Blood of the Incas

by David Harris

  Flesh-Eaters fell upon the writhing bodies to tear them apart and eat them raw. Inca nobles used clubs to drive the cannibals from the dying men. They wanted the Spaniards to feel pain for as long as possible to avenge the killing and to make these seven men pay for years of conquistador brutalities and destruction.

  Hiram had read the old pages filled with details of these hideous deaths. Conquistadors and the Inca’s people did terrible things to each other. They tortured and murdered prisoners, massacred unarmed people and desecrated each other’s sacred shrines.

  Who could tell if these Spaniards were burnt alive or eaten alive? Most likely, to suffer the greatest indignity, the headless corpses were cast upon open ground for the vultures to eat. Whatever their final agony, their heads would have been impaled on spears near the gate.

  But Hiram knew the story could never be told for certain, or even linked to these ruins, without one remaining piece of vital evidence. The histories were clear about one thing.

  ‘There’s something else I want you to help me find, Castillo.’

  Castillo’s eyes lit up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Yurak Rumi.’

  Castillo flinched. He could not hide his fear.

  Chapter 23

  Next morning at first light, Hiram’s men, with rifles, escorted villagers into the plantation and took defensive positions while villagers quickly filled their baskets with corn, beans and potatoes. To frighten the panther away, the men fired one salvo into the air. The sound whipped across the plantation and cracked from the mountains.

  Hiram, already inside the jungle, heard the shots. In front of him was the frightened guide from the village, a young man called Ocampo. Castillo led the way, his rifle held ready, one finger touching the trigger guard.

  Nervously Hiram again checked the safety catch on his rifle.

  The valley turned towards the northwest. Hiram called to Castillo. ‘Is Ocampo sure this is the right way to find Yurak Rumi?’

  On hearing the name of Yurak Rumi, Castillo’s back stiffened.

  Hiram remembered Castillo making the sign of the Cross at the bridge over The Great Speaker. Now he flinched with superstitious fear at the name Yurak Rumi. What an odd mix he is. But I’d trust my life to him.

  ‘This direction doesn’t seem right to me,’ Hiram said. ‘I’m positive the villagers pointed more to the south, to the next valley.’

  Castillo stopped and quizzed Ocampo, who thrust his hand towards the way ahead.

  ‘Ocampo says Los Andenes, Valley of Terraces, is this way. Yurak Rumi is this way and we not pay him enough money to be meat for panther.’

  Castillo shrugged. After all, Ocampo didn’t want to be a guide. In fact, he begged the elders not to be sent into the jungle with the mad white man. Had the elders forgotten? A man-eating panther was out there.

  After a few minutes Castillo led them out onto a broad riverbed. Low islands of rocks lay among thin streams of sluggish, brown water. Castillo walked out alone, stepping on solid rocks in the shallow water. He checked carefully in every direction, then called the others across.

  When they had all safely crossed the river and entered the jungle, Castillo held up his hand. ‘Listen.’

  The back of Hiram’s neck prickled.

  Ocampo yelped like a frightened puppy and turned to run but froze when he saw the barrel of Hiram’s gun aimed at his stomach.

  Castillo shook his head in disgust. ‘This Ocampo make too much noise. I cannot feel if panther is here.’

  Above them a shape crashed through high branches. Hiram swung his gun up.

  ‘Monkey,’ said Castillo.

  A branch swayed and leaves fluttered down.

  Ocampo plucked at Hiram’s sleeve in a silent plea to return to the village.

  Castillo glared at Ocampo and waved at him to go back to the village.

  Ocampo’s mouth fell open. He looked forward and back in such despair that Castillo patted him on each cheek and talked softly to him.

  ‘I tell this Ocampo,’ Castillo explained. ‘Courage, Ocampo. If panther is close, monkeys howl to their families. Monkeys will be our eyes and ears.’

  His face darkening, Castillo went on. ‘I must hunt man-eaters by myself. Then big cat also hunts me. All my body on fire to know where he is.’

  Not far off, a monkey howled in rapid, short whoops.

  ‘Maybe the big cat up that place. Maybe monkey warns because he sees a snake.’

  Hiram was suddenly aware that his arms ached from holding the rifle too tightly. He consciously relaxed, flexed his fingers, stretched his arms.

  The cries of the monkey stopped.

  So did the men.

  Hiram found the silence more threatening.

  Then the monkeys shrieked and leapt about more violently than ever.

  ‘Yurak Rumi this way.’ Ocampo, almost running, hurried them on.

  They burst out of heavy jungle and into a clearing with a weed-choked stream.

  ‘Yurak Rumi,’ Ocampo announced defiantly. He stood close against Castillo, as near to the gun as he could.

  Castillo quickly turned his back to the white boulder.

  But when Hiram saw the boulder he forgot about the panther. Yurak Rumi meant Great White Boulder. Yurak Rumi fixed the location of Vitcos. The histories said that Yurak Rumi was within walking distance of Vitcos. Jubilant that he’d found Vitcos, Hiram wanted to shout or laugh.

  Then he looked more carefully at the boulder. His spirits fell. Yurak Rumi was described as having a wide, flat top. This white boulder was round.

  Where’s the spring of water? There’s just a stream. I can’t see a spring. And the rock is meant to lean over the sacred pool. This one just sits on the side of the hill. And where is the Temple of the Sun?

  Hiram turned to Ocampo. The village guide looked away and down.

  ‘Ocampo —’ Hiram’s voice was threatening.

  Ocampo screwed up his face as if expecting a punch.

  ‘Sorry. Mistake.’ Castillo translated. A monkey leapt, screaming, from one treetop to another. Castillo flicked the safety catch on his rifle.

  Ocampo burst into rapid speech. ‘This way. Very good ruins. Best ruins. Yurak Rumi.’

  ‘Quick, show me.’

  Ocampo kept to the middle of the clearing while he led them past the boulder and showed Hiram a mound of ferns over ruined walls.

  While Castillo kept the rifle aimed near him, Hiram ran up the slope to the ferns and tore them aside.

  Temple of the Sun? Rubbish. These aren’t Inca walls. This isn’t even a hut. Maybe a shepherd’s hovel, at most.

  Hiram tasted the bitterness of disappointment. Without Yurak Rumi, there was no proof of Vitcos. No lost city.

  In the distance, along the northern face of the valley, Inca terraces were cut along the hillside. The Inca’s people lived here. The Inca himself walked to Yurak Rumi to stand on The Great White Boulder and call the sun to rise. All this was known. Where then, was the Temple of the Sun? It was supposed to be near the Great White Boulder.

  Further into the valley, a trickle of smoke drifted into the air. A farm? A village, maybe?

  ‘Castillo.’ Hiram climbed back into the bed of the stream. ‘Will you please ask Ocampo where that smoke is from?’

  Castillo picked up on the tension and anger in Hiram’s voice.

  Ocampo listened to Castillo, then shrugged. ‘It is not important. There are no ruins.’

  ‘Does it have a name?’

  Ocampo squirmed. ‘It is the village of Puquiura.’

  Calmly Hiram murmured to Castillo, ‘I’m uncertain whether to throttle or kiss this lying, grubby, snivelling …’

  Castillo lowered his guard enough to wink. ‘I tell him you want kiss him?’

  ‘I think not.’

  Finding Yurak Rumi is like artillery practice. I’ve hit Rosapata on one side, and Puquiura on the other side of my target. Both are within easy walking distance of Yurak Rumi, so The Great White Boulder is between them
. When I find Yurak Rumi, the first lost city really is mine.

  Hiram pointed along the valley towards the smoke and terraces. ‘Move, Ocampo.’

  Ocampo fell to his knees and wailed like a terrified child.

  Hiram shuddered at the high single cry of panic. Was it a word or a scream? The wail was, ‘Deeeevaas.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Deeeeevas,’ Ocampo screamed. His hands beat the front of his poncho.

  Fear caught Castillo. The shock of Castillo’s fear struck Hiram like lightning from a clear sky. Castillo’s face was a mask of terror.

  What was waiting for them in the valley?

  Chapter 24

  A drum beat. Was it a drum or blood thudding in Hiram’s temples? The air was charged, prickling with electricity.

  ‘We’re close to Yurak Rumi,’ said Ocampo.

  ‘Shhh,’ Castillo hissed. His eyes were fixed on a mark in the mud.

  One deep paw print. Castillo stretched his fingers wide and held his hand above the paw. His outstretched hand did not cover the paw. Castillo’s breath whistled.

  Hiram saw another paw print. He knelt and put his fingers into the holes made by the toes.

  The drum beat in Hiram’s head.

  Ahead the panther had scratched a long arc in the mud.

  ‘That big cat plays with us.’ Castillo was at Hiram’s shoulder. ‘He dares us to follow him.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  ‘You watch this side and back. I look front and right.’

  Monkeys exploded through treetops, shrieking and whooping. Branches swayed.

  The men, in single file, followed the water. Hiram’s boots rattled loose stones of the stream.

  Speechless with fear, Ocampo pointed.

  A deep grunt rolled along the valley.

  The drum beat. Hiram shook his head to clear it. His blood beat faster.

  So close to Yurak Rumi Castillo hesitated. His body was tense as he searched ahead. He signalled and they moved on.

  Among the trees Hiram saw a flash of white. A great white boulder loomed over a pool.

  Dark, mysterious, the pool’s surface moved with strange reflections. Hiram thought he saw a reflection move towards him, menacingly. So sinister, so filled with malice was the pool, Hiram staggered back one step. To look at the pool was to look into the eye of evil.

  Whimpering, Ocampo fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  Castillo kept his face averted from the pool as if the dark surface would hypnotise him and drag him under.

  A rumbling growl came from behind them. Or was that an echo?

  Hiram and Castillo stood together, back to back, guns aimed, fingers on triggers. Ocampo scurried on all fours and crouched at their feet.

  ‘Watch above,’ Castillo whispered.

  Hiram forced his eyes away from the dark pool. The white rock was scarred with marks of fire. On the flat top, a priest’s seat was carved into the granite.

  For an instant, in horror, Hiram saw his own body draped on the top of the rock.

  He blinked rapidly to drive the image away.

  Nothing moved on the rock where the Inca had stood with his priests. His robe shimmered as he held out his arms and sang to call the sun, welcoming it with kisses blown from his hands.

  Four hundred years ago, a cloaked foreigner, priest of another god, stood on the rock and cried out, ‘Burn the Devas back to Hell!’ His mob of followers, driven to a frenzy in fear, heaped piles of wood around the great rock and in the temple. The priest grasped a flaming torch and shouted, ‘The Devas is here. Burn his altar of darkness and temple of evil.’ Fire licked up the rock. In the burning temple, timbers split and crashed. The jungle burned, the sacred spring was choked and the pool turned black. A crowd of the diseased, the lame and those tormented by demons of the mind, flung wood on the flames. ‘More wood, more fire,’ shouted the priest. ‘The Devas stands by the pool. See him.’ His followers screamed with terror. A man, plumes in his hair, face painted, walked into the pool and sank.

  Then Hiram saw a glint of red. Just visible, at the other end of the rock, was a red drum. Black skulls were painted around its side. Strings of split bones hung from the edge of the skin.

  Who had played that drum? Where was he now?

  Scanning his eyes along the side of the valley, Hiram saw among jungle trees a high wall, a wide platform and the outline of stone stairs. The Temple of the Sun.

  A shot cracked past Hiram. Vines thrashed in the jungle near the temple.

  Then it went quiet.

  The muscles in Castillo’s neck quivered. But his hands were steady as he slipped a second bullet into the breech.

  Hiram didn’t dare speak. He aimed his gun at the place where he guessed the panther was.

  Castillo turned his head slightly as if following a movement in the undergrowth.

  For a long time none of the three men moved.

  Castillo suddenly strode towards the temple. Hiram ran after him.

  ‘Go back,’ Castillo bellowed in a voice not to be denied.

  Hiram stopped. He was aware of Ocampo clutching the back of his shirt.

  Castillo opened his mouth wide and roared. A thunderous reply came from the temple.

  Castillo growled the challenge again and, gun ready, walked within twenty feet of the temple wall. The silent waiting seemed to be unending.

  From the corner of his eye Hiram saw a fern shiver. He’s behind Castillo.

  Hiram swung his rifle, took aim at the fern and fired. The bullet left the barrel at the same instant the panther leapt.

  The panther was in mid-air when the bullet struck. Its body twisted, hit the riverbed with a clatter of rocks and stumbled. But the force of its charge carried the panther towards Castillo, who was swinging around to shoot.

  Castillo fired and flung himself aside. His shot hit the chest. The big cat lurched off course and fell. Scrambling again to its feet, it struggled towards the undergrowth.

  Hiram fired again. The echoes of the shot faded.

  Castillo walked slowly to the panther. He knelt, put his hand on the glossy neck and spoke quietly to the panther.

  Hiram lowered his rifle. A great sorrow filled his heart. The sleek body lay stretched out beneath the ruined temple, a place of blood and ashes. Wind moved the surface of the dark pool and clouds hid the sun.

  Chapter 25

  Four days of rain. Rain, rain, rain. Hiram’s thoughts trudged along with his weary footsteps.

  Mud was knee-deep. Slopes as slippery as ice. Jungles so dense a guinea pig couldn’t squeeze through. At night, in clothes soggy from sweat and rain, he hacked into the cliff wall to make enough space to sleep. Next day, oppressive heat, sweat, dumb exhaustion.

  But Captain Garcia, the conquistador soldier who hunted the Inca, walked this path. He wore armour and carried weapons. He was wounded from battles and endured never-ending fear of the Flesh-Eaters who guarded the last Inca.

  ‘Young Fortress.’ That’s what Captain Garcia called Vitcos. So the Old City, Vilcabamba, might be this way. Old Vilcabamba was also called Espiritu Pampa.

  A Peruvian man, head down against the rain, passed Hiram on the narrow track, hemmed in by bamboos.

  Hiram asked, ‘Where is Vilcabamba?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Espiritu Pampa?’

  The man held up his hands to ward off evil. ‘Don’t go to that terrible place. The Flesh-Eaters have arrows of poison. Nobody goes to Espiritu Pampa and comes back alive. It is the Land of Ghosts. I don’t go there. None of my people go there. You will bring evil to us. Go away.’

  Hiram led the team and porters into another canyon. Why is this canyon going east, when the map says west? Why is that mountain range not on a map? That’s about twelve thousand square miles of land that doesn’t exist on any map.

  A ragged old white man dressed in filthy rags, with wild hair, sat under a tree. He stank like a wet dog and had a dirty eggshel
l where his right eye should have been. His face twitched when Hiram said, ‘Espiritu Pampa.’

  ‘Keep away from Espiritu Pampa.’ His fingers touched the eggshell. ‘Why do you think it is called the Land of Ghosts? The Indians never go there. White people never go near. White people shot the Flesh-Eaters, took their children as slaves.’

  ‘So you know where it is?’ Hiram asked.

  His face twitched. One muddy fingernail tapped the eggshell eye. He scrambled to his feet. ‘If they find out I helped you …’ The man stumbled away into the jungle.

  Another day battling tree ferns, tangled vines, thickets of bamboo. Rain. Mud. And then Hiram walked into a small clearing. Almost invisible among the shadows stood a Flesh-Eater. A slender young man, he strung an arrow to his bow, but kept the point aimed down. His wrists were circled with red feathers, his chest striped with tattoos and his eyes were painted as deep sockets.

  Castillo stepped forward and spoke to the young man. Wary of the men with guns, the Flesh-Eater kept his arrow half-raised. In a soft, shy voice, he talked to Castillo.

  Castillo said, ‘He knows Espiritu Pampa.’

  At the name the porters turned, ready to run.

  Hiram glanced uneasily at Castillo. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I follow him …’

  Hiram was horrified. ‘What if it’s a trap?’

  ‘He is friendly.’

  The Flesh-Eater stood perfectly still. Only his eyes moved as he examined every detail of the strangers.

  Castillo took off his gun and backpack. ‘Thirty minutes. If I not come back, run away.’

  Hiram grasped Castillo by the arm. ‘Wait. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, no. He will trust me. You will make too much danger.’

  ‘But what if …’

  ‘Is okay. My friend, you want Espiritu Pampa. I find it for you.’

  From behind Hiram the doctor shouted, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’

  Unarmed, Castillo walked quietly to the young man. They turned and within a few steps the jungle swallowed them.