by Michael Cole
"Perhaps some other time." Eric chastised himself. Why is it that I always have to try and prove I'm just as strong or stronger than men half my age? Eric gravitated toward the bar where he overheard Chris spinning a yarn to a wide-eyed mestizo.
"It was late afternoon when I saw the creature," Chris said. "It was thirty meters long. Largest damn anaconda I've ever seen."
"No kidding?" the mestizo replied, wide-eyed. "So what did you do?"
Chris drained his beer. "I took out my machete and hacked the sucker into little pieces."
"Come on, Chris. Let's go," Eric said. "You've told enough stories for one night. We have to lead a group into the jungle tomorrow, or have you forgotten?"
Chris turned to flag down the bartender. "Just one more. Then we'll go."
Eric grabbed ahold of Chris and gently pried him off the barstool. "I've heard that from you before. Then, before you know it, one beer turns into two, then three. That's when you start drinking tequila 'shooters.' After a few shooters, you'll end up picking a fight, a fight I usually have to break up. Come on. We are leaving now."
Once they were outside in the parking lot, Eric helped Chris into the passenger side of the jeep. "Look at you. You're so drunk you can't even drive."
As he drove along a winding, rutted road, Eric reflected on his current situation. Since Manaus was but a stone's throw from the Amazon River, the location provided him and Chris with an ample supply of tourists who wanted to experience the full flavor of the jungle the dangerous way, which was by land. Acting as tour guides for rich Americans, the two managed to scratch out a living from nature lovers, treasure hunters, and a few people who were passionate about climbing mountain peaks. However, after working with Chris for three months as a tour guide, Eric didn't feel as if he was getting anywhere. The two often heard stories about lost gold, abandoned silver mines, and ancient cities, but as much as they would have liked to have spent some time chasing some of those myths, their financial situation prohibited them from doing so.
Eric also had to remind himself that he had a doctorate degree, and as much as he enjoyed his life, he had to think of the future. He was thirty-nine years old. Somehow, he couldn't picture himself being a guide in the Amazon and arm-wrestling people for beers twenty years from now. He often thought about writing a book, but then decided against it. What would he write? A book about how dummies could survive in the Amazon?
Eric believed he had made a mistake to chuck the world of academia for this place, but at least he could look at himself in the mirror and say he had tried to find his father. The last time he had spoken to Jonathan Shade, his father told him to stick with teaching. "It may be less glamorous than searching for lost cities in the jungle, but believe me, it pays a heck of a lot better-and it's safer." Of course, the problem was that Eric no longer had a teaching job, and he wasn't overly optimistic about finding one in Manaus. Maybe if his field had been math or science, but there were almost as many history professors as there were fish vendors who lined the marketplace every morning to sell their catch. What he was doing with Chris was treading water at best.
In the meantime, it didn't cost a thing to dream. "If my father and I could find Ingregil, I bet the two of us could find Akakor," he'd often say to Chris. In truth, Eric didn't have his father's optimism. Over the last couple of centuries, scores of people had looked for the lost city. Of the many who had entered the Amazon to search for it, few had come out alive. He prayed that hadn't happened to his father.
Now that Eric had experienced the full flavor of the jungle by moving to Manaus, he didn't think he would ever leave the Amazon. The power, majesty, and energy of the primeval rain forest were impossible to fathom. The air was so heavy with moisture, the humidity so overpowering that a perpetual fog enveloped the surroundings. Sometimes it was so thick that a person could almost feel it. There is a stillness to the Amazon that is difficult to describe. The first thing one notices upon entering the jungle is that there is absolutely no wind. It's hard to conceptualize the sheer proliferation of plant and animal life that exists in this tropical wonder. One of the reasons Eric respected the jungle was because it was by far the largest bio-diversified ecosystem on the planet. It was also an abominable place, dripping with maleficence, the home of malaria as well as other deadly diseases, some so obscure that there simply was no cure. If you were unlucky enough to be bitten by some of the rarer poisonous insects, it was a sure bet you would either become violently ill or die without an antidote.
There were flies that actually caused people to lose their sight-and there were other perils: fierce tribes, dangerous animals, and exotic reptiles. The rain forest had varying degrees of temperatures. It was often above a hundred degrees close to the canopy where the sun shined, but at ground level, surrounded by dappled shades of green of every color, the temperature was often well below eighty degrees. This was because less than ten percent of sunlight ever reached the forest floor.
Eric knew the emerald canopy of the Amazon was one of the most hostile places on earth, nonetheless, he was drawn to it and its secrets. He believed most of the stories he'd heard about the place: remains of ancient civilizations that possessed an advanced technology linked to the origins of mankind. Strange tribes, refugees from an older civilization who had auburn-colored hair. White-skinned people who some Indians believe are the progeny of the Star Walkers. Unusual bright lights, which the Indians claim have burned continually for generations. And, of course, there was gold, literally tons of it.
Too tired to take off his clothes, Eric flopped on Chris's couch. He figured the money the two would earn from the college students would enable them to pursue a lead he had recently received from an old mestizo. A man in a bar he and Chris had met a week ago told him he had come across the ruins of an old temple about a mile west of the Purus River. He was certain an ancient city lay close by, buried beneath the rubble. Eric wondered if it could be Akakor. Most mainstream archeologists didn't believe the city had ever existed, but then what did they know? The idiots thought Ingregil was nothing more than a figment of someone's overactive imagination until he and his father had proved them wrong. Even if his father hadn't gone to Akakor, if he could find the fabled city, maybe he could make a name for himself in the world of academia. And if that were to happen, a teaching job would be easier to find. All he needed was money, but at the rate he and Chris were going, he doubted if he would have more than a living wage anytime soon.
Eric closed his eyes. He knew dawn would come soon enough and with it another day of babysitting a group of neophytes in the jungle, a jungle that could very well be his home for quite some time.
CHAPTER 3
The sound of the phone distracted Catalina Rivera from the article she was reading. She picked up the receiver just before the answering machine took the call.
"It's Marcelo, honey."
There was an imperceptible intake of breath. "Granddad, is everything all right?" she asked in impeccable Portuguese.
"Fine, just fine. Listen, I called to tell you that a friend of mine, a dealer in South American antiquities, has just acquired a rather remarkable artifact. I thought Phillip might be interested so I gave him your phone number as well as your email address. His name is Arcell Duvant. You can trust him-even if he is French."
Catalina laughed. Although her grandfather was eighty-four, he still had a sense of humor. Normally, Catalina didn't buy from dealers. This was because they usually sold at retail prices. She much preferred the auction houses because if one didn't get into a bidding war, that's where the good deals were. "Sure, Granddad. What is it?"
"It's an aryballos."
"I don't think Phillip will be interested in a water jar. They are rather common, you know."
"This one isn't. I told Arcell to email you some pictures. Take a look at them, and if you're interested, give him a call."
After Catalina jotted down Arcell's telephone number, and answered Marcelo's questions about what the weather was like i
n Los Angeles, a topic of conversation that for some reason always interested him, she ended the call.
Later that afternoon, she went to her computer and found a message from Arcell. She opened the attachment and immediately became intrigued with what she saw. It was an elegant-looking terracotta receptacle of Inca Imperial style. Although it had the shape of an aryballos, she figured it was much too small to be one. The other unusual thing was the vessel was sealed. It appeared to be in remarkable condition, but then she really couldn't tell how old it was from the pictures. The face of it was tattooed with geometrical motifs as well as with winged jaguars. She could also see some unusual calligraphy on the jar's neck. She tried to read the writing, but it was too faint.
She immediately called Arcell. "How did you acquire it?" was the first question she asked.
"An Indian from a local village near Manaus found it in the jungle half-buried in sediment close to the Amazon River."
Typically, an aryballos would not pique her curiosity, but there was an element of mystery to this one she just couldn't ignore. Why in the world would anyone want to seal an aryballos? And then there was the question of provenance. It looked like an Inca artifact, but if it was, how did the object get that far from Peru?
"Do you know how old it is?" she asked.
"I would say late fifteenth or early sixteenth century, but I can't be sure."
"If it's that old, I'm going to have a difficult time getting it through customs."
"No, you won't," Arcell assured her. "A customs officer isn't going to give it a second look. It resembles a jug of wine. Could very well be one for that matter. All they'll want to know is what you paid for it. I'll give you a bill of sale, and if you pay customs their standard rate of-"
Catalina cut him off. "Okay, Arcell. I get the picture. I'm not going to lie to you. The artifact piques my curiosity, but I would only be prepared to make you an offer if my employer would want to add it to his collection. I'll show him the photographs, and if he's interested, I'll call you back."
"Don't wait too long. I have a couple of people who have expressed a desire to purchase it."
A typical ploy if I ever did hear one, Catalina thought. She went back to her computer to study the photographs with a magnifying glass. She scrutinized the intricate pictographic detail inscribed on the artifact. Intrigued, she flipped to the next frame. There was something peculiar about one of the illustrations on the aryballos. At first, she couldn't put her finger on it, but then it came to her. What would a scarab, which was Egypt's symbol for immortality, be doing on a South American artifact? She was surprised that an aryballos, even one as unusual-looking as this one, would rivet her attention. It was as if some mysterious force was drawing her into the jar. She was about to make a closer inspection of the ancient writing when she happened to glance at her watch.
Where did the time go? Phillip will be here at any moment, and I'm not even dressed. She sometimes wished he wouldn't be such a stickler for punctuality. Oh, what the hell. Why should I be worried if I'm a little late? I'm doing this for him anyway.
Even though she knew Phillip would be fuming, Catalina went back to her computer. She did manage to identify some of the writing. Some of it was Proto-Quechua, which was the forerunner to the Quechua language spoken by some ten million people in South America. Other portions of the script had sustained some water damage so on first inspection, she could only make out a few words. "Derrotero." Catalina rolled the word on her lips, her Spanish fluent. She gave the word some thought. I know what that means.
Just then, the doorbell buzzed. She didn't have to be a mind reader to know it was Phillip. "The door is unlocked," she shouted. "Fix yourself a drink if you like. I'll be down in a jiffy."
"Please hurry," he shouted back, "or we'll be late for our dinner reservation."
Catalina wondered what Phillip's reaction would be if she told him she wasn't in the mood to go out to dinner. She much preferred to stay home and examine the pictures Arcell had sent, but she was afraid to disappoint him. As good as Phillip was to her, she didn't like it when he made her march to his clock. At times like these, she felt trapped. When am I going to become my own woman?
Catalina had been relying on Phillip Nash for so long that she wondered if she was even capable of striking off on her own. At age twenty-eight, it seemed no matter what she did, she still needed his approval. Theirs was a strange relationship. Although she had known Phillip for over eight years, and he showered her with nothing but kindness, she couldn't understand why he was always so formal.
When Catalina finished fussing with her hair, she reached into her jewelry box and extracted a stunning five-carat emerald ring with channel cut diamonds. As she admired it sparkling on her finger, she thought back to the day Phillip had presented it to her. Catalina had just completed the arduous job of cataloging and displaying his collected works of South American antiquities. She could still hear his words: "This ring is just a small token of my appreciation for your devoted work on my artifacts."
The sound of Phillip's voice snapped her back to the present. "Are you coming or not?"
"Give me a moment." Catalina squeezed into her dress, then took one last look at her reflection in the mirror. She had accentuated her large, oval green eyes with a touch of black mascara. Her high cheekbones had received just enough rouge to make her ivory-colored skin appear translucent. Satisfied that her shoulder-length black hair had been combed to perfection, she headed down the stairs.
On impulse, she thought of making a copy of Arcell's file for Phillip in order to get his opinion, but then thought better of it. Phillip Nash was the sort of man who rewarded assertiveness. By the same token, she'd seen him dress down people who were unsure of themselves or their convictions. Besides, if Catalina needed his opinion, she could ask for it tomorrow. It was Friday night, and she and Phillip always dined out on Fridays.
Phillip was standing in the foyer, tapping his fingers on the wooden balustrade. She wasn't surprised to see an annoyed look on his face. His black hair was slicked straight back, and his navy blue worsted suit hung perfectly on his slender but muscled build. It sometimes annoyed Catalina that everything about Phillip's outer appearance conveyed perfection. She wondered what he would do if she walked over to him and messed up his hair.
His voice betrayed his annoyance. "You know how I hate to be kept waiting, Catalina. I really feel you are being inconsiderate when you choose to be somewhat less than punctual."
Oh no, she thought. He's not going to give me that lecture again, or is he? "I'm really sorry, Phillip. An antiquities dealer has offered to sell me an artifact, and I was examining some of the pictures." She was angry with herself that she felt obligated to add, "Will you forgive me?"
"Well, since you were looking out for my best interests, I won't nag you any more than I already have."
She wondered why Phillip always had to convey a sense of urgency. It didn't much matter if they were going out to dinner, to a concert, or simply for a horseback ride, he was always in a rush. She couldn't remember a time when the two of them spent a carefree night. Everything they did together had to be planned. It was times like this that she felt trapped. Catalina had been relying on Phillip far too long. As good as he is to me, I need to start a life of my own. Granted, she was well educated and could probably find work, but was she socially prepared to be out in a world away from him? Catalina decided it wouldn't be worth it to make a scene. She would have dinner with him, and then hurry back to her place so that she could continue to study the photographs Arcell had sent her.
CHAPTER 4
Eric Shade was accustomed to taking the lead. Chris was a good twelve years younger, but Eric was stronger. That was probably because he was used to arm wrestling mestizos for beers and hiking long distances; however, the rigorous trek through the rain forest combined with the steep climb to the plateau had left the raconteur guide short of breath. He cursed, knowing that if he had quit smoking years ago, he wouldn't be hav
ing this problem. Realizing that if he didn't pick up the pace, Chris and the others would soon catch up. Eric lengthened his stride. At least he was still comforted with the knowledge that he was still able to outdistance his younger partner.
When he and his father had been in the Amazon searching for Ingregil, Eric had become knowledgeable about the jungle and its perils. Chris, although born and raised in France, had lived in Brazil long enough to also become familiar with the Amazon. That's why the two made such a good team. A mirror image of Eric in his youth, Chris was not only his partner, but also his best friend. At times, when they didn't have clients, the two would go off into the Amazon in search of tunnel entrances, which one day they hoped to explore.
There were numerous stories of the gold the Incas had supposedly hidden out of Pizarro's reach in the myriad of tunnels that exist in South America. At first, Eric had scoffed at searching for Inca gold in Brazil because he wasn't convinced the tunnels stretched that far north. But that was before the Brazilian government had declassified some information their ground-penetrating radar had gathered. Even with the facts staring him in the face, it was difficult for Eric to believe the government's claim that some of the tunnels ran for hundreds of kilometers all the way from Peru to Mato Grosso, Brazil. This information and his passion for adventure rekindled his quest in searching for treasure. The problem was he and Chris had an insurmountable amount of ground to cover. Also, what made the search dangerous was that many sections of the Amazon were inhabited by hostile Indians who had never come face to face with a white man before.
Eric stopped. He picked up a tarantula larger than a dinner plate and placed it on a low-growing liana vine, thinking the harmless insect had probably fallen off a bromeliad plant. "Lucky for you, I was the one who ran into you," he said. "If one of those young eager-beaver tourists had spotted you, you'd be flatter than a pancake by now."
Talk about luck. Eric decided it must have been God's will for him to meet up with Chris. Prior to forming their partnership, Chris worked as a deckhand on one of the barges that navigated the tributaries of the Amazon River. When Chris decided to quit the backbreaking job of loading and unloading everything from vegetables to horse manure, he settled on the outskirts of Manaus. Passionate in his belief that one day he would find an enormous gold cache, he never tired of searching for treasure.