Excavation

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.

“Th… they want us to come out,” Norman said.

Sam touched the rifle’s stock, then thought better of it. He’d wait first to see how this all played out. “C’mon.”

He pushed past Norman and slid down the alley toward the waiting guards. Angry faces met them at the plaza. A circle of men, some bearing torches, all bearing spears, surrounded them. The music had stopped. Hundreds of sweating bodies stared in their direction.

From the doorway, the shaman and the king appeared. A spatter of words were exchanged between the guards and the shaman. The king stood stoically at the doorway.

Finally, the Sapa Inca lifted his staff, and all grew silent. Turning to Sam, he spoke in strained English, “At the temple, Inti whispered your tongue in my ear so I could speak to you. Come then. Learn what you seek in dark corners.” He turned and reentered the stately abode.

Kamapak frowned, clearly disappointed with them, and waved them both inside the same courtyard upon which they had eavesdropped.

The Sapa Inca gestured to woven rugs on the floor.

Sam and Norman sat.

The king strode to the fire, speaking to the flames. “What be it that you seek?” he asked.

Sam sat straighter. “Answers. Like who you really are.”

The Sapa Inca sighed and slowly nodded. “Some now call me Inkarri. But I will speak my true name to you, my first name, my oldest name, so you will know me. My birth name be Pachacutec. Inca Pachacutec.”