Excavation

Maggie leaned back on her stone seat, digesting Norman’s story. “And you could understand the Incan language…” She shook her head. “Maybe some hypnotic learning process. It could explain the memory lapse. But the level of healing – your knee, your eyes – this is far beyond anythin’ even Western medicine could do. It’s… it’s almost miraculous.”

Sam frowned. “I don’t believe in miracles. There’s an answer here. And it lies in that temple.” He met Norman’s gaze. “Could you find your way back there?”

Norman pinched his lips for a moment, then spoke. “I believe so. The trail was clear, and there were these stone trailside markers every hundred yards or so. The warriors would stop and quickly spout a few mumbled words and go on.”

“Prayer totems,” Sam mumbled. At least he was relatively certain he could find this Temple of the Sun if necessary. He would have to be satisfied with that for now. Tomorrow Uncle Hank would arrive, and Sam could leave these strange mysteries to his uncle’s expertise. As worrisome and frightening as the day had been, Sam was just relieved Norman had been healed, no matter how or why.

Across the plaza, the raucous drums died away, and the dancers slowed and stopped. A single Incan woman climbed atop a stone pedestal and began to sing softly, her voice lonely in the fiery night. Soon, the gathered throng solemnly joined in her song, their hundred voices rising like steam toward the midnight sky. Nearby, Denal began softly singing along. Though the words were not translated, Sam sensed joy mixed with reverence, almost like a Christian hymn.

Maggie’s words played through his mind. Miracles. Had the Incas stumbled upon some wondrous font of healing? The equivalent of Ponce de Leon’s mythic fountain of youth. Sam’s mouth grew dry at the thought of discovering such a find.

Listening to the crowd quietly sing, Sam looked over the square; he again was stunned that there were no children, no babes in arms or toddlers clinging to their mothers’ hems. Nor were any elders mixed with these younger men and women. All the faces singing up at the full moon overhead were too uniform, all near the same age.

Who were these people? What had they discovered? A sudden shiver, that had nothing to do with the cooling valley, passed through Sam.

Finally, a hush spread like a wave over the square. Sam’s eyes were drawn to the plaza’s south side as the celebrants all fell to their knees. The small woman who had led the singing climbed off her pedestal and knelt, too. Soon only a solitary figure remained. He stood on the far side, unmoving, tall for an Inca, at least six feet. He bore a staff with a sunburst symbol at its top.

Maggie urged them all to kneel, too. “It must be the Sapa Inca,” she whispered.

Sam settled to his knees, not wanting to offend this leader. Any cooperation would depend on this fellow’s good graces.

The man slowly moved through the crowd. Men and women bowed their foreheads to the stones as he passed. No one spoke. Though not borne atop the usual golden litter of the Sapa Incas, the man wore the raiments of kings: from the llautu crown of woven braids with parrot feathers and red vicuna wool tassels, down to a long robe of expensive cumbi cloth decorated with appliqués of gold and silver. Even his sandals were made of alpaca leather and decorated with rubies. In his right hand, he bore a long staff, as tall as the man himself, topped by a palm-sized gold sunburst.

Norman mumbled, “The staff. I remember it. From the tunnel shaft.”

Sam glanced at the photographer and saw the man’s nervous fear. He touched Norman’s shoulder in a gesture of support.

As the king neared, Sam studied his features. Typical Incan: mocha-colored skin, wide cheeks, full strong lips, dark eyes that pierced. In each earlobe was a disc of gold stamped with a sunburst icon that matched his staff’s headpiece.

The Sapa Inca stepped to within three yards of the kneeling trio. Sam nodded in a show of respect. It was not fitting to stare directly at Incan rulers. They were the sun’s children, and as with the sun itself, one’s eyes must be diverted from the brightness. Still, Sam refused to touch his head to the stones of the plaza.

The Incan king did not seem to take offense. His gaze was intense but not hostile. With a look of burning curiosity, he took one more step toward them. His shadowed face was now aglow in the fiery light from a nearby torch, forging its ruddy planes into a coppery gold.

Maggie gasped.

Sam’s brow crinkled at her reaction, and he dared stare more openly at the man – then it struck him, too. “My God…” he mumbled, stunned. This close, there could be no mistaking the resemblance, especially with the torch bathing the king’s countenance in a golden light. They had all seen this man before. He matched the figure sculpted in gold back in the caverns, both the life-size idol guarding the booby-trapped room and the towering statue in the center of the necropolis.