Matthew Reilly: Temple

The Goose soared over the Andes, heading for Lima, heading for home. Doogie sat up front in the cockpit, bandaged but alive. Race, Renée, Gaby and Uli sat in the back. After about an hour or so of flying, Gaby Lopez joined Doogie in the cockpit.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Hey,’ Doogie replied when he saw who it was. He swallowed, nervous. He still thought Gaby was seriously pretty and seriously out of his league. She’d done a great job bandaging his wounds, treating them with gentle hands. He’d stared at her the whole time.

‘Thanks for helping me with that caiman back in the moat,” she said.

‘Oh,’ he blushed. “It was nothing.’

‘Well, thanks anyway.’

“No problem.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘So I was wondering,’ Gaby said nervously. ‘If you weren’t—you know—seeing anybody back home, maybe you’d like to come over to my place and I could cook you dinner.’ Doogie’s heart almost skipped a beat. He smiled a broad, beaming smile. ‘That’d be great,’ he said. Ten feet behind them, in the passenger section of the plane, Renée lay nestled up against Race’s shoulder, fast asleep. For his part, Race was speaking to John Paul Demonaco on Earl Bittiker’s cellular phone care of the redial button. He brought Demonaco up to speed on everything that had happened at Vilcafor. From the BKA to the Nazis, to the Navy and the Army, and then finally, the Texans.

“So, wait a minute,’ Demonaco said. “Have you had any military experience?’

‘None at all,’ Race said.

“Jesus.What are you, some kind of anonymous hero?”

‘Something like that.’

After they spoke some more, Demonaco gave Race the telephone number and address of the American embassy in Lima and the name of the FBI liaison there. The FBI, he said, would take care of the trip back to the States. After he hung up, Race just stared out the window at the mountains swooping by beneath him, his battered Yankees cap pressed up against the glass, his right hand fingering the emerald necklace that hung from his neck. After a while, he blinked and extracted something from his pocket. It was the thin leatherbound notebook that Marquez had given him that morning during the banquet. Race flicked through it. It wasn’t very thick. In fact, it was only made up of a few handwritten pages. But the handwriting was familiar. Race turned to the first page, started reading.

FIFTH READING

To the worthy adventurer who finds this notebook. I write to you now by the light of a torch in the foothills of the glorious mountains that dominate New Spain. By my amateur reckoning, it is now approximately the Year of Our Lord 1560, nearly twenty-five years after I first came to these foreign shores. To many who might read this work, it will mean nothing to you, for I write it in anticipation of penning another, fuller account of the remarkable adventures that befell me in New Spain—an account that I may not even write at all. But if I do write it, and if you, oh, brave adventurer— having come across this notebook through the ministrations of some most noble natives—have indeed read that account, then what follows will certainly have meaning for you. It is close on twenty-five years since my incredible adventure with Renco, and all of my friends are dead. Bassario, Lena, even Renco himself. But fear not, dear reader, they did not die of any foul deeds or subterfuge. They died in their sleep, all of them, victims to that villain no man can escape—old age. Now, I am the last one left alive. Sadly, as such, I have nothing left to live for in these mountains and so I have decided to return to Europe. I intend to end my days in some distant monastery far away from the world, where God willing, I shall write my amazing tale in full.

I leave this notebook, however, in the good hands of my Incan friends—to pass on to their children and their children’s children—and to give it only to the most worthy of adventurers, indeed, only those of a stature commensurate with my good friend Renco. That said, owing to the pedigree of those who will read this account, I shall endeavour in this notebook to dispel some of the fictions that I intend to include in the larger recounting of my tale. After the death of Hernando on the enormous stone tower, Renco did indeed enter the temple with the two idols, but he would emerge soon after, from an underwater passage at the base of the giant finger of stone, safe and sound. The inhabitants of Vilcafor would abandon their village at the base of the plateau and relocate to higher ground, to a new site above the enormous crater that housed the temple. I would live with them for the next twenty-five years, enjoying the company of my friend Renco. Why even that rogue Bassario, who proved his worth in our final confrontation with Hernando and his men, became a faithful companion of mine. But, oh, how I enjoyed my time with Renco. Never have I had such a good and loyal friend. I feel fortunate to have been able to spend the greater part of my life in his company. Oh, and another small tale for you, noble reader—but one which I beg of you not to tell my holy brethren. After a time, I would marry. And to whom, you might ask? Why, none other than the beautiful Lena. Yes, I know! While I had admired her from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I was not to know that she entertained similar feelings toward me. She thought I was a brave and noble man and, well, who was I disabuse her of that impression? With her young son Mani—whom Renco doted upon in the manner of uncles the world over—we made for a wonderful family, and indeed, soon Lena and I would expand our brood to include two delightful daughters who, I say with pride, were the spitting image of their mother. Lena and I would be married for twenty-four years, the most wonderful twenty-four years of my life. It ended but a few weeks ago, when she fell asleep by my side, never to wake. I miss her every day.

Now, as the guides prepare to take me north through the forests to the land of the Aztecas, I think of my adventures, and of Lena, and of Renco. I think of the prophecy that brought us together and I wonder if indeed, I am one of the people mentioned in it.

There will come a time when he will come, A man, a hero, beholden of the Mark of the Sun. He will have the courage to do battle with great lizards, He will have the jinga, He will enjoy the aid of brave hearted men, Men who would give of their lives, in honour of his noble cause, and he will fall from the sky in order to save our spirit. He is the Chosen One.

I ask myself, am I a ‘brave hearted man’? It is strange most strange but now, after all that I have been through, I actually think that I am. Worthy adventurer, this tale is at an end. May these writings find you in good health and I wish you every happiness in life and love.

Farewell.

Race sat in the back of the Goose, staring at the last page of Alberto Santiago’s notebook. He was pleased that the kindhearted monk had found happiness after his adventure. He deserved it. Race thought about Santiago’s transformation—his transformation from timid monk to stalwart defender of the idol. Then Race looked at the prophecy again and thought about Renco. And then for some reason that he couldn’t fathom, he began to think about the similarities between Renco and himself. They both bore the Mark of the Sun. And they had both fought with caimans, and they had each displayed catlike balance and movement. Both of them had most certainly enjoyed the aid of brave hearted men, and they had both risked their lives for their cause. And lastly, of course, they had both fallen from the— Wait a second, Race thought. Renco had never fallen from the sky…

The End