by Bob Nailor
Another cleric, this time wearing a white cassock with scarlet trim, greeted Rossi. “It’s so good of you to come on short notice, Gianni,” he said and offered his hand with a broad grin.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Cardinal Köchli,” Rossi replied. He grasped his Swiss colleague’s wrist as they shook hands. “I was in Singapore and came as soon as I got the call.”
The second man at the table stood, waiting to share the greeting. His Eastern Orthodox cassock was breathtaking in deep, blood-red and ebony trim. A high collar slipped behind a full, long, and unruly, jet-black beard. His features were gaunt and stony with the intensity of a leopard on the hunt.
“Bishop Ivanović,” Rossi said as he addressed a man he’d only known by reputation. “I am truly sorry for your loss. Bora was a valued colleague. I cannot imagine how it must feel to lose a brother in this manner.” Their handshake took the form of a long, solid embrace.
“We all know this can happen when we volunteer,” Ivanović said in a deep Slavic accent. “Bora was not the first to go and he won’t be the last. This is the closest we’ve been in seven hundred years. It’s now time to put an end to this creature.”
Rossi placed a folder on the table he had received at the Brussels airport. “I’m afraid the autopsy report is not as usual,” he said and spread extra copies to the two clerics. They scanned the text.
“Throat torn from his body,” Ivanović read. “Complete exsanguination. Ritual markings on his person. Desecrated crucifix. It all seems normal to me.”
“Last paragraph, Bishop,” Cardinal Köchli added. “Read the last paragraph.”
The table fell silent as the horror of what Ivanović saw sunk in. “They’ve never violated a priest before,” he said, quietly. “Not in ten thousand years.”
“Something has changed,” Köchli said. “This is more than rape. It’s a message. Cardinal Alves was able to extricate Bora’s body before the local authorities had a chance to discover the full truth.”
“Is a child possible?” Ivanović asked, eyes wide in terror. “They cannot reproduce with humans, can they?”
“You forget,” Rossi added, “they are humans. Or once were. Physically, it may be possible.”
“What horror could result from this?” Ivanović blurted out. “This is how it all started at the very beginning. Pure evil mating with humankind. And we’ve let it happen. Again?”
Rossi placed his hand on Ivanović’s shaking arm. “None of us wants this, Bishop,” he said. Rossi realized that such a child would be Ivanović’s flesh and blood. He couldn’t imagine what the Serb was feeling. “We’ll do everything we can to stop it right there, to let it die in the Brazilian forest.
“Have you spoken to your team?” Cardinal Köchli asked.
“That’s the next problem,” Rossi said. He opened a small laptop computer placed on the table. It was cued up to play a video recorded the previous day.
Ana Carvalho spoke into a webcam through the satellite link-up. She was just finishing a monotonous status report when the monitor blacked out.
“What was that?” Ivanović asked.
Rossi held up his hand. “For some reason we lost the connection, but there’s more,” he said as the recording played on.
Once more the monitor came alive with images. The group watched the screen as the Brazilian team move about the camp and prepared to eat.
From the forest in the background stepped a tall, white woman wearing what appeared to be only a quiver of arrows. Her hair was braided on top of her head in a classic Renaissance style.
Bishop Ivanović jumped to his feet and pointed to the screen. “Did you see?” he asked.
“Just one more moment, Bishop,” Rossi said. The woman stepped closer. Her eyes shone a deep red in the low, filtered forest light. She drew an arrow, aimed it at the computer, and let it fly. The screen went blue.
The three men were silent. “We haven’t heard from Dr. Carvalho since that moment,” Rossi said. “I hate to admit, but we have lost all communication with Dr. Carvalho’s team.”
Rossi looked around the room which was not as bare as the foyer. The walls were covered with images of the men and women who’d come before them—warriors, both victorious and fallen. He could not help but wonder which Ana Carvalho would be.
“Could you back up the recording? Please?” Ivanović asked.
Rossi already knew why. He stopped on the image of the native preparing to shoot.
“Look at the arrowhead,” the Serb said. “It seems to be pure gold.”
“I knew what you were going to say,” Rossi said. “The tribe is located in the region where El Dorado was always rumored to be.”
“That’s interesting, Gianni,” Ivanović continued. “But, there’s something even more intriguing. Look at the arrowhead.”
Rossi zoomed in on the end of the thick, heavy wooden projectile. “It’s definitely gold,” he said. “That was confirmed with an earlier incident regarding a tapir attack and it being killed.”
“It may be gold,” Ivanović said, “But, the style is right from a medieval infantry manual. Late fifteenth or early sixteenth century. Look at the Amazon’s bow.” The other two men started at the name Ivanović threw out. “The bow is a fifteenth-century laminated English longbow. The wood is obviously tropical, not northern. I’ll guarantee you’ve never seen a bow like that in any of your rain forests, Gianni.”
Rossi and Köchli were silent. They couldn’t argue.
“Then, there was this,” Gianni continued. Across the screen of his laptop passed high-resolution satellite shots showing white, puffy smoke belching up from a spot on the geoglyph nearest the forest. “A little more help from the Yanks. This smoke appeared in yesterday’s shots for roughly four hours. Just the time necessary to make sure it was picked up in at least one satellite pass.”
“Somebody wanted to make sure you saw it,” Ivanović said. “There’s trouble.” He sat back and glared at his colleagues. “As I said, gentlemen, we haven’t been this close in seven hundred years. We cannot lose this opportunity. How soon can you get someone down there?” He stared directly at Rossi.
“A few days,” Rossi replied with a shake of his head. “It’s a week upriver from the nearest city.”
“He’ll be gone in a week and it’ll be another seven hundred years before we see him again,” Ivanović snapped.
“Or worse,” Köchli added. “It seems to me he’s on the move. First this damned village in the geoglyphs. Now more activity on the river and in Boca do Acre. Something is about to happen we may not be able to control.”
“This is already out of our control,” Rossi said. “I’ll pull in a favor from the military. We can probably get someone in there in a couple of days.”
“It’s already been a couple of days. I’ll have His Eminence call Brasilia,” Köchli said. “Maybe we can improve on that.”
“If we don’t,” Ivanović said, sullen and low. “The world may pray for another flood.”
“I’ll go myself,” Rossi stated while snapping the computer shut. Not a voice sounded to dissuade him.
Rossi lay on his back in the fourth-floor hotel room. He counted ceiling beams by the soft light from the town square. He always stayed at the small fourteenth-century Karel de Groot, not because it was the most luxurious, the biggest, or even the best at anything. The building had once belonged to his family in the days before UWF, before the name Rossi disappeared into the shadows of history. Giuseppe Rossi had been an important trading partner for Mechelen’s textile industry and for Charles the Great. It was in this very room where he’d sat with Ivanović and Köchli, and Giuseppe had accepted the burden of underwriting the secret order’s mission to eradicate evil wherever it stained creation. Gianni stared at his several great grandfather’s portraits that hung in the room, along with Pope Pius the Third. Along with the Savior’s. Along with Solomon, Aaron, Levi, Abraham, and Noah. All members of Tau. All clandestine warriors in the struggle for all t
hat is good.
A quiet chat between lovers in the square faded slowly beneath his window as their departing footfalls echoed away. He could no longer avoid the call. He dialed.
“Pronto,” she answered in a voice laden with sleep.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, already knowing the answer. She didn’t respond. “Is João Paulo with you?” he continued.
She was quiet for an eternity before answering, “No. He’s out with the fleet.”
“I’m afraid I have some difficult news,” Rossi continued. “Ana is missing.” She was silent. “Jovana, did you hear me?” he finally asked.
“Bastard,” she snapped. When Rossi said nothing she asked, “Did you hear me?”
The sarcasm of the last four words was not lost on Rossi. He had no reason to expect an easier conversation. “She is leading an expedition down in the Amazon and we’ve lost contact with her team.”
“I knew one day you would call to tell me this,” Jovana spit out. “You wormed your way into her life and now you’ve taken it from her.”
“We have no reason to believe any harm has come to her,” he replied, calmly.
“And do you have any reason to believe she is fine?”
It was his turn for silence. “No,” he finally said.
“Then go to hell, Gianni. Go back to where you came from.”
The line went dead. He stretched out on the bed in silence and stared at the shadowy ceiling beams for the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TINGA'S EYE OF KNOWLEDGE
They walked in silence for much longer than Ana expected, the scale of the journey dwarfed by the expanse of the white structures. She was amazed at Aaron’s new-found silence and was about to praise him when suddenly the trek halted. They found themselves before a forbidding barrier blocking the entrance to the gleaming city. Itotia’s four attendants stood in front of the portal, their muscular arms crossed on their chests. Ana looked up and discovered the stars no longer glistened above her. In their place soared a dark dome, cutting her off from the twinkling points of light that had become her companions. She frowned and rubbed her eyes. “When did we enter this cave?” she asked in the merest of whispers, her lips barely moving. Ana turned to question Aaron but discovered he was nowhere to be seen. She scoured those gathered around, looking for a friendly, familiar face. There were none; a chill ran down Ana’s spine. Where had they all gone? she wondered.
Itotia stood next to the barrier, her body gleaming under the light of two torches set into the white brick. Her gold uluri caught the flickering flames like thousands of minuscule mirrors around her hips. “Tonight we welcome someone new, though expected since the beginning of time,” she said and stretched out a hand toward Ana. “Ana Pavlović Carvalho, we open the mysteries of our circle to you.”
She walked over to Ana, slipped an arm about the small of Ana’s waist and pulled her toward Tinga and Janiza. Ana felt clumsy and out-of-place next to their natural, powerful bodies illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Itotia placed Ana directly in front of her and locked her crimson eyes with Ana’s. Time seemed to halt for them both as Ana felt her deepest secrets flowing out into Itotia’s being.
Ana suddenly found herself gazing at the other women, their red eyes blazing back at her. A chill coursed through her spine which was quickly replaced by a warm, potent sense of unity with them all.
“Tonight Ejup will decide,” Itotia said in a strong, solid voice.
The native women began to chant, “Ejup. Ejup.” Their voices grew louder and louder until the city pulsed in an electrifying, erotic frenzy.
“Enough!” Itotia declared and held up a hand to silence the women. “To the Island of Knowledge!” she shouted. “May Tinga and Janiza find their way into womanhood.”
Itotia led the group through the portal of the white-walled barrier into the city of white-washed towers capped with golden roofs. Itotia held Ana’s waist tightly as they navigated through a maze of tiny streets and plazas, all paved in ancient stone. Ana saw no activity beyond their procession. No markets, no vendors, no street urchins, no people. But there was music. Female voices in sensual intonations, drums, rattles, and hollow wood snapping a hypnotic tempo all around them. Her thinking and breathing soon pulsed to the rhythmic beat. The chanting grew stronger and louder until they burst into a broad square and she discovered the source. A large contingent of young women stood with their arms outstretched to greet them, their voices joined in an ancient mantra. Some wore a single band of black beads around their ankle which rattled in rhythm with the mesmerizing tempo. Tinga and Janiza stood in the center of the multitude as the cluster of frenzied women tightened in around them.
“Come. Follow me,” Itotia ordered and pulled her away from the group toward an open archway at the base of one of the towers. Ana glanced back at the throng but still couldn’t find any of her companions. Inside the tower, a winding spiral staircase ascended into the darkness of the structure above. Itotia pushed her upwards. “Hurry,” she barked. “I must be in place when they arrive for the ceremony.”
Ana had no time to think, no time to fear what might confront her at the top. She pushed her legs as fast as they would go, taking steps two or three at a time. Her weak legs began to burn with strain and her lungs demanded rest, but Itotia urged her on from behind without mercy.
Suddenly the wall opened up and Ana took a step to the side. Itotia strolled into a long gallery that forced Ana’s heart to jump from her chest. Images from her dream rushed back with overwhelming visual power. A low stone balcony was to her left and Ana could see the reds and yellows of the flickering torchlight spread out below. She was high above, looking down at a large enclosed terrace. Colored stones, mosaic patterns encircled the sparkling water. It was the pool and the lake, emblazoned in her mind from her vision.
A flicker of light caused Ana to snap her head to the right. A stone table stood in the darkness with gem-laden golden candlesticks as well as golden bowls and plates, everything exactly as she had seen it in her dream.
Ana grabbed the stone rail of the balcony and held tightly, feeling her body sway and move to the music. She shook her head to try to clear the misty haze from her mind which caused everything to pulse and waver in a rainbow of color. Below where she stood, surrounded by crystal-clear, ice-blue water, she saw a small island with four large ancient slabs arranged like the points of a compass. They appeared more like beds, with the end closest to the middle of the island being higher. A lone bridge arched from the building’s edge across the crystal water. A solitary statue or idol stood in the center, almost as if waiting.
“The Island of Knowledge,” Itotia whispered in Ana’s ear. Her tongue flicked over the puncture in Ana’s ear lobe with the speed of a serpent. Itotia narrowed her eyes and then evocatively rolled her tongue across her teeth before turning back to the scene beneath them with a smile.
“The Ceremony of the Eye of Knowledge begins,” she whispered. Her look betrayed there were secrets yet to be revealed. Ana realized she had only spoken her Language of the Gods since they had entered the city.
A clamor rang out to their left and a swarm of women flowed toward the island. Tinga and Janiza were swallowed by the frenzied females and swept along in the middle of the storm, glassy-eyed and resolute. A chant finally reached her ears.
“Ejup! Ejup!”
Ana turned a questioning look to Itotia who smiled and nodded back to the activity below. Two young studs entered from the right in the confident stride of men on their way to battle. Fully aroused, their weapons swung freely in front of them, ready for the feminine foes who faced them. Ana smiled. She knew that walk but had never let it rumble over her.
The young men swaggered onto the bridge and to the island. They bowed to the statue then each jogged to the higher end of a stone slab at opposite sides of the statue. The sea of women flowed onto the patio area and now pushed Tinga and Janiza forward toward the bridge. The young women walked across a
nd stopped before the statue. They bowed, then knelt and waited.
“Ejup! Ejup!” the chanting continued.
Suddenly the statue moved. It raised its hands and the scene snapped into silence. Ana stepped back in shock. The only sound she could hear was that of her own breathing and the beating of her heart. The water below was no longer moving but was like a flat mirror, its sheen reflecting the flickering torchlight.
The statue moved in front of Janiza, helped her to stand, and led her to the stone slab where one of the young men stood. Again, Janiza dropped to her knees in prayer to the gleaming idol. Ana blinked and realized in a flash what she saw. The idol was not of stone but was a tall and powerful man. Janiza was not praying, but servicing his swollen member. He let loose a horrible growl which drove Janiza away, back toward the stone slab. In an instant, he stepped forward to nuzzle her neck; Janiza curled her head to the side leaving her neck fully open to his attack. The man growled, lowered his mouth to her neck, and plunged his canines into her throat. Her moan was long and loud enough for Ana to hear high above the scene. With a jerk, he pulled his mouth away and stepped back.
Janiza eased onto the slab, lay back with her knees high and waited for the ivory-white specter to approach. All around the island rose a cadence of chant and drumming, growing with each second in a guttural, primal force. The Man-Statue leaped onto the table with an unworldly spring. He growled then lay atop her and plunged with a single, powerful violent thrust. Janiza’s eyes opened in shock; her stoic face now a race of emotions. Her eyes narrowed and she smiled at the man above; her face now in bliss. He pulled away and thrust a second. Janiza arched her head revealing her slender neck; her eyes closed, yet with ecstasy glowing on her face. The man then repeated the act for a third time. It appeared each more brutal than the previous, yet Janiza had warmed with each thrust.
