Blood of the Incas
To Jenny and Troy,
who are somewhere in
the mountains of Borneo.
Contents
Cover
Map
An unseemly scramble for relics
Warning to users of this product: BEWARE
THE CUZCO HERALD
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
THE CUZCO HERALD
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
THE CUZCO HERALD
Copyright
An unseemly scramble for relics
The author and publisher hereby assert their moral right to dismay at barbarous, plundering, blundering archaeological destruction and theft by people in this series.
We further assert our indignation at the nineteenth century archaeological method of Dig, Grab and Run. The battering ram, explosives and teams of sweaty workers wielding crowbars have thankfully given way to the enlightened archaeology of harmless non-contact electromagnetic devices, computer graphics, lots of string, forensic scalpels and those cute little make-up brushes.
No archaeological site will be hurt in the making of this series … we hope.
Warning to users of this product
BEWARE
These stories are a portal into an alternative reality, an amazing world where fiction tells the truth. People and events are shape-shifters, with a rage for a life of their own. Time and space collapse and expand. Memories distort, explode and fade away. Stories hurtle through white-water rapids and we hang on for our lives.
Our crew is a mad bunch of desperados. Every twist and turn of our imaginary journey is inspired by their true-to-life adventures. Well, as true to life as this lot allowed their writing to be.
The author has the dirt on things these archaeologists revised, made up, or left out of their official versions. Historical ‘truth’ may lie. Historical fiction reveals all kinds of truths.
Those who wish to compare these cliffhanger tales with other versions of What Really Happened can find recommended websites at the author’s website (davidharris.com.au).
THE CUZCO HERALD
26 FEBRUARY 1909
ADVENTURER DISAPPEARS IN ANDES
Intrepid adventurer Hiram Bingham has been missing in the Andes for over a month. The Cuzco Herald investigates Hiram’s journey and disappearance.
Earlier this month he disappeared into the uncharted mountains of Peru. His quest — to find and follow ancient Inca Trails. In an exclusive interview with The Herald before he set out on his latest adventure, the 33-year-old Yale University academic said:
“So much about the Incas remains a mystery. Their great empire stretched from Ecuador in the north down to Argentina. But little is known about the glories and tragedies of the Incas. The Andes hold the secrets of their vanished civilization. I am compeled to go and find what is lost among the mountains.’
What drives a man to risk his life among mile-high precipices, glaciers, raging rivers and deep valleys ruled by cannibal head-hunters? And what truth is there to rumors that he was searching for fabulous treasures in the lost cities of the Incas?
The Herald will be the first to bring you the latest news on Dr Bingham’s fate.
Chapter 1
February 1909
‘Steady.’ Hiram pulled the reins tighter. His mule scrabbled on the path.
‘Whoa! What’s going on?’ Hiram felt the mule’s fear. He wrapped the reins more tightly around his hands.
To Hiram’s horror, the mule’s hind legs skittered sideways in panic, kicking rocks off the narrow path. As the rocks fell Hiram thought, That could be me. The rocks hit the face of the cliff, bounced out into emptiness and tumbled, becoming smaller and smaller until they vanished. More than a mile below, clouds of mist swirled over the raging river. The roar of the river echoed around the canyon.
‘Come on, steady,’ Hiram snarled through clenched teeth. He dragged at the reins and leant all his weight away from the edge. There was no room for error. The path was cut along a cliff, which towered above and plunged down an abyss.
Ahead, Hiram’s guide, Castillo, leapt from his mule. Red poncho flying in the wind, Castillo yelled at Hiram. ‘Off, off, get off.’
‘What?’ Hiram’s heart pounded.
Thunder rumbled, but Hiram hadn’t seen lightning flash.
Zzzup … Crack. A stone whizzed down, hit the path and exploded.
Castillo crouched between the cliff and his mule, using its body as a shield. He waved frantically at Hiram to get off and shelter himself.
Hiram flung himself from the mule and against the wall of rock.
The earth rumbled and the mountain shuddered. For a horrible moment, Hiram felt as if the mountain was about to tip over.
Still gripping the reins, he knelt as low as his tall, gangly frame could go. His cheek was pressed against the saddle blanket. Feeling stupid, he realised one hand was holding his hat hard on his head. As if my hat will stop a boulder, he thought. But it was his lucky hat with the wide brim.
A dreadful grating noise came from inside the mountain. Vibrations shivered through Hiram’s boots and into his body. Zzzup, crash. White smoke puffed near the mule’s hoof. Sharp fragments stung the animal and hit Hiram’s jacket. The mule snorted and its leg muscles quivered.
Spurts of dust like machine gun bullets raced along the path towards Hiram. He winced in anticipation of the impact but they stopped a short distance from the mule. A great boulder thumped onto the track and bounced into the chasm. Hiram held his breath. Another boulder hit near Castillo, smashing away half the path. One or two smaller stones followed. Then Hiram felt the stillness. He stood up and patted the mule’s trembling neck and shoulder.
Castillo’s face appeared above his mule’s back. His floppy hat was askew. His almond-shaped, Peruvian eyes slowly returned to their normal size. Wind ruffled his thin beard.
‘Muy Accidentado.’ He smiled feebly, showing teeth stained from chewing coca leaves. ‘We call my land Muy Accidentado. He has many accidents.’
‘There’s one.’ Hiram pointed past Castillo. The path had disappeared. In its place was an avalanche of loose soil and rocks. Castillo made a face as if he’d bitten into a lemon. He pointed behind Hiram.
The cliff had sheared off. There was no path, only a wall of rock, smooth as glass. They were trapped.
Chapter 2
Castillo hitched his poncho, woven with red diamond shapes, tighter around his shoulders. ‘Soon is worse.’
‘Worse? How can it get worse?’
Castillo narrowed his eyes. ‘Trouble is coming.’
Hiram followed Castillo’s glance upwards. Dark, menacing clouds broiled along the canyon. A black curtain of torrential rain swept towards them. Hiram had one last glimpse of the sun, almost touching a snowy peak, before it was lost in the storm. Heavy raindrops hit his face, blown by a cold gust of wind. They stung like hail and pattered loudly on his hat.
‘What are our
choices?’ He looked from the avalanche ahead, back to the sheer, broken cliff. He could climb across the rock face, maybe. But there was the storm closing in. Castillo was a mountain man, but not a trained rock climber, like him. Castillo would never make it across that slippery wall of rock. And Hiram wasn’t about to abandon his guide, or mules.
Castillo took off his hat and scratched his tangle of black hair. ‘You want to wait here?’
Hiram picked up on the uncertainty in Castillo’s voice. ‘Are you giving me the easy option?’
Castillo shrugged. ‘We must choose fast.’
Hiram looked over the edge. Hidden in the mists far below was their camp. Men would come for them tomorrow. Bring ropes. If they could get through. But this was not a good place to pass the night if there were aftershocks. What really mattered was across the other side of the canyon. He must climb that other cliff, scale the peak and go into those mountains. The ruined city was somewhere over there. Dammit. A mere earthquake is not going to stop me, he thought.
Castillo kept glancing at the avalanche of fallen boulders. It was about ten paces wide. Each step would be into treacherous, loose earth and rubble, which could at any moment slip over the precipice.
The wall of rain closed in. It hit Hiram like a waterfall. He gasped with the cold. Wind rushed over them. Hiram’s saturated sleeves and jacket flapped in the wind. Water poured from his hat.
Hiram made up his mind. ‘The avalanche.’
Castillo grinned. ‘Yes. Courage, Señor Bingham.’
Castillo led his mule towards the rubble. Torrents of water flowed down the cliff into the loose rock and soil, turning it to slush. Castillo put one boot in carefully. It sank to the ankle, but that was okay. His pulled the reins. His mule snuffled like a baby about to cry, but tentatively put one hoof in.
Step by step, Castillo waded backwards, coaxing his mule across the top of the slush. Chunks of earth and rock broke away, turning over and over as they fell, down, down, until they punched holes in the river mist and disappeared. The mist closed over the gaps as if nothing had disturbed it.
Castillo dragged his mule onto the path. ‘Hurry,’ he called.
Hiram stepped into moving soil. It was like wet concrete. His mule held back, stiffening its neck. Hiram dragged at the reins, easing the animal into the slop. Water gushed around Hiram’s boots. Rafts of soil broke away with every step and slid over the edge and away. Walking backwards, with a steady pressure on the reins, Hiram kept talking, soothing the mule, one step at a time. The soil became wetter as they moved along, rapidly changing from concrete to quicksand. The animal’s hind legs sank deeper and it bucked in fear.
Hiram’s right heel touched solid earth. Without warning, his jacket slammed up against his windpipe, strangling him. A violent force lifted him by the back of his collar. Backwards and up, he crashed onto the path. His panic-stricken mule lunged after him, and Hiram was wrenched away from the kicking hooves.
Flat on his back, struggling to breathe, he looked up at Castillo’s wispy beard, blown by the wind. Castillo smiled nervously and let go of Hiram’s collar. ‘Sorry.’ Castillo’s smile faded. ‘No time. Run.’
Splits and cracks in the path snaked towards them. The path was splitting from the cliff. The earth beneath them turned to jelly. The path curled away, like surf breaking along the top of a wave.
Chapter 3
By the time Hiram struggled to his feet the mules were galloping away. Castillo was pounding close behind them on his sturdy, slightly bowed legs. Hiram sprinted after them, not daring to look back. He charged around a hairpin bend and skidded to a halt. The mules stood close together, flicking their tails.
Castillo was bent over, hands on knees, panting. Water ran from his hat, and his eyes twinkled. ‘Not bad for Yankee.’
Hiram tugged down the brim of his hat. It was bashed and stained, the brim as curly as cooked bacon. He grinned back. ‘Not bad for a Quichua.’
Touching his bruised throat, Hiram said, ‘Thanks for —’
‘Is okay. Was nothing.’ Castillo straightened his back and grimaced. Then he cocked his head to one side like a curious puppy. He went to Hiram, who was head and shoulders taller than him. Hiram was surprised, almost offended, when Castillo’s fingers dug into the bicep of his right arm. That’s a bit cheeky, but he did drag me out of the avalanche, he thought.
‘Hmm,’ Castillo said. ‘Not much meat but very strong.’
Before Hiram had time to respond Castillo said, ‘You went into land slip. You are not afraid of heights?’
Afraid? No. Addicted, yes. Intoxicated, yes. Aloud, Hiram said, ‘I’m not afraid of heights. Only of falling.’
Castillo chuckled. ‘Me too. I am born in the Andes. These mountains are my home. I climb before I walk.’
‘I climbed my first mountain when I was four.’
Castillo’s eyebrows rose.
‘It was a volcano. Mount Pu’u O’o, in Hawaii.’ ‘I have heard of Hawaii.’
‘My father took me up the mountain. He carried our tent in his backpack. I had my little backpack with food and a bottle of water. It took all day to reach the top. When we got to the edge of the crater I was so afraid I lay flat on my stomach, hugging the earth, before I put my face over the edge. I looked into another world of fire, a river of lava, eruptions of melted rock twisting into the air. Lightning flashing in burning clouds. Smoke blasting out like a cannon firing and two boulders, big as horses, flying up into the red sky and landing thud, thud behind me.’
Castillo was silent.
‘That night on the volcano,’ Hiram added, ‘was when I fell in love with mountains.’
He couldn’t say out loud, Mountains are my secret world. I live for those last few dangerous steps through the death zone. The rush of reaching the peak, standing on top of the world. Valleys all around filled with an ocean of clouds.
Castillo looked up at the darkening sky. ‘Night, she comes soon.’ He climbed back into the saddle of his mule. ‘Our camp is not so far. Maybe it is easy now. At camp we have a hut, the chicha beer, hot soup, sweet potatoes.’
Hiram’s mule jumped sideways when he tried to approach it.
‘My mule is spooked. I think I’ll walk.’
‘No, no, no. You must ride.’ Castillo showed real panic. ‘At night your mule’s feet are safer than yours. Trust your mule. He will find the way.’
Hiram scratched the animal between the ears and patted its neck. He spoke to it in a gentle voice. ‘Why should I trust you, on this path, in pitch-black night? I do not find that an encouraging prospect. It’s my life we’re talking about. Do you understand?’
The mule shook its head, jingling the little bells tied around its neck.
Hiram mounted and, still feeling doubtful, followed Castillo.
The canyon was filled with darkness and the grumbling of the river, which was called The Great Speaker. Goosebumps prickled Hiram’s arms. That roaring chasm of darkness made him shiver with a primitive fear. I must be crazy. How many foreigners have got back alive from this place? Maybe two. Two, in four hundred years.
Maybe not so crazy. Hiram remembered those walls, back in Cuzco. In his mind, he relived climbing the hill to an old Inca fortress. Suddenly he’d stopped in his tracks, amazed. In front of him was a wall like none he’d ever seen. Massive, beautiful, mysterious. He went to it and ran his hand over a rock that must’ve weighed at least twenty tonnes. And that was a small block. Others were two hundred tonnes. More? Was three hundred tonnes closer to the truth? In front of his eyes was a join between two blocks. There was no mortar holding them. He took out his knife but couldn’t force the tip into the gap.
How did the Incas build such beautiful walls with no cranes or wheels or strong iron tools? All they had were short bronze crowbars and a few simple tools. His imagination was on fire. Who were these mysterious Incas? They had no written language. Their mathematics was recorded in knots along pieces of cord. But they predicted to the hour when the planet was at its
farthest from the sun. And they’d engineered this wall, which was easily the most extraordinary anywhere in America, or the entire Western world for that matter. And that wasn’t all. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. This was only one wall. Hidden away in unexplored ranges of the Andes, carved into mountain tops, clinging to terrible precipices, were lost cities of the Incas. Waiting. Tempting him. Crazy, yes, but the right sort of crazy. Sick, sad crazy would be to pretend the cities didn’t exist. Sit in my office, shift paper work around, and not go to look?
Rain blew fitfully on the wind and gradually stopped drumming on his hat. Through broken clouds, the narrow arc of night sky gleamed faintly before racing clouds covered it.
In the darkness, air drifted against his skin, prickling his cheeks with tiny drops. Hiram guessed they must be in clouds of mist from the river.
‘Señor Bingham.’
Hiram jumped with fright.
Castillo stopped beside him. ‘It was my little joke.’
‘What was?’ Hiram was instantly anxious.
‘That it is easy now. Stay on your mule. He will know what to do.’ Castillo’s voice was deadly serious.
Hiram felt a chill of fear.
Chapter 4
Castillo ran his hand along his mule’s stubbly mane. ‘There is a little waterfall from the rains. Only about three-feet wide. Maybe more. The path is big hole. You cannot jump. You cannot see other side. Stay on your mule. Count thirty after I jump, then you follow. Remember, my friend —’
‘Courage.’
‘Yes, courage.’
One slip, or loss of balance, and it was straight down through darkness into the river. Mighty deep, and racing like an express train. There was absolutely no return.
Hiram leaned back and slapped his mule’s rump. It crept forward a few steps and stopped. Hiram counted thirty seconds, then yelled as loudly as he could. No answer. With a pang of horror, he wondered if Castillo had fallen. Was the smiling, courageous Castillo gone? No, surely not. Castillo must be there, waiting on the other side of the cataract, planning another of his jokes.