Henry rose to his feet, his neck still warm from her kiss. He saw new tears in Joan’s eyes that he suspected were not faked. “I’ll be back,” he said softly to her.
Carlos grabbed his elbow. “Come on,” he spat sourly, and yanked him away.
Henry did not resist this time. He turned to the door, but not before catching Joan as she mouthed one final warning, her bloody fingers touching her breast pocket.
As Henry was led away, Joan’s last message echoed through his thoughts—both a mystery and a warning.
Beware the Serpent.
Two things struck Sam when he awoke the next morning and crawled out of his bed of straw. First, amazement that he could have slept at all. Around him, scattered throughout the stone room were countless examples of Incan handiwork: pottery with enameled designs, woven tapestries hung upon the walls depicting gods in battle, simple wooden utensils and stone tools. He really was in a living Incan village! He could not believe the dream from last night was still real.
Second, he realized that the Incas’ chicha beer had created the most brain-splintering hangover he’d ever had. His head pounded like one of the drums from last night, and his tongue felt as furry as a monkey’s tail. “God, I didn’t even drink that much,” he groaned. He stretched, adjusted the loincloth he’d donned the day before, and rolled to his feet. “It must be the altitude,” he decided aloud.
Searching for his tunic, he found it in a corner and slipped into it. Rounding up his Stetson, he headed toward the door. He noticed Denal and Norman were already up and about. Their beds were empty.
Shoving aside the reed mat that hung across the doorway, Sam blinked against the painful glare of late-morning sunlight. Too bright for his bleary eyes. Nearby, birds sang from the treetops, and a scent of lavender almost overpowered the ever-present reek of sulfur from the volcanic vents. Sam groaned at the morning.
“About time,” Maggie said from nearby. Norman and Denal were at her side. “You’ll be happy to know the Incas also developed a form of coffee.”
Sam raised both hands and ambled toward the sound of her voice. “Give me!”
His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and he found his three companions, dressed in matching tunics, gathered around two women who were working at a small brick stove with an open baking hearth beneath it. The trio smiled at his sorry state.
He hobbled over to them. Thick earthenware pots rested on small openings atop the stone oven, bubbling warmly with morning porridges and stews. The smell of baking bread arose from the oven, along with another odor he could not place.
Sam bent and took a deep whiff from the oven, clearing his head of the cobwebs.
“Llama dung,” Maggie said.
Sam straightened. “What?”
“They use llama dung to fuel their ovens.”
Taking a step back, Sam frowned. “Delightful.”
The pair of young Incan women who were cooking chattered amongst themselves, skirting quick glances toward the strangers. One of them was pregnant, her belly swelling hugely. Sam knew the work ethic of the Incas was severe. Everyone worked. They had a saying: Ama sua, ama lulla, ama quella. Do not steal, do not lie, do not be lazy. The only nod toward pampering the pregnant women was the presence of a low wooden stool, or duho, providing them with the opportunity to settle their weight while they worked. It was one of the few pieces of furniture the Incas built.
Sam accepted a mug of a thick syrupy brew from Maggie and looked at it doubtfully.
“It helps,” Maggie said with a wan smile. It seemed she had not completely escaped the aftereffects of the wicked brew either.
Sam sipped at the Incan coffee. It tasted nutty with a hint of cinnamon. Satisfied that it tasted better than it looked, he settled in with his drink. He sipped quietly for a few precious moments. Maggie was right. The Incan coffee helped clear his head, but his thoughts remained fuzzy at the edges. He swore off chicha forever. Finally, he lifted his face from the steam of his mug. “So what’s the morning’s plan?”
Norman answered. “Morning? It’s almost noon, Sam. I’m ready for a short siesta.” His words were jaunty, but his pale face gave him away. Sam hadn’t noticed at first, but the photographer’s skin had a sickly sheen to it. Sam saw how he had to lean heavily on Denal as he limped away from the wall.
“How’s the leg?” Sam asked.
Norman hiked up the edge of his tunic. His knee was bandaged, but it was obviously swollen.
One of the women leaned closer, studying Norman’s leg. She babbled something in Inca. Three pairs of eyes turned to Denal.
He translated. It was lucky his Quechan language was so similar to the native Inca from which it was derived. Otherwise, the group would be hard-pressed to communicate there. “She says Norman needs to go to the temple.”
“Temple?” Sam said.
“I’m not gonna have some witch doctor work on me,” Norman said, dropping the edge of his tunic. “I’ll tough it out until help arrives. Speaking of which, have you tried to reach Philip at the camp?”
Sam shook his head, worry for the photographer crinkling his eyes. “I’ll do it now. If we can’t get a helicopter up here tonight, maybe you’d better consult the witch doctor. The Incas were known for their proficiency at natural medicines. Even surgery.”
Norman rolled his eyes. “I don’t think my HMO will cover the costs.”
Sam waved him back to the shelter. “Then at least go lie down. I’m going to call Sykes right now.”
Denal helped Norman back to the room. Sam followed to get his walkie-talkie from the pack. He cast a concerned look at Norman when the man gave out a soft cry as he settled atop the straw bed. “Make sure he drinks plenty today,” Sam said to Denal. “Once you’ve got him settled, join me. I’ll need your help in some translation with the natives.”
Sam then slipped through the reed covering and stepped a few paces away, clicking on the walkie-talkie. The battery indicator was in the red range. It would not last much longer without a recharge. “Sam to base. Sam to base. Over.”
Maggie came over to listen in.
The response was almost immediate. “About time, Conklin!” Philip whined at him. Static frosted his words.
“Any luck arranging a rescue up here? Norman’s injured bad, and we need a quick evac.”
The excitement in his fellow student’s voice could not be completely masked by white noise. “Your uncle’s coming! The professor! He’s just leaving Cuzco! He should be here with a helicopter and supplies by dawn tomorrow.”
Maggie clutched Sam’s elbow excitedly.
Philip continued, “I didn’t get to speak to him. Radio’s still out. But word passed from Cuzco, to the nearby town of Villacuacha, then to our base by a makeshift walkie-talkie network some monks set up this morning. Word just reached us this past hour!”
Sam’s emotions were mixed. Uncle Hank was coming! But still a frown marred his lips. He had hoped for rescue today, but such a hope was not realistic. They were hundreds of miles away from anyplace with even a crude form of airport. He clicked the transmit button. “Great news, Philip! But get that helicopter up here as soon as possible. Light a fire under Uncle Hank if you can. We’ll keep a fire burning here all night long, just in case he’s able to arrive any earlier.” The red light on his battery indicator began blinking ominously. “I gotta go, Philip! I’ll call you at sunset for an update.”
Static ate most of Philip’s response. The scratchy white noise began tweaking Sam’s residual headache. He cursed and clicked the walkie-talkie off. He hoped his last message reached Philip.
“Dawn tomorrow,” Maggie said, relief clear in her voice. She turned to stare at the village. “It’ll be great to have Professor Conklin here.”
Sam stepped next to her. “I’m still worried about Norman. I really think we should talk to Kamapak, the shaman. See if the Incas here at least have the equivalent of aspirin or a pain reliever.”
Off to the side, Denal bowed through the reed mat. He crossed toward them. “Norman sleeps,” the boy said as he joined them, but his lips were tight with concern.
“Maybe we’d better find that shaman,” Maggie said. “Can you help us, Denal?”
The youth nodded, and turned toward the village. “I ask.” He hesitated before going, squinting at the homes. “But something no right here.”
“What do you mean?”
“There no children,” Denal said, glancing up at them.
Maggie and Sam frowned at each other, then stared out at the spread of stone homes. “Sure there are…” Sam started to say, but his voice died away. They had not noticed any youngsters when they had arrived yesterday, but the sun had been close to setting. The celebration had run late into the evening, so the lack of children had not struck Sam as odd enough to notice.
“He’s right,” Maggie said. “I’ve been up for at least an hour, and I’ve seen no wee ones either.”
Sam pointed toward where the two women still worked at the ovens. “But she’s pregnant. The children must be somewhere. Maybe they’re hiding them from us as a precaution.”
Maggie scrunched up her nose, unconvinced. “They seemed to accept us so readily. No guards or anything.”
“Let’s go ask,” Sam said, nodding toward the pregnant Incan woman.
He led the others back to the oven. Sam nudged Denal. “Ask her where the children are kept.”
Denal stepped closer and spoke to the woman. She seemed uncomfortable so near the boy. She guarded her belly with a hand. Her answer was clearly agitated, involving much arm movement and pointing.
Sam glanced to where she indicated. She was pointing toward the neighboring volcanic cone that overlooked this caldera.
Denal finally gave up and turned back to Sam. “There no children. She say they go to janan pacha. Heaven.” Denal nodded to the towering volcano.
“Sacrifices, do you think?” Maggie said, stunned. Infanticide and blood rites with children were not unknown in Incan culture.
