Excavation

The thick jungle opened, and a village appeared as if by magic. The cluster of stone homes surrounded a central plaza and spread in terraced steps up into the jungle itself; almost all of the homes were half-buried in the growth, shadowed by the high canopy. Jungle flowers festooned stone rooftops and grew in planted yards. The fragrant blooms negated the sulfurous smell of the volcanic vents.

Sam stared, his mouth gaping open. Llamas and small pigs moved around the narrow streets, while men and women came to doorways and windows to gawk equally at the four strangers. There had to be over a hundred inhabitants here, dressed in poncholike cushmas, or sleeved shirts with small capes, or long Indian anacu tunics.

The homes were as equally decorated as their inhabitants: lintels and window edges were sculpted elaborately, while silver and gold adornments glinted in the setting sun’s haze.

Norman limped ahead, leaning on Denal’s shoulder. From a doorway, one of the younger women, dressed in a wool llikla shawl, nervously approached Norman. She held out a loose wreath of blue flowers woven with yellow parrot feathers. The thin photographer smiled and bowed down. Taking the opportunity, the woman darted forward and slipped the handwoven adornment over the photographer’s head. Norman straightened as she giggled, a hand over her lips, and danced away.

Norman turned to Denal, fingering the gift with an embarrassed grin. “Does this clash with my shirt?” he asked, and limped onward. The photographer seemed oblivious to what they had stumbled upon.

Sam and Maggie, though, stood frozen at the village’s edge. In his mind, Sam stripped away the jungle growth from the homes and erased the people and animals from the streets. He recognized the layout of this town. The central plaza, the spoked avenues, the terraced homes… it was the same spread as the necropolis below!

Maggie grabbed his elbow. “Do you know what this place is?” she whispered, staring up at Sam with huge eyes. “This is not some Quechan tribe, eking out a fist-to-mouth existence.”

Sam nodded. “These are Denal’s ancestors,” he said, coming to the same conclusion as Maggie, his voice numb with shock.

They had stumbled upon a living Incan village!

As the sun set, Philip heard a noise he had not thought to hear: the rasp of static from the camp’s radio. He jolted to his feet, knocking over the camp stool on which he had been sitting. Friar Otera and the other Dominicans were all down at the excavation site. A pair of experienced miners had arrived just past noon today and were helping direct the Quechan laborers.

Philip tore open the communication tent’s flap and dived into its shadowed interior. He snatched up the receiver. “Hello!” he yelled into the handpiece. “Can anyone hear me?”

Static… then a jittery response. “…ilip? It’s Sam! The walkie-talkie’s battery… We made it out of the caves…” Garbled static flared up.

Philip adjusted the radio’s antennae. “Sam! Come back! Where are you?”

Words fought through the static. “We’re in one of the volcanoes… east, I think.”

Philip’s heart sang. If the others were safe, there was no further reason to continue to excavate the shaft. It was all over! He’d be able to leave soon! He pictured his own apartment back at Harvard, where his books, computer, and papers were all neatly organized and cataloged. He glanced down at his torn shirt and filthy pants. After this expedition, he was done with fieldwork forever!

His glee made him miss some of Sam’s last words, but it no longer mattered. “…helicopters or some other aerial surveillance. We’ll set up a signal fire on the ridge. Search for us!” Sam asked one final question. “Have you got word to Uncle Hank yet?”

Philip frowned and hit the transmitter. “No, but I’m sure word’s reached Cuzco by now. Help’s arriving here already. It shouldn’t be long.”

A squelch of static erupted when Philip released the button.

Sam’s voice was more faded. “You won’t believe what we’ve found up here, Philip!”

He rolled his eyes. Like he really gave a damn. But Sam’s next words drove away even his profound apathy: “We’ve found a lost Incan tribe!”

Philip hit the transmit button. “What?”

“…too long a story… battery weak… call same time tomorrow.”

“Sam, wait!”

“Search for our signal fire!” Then the static ground away all further communication.

Philip tried for another few minutes to raise Sam again, but to no avail. Either the battery had grown too weak, or the bastard had switched off his walkie-talkie. Philip slammed the receiver in place. “Fucker!”

Suddenly the slap of canvas drew his attention around. The slender figure of Friar Otera slid within the tent. The tall monk straightened by the doorway, outlined by the setting sun behind him, his face masked in shadows. “Who were you talking to?” the man asked – harshly.