James Rollins - Excavation

Once the shaman was finished, the Sapa Inca grunted a terse answer and waved Kamapak away. The shaman’s smile broadened, clearly having obtained a favorable answer, and stepped back. The king nodded soberly at Sam’s group, his eyes lingering a moment on Denal; then he swung back around and followed the shaman through the clusters of celebrants.

“I guess we passed muster,” Sam said, breathing again.

“And were summarily dismissed,” Maggie added.

Sam turned to Norman. “What were they saying?”

The photographer leaned back on his heels, his eyes narrowed. “Kamapak wanted to talk in private with the king” – Norman faced Sam – “about us.”

Sam frowned. “What about us?”

“About our future here.”

Sam did not like the sound of that. He watched the shaman and the king cross the plaza toward a large two-story home to the left of the square. “What do you make of this Sapa Inca fellow?” he asked Maggie.

“He’s obviously had some exposure to the outside world. Learned a little English. Did you notice his face? He must be a direct descendant of that ancient king of the statues.”

Sam nodded. “I’m not surprised at the similarity. This is a closed gene pool. No outsiders to dilute the Incan blood.”

“Until we arrived, that is,” Norman said.

Sam ignored the photographer’s words. “But what about him claiming to be the mythic Inkarri?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Who’s this Inkarri?” Norman asked.

Maggie quickly explained the story of the beheaded king who was prophesied to rise again to lead the Incas back to glory.

“The Second Coming, so to speak,” Norman said.

“Right,” Maggie said, frowning slightly. “Again clear evidence of Christian influence. Further proof of some Western intrusion here.”

Sam was less convinced. “But if they’ve been out of the valley, why do they continue to hide?”

Maggie waved a hand toward Norman. “They obviously discovered something here. Something that heals. Avolcanic spring or something. Maybe they’ve been protecting it.”

Sam glanced at Norman, then back to the Incan king who disappeared into the home along with Kamapak. All the mysteries here seemed to start and end at the temple. If only Norman could remember what had happened…

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall during their conversation,” Maggie muttered, staring across the plaza.

Norman nodded.

Sam sat up straighter. “Why don’t we?”

“What?” Maggie asked, turning back to him.

“Why not eavesdrop? They have no glass on their windows. Norman can understand their language. What’s to stop us?”

“I don’t know,” Norman said sourly. “Maybe a bunch of men with spears.”

Maggie agreed. “We shouldn’t do anything to make ’em mistrust us.”

Sam, though, continued to warm to his idea. After a day spent wringing his hands over Norman’s fate, he was tired of operating in the dark. He cinched his Winchester to his shoulder and stood. “If the shaman and king are discussing our fate, I want to know what they decide.”

Maggie stood, reaching for his elbow. “We need to talk about this.”

Sam stepped away from her grip. “What do you say, Norman? Or would you rather be dragged to the altar in the morning? And I don’t mean to be married.”

Norman fingered his thin neck and stood. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Maggie was now red-faced. “This isn’t the way we should be handling this. This is stupid and a risk to all our lives.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed. “It’s better than hiding in a hole,” he said angrily, “and praying you’re not killed.”

Maggie stepped away from him, blinking in shock, a wounded look on her face. “You bastard…”

Sam realized Maggie thought he had been referring to her incident in Ireland, using her own trauma to knock aside her arguments. “I… I didn’t mean it that way,” he tried to explain.

Maggie pulled Denal to her side and turned her back on Sam. Her words were for Norman, dismissive. “Don’t get yourself killed.” She stalked off toward the row of homes.

Norman stared at her back. “Sam, you’ve really got to watch that mouth of yours. It’s no wonder you and your uncle are bachelors.”

“I didn’t mean -”

“Yeah, I know… but still… next time think before you speak.” Norman led the way around the edge of the plaza. “Come on, James Bond, let’s get this over with.”

Sam watched as Maggie ducked into her room; then he turned to follow Norman. His heart, on fire a moment ago, was now a burned cinder in his chest. “I’m such a jackass.”

Norman heard him. “No argument here.”

Sam scowled and tugged at the brim of his Stetson. He passed Norman with his angry stride. “Let’s go.”

As the celebration raged around them, they reached the squat two-story home. It was clearly the abode of a kapak , the nobleman of the Incas. The windows and door were framed in hammered silver. Firelight blazed from the uncovered windows, and muffled voices could be heard from inside.

Sam searched around to ensure no one was watching, then he pulled Norman into the narrow alley beside the home. It was cramped, allowing only enough room for them to move single file. Sam crept along first. Ahead, flickering light could be seen coming from a courtyard which was closed off by a shoulder-high wall. As they neared, Sam spotted small decorative holes piercing the walls: star-shaped and crescent moons. A perfect place from which to spy.

Waving Norman onward, Sam slunk up to one of the holes and peeked through. Beyond was a central garden courtyard, rich with orchids and climbing flowering vines. Sleeping parrots rested on perches, heads tucked under wings. Amid the riotous growth, a fire pit blazed in the center of the courtyard.

Two figures stood limned against the flames: Kamapak and Inkarri.

The shaman touched one of his tattoos with a fingertip, mumbling a prayer, then opened his chuspa pouch and cast a pinch of powder upon the fire. A spat of blue flames chased embers higher into the sky. Kamapak spoke to the king as he stepped in a circle around the fire, tossing more powder into the flames.

Norman, positioned at a neighboring spy hole, translated. His lips were near Sam’s ear, his words breathless.

The shaman spoke. “As I told you, though they are pale-skinned and came from below, they are not mallaqui , spirits of uca pacha . They are true people.”

The king nodded, pensively staring into the flames. “Yes, and the temple has healed the one. Inti accepts them.” Inkarri stared back at Kamapak. “Still, they are not Inca.”

Kamapak finished whatever ritual he had been performing and crossed to one of the reed floor coverings and folded himself smoothly to the floor, legs crossed under him. “No, but they do not come with murder in their hearts either… like the others long ago.”

The king sat on a woven mat beside the shaman. His voice was tired. “How long has it been, Kamapak?”

The shaman reached to a pouch and pulled out a long string of knotted rope. He spread it on the stones of the courtyard. Sam recognized it as a quipu , an Incan counting tool. Kamapak pointed to one knot. “Here is when we discovered the Mochico in this valley, when your armies first came here, five hundred and thirty years ago.” He moved his fingers down several ropes. “And here is when you died.”

Sam pulled back and stared quizzically at Norman. Died ? The photographer shrugged. “That’s what he said,” Norman mouthed.

Frowning, Sam started to return to his eavesdropping when a shouted bark startled him. Torches flared at either end of the alley. Sam and Norman froze, caught red-handed. Harsh orders were yelled at them.