Evil Star

by Anthony Horowitz

  “Is all right… Friends,” he said.

  There were two more Indians waiting for them outside. One opened the door and helped the boys to climb down. They were both wearing ponchos and woven hats and kept their heads down as if unwilling to meet their eyes. It was cold outside the helicopter, much colder than it had been in Cuzco, and Matt wondered if they had climbed to an even greater altitude. He breathed in. Very little oxygen made its way to his lungs. They were obviously high up. But where? The second Indian hurried forward, holding out ponchos for Pedro and him. They were beautifully woven, with gold thread forming intricate patterns against a dark-green background. Matt slipped his head through the hole in the middle and let the rich material hang around him. He was surprised how effectively the poncho protected him from the chill.

  “We stay here tonight,” Atoc said. “Travel tomorrow in the light.”

  “Where are we?” Matt asked.

  “This place … Vilcabamba.” The answer left him none the wiser. “We are in cloud forest,” Atoc went on. “Tomorrow we must walk for many hours. Not possible to go in helicopter.”

  “So where do we sleep?”

  “We make ready.”

  The Indians led them to the edge of the clearing, where three tents had been prepared. Atoc indicated that the two boys were to share. “You need sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow is very hard.”

  He left them together. The tent appeared to be brand new, and inside there were two sleeping bags rolled out on foam mattresses. A battery-operated light hung from the tent pole. Matt didn’t bother undressing. He slipped out of the poncho and rolled it up, using it as a pillow. Then he slid into a sleeping bag. Pedro did the same.

  For a brief moment Matt thought about Richard. He wondered if he was being carried ever further away from his friend. And what of Fabian? Was he somewhere in Cuzco, still searching for them?

  There was so much he didn’t understand but he was too tired to think about it now. He was asleep before he knew it. This time there were no dreams.

  Matt was woken by the light shining through the fabric of the tent. He stretched, with difficulty, inside his sleeping bag. The foam had done little to protect him from the hard ground and his back and shoulders were stiff. He thought of staying where he was and trying to get back to sleep but there was no chance of that. He was too uncomfortable, and anyway Pedro was snoring. Making as little noise as possible, he crawled out of the tent, dragging the poncho with him. Once he was outside, he stood up and put it on.

  It was still cold. Dawn had broken but as yet there was no sign of the sun. Matt shivered in the morning air as he took stock of his surroundings. The night before he’d had the impression of jungle – thick undergrowth and mountains. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him now.

  He seemed to be on the edge of the world. The helicopter landing pad had been carved into the side of a fantastically steep hillside. Looking up or down, all he could see was green … a spidery tangle of trees and bushes with vines and creepers knotted among them, continuing, it seemed, for ever. Atoc had said they had a long walk ahead of them but Matt couldn’t even see where they’d begin. There was no way up. The foliage seemed impenetrable. And yet if they climbed down they would surely fall into a brilliant green vortex. The area where they were sitting was flat. Everything else was vertical. It was as if the whole world had been tipped onto its side.

  Atoc and the two Indians were already awake, putting together a picnic breakfast of bread and cheese. They had lit a small bonfire with a kettle hanging over it but the water had not yet boiled.

  Atoc walked over to him. “Did you sleep all right, Matteo?” he asked. Like Pedro, he was using the Spanish version of his name. “We take food soon…”

  “Thank you.”

  In the daylight, Atoc looked younger and less threatening than he had in the shadows of Cuzco. He also looked even more like the man Matt had met so briefly, Micos. He had to know.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” he began, nervously.

  “I will tell you what I can.”

  “When I was in Lima, I met someone who was very much like you. And he was there again in Ica.”

  “Micos.”

  “Yes.” Matt wasn’t sure how to continue. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

  “I’m sorry, Atoc. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Atoc nodded slowly as if this was what he had expected to hear. But his dark, brown eyes filled with grief and he stood, still and completely silent, as Matt told him what had happened at the hacienda.

  “I’m so sorry that he died because of us,” Matt said.

  “But I am glad that if he had to die, it was for you,” Atoc replied. He took a deep breath. “Micos was my younger brother,” he said. “There were two years between us. In our language ‘micos’ is ‘monkey’, and he was the funny one, always in trouble. Atoc is fox. I was the one who was meant to be clever. And yet when we were playing once, when I was eight years old, I threw a stone at him and almost took out his eye. He had a scar … just here.” Atoc raised a finger and drew a crescent moon next to his eye. “My father took his belt to me for that. But Micos forgave me.

  “He wanted to help you, Matteo, because he believed in you. You are one of the Five. He would not be sad that he died if he knew you are safe now and so it is also wrong for me to be sad too. There will be more deaths. Many more. We must grow used to it.”

  He turned his head and looked away into the distance, his eyes focused on something far away.

  “Now I walk alone for a few minutes,” he said. “When I return, we forget what has been said and we not speak of it again.”

  He walked away into the undergrowth.

  “Matteo…!” Pedro had woken up and was calling to him from the tent.

  Behind them, a trickle of white smoke from the bonfire rose, uncertainly, up into the morning sky.

  After breakfast, the two Indians put out the bonfire and packed up the tents. They had already tied down the helicopter and covered it with a green tarpaulin, camouflaging it in case anyone happened to fly overhead. Matt could see these people thought of everything … although he still wasn’t sure who they actually were.

  Atoc had eaten with them. Whatever grief he might be feeling, he didn’t let it show. “We leave now,” he said and signalled to one of the Indians who came forward, carrying two new pairs of trainers. “You cannot walk in those shoes.”

  Matt gratefully removed the rubber-tyre sandals he had been wearing since Lima. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that the new trainers fitted him perfectly. All of this had been planned. As he pulled them on, he noticed Pedro holding his own pair with a look of complete awe. It occurred to him that the Peruvian boy had probably never owned a new piece of clothing in his life.

  When they were both ready, Atoc reached into his poncho and produced a handful of dark green leaves and what looked like two small pebbles. “You put this in mouth,” he explained, first in English and then, for Pedro, in Spanish. He wrapped a pebble in the leaves, forming a small bundle. “The leaves are coca,” he went on. “The stone we call llibta. The two mix with saliva in mouth and give you strength.”

  Matt did as he was told. The coca leaves tasted disgusting and he couldn’t imagine how they would work, but there didn’t seem any point arguing.

  They set off. The two Indians went first. Matt followed, with Pedro – tripping over several times as he got used to the new footwear – just behind him. Atoc was at the back. Matt had hoped they would be heading downhill but it seemed that their path was going to be up all the way. The jungle wasn’t as impenetrable as it seemed. Someone, a long time ago, had cut a staircase. The steps were almost invisible, uneven and covered in lichen, but they wove between the trees, twisting up the face of the hill.

  “If you need rest, you say,” Atoc said.

  Matt gritted his teeth. They had only covered a short distance and already he needed to rest.
It wasn’t the steepness of the slope: the air was even thinner here than it had been in Cuzco. If he walked too fast his head would begin to thump and he could feel the burning in his lungs. The secret was to measure out a careful pace, one step at a time, and not look up, as it only reminded him how far they had to go. He turned the llibta over in his mouth. Now he understood why he needed it. He just hoped it would actually work.

  The sun climbed higher and suddenly it was hot. Matt could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Everything was wet. Once, he reached out to steady himself against a tree and his hand sank into it as if it were a sponge. Beads of moisture hung in the air. Water dripped through his hair and ran down the sides of his face. Pedro stopped and removed his poncho. Matt did the same. One of the Indians took them, his expression making it clear that he would accept no argument. Matt didn’t mind. He was using all his strength just to keep going. He must have already climbed five hundred steps. And the staircase showed no sign of ending.

  Something bit him. Matt cried out and slapped his arm. A second later, he was bitten again, this time on the side of his neck. He almost wanted to cry … or swear … or scream. How much worse could this journey get? Atoc caught up with him and handed him a cloth filled with some evil-smelling ointment.

  “Midges,” he explained. “We call them puma waqachis. It means, insects who make the puma cry.”

  “I know how the puma feels,” Matt growled. He scooped up some of the ointment and rubbed it into his skin, where it mixed instantly with his sweat. Matt felt it trickle down his body. His clothes were sticking to him like a second skin. Another midge bit him on the ankle. Matt closed his eyes for a moment, then set off again.

  They stopped twice for water. The Indian guides had plastic bottles in their backpacks. Matt forced himself to drink only a little, aware that all five of them had to share the same supply. The sun was high above them now and he began to wonder if there was something wrong with his vision. The forest seemed hazy and out of focus. Then he realized that in the heat, all the moisture was turning to steam. Soon he was completely wrapped in a dense white fog, barely able to see the man in front of him.

  “Stay close!” Atoc called out. His voice came from nowhere. He could have been on another planet. “Not far now.”

  They emerged from the cloud forest suddenly and unexpectedly. One moment Matt was fighting his way through the undergrowth, the next he had emerged on the edge of a huge canyon. The sky was clear. A vast mountain range stretched out in front of him, many of the peaks covered in snow. Some of them seemed to be touching the edge of space. Matt was close to exhaustion. He was soaking wet and he had a vicious headache. But even so, he felt a sense of elation. Looking down, he saw that it was raining in the canyon. But the rain was below him. He had climbed above cloud level.

  “You see?” Atoc pointed to one of the mountains. From where they were standing, it looked a little like a human head. “Is Mandango,” he explained. “The Sleeping God.”

  Pedro had caught up with Matt. He stood panting on the edge of the abyss. He rasped out a few words in Spanish. Atoc smiled for the first time since he and Matt had spoken earlier. “He says he feels terrible,” he translated for Matt. “But you look worse.”

  “Where now?” Matt gasped. He couldn’t believe they had climbed all this way up just to go down again.

  “It is not so far,” Atoc said. “But take care. It is very far if you fall…”

  Atoc wasn’t exaggerating. A single, well-defined path led down the side of the canyon. Somehow Matt knew that it must have been cut into the rock face by hand. There was something completely unnatural about it. The path was flat and the surface was almost as polished as the streets of Cuzco. The one thing it wasn’t, though, was wide. In places there was barely a metre between the wall and the hideous drop over the side. If Matt had taken one false step he would have fallen … and fallen. He saw a herd of sheep or llamas grazing in the pampas at the very bottom of the canyon. To him, they were like ants. There were no trees here to protect them from the sun and Matt could feel it burning his face and arms. He was nothing in this immense landscape. He could be soaked by the rain or fried by the sun. In his entire life, he had never felt so insignificant.

  They walked for more than an hour, descending all the time. Matt could feel the pressure changing in his ears. How long had it been since breakfast? He had no idea but he knew he couldn’t go on much longer. His legs were aching and his feet – in the new trainers – were getting blisters. They turned a corner and Matt saw that the path had brought them to a platform of solid rock with steps leading down on the other side. He took a deep breath. It seemed that their journey was over.

  They had arrived.

  And there, built – incredibly – on the edge of the canyon, was a miniature city. It wasn’t a modern city. Parts of it reminded Matt of Cuzco and he guessed that it had been built by the same people, maybe around the same time.

  First, terraces had been cut into the rock. These were the foundation and there must have been fifty or sixty of them, jutting out of the mountainside like giant shelves. Some of the terraces had been planted with crops, some were dotted with grazing sheep and llamas. The city itself consisted of temples, palaces, houses and storerooms, all built of blocks of stone that must have been carried at some time through the cloud forest and over the mountains. A great rectangle of grass ran through the centre: a meeting place, a sports ground, the focus of everyday life. Matt knew instantly that there would be no electricity here, no cars, nothing from the modern age. And yet he wasn’t looking at a ruin. The city was alive. There were people everywhere. They lived here. This was their home.

  “What is this place?” he whispered.

  “Vilcabamba!” It was Pedro who had replied.

  Atoc nodded slowly. “The lost city of the Incas. Many great men search for it. For hundreds of years, they search. But none have found it. Vilcabamba cannot be found. It cannot be reached.”

  “Why not?” It seemed easy enough to Matt. After all, they had reached it without too much difficulty. The path that had brought them down the side of the canyon must be clearly visible. Anyone could follow it here. “The path…” he began.

  Atoc shook his head. “There is no path,” he said.

  “No. What I’m trying to say is…” Matt took a couple of steps back and looked around the corner.

  Impossible.

  The path wasn’t there. The canyon wall was a sheer, vertical drop with no way up or down. The path that they had just taken, which they had walked down for more than an hour, had disappeared.

  “Do not ask questions,” Atoc said. “You have friends who wait for you.”

  “But…”

  The Indian rested a hand on his shoulder and together the two of them walked round the corner. Pedro and the other men had already gone on ahead. Matt saw them walk through a stone archway, and at the same time a man appeared, climbing up the steps towards them. He was in a hurry. And he was European.

  Then the man drew closer and Matt felt a huge surge of pleasure and relief. He shouted out and ran forward. The two of them embraced.

  It was Richard Cole.

  LAST OF THE INCAS

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” Richard said. “Ever since that screw-up in Lima, I’ve been worrying that I’d never see you again and I blamed myself. But everyone’s been very kind to me. These people are … well, you’ll find out for yourself.

  “And this city, Vilcabamba –” Richard shook his head in wonder – “is one of the great legends of Peru, which is to say, it’s not even meant to exist! A bit like El Dorado. A whole lot of explorers have looked but never found it. And here we are right in the middle of it! Amazing!”

  Richard had taken Matt to the small stone house where he had been staying, on one of the upper terraces of the city. They were sitting in the only room, a single living space with two beds, a sofa and a multicoloured rug spread over the stone floor. Two of the walls were li
ned with windows. These were strangely shaped, narrower at the top than at the bottom, like cut-off triangles. Matt had seen the same design all over Cuzco. They had no glass. Nor did the room have electricity or running water. At night it would be lit by candles. The toilets and bath houses were all located on the other side of the city, by a fast-flowing stream, a tributary of the River Chamba.

  The two of them had been given lunch: a large bowl of locro, a mixture of meat and vegetables somewhere between a soup and a stew. They were on their own. Pedro had gone off with Atoc – presumably to rest in one of the other houses. Matt was glad to have a bit of time with Richard. Just being with him reminded him of the ordinary life he’d once led.

  Matt told his story first, beginning with his meeting with Pedro, his time at Poison Town, the escape from Salamanda’s hacienda. Then there was the journey to Cuzco, the chase through the streets at night and finally his arrival here. The two of them had been given a jug of beer – the same stuff that Matt had had in Cuzco. Richard had drunk it all by the time Matt had finished speaking.

  “So this boy, Pedro, is one of the Five,” Richard said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you talk to him in your dreams.”

  “That’s right.”

  Richard sighed. “You know what really worries me? I believe you! Six months ago, if anyone had told me all this, I’d have laughed in their face.” He thought for a moment. “Does Pedro have … you know … any special powers? Can he see into the future or anything like that?”

  “No. He’s very ordinary. And he doesn’t want to be involved.”

  Richard’s story was more straightforward.

  After he had been seized on the way from the airport, he was taken to a room in Lima where he had come face to face with his kidnappers. Matt knew who they were by now. One was Atoc. The other had been his younger brother, Micos.