“And?”
“And after that, my mind’s a blank. The next thing I recall is being led back out of the tunnel, the last rays of the setting sun blinding me.” Norman picked at the robe he wore. “And I was wearing this.”
Maggie leaned back on her stone seat, digesting Norman’s story. “And you could understand the Incan language…” She shook her head. “Maybe some hypnotic learning process. It could explain the memory lapse. But the level of healing—your knee, your eyes—this is far beyond anythin’ even Western medicine could do. It’s… it’s almost miraculous.”
Sam frowned. “I don’t believe in miracles. There’s an answer here. And it lies in that temple.” He met Norman’s gaze. “Could you find your way back there?”
Norman pinched his lips for a moment, then spoke. “I believe so. The trail was clear, and there were these stone trailside markers every hundred yards or so. The warriors would stop and quickly spout a few mumbled words and go on.”
“Prayer totems,” Sam mumbled. At least he was relatively certain he could find this Temple of the Sun if necessary. He would have to be satisfied with that for now. Tomorrow Uncle Hank would arrive, and Sam could leave these strange mysteries to his uncle’s expertise. As worrisome and frightening as the day had been, Sam was just relieved Norman had been healed, no matter how or why.
Across the plaza, the raucous drums died away, and the dancers slowed and stopped. A single Incan woman climbed atop a stone pedestal and began to sing softly, her voice lonely in the fiery night. Soon, the gathered throng solemnly joined in her song, their hundred voices rising like steam toward the midnight sky. Nearby, Denal began softly singing along. Though the words were not translated, Sam sensed joy mixed with reverence, almost like a Christian hymn.
Maggie’s words played through his mind. Miracles. Had the Incas stumbled upon some wondrous font of healing? The equivalent of Ponce de Leon’s mythic fountain of youth. Sam’s mouth grew dry at the thought of discovering such a find.
Listening to the crowd quietly sing, Sam looked over the square; he again was stunned that there were no children, no babes in arms or toddlers clinging to their mothers’ hems. Nor were any elders mixed with these younger men and women. All the faces singing up at the full moon overhead were too uniform, all near the same age.
Who were these people? What had they discovered? A sudden shiver, that had nothing to do with the cooling valley, passed through Sam.
Finally, a hush spread like a wave over the square. Sam’s eyes were drawn to the plaza’s south side as the celebrants all fell to their knees. The small woman who had led the singing climbed off her pedestal and knelt, too. Soon only a solitary figure remained. He stood on the far side, unmoving, tall for an Inca, at least six feet. He bore a staff with a sunburst symbol at its top.
Maggie urged them all to kneel, too. “It must be the Sapa Inca,” she whispered.
Sam settled to his knees, not wanting to offend this leader. Any cooperation would depend on this fellow’s good graces.
The man slowly moved through the crowd. Men and women bowed their foreheads to the stones as he passed. No one spoke. Though not borne atop the usual golden litter of the Sapa Incas, the man wore the raiments of kings: from the llautu crown of woven braids with parrot feathers and red vicuna wool tassels, down to a long robe of expensive cumbi cloth decorated with appliqués of gold and silver. Even his sandals were made of alpaca leather and decorated with rubies. In his right hand, he bore a long staff, as tall as the man himself, topped by a palm-sized gold sunburst.
Norman mumbled, “The staff. I remember it. From the tunnel shaft.”
Sam glanced at the photographer and saw the man’s nervous fear. He touched Norman’s shoulder in a gesture of support.
As the king neared, Sam studied his features. Typical Incan: mocha-colored skin, wide cheeks, full strong lips, dark eyes that pierced. In each earlobe was a disc of gold stamped with a sunburst icon that matched his staff’s headpiece.
The Sapa Inca stepped to within three yards of the kneeling trio. Sam nodded in a show of respect. It was not fitting to stare directly at Incan rulers. They were the sun’s children, and as with the sun itself, one’s eyes must be diverted from the brightness. Still, Sam refused to touch his head to the stones of the plaza.
The Incan king did not seem to take offense. His gaze was intense but not hostile. With a look of burning curiosity, he took one more step toward them. His shadowed face was now aglow in the fiery light from a nearby torch, forging its ruddy planes into a coppery gold.
Maggie gasped.
Sam’s brow crinkled at her reaction, and he dared stare more openly at the man—then it struck him, too. “My God…” he mumbled, stunned. This close, there could be no mistaking the resemblance, especially with the torch bathing the king’s countenance in a golden light. They had all seen this man before. He matched the figure sculpted in gold back in the caverns, both the life-size idol guarding the booby-trapped room and the towering statue in the center of the necropolis.
The Sapa Inca took one step closer. With the torchlight gone from his face, he became just a man again. He studied them all for several silent moments. The plaza was as quiet as a tomb. Finally, he lifted his staff and greeted them. “I am Inca Inkarri,” he said in English, his voice coarse and guttural. “Welcome. May Inti keep you safe in his light.”
Sam remained kneeling, too stunned to move.
The king tapped his staff twice on the stone, then raised it high. On this signal, warbling cheers rose from a hundred throats. Men and women leaped to their feet, the drums thundered, flutes and tambourines added their brightness.
The Sapa Inca ignored the commotion and lowered his staff.
Kamapak appeared like a ghost from the dancing crowd. The shaman’s face beamed with radiant awe, his tattoos almost glowing against his flushed skin. “Qoylluppaj Inkan, Inti Yayanchis,” he intoned, bowing slightly at the waist, and continued to speak. Even without any translation, Kamapak was obviously begging some boon from this king.
Once the shaman was finished, the Sapa Inca grunted a terse answer and waved Kamapak away. The shaman’s smile broadened, clearly having obtained a favorable answer, and stepped back. The king nodded soberly at Sam’s group, his eyes lingering a moment on Denal; then he swung back around and followed the shaman through the clusters of celebrants.
“I guess we passed muster,” Sam said, breathing again.
“And were summarily dismissed,” Maggie added.
Sam turned to Norman. “What were they saying?”
The photographer leaned back on his heels, his eyes narrowed. “Kamapak wanted to talk in private with the king”—Norman faced Sam—“about us.”
Sam frowned. “What about us?”
“About our future here.”
Sam did not like the sound of that. He watched the shaman and the king cross the plaza toward a large two-story home to the left of the square. “What do you make of this Sapa Inca fellow?” he asked Maggie.
“He’s obviously had some exposure to the outside world. Learned a little English. Did you notice his face? He must be a direct descendant of that ancient king of the statues.”
Sam nodded. “I’m not surprised at the similarity. This is a closed gene pool. No outsiders to dilute the Incan blood.”
“Until we arrived, that is,” Norman said.
Sam ignored the photographer’s words. “But what about him claiming to be the mythic Inkarri?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Who’s this Inkarri?” Norman asked.
Maggie quickly explained the story of the beheaded king who was prophesied to rise again to lead the Incas back to glory.
“The Second Coming, so to speak,” Norman said.
“Right,” Maggie said, frowning slightly. “Again clear evidence of Christian influence. Further proof of some Western intrusion here.”
Sam was less convinced. “But if they’ve been out of the valley, why do they continue to hide?”
Maggie waved a hand toward Norman. “They obviously discovered something here. Something that heals. A volcanic spring or something. Maybe they’ve been protecting it.”
Sam glanced at Norman, then back to the Incan king who disappeared into the home along with Kamapak. All the mysteries here seemed to start and end at the temple. If only Norman could remember what had happened…
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall during their conversation,” Maggie muttered, staring across the plaza.
Norman nodded.
Sam sat up straighter. “Why don’t we?”
“What?” Maggie asked, turning back to him.
“Why not eavesdrop? They have no glass on their windows. Norman can understand their language. What’s to stop us?”
“I don’t know,” Norman said sourly. “Maybe a bunch of men with spears.”
Maggie agreed. “We shouldn’t do anything to make ‘em mistrust us.”
Sam, though, continued to warm to his idea. After a day spent wringing his hands over Norman’s fate, he was tired of operating in the dark. He cinched his Winchester to his shoulder and stood. “If the shaman and king are discussing our fate, I want to know what they decide.”
Maggie stood, reaching for his elbow. “We need to talk about this.”
Sam stepped away from her grip. “What do you say, Norman? Or would you rather be dragged to the altar in the morning? And I don’t mean to be married.”
Norman fingered his thin neck and stood. “Well, when you put it that way…”
Maggie was now red-faced. “This isn’t the way we should be handling this. This is stupid and a risk to all our lives.”
Sam’s cheeks flushed. “It’s better than hiding in a hole,” he said angrily, “and praying you’re not killed.”
Maggie stepped away from him, blinking in shock, a wounded look on her face. “You bastard…”