by Kim McMahill
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THANK YOU
Shrouded in Secrets
Kim McMahill
Copyright 2013 Kim McMahill
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means without the permission of Prism Book Group. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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SHROUDED IN SECRETS © 2013 Kim McMahill
Published by Prism Book Group
ISBN 978-1-940099-09-5 First Edition, 2013
Published in the United States of America
Contact info: [email protected]
http://www.prismbookgroup.com
DEDICATION
To every reader who enjoys adventure, whether in real life or between the pages of a novel.
CHAPTER ONE
September 18, 10:30 P.M.
Asháninka Village, remote jungle of Peru
KOKUSH INHALED THE smoke from his pipe and forced the intoxicating tobacco deep into his lungs. Still, no clear visions penetrated the fog, only a feeling of dread he could not explain or expel from his mind.
The Asháninka men, bodies painted and seated on woven mats around their revered shaman, passed a hollowed-out gourd filled with thick, bitter liquid. Each man sipped the hallucinogenic drug made from a native vine and handed the bowl to the next, until the syrup was gone.
A low beat from the two-headed monkey-skin drum grew louder as a melancholy mantra emanated from the group, drowning out the deafening hum of the nighttime insects. The men rose and continued to chant and sing as they began the ancestral dance used to encourage the spirits and wise supernatural beings to communicate with Kokush. The women joined in, the ground vibrating in response to the rhythmic stomping of their feet, while the children watched from under the raised-floor houses encircling the communal area.
Flames blazed in the center of the ceremonial grounds, casting an unnatural glow over the dancers and eerie shadows skittered through the trees. A sweet smoke from the wood and herbs burning on the fire filled their nostrils, coaxing the participants into a trance-like state of mind. Moving with a graceful ease made possible by the intoxicating effect of the vine and tobacco, they waited for their ancestors to speak.
As the shaman often did, Kokush slipped silently from the circle, giving his people the illusion he had vanished and joined the spirit world. He had been taught the art of disappearing by his grandfather, which wasn’t difficult once his audience succumbed to the drugs and got caught up in the ceremonial fervor, and the thick smoke created a hazy curtain to conceal his movements.
He usually used the tactic to reinforce to the villagers that he possessed special powers and was worthy of being their spiritual leader. Tonight, he needed time to organize his thoughts and try to decide what to do. He didn’t want to frighten his people, but he was certain something evil would soon descend upon them. Unsure of what or when, how could he warn them? His gut told him they should flee, but he didn’t know how soon or how far they needed to run.
If wrong and no danger came their way, he would lose credibility. The obligations of shaman and keeper of the sacred bundle had been in his family for as long as the tribe had existed. He took his calling seriously, refusing to fail in fulfilling the responsibilities bestowed upon him.
The sound of gunfire and screams interrupted Kokush’s thoughts. He rushed toward the commotion, but held back at the edge of the clearing, out of sight, concealed by the jungle and the darkness. He froze, the scene unfolding in front of him too horrific and unreal to grasp. Five figures, all clad in black and heavily armed, moved deftly through his people, striking down everyone in their way. At first, he thought the brutal Shining Path rebel fighters had returned. Unfortunately, he feared this was a force much more sinister.
He searched the chaos for his warriors. All accounted for, though none had had time to arm themselves against the intruders. He witnessed his son, the strongest of the village fighters, charge a black-clad figure. A shot rang out, throwing him, blood oozing from the wound on his bare shoulder. The young man regained his balance and dove for his target, screaming the call of war, ordering the other warriors to fight to the death.
Two bodies hit the ground with a thud. In helpless silence, Kokush witnessed his son struggle to overcome the much larger man. Pride swelled in his aching heart as he gained an advantage, straddling the intruder. The moment of hope was short-lived. No sooner had his son grappled to the top, he slumped over. Kokush reeled as the large adversary pushed his beloved son off, the young warrior’s body rolling over onto his back, exposing a long blade embedded deep into his abdomen.
The unarmed Asháninka were powerless against the superior weapons of the ruthless intruders. The village fighters had used the element of surprise to their advantage for centuries, but this time, it was they who were taken unaware.
One by one, Kokush watched his brave and fierce warriors fall, but his mind remained on his son. Kokush’s wife had died in childbirth, giving him only one child, who would have inherited the responsibilities of shaman. Kokush wanted to help his people, but to expose himself meant death. Only he could protect the sacred bundle and fulfill his obligation to his people, and for that, he must survive.
Women screamed and ran for their children, but few made it far befor
e they too, fell to the ground. Some were clubbed, many stabbed, and others shot. Soon the sound of gunfire and screams diminished, replaced by the terrified whimpers of children. Families who were able to reunite clung to each other, fear filling their eyes as a man kicked the fallen bodies to see if any remained alive.
The five armed strangers moved among the Asháninka people, herding the survivors into a tight group near the fire. One person, whom Kokush recognized as a woman by the way her black high-necked, long-sleeved top clung to her breasts, held the villagers at bay with a frightening looking weapon, while the remaining members of her group checked every dwelling.
The intruders searched each home, and then set the palm-leaf roofs afire. Heart aching for his people and his village, Kokush pleaded with the spirits for guidance, but they had deserted him. His mind, empty of all thoughts except for fear and grief, struggled to focus on the necessary. He remained motionless, hoping, as the last structure went up in flames, the evil people would leave, but he doubted that would happen.
The intruders returned to the terrified group of villagers and said something to the leader that Kokush could not understand. They spoke in a language he didn’t recognize. He had been out of the village several times. On those trips to the city, to protest the encroaching development threatening their way of life, he heard people speaking Spanish, English, and a number of indigenous tribal languages, but this was something so different. He’d also learned about guns and acknowledged he was no match against the deadly weapon.
The tallest man, the one who had killed his son, grabbed Kokush’s uncle by the hair and pulled him to his feet. The brutal man yanked Uncle’s head back and placed the blade of his blood-stained knife to the old man’s throat. Kayanakú, Kokush’s daughter-in-law, rushed to his aid, but the butt of a rifle struck her temple and she fell to the ground, clutching her swollen belly. Kokush made a move toward the clearing, stopped abruptly, and melted back into the shadows of the trees. His eyes focused on a drawing held out in front of Uncle’s face. Kokush’s knees buckled and he slumped against a tree as he realized these people were aware of the sacred relic’s existence.
Uncle shook his head back and forth, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. The intruder tightened his grip on the old man’s hair, while another held the image in front of him, screaming demands in a language no villager understood.
Kokush looked on in disbelief as his uncle began to chant. The sorrowful song of death lasted only seconds before the blade sliced his throat. The old man slumped to the ground in a pool of blood, while the rest of the villagers took up the melancholy song. As the volume grew, Kokush lamented the end of his people.
He now knew what evil the spirits were trying to convey. If he had been a better spiritual leader, he would have understood the bad omens and reacted in time to save his village and the secret his ancestors had successfully guarded for thousands of years.
As he watched the slaughter of his friends and family with a numbing pain in his heart that threatened to crush his ability to act, he accepted there was nothing he could do to save them, but he had to try to keep the secret safe. The powerful relic could not be found, or his people would not be the only ones to suffer and die.
Turning his back on the agonizing cries of his people, Kokush slipped off into the trees. He hadn’t hidden the treasure far enough away from the village, but at least it remained safe for the moment. He needed to retrieve the sacred bundle and hide until he found a new home for the relic. He doubted the evil ones would try to follow, since they did not know of his existence. He knew the jungle intimately, so if he used stealth, there was still hope the secret could remain safe, and the power prevented from falling into unworthy hands.
Kokush knelt at the base of a horóya tree. He issued a silent plea to the spirits to guide him, protect the relic, and deliver them both to a safe place. He removed the shell tied at his waist and began to dig. After several minutes, the implement scraped the surface of a gold-gilded box. Dropping the shell, he finished clearing the soil from the box with his calloused hands.
He gently lifted the small chest from the place where it had rested undisturbed for the last fifty years, when he had inherited the responsibility from his father. He set the precious item on a cloth made from tree bark, quickly wrapped it, and secured it with a piece of vine. Standing, the bundle under his arm, he turned to find himself staring into the cold, dark eyes of the woman in black.
A tiny red light moved from his stomach toward his skull until he could no longer see it, but he sensed it rested on his forehead. If he spoke her language, he would try to explain the dangers of the relic when misused, but he knew she wouldn’t listen, even if he could communicate with her in a common tongue. As he stared at her with pleading eyes, her four companions arrived. They stood at her side, holding similar guns to the one trained on him, the expressions on the faces painted black in order to blend into the night unreadable.
Kokush gripped his bundle tighter and begged the spirits for help. He waited only a second for an answer before apologizing for failing where his forefathers had succeeded. The tribe had entrusted him with a force so great, that if unleashed, the consequences were unfathomable. The secret had been easy to keep, since most of the modern world believed the relic’s existence and power were only legend. Obviously, the story now had believers.
A vibration from the bundle made Kokush’s arm tingle. The thought of never seeing the contents of the box again caused him to lament his imminent death and fear for all humanity. The relic was imbedded with power, good and bad, and a great deal of knowledge vital to unlocking many of the mysteries of mankind, as well as information to assist the guardians of the universe to avoid mistakes of the past. Under his arm, he held so much good, but together with others of its kind, and in the wrong hands, it could bring about havoc and destruction beyond any earthly comprehension.
He took a small step backward. Nothing happened, so he attempted another. A noise exploded in his head at the same instant he felt himself falling. Trying to hold onto the bundle, unable to feel his limbs, he sunk to the forest floor. As he rested on the ground, his mind overflowed with tranquil thoughts of rejoining his village, and he experienced no pain or sorrow, only peace.
CHAPTER TWO
September 20, 9:00 P.M.
Giza, Egypt
MARJORIE BURTON STOOD on the balcony of her guesthouse room and gazed toward the Sphinx. The music and historical narration booming over the tinny loudspeaker finally ebbed, and the colorful laser lights transformed into a golden illumination, making the Sphinx glow, giving it an enchanting aura and a noble grace. Throngs of people exited the seating area and filed toward the chaotic streets of Cairo in a reverent hush.
Marjorie understood their awe. She never tired of looking at the massive stone masterpiece, and when the crowds thinned and eventually left for the night, the monument’s power grew, and its stoic grimace seemed to mock those who tried to unlock its secrets.
She rubbed the ache in her neck, thinking over the project’s progress, while the sounds of honking horns and the smell of rotting food from the encroaching city assaulted her senses. At one time, the Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza overlooked ancient Cairo, carrying on its business at a respectful distance. Now the structures appeared to be losing the battle to avoid being swallowed up by the growing metropolis of nearly twenty million people closing in on the Giza Plateau from all sides.
As the last tourist left the seating area, some of the lights flickered out, signaling to Marjorie it was time to leave the hot, humid confines of her dingy room behind and make her way to the site, where Kamal would be waiting for dinner and to begin the night’s excavation. They did most of their work after sunset, due to the heat, as well as to avoid the mobs of tourists and hawkers who overran the site during the day, making accomplishing anything a difficult task.
Every time Marjorie came to Cairo, she swore she would never come back. The crowds grew exponentially, those selling
souvenirs became more aggressive, and the politics deteriorated with each visit, making her work much more difficult and dangerous. But the draw of the Sphinx was powerful, and rejecting an opportunity to delve deeper into the mysteries of the ancient site proved impossible.
Recognizing her good fortune to be part of the excavation of a recently discovered room in the burial preparation building adjoining the Sphinx did little to diminish her frustration with the slow progress. With only her Cairo Museum counterpart, who seldom left his office, and her two assistants, Kamal and Ahmed, the dig proceeded at a snail’s pace, and funds for additional help had never materialized. Marjorie feared her time would run out before they cleared the debris from the newest chamber and found out if any treasures remained inside.
The British Museum of Mankind had given her six months to work on the project, but made it clear there would be no extensions unless something of major historical significance was uncovered. They had been generous in the past, even though she had yet to locate anything noteworthy, and now their patience was wearing thin. At only thirty-four, she had thought there was plenty of time to prove herself, but donors, who provided much of the museum’s funding for field work, expected immediate results and notoriety.
Marjorie wove her way through the congested alleys outside the guesthouse until she found her favorite food stall. The wind swirled, mixing the spicy aromas from the many vendors’ dishes with the stench of sewage and pungent odors of decaying scraps, creating an uncommon aroma, and making her nauseous. Despite her sudden loss of appetite, she bought thin local bread and curried lentils for herself and Kamal, then headed toward the Sphinx.
Each day Ahmed and Kamal worked with their Cairo counterpart at the museum inputting data and analyzing their finds, and then the two young men toiled half the night with her removing debris from the newly discovered room. Tonight, she and Kamal would start out together until Ahmed relieved him halfway through the shift and continued on with her until the morning crowds arrived. She realized her assistants had to be exhausted, existing on little sleep, but she had no choice except to keep up the brutal pace. Ahmed grumbled occasionally, while Kamal expressed his discontent more fervently, and she feared he might soon walk out on her.