sam's head spun slightly with the effects of the
chicha
beer. Steadying himself for a breath, he stared at the
fading flames, a mirror of his own inner hopes and passions. He turned away. It hurt too much to look.

Chaperoned by the shaman, Sam and Maggie drifted back toward the rooms assigned them. The Inca still talked excitedly as he led them.

Sam wished Denal were still there to translate for them, but he was able to discern a few familiar words. Something about one of their mythic gods, Inkarri. Not understanding, Sam just smiled and nodded in the universal manner of the nonfluent.

When they reached the row of homes bordering the square, Kamapak finally grew quiet and patted Sam on the shoulder. The shaman bowed his head, then whisked away to oversee the end of the celebration.

Maggie paused, watching him leave. Her room was separate from the men's. Sam stood awkwardly, wondering if that moment ago could be rekindled, but Maggie's next words doused cold water on those embers. “What was all that about Inkarri?”

Sam shrugged, recalling the Inca's epic story. Supposedly, Inkarri was the living son of Inti, the Sun, and the last god-king of his people. It was said he was captured by the Spanish conquerors and beheaded, but his decapitated head did not die. It was stolen away and hidden in a sacred cave—where, to this day, it had supposedly been growing a new body. When the body was complete, Inkarri would rise again and restore the Incas to their former splendor.

But this was, of course, just plain myth. The last leader of the Incas had been Atahaulpa. He had been garroted to death by the Spanish army led by Pizarro in 1533, and his body cremated. Sam shook his head. “Who knows what the shaman was suggesting? Maybe in the morning we could have Denal talk to him.”