James Rollins - Excavation

Norman snapped a few photographs, while the others wandered along the forest’s edge.

Within this verdant and flowered splendor, birds whistled and piped in alarm, disturbed by their presence. A small flock of blue-winged parrots darted across the misty skies. Closer, the barking calls of monkeys warned them away, echoing off the rock walls. Their tiny bodies darted and flew among the trees and vines, flashes of fiery fur and whipping tails.

Beyond this wall of greenery, the babble of water over rock promised the presence of some spring-fed creek nearby.

“It’s like some lost Eden,” Norman said.

Sam nodded, though a seed of worry took root. He remembered the Latin warning etched on the hematite bands by Francisco de Almagro: Beware the Serpent of Eden .

A similar thought must have passed through Maggie’s mind. Her lips were pinched sternly, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “We’ve got company,” she suddenly whispered.

Sam tensed, eyes instantly on the alert. “What?”

Maggie stood immobile, only her eyes moved, indicating a direction in which to look.

Behind them, a sudden grind of metal sounded. The dome was closing back up, their only means of retreat from the volcanic caldera vanishing.

Sam searched the section of jungle Maggie had indicated. Finally, he spotted a small face in the shadows, staring back at him. The figure must have known he had been spotted and rose from his crouch. He stepped from the dense thicket at the jungle’s edge. From other spots, seven more men slipped into the clearing around the gold dome.

Mocha-skinned and dark-eyed, the men were clearly of Quechan heritage. They stood only to about Sam’s shoulder, but bore spears a good head taller than the Texan. They wore traditional Indian garb: unadorned haura trousers and shirts fancifully decorated with parrot and condor feathers.

The leader, wearing a crimson headband, stepped forward and spoke sternly in his native tongue.

Denal translated, face scrunched. “He wants us to follow him.”

The small hunter turned and stepped back to the forest’s edge. He pushed aside the giant frond of a tree fern to reveal a hidden path. The man ducked under the leafy growth and started down the trail. The other hunters hung back to ensure Sam’s group followed.

Without any reason yet to fear them, Sam waved. “Let’s go… maybe they know a way back to the dig.” Still, as he eyed their long weapons, Sam cinched his Winchester more snugly over his shoulder. If trouble should arise, he wanted to be ready.

Denal touched Sam’s elbow. The boy’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion, too. He seemed about to say something, then shook his head and fished out a bent cigarette from a pocket. He mumbled something in his native tongue as he slipped the filter to his lips.

“What is it, Denal?”

“Something no right,” he grumbled but said nothing more. Ahead, the boy helped Norman under the frond and onto the path.

Sam followed last with Maggie beside him. As the jungle swallowed them up, they proceeded in silence for several minutes.

“What do you make of them?” Maggie finally whispered.

“They’re obviously a Quechan tribe. Hundreds like them live as hunter-gatherers out in the wilds.”

Maggie pointed a thumb back toward the clearing. “And they just ignore a dome made of beaten gold?”

Sam pondered her words. She was right. The hunters had seemed more shocked to see them than the wealth at their backs. Denal’s consternation also nagged at him. What was wrong here?

He studied the Indians as they marched onward. They moved silently, spears carried comfortably, pushing vines from their way. Soon the path crossed a small stream forded by a series of large stone blocks set in the flow. Who were these hunters?

The answer to his question appeared around a bend in the path.

The thick jungle opened, and a village appeared as if by magic. The cluster of stone homes surrounded a central plaza and spread in terraced steps up into the jungle itself; almost all of the homes were half-buried in the growth, shadowed by the high canopy. Jungle flowers festooned stone rooftops and grew in planted yards. The fragrant blooms negated the sulfurous smell of the volcanic vents.

Sam stared, his mouth gaping open. Llamas and small pigs moved around the narrow streets, while men and women came to doorways and windows to gawk equally at the four strangers. There had to be over a hundred inhabitants here, dressed in poncholike cushmas , or sleeved shirts with small capes, or long Indian anacu tunics.

The homes were as equally decorated as their inhabitants: lintels and window edges were sculpted elaborately, while silver and gold adornments glinted in the setting sun’s haze.

Norman limped ahead, leaning on Denal’s shoulder. From a doorway, one of the younger women, dressed in a wool llikla shawl, nervously approached Norman. She held out a loose wreath of blue flowers woven with yellow parrot feathers. The thin photographer smiled and bowed down. Taking the opportunity, the woman darted forward and slipped the handwoven adornment over the photographer’s head. Norman straightened as she giggled, a hand over her lips, and danced away.

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.”