Angela then turned to stare up at Rickards and Morton, waiting until they suddenly fell in beside her on the ground.
The old woman, Urcaguary, spoke again, and Morton turned to Angela and Joe. “She wants to know why we’re here.”
Angela blinked. “How good is your Quechuan?”
“Not good enough to recite the entire story.”
“Tell her we’re here for answers?”
Morton turned and translated.
Some of the men and women on either side, also elderly, whispered to each other. But Urcaguary remained steadfast. Studying them. She continued staring at the three for an uncomfortably long time before slowly leaning forward and taking a fistful of dirt from the ground. Then, in one swift movement, she threw it up into the air to create a dust cloud.
Through the wisps of dust, Urcaguary studied Angela closely until it slowly drifted down and settled again upon the ground.
“What was that?” Angela whispered.
The old woman spoke again and waited for Morton to translate, her eyes still on Angela.
“She says you’re not here for answers. What you’re looking for is peace.”
Angela nervously peered at Urcaguary and watched as the woman reached out and threw another handful of dirt, this time studying Morton, and once again for Rickards.
“She says most people that come are looking for wealth. For gold.”
“Paititi,” Angela whispered, but was cut off when Urcaguary spoke again.
“She says Paititi is a myth. Created by the white man. People who trade their souls for riches and have grown in numbers like the stars.”
“Tell her we’re not here for riches.”
Morton translated, and the old woman’s expression seemed to change into a look of bemusement.
“She says today, everyone seeks riches except the Quechua. That’s why they are here.” Morton then paused, unsure of the last sentence. “As the symbol. Or maybe for the symbol. I’m not sure.”
“Symbol of what?”
Morton repeated the question. When Urcaguary replied, he shook his head. “Symbol might not be the right word. It’s something like statue, or shrine. Tribute, maybe.” Morton continued listening. “Paititi, she says, is not what people think. Not what they want.”
Angela reached behind herself and retrieved the journal, placing it on the ground. She then rose up and pulled some of her uncle’s other items from her pocket, including his wallet and dog tags, placing them on top of the journal.
“Tell her I’m not looking for riches. I’m looking for a person.”
The old woman remained still, listening, while eyeing the items on the ground. When Morton was done, she raised a hand and pointed to them.
“She’s asking to see it.”
Angela picked up the journal and leaned forward, extending it to her, but Urcaguary shook her head and pointed again.
To the wallet.
“Oh.” Angela switched the items, offering the leather billfold.
The old woman took the wallet in her old hands and studied the outside before slowly rotating and unfolding the two halves. She examined its length, and then from the top, saw what was inside. With her fingertips, she pulled the slits open and pulled the items out one at a time.
The first several were small, hard pieces of paper with writing on them. Some bits she seemed to recognize, but most she didn’t. She ignored them and moved on to a set of small photos, each displaying various people and settings. One of which she held out and moved from side to side, viewing from different angles. She had seen photographs before and had always been fascinated that the people in them always appeared to be looking directly at her.
Continuing through the small pouch, Urcaguary paused and pulled out a larger piece of paper from one of the larger slits. This one was thin, folded multiple times to allow it to fit into the wallet. She unfolded it and spread it out to reveal another photograph, also black-and-white, and larger, so as to include several people sitting outside together. All had dark brown skin like hers except for the white man in the middle. The same man in many of the other images.
But what caught Urcaguary’s eye was not the white man in the picture but the other dark faces. Quechuans. Some of whom she recognized from long ago--including one of the younger faces.
Her own.
Urcaguary now recognized the white man in the picture and went back to reexamine the rest.
When finished, she again peered at Angela, now with a different expression.
“She wants to know who the man is,” Morton said.
“He is my great-uncle.”
Morton paused, realizing he didn’t know the word for uncle. What he translated was her grandfather to brother.
Urcaguary held up the picture and compared it to Angela’s face. Then she lowered the picture and spoke.
His eyes widened and he looked to Angela. “She says…she knows your uncle.”
“What?”
“She says—”
“I heard you. Is she sure?”
“Do you seriously want me to ask her if she’s sure?”
Flustered, Angela looked back at Urcaguary, trying to form a question. But instead, the old woman said something as close to English as she knew.
“Riiiiid.”
Angela smiled broadly. “Reed.”
“Reeeed,” the woman corrected.
Angela turned excitedly to Rickards. To her surprise, even he was grinning.
“How— When—” she stumbled. “Ask her…just ask her about him!”
Morton turned to Urcaguary and asked how did you know him?
The woman began speaking, and Morton nodded as he tried to keep up. “She said he was here many years ago. Over two generations. When she was young. A girl. A young girl. And he became friends with their elders.” Morton then looked at Angela. “He was searching for Paititi.”
Urcaguary continued.
“She says…he didn’t find what he was searching for. The truth was something more. And he told the elders it needed to be protected. From the white man.”
Angela looked puzzled. “This is not Paititi.”
Morton asked and listened. “She says this is not the Paititi sought by the selfish. Paititi is not a place.” He corrected himself. “No, wait, more than a place. I think.”
“What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
“What does she mean by more?”
Morton asked again. “Mmm, I’m not quite following now. More about a statue, or symbol…symbolism maybe. I can’t be sure.”
Suddenly, Urcaguary said something that caused Morton to abruptly stop speaking and raise his eyebrows. “And something about great energy.”
79
“She says your uncle was a spiritual man. No,” Morton said, correcting himself again. “An honorable man.” He sighed. “I think they use that word interchangeably.”
“Does she know what happened to my uncle?”
Morton asked. “No.” He continued listening. “But she said he was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
After pausing, he answered, “Afraid of his own people.”
“Americans?”
“I think she means white men, in general. Non-Quechuan.” Listening more, he continued, “Paititi, she says, is for everyone. But not everyone is ready for Paititi. Not worthy, maybe.” Morton suddenly stopped again and shook his head. “Not sure on that one.”
When Urcaguary finally finished, Morton shrugged. “So, full disclosure here, I’m not exactly sure how much of this I’m getting right. I’m having to guess with some of the context here.”
Angela nodded. “I think we get the gist. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous.”
“Apparently,” added Rickards. “And they’ve been guarding it.”
“But it’s not made out of gold.”
Morton thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I think she’s using gold and riches interchangeably as well. All I know for sure is t
hat whatever it is, it’s not to be taken.”
“Do you think this is the place you’ve been looking for? With your energy theory?”
“It’s not a theory. But yes. I do. But like I said, I still don’t know what the hell it is.”
“Because energy is weird.”
He nodded. “It could even be something so powerful that the Quechua, and even your uncle, were afraid it could be harnessed.”
“And the part about not being ready?’”
“Dunno. A test maybe. Like as in power corrupts?”
“Which could be why my uncle was so afraid the Nazis would find it. He probably thought they would try to use it.”
“Makes sense.”
After a long silence and several of the elders speaking quietly amongst themselves, Urcaguary spoke to Morton, who listened with a growing look of surprise on this face.
“Uh…”
“What?”
“It seems they agree that you are Reed’s relative. And I think they’ve agreed to show it to us.”
Now Urcaguary spoke directly to Angela. “She says Paititi can be seen only once.” He paused, trying to understand. “For one soul.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think by one soul, she means one individual.”
“At a time?”
“That’s not clear.” Morton asked a question to clarify. “One time, she says, and never for the same.”
“The same what?”
“Same age. No, time. Same amount of time.”
Angela shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us.”
“What are we supposed to see?”
Morton waited until Urcaguary finished. “She just says we’ll know.”
80
The climb into the canyon was almost straight up, or at least felt that way to Angela. The barely visible path wound up and over clumps of dirt and rock, between boulders, and occasionally over fallen tree trunks that were long and gangly, petrified with surfaces worn smooth by decades of erosion.
The path proved extremely difficult for the older and heavier Mike Morton to traverse. Nearly hyperventilating, he was drenched in sweat after just a few hundred yards.
Stopping to rest several times, he finally held up his hand when it was time to continue again, prompting Angela and Rickards to both lower him back down to a sitting position.
“I…can’t do it,” he said, heaving. “It’s too much.”
Angela kept his hand in hers. “That’s okay, we can wait.”
“No….” Morton said weakly. “This…will kill me. Trust me.”
Beside them a few Quechua stood nearby, waiting patiently, joined by Urcaguary and another of the elders, none of whom appeared even slightly winded.
“We’ll go slower,” Rickards said.
“It’s not…my strength,” he said. “It’s…my heart. If I push…any further…”
“How much farther is it?”
With several deep breaths, Morton asked them in Quechuan. When they replied, he seemed to slump. “Too far…for me.”
Angela knelt down in front of him, still holding his hand. “What would you like to do, Mike?”
“Something tells me…” he said, still fighting for breath. “That whoever’s following us…won’t be far behind.” He grinned and put his other hand on top of hers. “You go. Both of you. Before they get here.”
Angela looked at Rickards before Morton pushed her back up onto her feet.
“Hurry,” he panted. “And tell me what’s up there.”
The rest of the climb was even worse. Up large stretches of rock, in some cases requiring the help of dangling tree limbs to pull themselves up. Higher and higher into the canyon, feeling increasingly more mysterious with every step. The copper tint of its cliff walls slowly darkened the farther in they pushed. Finally, the ground began to level off into a plateau, where it then declined modestly into the heart of the canyon.
After several hundred more feet, Urcaguary and her small troop stopped. When Angela and Joe turned around, the old woman stared at them and leaned gently on her walking stick.
The two looked at each other, confused, before Urcaguary raised her arm and pointed into the canyon.
“What are we looking for?” Angela asked. But Morton was not there to translate. The question went unanswered. Urcaguary simply motioned again and then raised two fingers to her eyes, as if to say look.
Rickards turned back and followed the trail winding forward and disappearing into the distance. Then he grinned. “For Mike.”
Once they were inside the canyon, things began to feel eerie. With less sunlight, the walls continued darkening until from certain angles, they almost appeared to shimmer briefly.
“Are you nervous?”
Rickards, walking ahead, nodded. “Does a bear— never mind.”
Zigzagging in and out of the walls, they approached an area where the two sides almost touched one another, forcing them to turn sideways to squeeze through. Angela went first before Rickards’ larger frame.
“Joe.”
“Yeah?” he answered, pushing through to see Angela staring at him with her mouth open. The hair on top of her head was standing straight up.
“Whoa.”
He raised his hand over his own head and felt hair several inches above his scalp.
Angela reached out and examined the tiny blonde hairs along her forearms. All standing up in unison.
“Mike said energy could get weird.”
“I believe him.”
She nodded. “He also said energy and mass could even become one another.”
The two continued forward, much slower, until rounding an outcropping of orange rock that resembled a falling curtain or drape, where they stopped cold.
Angela gasped.
Directly before them, the canyon walls widened into a larger, open area. It was circular in appearance and in the middle rose something truly extraordinary.
81
Both were utterly speechless.
Standing in the middle of the open space, towering high above them and flanked by canyon walls on all sides, was perhaps the last thing they were expecting.
A tall, single narrow spire rising upward almost two hundred feet. It was made of what appeared to be solid, clear crystal.
“Hoooly cow.”
Rickards stood motionless beside her, transfixed, as Angela eased forward and gently walked toward it, tilting her head back as it became taller with every step.
She stopped and turned back to Rickards, her voice hushed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Me either.”
She then spun back, staring in awe, recounting what Morton had told them. “Mike said symbol or statue. But he didn’t think he had the right word.”
“I can see why.”
“This isn’t a statue, Joe,” she breathed. “This is something much more than that. I think the word Mike didn’t know how to translate was monument.”
Rickards continued forward until he’d passed Angela and was within several steps of the base. He peered intently at the crystal, perfectly clear on all sides, and entirely unblemished. Almost, he thought, stepping around and viewing from another angle, translucent.
He reached out to touch it, slowly and cautiously easing forward, until suddenly he yanked back when his fingers failed to detect the surface.
He turned and looked incredulously at Angela.
“Where mass could become energy,” she murmured.
Rickards backed away, staring up at the spire. That’s when he noticed something else.
Next to the monument, higher up in the canyon’s colored walls, was a brief sparkle of light. Then another…and another, until dozens began appearing.
Then something else. Something higher above the strange spire and the cliff walls. In the air itself.
“What is that?” asked Angela.
He shook his head.
The air slowly
began to change and sounds reverberated off the walls, increasing in volume as the air displayed strange wisps of light. The wisps became streaks, long and swirling, in different colors, faint hues of whites and blues and yellows, until a dozen colors were visible. Then two dozen, and then three. Each streak became longer and longer as it moved faster and faster.
Rickards continued stepping back. “What the hell?”
“Different kinds of energies. All coming together,” she said, watching the tip of the crystal spire as it changed colors. “Through this.”
It was the last thing she said before everything changed. In seconds, the swirling wisps of lights suddenly accelerated, instantly becoming one, and the reverberating along the walls became a deafening roar.
Then came the trembling, beginning in the air and moving down through the rock beneath their feet. And then—an exploding flash of brilliant white light.
82
Two thousand feet above the canyon, a brilliant flash of light lit up the interior of the Mi-17 helicopter, briefly blinding everyone aboard, including the pilot, who instinctively raised his left hand in an effort to see his instruments, letting go of the collective and causing a sudden dip.
“What was that?!” Ottman cried.
Ignoring the Germans behind him, the pilot desperately seized the lever again next to his leg, searching through the glare for the outlines of his controls.
When it finally faded, what he saw was impossible.
Every mechanical component in front of him was pegged out. And every electronic instrument and screen lit up like a Christmas tree.
83
Angela and Joe had fallen to the ground, unable to stay on their feet, only to find the shaking subside as quickly as it had come. Overhead, the streaks were still swirling, wrapped tightly together in a brilliant braid of energy and light, funneling down and through the crystal, which was now refracting light in all directions, dotting the canyon walls with every conceivable color.
The Last Monument Page 24