Maggie grabbed his elbow. “Do you know what this place is?” she whispered, staring up at Sam with huge eyes. “This is not some Quechan tribe, eking out a fist-to-mouth existence.”
Sam nodded. “These are Denal’s ancestors,” he said, coming to the same conclusion as Maggie, his voice numb with shock.
They had stumbled upon a living Incan village!
As the sun set, Philip heard a noise he had not thought to hear: the rasp of static from the camp’s radio. He jolted to his feet, knocking over the camp stool on which he had been sitting. Friar Otera and the other Dominicans were all down at the excavation site. A pair of experienced miners had arrived just past noon today and were helping direct the Quechan laborers.
Philip tore open the communication tent’s flap and dived into its shadowed interior. He snatched up the receiver. “Hello!” he yelled into the handpiece. “Can anyone hear me?”
Static… then a jittery response. “… ilip? It’s Sam! The walkie-talkie’s battery… We made it out of the caves…” Garbled static flared up.
Philip adjusted the radio’s antennae. “Sam! Come back! Where are you?”
Words fought through the static. “We’re in one of the volcanoes… east, I think.”
Philip’s heart sang. If the others were safe, there was no further reason to continue to excavate the shaft. It was all over! He’d be able to leave soon! He pictured his own apartment back at Harvard, where his books, computer, and papers were all neatly organized and cataloged. He glanced down at his torn shirt and filthy pants. After this expedition, he was done with fieldwork forever!
His glee made him miss some of Sam’s last words, but it no longer mattered. “… helicopters or some other aerial surveillance. We’ll set up a signal fire on the ridge. Search for us!” Sam asked one final question. “Have you got word to Uncle Hank yet?”
Philip frowned and hit the transmitter. “No, but I’m sure word’s reached Cuzco by now. Help’s arriving here already. It shouldn’t be long.”
A squelch of static erupted when Philip released the button.
Sam’s voice was more faded. “You won’t believe what we’ve found up here, Philip!”
He rolled his eyes. Like he really gave a damn. But Sam’s next words drove away even his profound apathy: “We’ve found a lost Incan tribe!”
Philip hit the transmit button. “What?”
“… too long a story… battery weak… call same time tomorrow.”
“Sam, wait!”
“Search for our signal fire!” Then the static ground away all further communication.
Philip tried for another few minutes to raise Sam again, but to no avail. Either the battery had grown too weak, or the bastard had switched off his walkie-talkie. Philip slammed the receiver in place. “Fucker!”
Suddenly the slap of canvas drew his attention around. The slender figure of Friar Otera slid within the tent. The tall monk straightened by the doorway, outlined by the setting sun behind him, his face masked in shadows. “Who were you talking to?” the man asked—harshly.
Philip guessed the monk was fatigued by the day’s efforts at digging. Standing, Philip welcomed him further inside. “It was Sam!” he said excitedly. “He and the others made it out of the caverns!”
Philip was pleased to see the man’s shocked expression. “How? Where are they?”
After quickly retelling Sam’s story, Philip concluded, “We’ll need some way to spot his signal fire… a helicopter or something.”
The friar nodded, eyes hooded. “That’s good,” he mumbled.
“But that’s not even the biggest news,” Philip said smugly, as if the discovery had been his own. “Sam thinks he’s found an actual group of Incas up there, some lost tribe.”
Friar Otera’s eyes flicked toward the student.
Philip gasped at what he glimpsed in those hard eyes, something feral and dangerous. He stumbled back a step, tripping over a discarded mug. By the time he caught himself, Friar Otera was already at his side, gripping his elbow tightly.
“Are you all right?” the man asked.
Cringing, Philip glanced up. Whatever he had seen in the friar’s eyes had vanished. Only warmth and concern shone in the monk’s face. It must have been a trick of the light before. Philip cleared his throat. “I… I’m fine.”
Friar Otera released his elbow. “Good. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” He turned away. “I must share your good news with the others,” he said, then bowed out of the tent.
Philip let out a long sigh of relief. He didn’t know what it was about Friar Otera that made him so edgy. The guy was only a dirt-water monk after all. Still, Philip had to rub the goose bumps from his arms. Something about that man…
Sitting with Maggie on the stairs at the edge of the plaza, Sam stared at the firelit celebrations below. Torches and fires dotted the open space in the center of the Incan village. Musicians bore instruments of every size and shape: drums made of llama skin, tambourines ringing with tiny silver cymbals, trumpets made of gourds and wood, flutes constructed of reeds or various lengths of cane, even several pipes fashioned from the large pinions of the mountain condor. All across the town, voices sang in celebration at the arrival of the newcomers.
Earlier, before the sun had set, the village shaman, or socyoc, had tossed his mystical chumpirun, a set of small colored pebbles, upon the ground to tell their fortune. The grim-faced, tattooed man had studied the stones, then risen up, arms high, and declared Sam’s group to be emissaries of Illapa, the god of thunder. He had ordered this night’s celebration in their honor.
Against their objections, the small group had been bustled off and treated like visiting royalty. Washed, groomed, and dressed in clean native wear, the team had regathered for the night’s feast and celebration. The dinner had been endless, course after course of local fare: roasted guinea pig, bean stew with bits of parrot meat, a salad made of spinachlike amaranth leaves chopped with a type of native carrot called arracacha, and herbed pies made from oca, a relative of the sweet potato. After not eating for so long, the group had stuffed themselves, refusing nothing offered lest it offend their hosts.
Only Norman had eaten sparingly. He had started to run a fever from his injuries and retired early to the stone-and-mud hut assigned them. Denal had gone shortly thereafter, not sick, just sleepy-eyed and exhausted, leaving Sam and Maggie to oversee the remainder of the night’s celebration alone.