“Hush,” he said. “Get back to shore. Hurry.”
The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Without a further word Gamay swam quickly to shore with Paul right behind her. She started to climb onto the ledge. Paul pulled her down into a bush. He held his finger to his lips and pointed toward the lake.
Gamay squinted through the leaves and tensed as the sun glinted off wet paddles and she saw flashes of blue and white. Chulo. Paul had seen the four canoes emerge from the river into the lake. They would have run right into Gamay. The canoes were moving in single file. Each canoe held three Indians. Two were paddling, and the other was riding shotgun, his bow resting across his lap. They seemed intent on where they were going and unaware that they were being watched.
The Indians passed within a few yards of the hiding place, so close the beads of sweat on their rippling muscles were clearly visible. They moved silently across the lake until foggy tendrils enveloped them. An instant later they disappeared into the vapor cloud.
“That was some vanishing act,” Paul said, puffing his cheeks out.
“Now we know why they’re called the People of the Mist,” Gamay said.
Using his six-foot-eight height to good advantage, Paul stood cautiously and made sure there were no stragglers. “All clear,” he said. “We’d better think of getting out of here. I still have the Swiss Army knife. Maybe we could fashion a raft with logs and vines and float our way out.”
Gamay was staring toward the mists. “I have a better idea.” She paused. “It may be a little risky.”
“A little risky?” Paul chuckled. “Don’t forget I’m well acquainted with the way your mind works. You’re about to suggest that we follow those guys and steal a canoe.”
“Why not? Look, this is their home turf, so they won’t expect it. With all due respect for your talents with a Swiss Army knife, I can’t see us fashioning a boat that will carry the two of us God knows how many miles downriver without sinking or running into more of those characters. It was tough enough traveling in an airboat. They can’t paddle those canoes all day. They must pull them up somewhere on shore. We just find them, wait until dark, and slip one away. They’ll never even miss it, I bet.”
Amusement crept into Paul’s large hazel eyes. “Do I detect a hint of scientific curiosity in your proposal?”
“Okay, I admit there’s more here than simply a matter of survival. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered about this high-tech tribe and the talk of a white goddess.”
“I was wondering if they have any food,” Paul said, patting his stomach. He chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. “Seriously, we’re in something of a pickle and really don’t have many choices. We don’t know where we are and aren’t sure how to get out of here. We have no supplies. As you pointed out, this is their territory. I suggest that we reconnoiter. We’re strangers in a strange land. We go slow, and if the situation looks too dangerous, we get out in a hurry.”
“Agreed,” Gamay said. “Now, as for food, I’m fresh out of granola bars. I’ve been watching the birds eating the berries on that bush. I don’t see any dead birds, so they’re probably not poison.”
“Berries it is,” Paul said. “They can’t be that bad.”
Trout was wrong. The berries were so bitter it was impossible to eat even one without puckering up. With empty stomachs, the Trouts struck off along the shore of the lake. At one point where the mud looked like quicksand, they climbed to higher ground and stumbled onto a footpath. The trail was overgrown and looked as if it hadn’t seen any recent use. Still, they proceeded cautiously, ready to dive into the bushes if they encountered anyone.
They trekked along the path for about a mile until they came to a place where mists from the lake rolled into the forest like vapor from a fog machine. The leafy growth was as wet as if it had been pelted by a rain shower, and the roar of the falls was like the beating of a thousand kettledrums. They were aware that the same noise that muffled their movement could drown out the approach of a marching army. The air became chilly and so damp that they put their hands over their noses so they wouldn’t gag. The visibility was only a few feet, and they kept their heads low so their eyes could pick out the path.
Then, suddenly, they were out of the forest. If they were expecting to burst out on a beautiful valley like wayfarers in Shangri-la, they were disappointed. The forest was no different on the other side of the mists. The path no longer led along the lake but instead veered off along a tributary that the canoes must have followed.
After a few minutes Gamay stopped and shook her head. “Notice anything strange about this little river?”
Paul walked over to the edge of the banking. “Yes, it’s much too straight to be natural. It looks as if someone has taken an existing stream and marsh and cleared them out with shovel and pick.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Gamay started walking again. “As I said, the Chulo are most fascinating.”
They plodded ahead for several hours. They had fashioned hats from palm leaves and stopped frequently to quench their thirst from the river. At one point they waited out a shower. They became more tense and watchful as the path widened, and they began to see the imprints of a bare foot in the soft, dark earth.
After a short discussion, they decided to follow the river for a while longer, then hide in the forest until dark. They were dog-tired and needed to replenish their energy. As they plodded along they encountered a path coming in from the forest to their right. It was made of thousands of flat stones and reminded Gamay of the Maya or Inca roads. It was as good as anything she had seen on the Appian Way. Their curiosity got the best of them, and they followed the paved path for five more minutes. They were drawn on even farther by a gleam through the trees.
The walkway widened into a perfectly circular clearing about fifty feet in diameter and also surfaced entirely with stones. In the center of the clearing was a large object.
“I’ll be damned,” they said in unison.
The jet plane was in two sections. The front was intact, but the passenger cabin was virtually gone. The tail section was in fair shape and had been moved directly behind the cockpit, giving the aircraft a short, stubby look. The paint was old and faded and not overgrown by vines or lichen as might be expected.
They peered through the cracked cockpit windows, expecting to see skeletons. The seats were empty. Directly in front of the cockpit was a shallow pit holding the blackened ashes of fires and charred bones of small animals. Carved totems as tall and thick as a man ringed the stone circle. The figures adorning each post were different. Carved in dark wood at the top of each pole was a winged woman with her hands cupped in front of her. It was the same figure carved onto the medallion they had found on the dead Indian.
“It looks like some sort of shrine,” Gamay whispered. She went over to the ash pit. “This must be where they burned sacrifices. Mostly bones from small animals.”
“That’s certainly reassuring,” Paul said. He looked up at the sun, then checked his watch. “They’ve got the plane positioned so that it acts like a sundial. It reminds me of the layout at Stonehenge, with the concentric rings that acted as a celestial calendar.”
Gamay put her hand on the plane’s nose. “Does this blue-and-white color scheme seem familiar to you?”