The Stone Idol

by Franklin W. Dixon

  A shelf cut into the earth next to the Hardys held unused candles, wooden tongs for reaching them past the knives onto the altar, and long tapers for lighting the candles when they were in place.

  Frank tried the edge of one of the knives with his thumb.

  “Sharp as a razor,” he declared. “Anyone reaching in there would sure give himself a shave.”

  “Well, somebody got the stone idol off the altar,” Joe said, “and not with those tongs, either. They’re not strong enough to hold it.”

  Agreeing there was nothing more they could learn in the sacred cave, the Hardys slowly backed down the tunnel until they reached the rope ladder. Mounting it, they rejoined Iko Hiva at the top of the cliff.

  “I replace the candles when they burn down too far,” he told them. “The idol used to stand in the middle of the altar. I am desperate to get it back. Can you help me?”

  “We’ll try,” Frank promised.

  The wizard nodded. “I want you to see Rano Raraku. You will learn more about the traditions of Easter Island. It is ten miles away in the northeast.”

  The three climbed back in the saddle and rode around the base of Rano Kao before turning their horses onto a long trail up the coast. They passed natives and Chilean offlcials traveling on horseback, in jeeps, or on foot. Statues were lying on the ground beside stone platforms. Iko Hiva pointed out more caves where the ancient population used to hide from their enemies.

  The Hardys recognized Rano Raraku when they spotted it from down the trail because many famous stone figures stood in the earth on the flanks of the extinct volcano.

  The three reined in their horses and looked at the mysterious figures with their oval eyes, broad noses, pursed lips, and long ears.

  “They are the sentinels of Rano Raraku,” said Iko Hiva solemnly. “They have been here since the beginning of time. They are telling us that the ancient traditions of Easter Island must not be violated. I am in mystic communication with them,” he added.

  Maneuvering their horses between the uncanny stone giants, the three rode up the slope to the summit and peered over the edge into the crater that once hurled forth dense clouds of suffocating smoke and rivers of molten lava.

  When the volcano had stopped erupting, the lava had cooled and become hard, black rock. The boys could see how the Easter Islanders cut the rock into blocks from which they carved their weird statues. Some half-finished sculptures still lay in the crater, reminders that work had ceased when the Polynesians conquered the island.

  “How did those statues get all over the island?” Frank asked, remembering Thor Heyerdahl’s account that they had been moved to different points.

  “They got where they are by themselves,” the wizard replied.

  “But they have no legs!”

  “They flew through the air. Some stayed near Rano Raraku. Others continued to the platforms built for them along the coast.”

  “Why were they thrown off the platforms?” Joe asked.

  Iko Hiva scowled. “A witch did it. Her magic was too powerful for the statues. They fell and were unable to get up again. Fortunately, the sentinels of Rano Raraku were strong enough to repel the witch’s spell. That is why they are still standing.”

  The Hardys surveyed the area, noting that there was a lake at the bottom of the crater. Several boys were either swimming in the water or paddling reed boats over the surface.

  “All of the old fire mountains have crater lakes,” Iko Hiva explained. “We get our water from them because there are no streams on Easter Island. Do you wish to see more?”

  Frank shook his head, recalling that he and Joe should be getting back to the hotel to see if there was any word on the Inca Chief.

  “I will help you as much as I can,” Iko Hiva promised. “If you need a wizard’s power, call on me!”

  He turned his horse down the slopes of Rano Raraku and led the ride back to Hanga Roa. This time they passed flocks of sheep and saw shepherds guarding them.

  At Iko Hiva’s hut, the Hardys unsaddled their horses, thanked the old man, and walked to the Hanga Roa Hotel. Since there was no message at the desk, Frank phoned the airport.

  “We still have not heard from the Inca Chief,” he was told. “The pilot must have interrupted his flight. But not long ago a blip appeared on our radar, then vanished from the screen. If it was the Inca Chief, I fear it has crashed into the ocean!”

  17 The Bird Man

  “We are in the process of starting an air and sea search,” the voice continued.

  “Please keep us posted,” Frank said, and with a troubled frown, hung up.

  “If the Inca Chief went down,” he said to Joe, “we’ll never see Santana again.”

  “Or the stone idol, Frank. Anyway, we can’t leave Easter Island until we know for sure.”

  The phone rang. “Maybe that’s the control tower now!” Joe exclaimed as he lifted the instrument to his ear.

  A muffled voice said, “Hardys, if you want to know about the stone idol, be at Orongo before dawn!”

  Then there was a click and Joe put down the receiver.

  “That was a quick one,” Frank commented. “You didn’t say a word.”

  “I didn’t have a chance.” Joe repeated what he had heard.

  “Did you recognize the voice?” Frank asked.

  Joe shook his head. “It sounded as if he was holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. He could be anybody who knows we’re looking for the stone idol.”

  “Maybe he’s an Easter Islander who can tell us about it but doesn’t want anyone else to know,” Frank conjectured. “Iko Hiva could have spread the word around that we’re interested in the idol. Or a servant in the governor’s residence might have overheard us mention the idol last night.”

  “It could also be someone who wants to get rid of us!” Joe pointed out.

  “I know. But I still think we should go to Orongo. ”

  The boys spent the afternoon strolling around Hanga Roa, then had dinner at the hotel. A message that the search for the Inca Chief had been fruitless was awaiting them.

  “Perhaps they’ll go out again tomorrow,” Joe said.

  Frank nodded morosely, then suggested that they go to the governor and tell him of their plans to meet their unknown contact at Orongo.

  “It could be a trap,” the governor agreed. “I will send a policeman after you if you have not returned by early morning.”

  “That would be great,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

  “Call me as soon as you get back from your mysterious rendezvous,” the governor added, and the boys left.

  They set their alarm for three o‘clock, then went to sleep. Later, in the darkness, they walked to Rano Kao and climbed up to Orongo. By now a full moon flooded light over the ruins, casting weird shadows on the ground. A dark patch showed the entrance to a cave used by the bird men in olden times.

  “The Easter Islanders sure were big on this kind of thing,” Frank commented.

  “Real cave men,” Joe quipped.

  They came to a jumble of massive rocks decorated with weird figures. Many were of men with the heads of birds, their bodies twisted out of shape, their heads uplifted to reveal their long curving beaks. There were cryptic hieroglyphic marks on some of the rocks.

  “Our friend on the phone sure chose a spooky place to meet,” Joe grumbled.

  “Maybe he wants to be sure we’re alone. Thor Heyerdahl found that most Easter Islanders would not come up here at night. They’re afraid the spirits of Orongo would get them.”

  Joe looked at the sky. “I hope we don’t have to wait too long. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Not scared of the bird men, are you?” Frank joked.

  “No, but there are lots of places I’d rather be.”

  The boys found a protected spot and sat down with their backs against an outcropping of rock. They discussed the strange phone call.

  “I just can’t make any sense of it,” Frank said. “But we’ve got to w
ait here until—” He broke off suddenly as the moonlight threw a sinister shadow on the ground in front of them.

  Jumping to their feet, they whirled around and saw a man with the head of a bird perched on the rock overhead!

  Holding a black volcanic rock in each hand, the uncanny apparition leaped on the Hardys, struck each on the head, and knocked them to the ground! Then their attacker ran off into the darkness.

  Frank and Joe lay stunned where they had fallen, but gradually recovered. Sitting up, they rubbed their heads, wincing as their fingers touched the bumps where the stones had struck.

  “We were ambushed!” Joe groaned. “It must have been the guy on the phone!”

  “He’s trying to scare us away from Easter Island, I bet,” Frank added. “No doubt he’s afraid we’ll find the truth about the stone idol!”

  “That means we’re getting warm. But I still don’t see how.”

  “Neither do I. By the way, what happened to our bird man? He sure flew away in a hurry.”

  “Maybe not,” Joe said in an undertone. He pointed to the mouth of the Orongo cave. “He could be hiding in there. Let’s go see!”

  Grabbing a rock to use as a weapon, he slipped into the cave and began to work his way on hands and knees through a narrow tunnel, using his flashlight to see ahead of him. Frank followed close behind.

  “This place gives me claustrophobia!” Joe muttered. “Anyway, the bird man can’t ambush us in here. There’s no place for him to hide.”

  The tunnel was short and they came to the end in a couple of minutes.

  “No one here,” Joe called over his shoulder. “Reverse gears.”

  Frank backed up as rapidly as he could. Joe was slower. Suddenly a shower of rocks fell between the boys! Frank was safe near the mouth of the cave, but his brother was trapped underground!

  Frantically Frank threw himself on the barrier. As fast as he could, he dug into it, throwing rocks over his shoulder. When he removed a big boulder near the top of the pile, he created an aperture through to the other side.

  “Joe! Can you hear me?” Frank shouted.

  “Loud and clear!”

  “Hold on, I’ll get you out.” The young detective removed the rest of the debris, taking care not to start another rock slide. Finally Joe was able to wriggle through and they both emerged from the cave.

  “Do you think the bird man did that?” Joe said after he breathed in a lungful of fresh air.

  “I doubt it,” Frank said. “I was already near the entrance and didn’t hear or see anyone. I think the rocks just caved in. Maybe no one has used the cave in a long time, and the movement we made inside caused some of the ceiling to shift.”

  “Well, that’s the last cave I’ll ever go into!” Joe vowed. “The chances we take to find Santana!”

  Just then, a voice sounded behind them. Whirling around, they went into a defensive stance and prepared to meet another attack by the bird man. Instead, a friendly Easter Islander was walking toward them. On his shirt, he wore an official-looking badge.

  “He must be the policeman the governor promised to send after us,” Joe said.

  The man said something in his native dialect, ending with, “Santana?”

  “Do you know about Santana?” Joe asked eagerly.

  The man nodded. He pointed to the shore, gestured to the Hardys to go with him, and walked off.

  “Maybe the Inca Chief arrived, or they found the wreck offshore,” Frank surmised. “Let’s see where he’s taking us.”

  They followed the Easter Islander from Orongo to the cliff below. A narrow trail enabled them to reach the bottom where surf pounded over massive rocks. An outrigger canoe, with a spear and hand net inside, was drawn up to the shore.

  “He’s a fisherman,” Joe said. “They probably don’t even have full-time cops around here.”

  The man pointed to the island of Motunui across the water.

  “Is Santana there?” Frank asked.

  The man nodded. Pushing the canoe off the rocks into the surf, he climbed aboard and gestured to the Hardys to join him.

  When they got in, he handed them a couple of paddles and took one himself. He sat up front and gave the boys a lead as the three dug their paddles into the water and started the canoe toward Motunui.

  The small craft pitched up and down in the waves, maintaining its balance by means of the outrigger on one side, which stablized it and prevented it from turning over. The Hardys had experience with most types of boats, and had no trouble keeping up with the fisherman. The going got easier as they reached the placid water beyond the surf.

  They crossed about a mile of open ocean before arriving at Motunui. Frank and Joe were preparing to jump out and help drag the canoe onto the beach, but the Easter Islander shook his head and pointed to a smaller island on the right. They turned in that direction, entered the surf of the little patch of land, and beached the canoe.

  Curious, the Hardys followed their guide inland.

  “Joe, be ready for anything,” Frank warned. “Santana plays rough. He sure did with us in the Andes.”

  “I know. But I hope he’s already in the hands of the police.”

  The man led them to a stone chapel, which had broken windows and grass growing around its foundation. The door hung crazily on one hinge.

  “This place hasn’t been used for years,” Frank muttered.

  “Where’s Santana?” he asked their guide apprehensively.

  The native pointed to an inscription on the stone above the doorway. The Hardys looked at it and read the words Santa Ana.

  “Oh, no!” Joe groaned.

  Frank grinned in spite of his disappointment. “He must have heard us talking about Santana when he walked up to us and figured this is what we wanted to see. Santa Ana and Santana do sound alike. ”

  Suddenly a noise that seemed like a footstep came from within the building.

  “Someone’s in there!” Joe cried.

  He and Frank rushed toward the door. As they reached it, a man with the head of a bird plunged between the boys, ran around the corner, and vanished!

  18 The Inca Chief

  The Hardys ran after the bird man. Rounding the abandoned chapel, they saw him dashing for the beach, where a reed boat was drawn up. Quickly they closed the gap and had almost overtaken him when he suddenly turned and tripped Joe.

  The boy fell heavily to the ground, but Frank reached out and put a headlock on the fugitive. They struggled violently for a moment, then the man wrenched loose from his disguise. Frank was left holding the bird headdress and the man shoved him into the sand. Then the man jumped into the reed boat and paddled away furiously.

  Frank got to his feet as Joe ran up to him. “Outwitted again,” he muttered angrily. “There he goes, and all we have are his stupid feathers!”

  “Did you recognize him?” Joe asked.

  Frank nodded. “He’s Pedro Morena, Santana’s pilot!”

  “That means the Inca Chief didn’t crash after all!” Joe cried out. “Let’s see if we can catch up with Morena in the canoe!”

  The boys ran back to their guide, who still stood near the chapel, an expression of fear on his face.

  Frank used a sort of sign language to explain that they wanted to pursue the fugitive, but the man shook his head. He pointed to the headdress in Frank’s hand and waved his hand to indicate his refusal.

  “He’s afraid of the bird man,” Frank interpreted. He was proven right when the Easter Islander would not let them into the boat with the bird man’s feathers. Finally Frank put the headdress on the chapel steps and their guide reluctantly indicated he would take them back to Easter Island.

  When they passed Motunui, Joe spotted something gleaming in the sunlight beyond the crest of a small hill. “Hey, Frank,” he said and pointed. “I wonder what that is.”

  Frank shielded his eyes with his hand. “Let’s check it out.”

  They signaled their guide to paddle ashore, then strode to the top of the hill an
d looked down on the other side. A small plane was parked at the end of a level plain below, and on its side were the words Inca Chief!

  “So this is where Morena and Santana landed,” Frank cried out. “They maintained radio silence and came down secretly on this deserted island. Easy enough for a small plane.”

  “It zipped right past the radar,” Joe added. “They fooled the guy in the control tower when the blip went off the screen. We’ll have to get back to Hanga Roa and tell the authorities.”

  “First let’s give the Inca Chief the once over and drain the fuel tank in case Morena comes back to fly out after we leave. ”

  The Hardys advanced cautiously toward the plane. When they got close enough, they saw through a window that it was empty. Pulling the door open, they got in and searched the interior.

  Joe opened a leather case he found on the floor. “This is what Santana took out of the locker in Punta Arenas,” he declared. “If the idol was ever in here, it sure isn’t now. As a matter of fact, it isn’t anywhere in the plane,” he added after an exhaustive search of the cabin.

  Finding the key still in the lock, Frank turned on the motor, which erupted into action for a moment and then died.

  “Now I know why Morena left the key,” the boy commented. “The fuel tank’s empty. He must have just made it here. A few minutes more and both of them would have landed in the ocean.”

  Joe nodded. “But one thing puzzles me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What was Morena doing on the island next door with that goofy birdman outfit?”

  “I think I have the answer to that,” Frank replied. “He was on the island for some reason of his own, and saw us approaching. Apparently he had his disguise with him, so he quickly put it on and tried his scaring act to frighten us away from the area and protect the hiding place of his plane.”

  The Hardys got out and scouted around the island, which was less than half a mile across in each direction. The lack of trees gave them a clear view, and they quickly realized that they and their guide were the only people on it.