Excavation

“They’d welcomed us as part of their tribe, accepted us warmly. There was no way you could’ve anticipated this.”

Sam shook his head. “Still, I should have taken precautions. First, Ralph… now Norman. If only I had… if I had just -”

“What?” Maggie asked, now grabbing Sam’s arm in an iron grip. She was going to make him listen. His ranting and breast-beating was doing them no good. “What would you have done, Sam? If you had been there when the Incas came to take Norman, what do you think you could have done to stop them? Any resistance would probably have gotten us all killed.”

Sam shuddered under her grip, the glaze clearing from his eyes. “So what do we do? Wait while they pick us off one at a time?”

“We use our heads, that’s what we do. We need to think clearly.” Maggie let Sam go, trusting him to listen now. “First, I don’t think they’re going to pick us off. Norman was injured, so he was taken to the temple. We aren’t hurt.”

“Maybe…” Sam glanced at Denal, who stood by the reed mat that covered their doorway, peeking out. Sam lowered his voice. “But what about him? They take children there, too.”

“Denal is past puberty. To the Incas, he’s an adult. I doubt he’s at risk.”

“But did you see how they stare at him when he passes? It’s like they’re curious and a little confused.”

Maggie nodded. And fearful, too, she added silently. But she did not want to set Sam off again.

Denal spoke up from the doorway. “People come.”

Maggie heard them, too. Those who approached were not being secretive. The chattering of many excited voices sounded from beyond their shelter. Some were raised in song.

Sam crossed to join Denal. “What’s going on?”

Denal shrugged, but Maggie saw his hands tremble a bit as they held the reed mat open. Sam placed a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder and took up his Winchester in the other. Armed now, Sam pulled back the covering. The Texan stepped out, his back straight, confrontational.

Maggie hurried to join them. She didn’t want Sam doing anything rash.

Outside, the sun had fully set. Night had cloaked the terraced village while they had discussed Norman’s plight. Throughout the spread of homes, a scatter of torches bloomed, bright as stars in the darkness, while the full moon overhead served as the only other illumination.

As they watched, the neighboring plaza filled with a growing number of Incas. Some bore torches, while others held aloft pieces of flint, striking them together and casting sparks like fireflies into the night. Across the plaza, a rhythmic drumbeat stirred a handful of Incan women to dance, their tunics flaring around their legs. In the center of the square, a fire suddenly flared.

“Another celebration,” Maggie said.

One of the men with the flints neared, smiling white teeth at them. He sparked his stones, matching the drums’ rhythm. Flutes and pipes joined the chorus.

“It’s like the fuckin’ Fourth of July,” Sam muttered.

“Definitely a party of some sort,” Maggie agreed. “But what are they celebrating?” From Sam’s stricken expression, Maggie suddenly wished she had remained silent. She stepped closer to him, knowing what he was thinking. Maggie had studied the Incan culture, too. A village would always celebrate after a blood ritual. A sacrifice was a joyous occasion. “We don’t know this has anything to do with Norman,” Maggie reasoned.

“But we don’t know it doesn’t,” Sam grumbled.

Denal, who had been keeping close to the doorway, suddenly pushed forward. “Look!” he said, pointing.

Across the plaza, the mass of bodies entering the square parted. A lone figure wandered through them, dressed in an umber-colored robe and black yacolla cape knotted at one shoulder. He seemed dazed and walked with a slight drunken sway to his step.

Sam’s voice matched the man’s confusion. “Norman?”

Maggie grabbed Sam’s elbow. “Sweet Mary, it’s him!”

The two glanced at each other before rushing toward Norman. Around them, the celebrants were in full swing. The music grew louder, the chanting and singing along with it. Before they could reach Norman’s side, Kamapak appeared from the crowd, blocking their path. In the firelight, the shaman’s tattoos were spidery traces on his cheeks and neck: abstract symbols of power and strange feathered dragons.

Sam started to raise his rifle, but Maggie pushed the barrel down. “Hear him out.”

The shaman spoke grandly. Denal translated. “Your friend has been accepted as worthy by the gods of janan pacha. He is now ayllu, family, with the Sapa Inca.”

“The Sapa Inca?” Maggie asked, still holding the barrel of Sam’s rifle. “Who?”

But the shaman was already turning away, inviting them forward to Norman’s side. The photographer finally seemed to spot them. He waved a weak arm and stumbled in their direction. His face was still pale – not the ashen complexion of fever or illness, but more of shock. Sam hurried to his side. Maggie and Denal stayed beside the shaman.