by P. B. Kerr
Philippa shrugged. “He’ll come down in a minute,” she said, and followed Sicky around the strange chamber.
“Bit like an Incan greenhouse in here,” said Sicky. “Sure is warm enough.”
“Yes,” agreed Philippa. “It feels great to be warm again.” She smiled up at Sicky. “I’m sorry, but we’re like lizards, we djinn. We only thrive in warmth.”
Strange plants were growing out of the cracks between the huge stones in the floor. They had leaves as big as dinner plates and smelled unpleasant.
Around the circumference of the chamber were more than a dozen squarish alcoves. Each was about three or four feet tall and covered with an opaque, grayish material that was like a window you couldn’t quite see through.
“What is it?” asked Sicky. “Glass? Plastic?”
Looking closely at the opaque material, Philippa saw that it was full of little strands and spirals. She tapped one experimentally with her fingernail.
“You know what I think this is?” she said. “I think it’s fossilized gossamer. This is made of ancient spiderwebs.”
“Spiderwebs?” Alarmed, Sicky took a step back. “Pretty big spider,” he said.
“Or a lot of spiders working together,” Philippa said hurriedly. “Don’t worry. This stuff must be hundreds of years old. The spiders who wove these webs are long dead. Like the men who built this place.”
“Maybe that’s what I don’t like about it.” Sicky sniffed the air suspiciously. “The smell of death. This whole place stinks of it.”
“I thought it was just me being fanciful.” Philippa sniffed the air and made a face. “But you’re right. And it is kind of overpowering, isn’t it?” She took his big hand and squeezed it encouragingly. “All the same, I think it’s just the cloying smell of tropical plants in the heat. That’s what. Nothing to worry about.”
She tapped the ancient gossamer glass again, only this time it felt sticky to the touch. Almost as if it was softening.
“That’s odd,” she said. “This gossamer glass. It seems to be melting.” And then it dawned on her. “Of course. The heat from that shaft. For centuries it was probably blocked by the ceiling on the chimney shaft. Until we broke it. The heat is melting these gossamer glass coverings.”
“Maybe it’s best we’re not here when they melt, eh, miss?” said Sicky.
“On the whole I tend to agree with you. Come on. Let’s look for a way out of here.”
Continuing their trip around the circular chamber they walked down some stone steps and out into the open air and found a very long rope bridge that stretched across an apparently bottomless chasm. The chasm was apparently endless, too, for the bridge led into a thick cloud of mist. The rope itself was made of a very finely stranded black material that shone like silk.
Philippa peered over the edge of the chasm. She realized she had little appetite for a journey upon an old rope bridge when you couldn’t even see the bottom of the space you were crossing.
“A door,” shouted Muddy. “I found a door.”
They looked around and for a moment failed to see him.
“Over here,” shouted Muddy.
Down a few steps at the opposite side of the chamber from the bridge, they found Muddy staring at an ancient door. Philippa stooped to inspect it. As well as the mold of several centuries, it was covered with the same creepers that continued up to the roof. She took hold of a creeper that was stuck fast to the door and pulled it. The door moved inside its frame, but only just. “It seems to be locked,” she said. “From the outside.”
“Reckon this is the way out, miss?” asked Muddy.
“If we can get it open, it might be,” said Philippa. “But don’t worry. I’m sure I can shift all these creepers with djinn power. And then we’ll know for sure.”
She muttered her focus word and a machete appeared in Muddy’s hand. He grinned and then struck at one of the creepers with the razor-sharp blade as if it had been a dangerous snake.
“I say,” shouted Groanin from the rooftop. “What about me? I say, what about me? Stuck up here, like a dusty old chandelier.”
“I’d forgotten about poor old Groanin.” Philippa laughed. She stood back from the door and shouted up to the butler, who continued to remain dangling at rooftop level. “All you have to do is let go,” she told him. “The mattresses will easily break your fall.”
“It’s not breaking my fall that I’m worried about,” said Groanin obstinately. “It’s breaking my flipping leg. Or worse. I don’t bounce as high as I used to. I say, I don’t bounce as high as I used to.”
“Hey, can you see anything out of that glass roof?”
“‘Tisn’t glass,” said Groanin. “It’s something else. Something like glass. As a matter of fact, I can see something. I’m not sure what, but it’s on the same bearing as that there rope bridge you were looking at a moment ago. I daren’t reach for me glasses to make sure. But there’s a mountaintop. And there might just be a city sitting on top of it, like a cherry.”
Meanwhile the gossamer glass coverings had all but melted in the heat. Sicky walked over to the one of the alcoves and was inspecting the now visible occupant closely. “Miss,” he said. “I think you’d better take a look-see at this, quick.”
Philippa stood beside him and felt her jaw slowly drop.
In the alcove were the mummified remains of what looked like an Incan warrior. He was seated with his legs bent and his arms resting on his ample stomach and, but for the tightness and color of the skin on his face he looked to all the world like he was just sleeping. On his head was a golden helmet decorated with eagle feathers, a golden breastplate, and beside him on the ground were a rectangular shield, a spear, a bow and arrows, and a short, vicious-looking club.
“Fascinating,” said Philippa. “He must have been a warrior or something. Look at all those weapons.”
“Reckon he’s more than just a warrior,” said Sicky. “All that gold and feathers on him. Reckon he’s a king, maybe.” He pointed at some of the other alcoves where yet more Incas were now being slowly revealed. “Them Incas used to carry the mummies of all their dead kings around with them,” said Sicky. “I wouldn’t be surprised if these are them. And now we know what that smell was. This place. It’s a crypt.” Sicky shouted back across his shoulder. “Better hurry up with that machete, Muddy. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have company soon.”
“Oh, Sicky,” said Philippa. “They’ve been dead for at least five hundred years. Besides, even if they did come to life, which they won’t, you’ve got a djinn here to protect you. Nothing’s going to happen to you so long as you’ve got me around.”
“Okay, miss. All the same, I’ll feel better when I’m out of here. Don’t like being around no dead people. In case it’s infectious.”
Philippa assumed he was making a joke. “It’s not at all infectious,” she said, scolding him.
“That’s what you think,” said Muddy. He swung the machete again and wrenched a huge length of creeper away from the door and the wall. And he kept on pulling, even as he found the creeper extended all the way up to the roof, to a spot only a few feet away from Groanin.
Groanin felt the creeper he was holding on to shift ominously. “I say,” he said. “What’s that you’re chopping, Muddy, me old mate?”
Muddy hacked at another creeper. “Just the green stuff that’s jamming this door,” he said.
“Well, be careful,” said Groanin, and felt the creeper he was holding shift again.
He was just about to shout a warning to Muddy when the creeper suddenly came away from the roof and, like Tarzan swinging through the jungle while holding on to a liana — a kind of creeper — Groanin started a rapid and pendulous descent.
“Look out, miss!” he yelled as he swung down from the roof, for it was clear that he would surely collide with Philippa. “Look out, I say!”
Too late Philippa turned to see what she was being warned about. Groanin’s heavy swinging body struck her like
a wrecking ball. The impact carried her clean off her feet and into one of the alcoves, where she collided with one of the mum-mified kings and then lay still.
Groanin, who was unaffected by the impact, picked himself up off the floor and ran to Philippa’s side. Much to his relief she was breathing, but unconscious. And gathering her up in his arms, he kicked the Inca king’s mummified body aside, carried her out of the sinister alcove, and laid her down by the door that Muddy had found earlier. There, Groanin set about trying to revive her, patting her cheeks and then her hands, and even fanning her with his jacket.
Sicky knelt down beside Philippa and took her pulse. “That was quite a collision,” he remarked. “Like a crunch tackle in American football. This little djinn girl will be out cold for a while, I reckon.”
“She’s alive at any rate,” said Groanin.
“She’s not the only one. Look.”
Muddy pointed to the alcove recently vacated by Philippa where the mummified Inca king was now on his feet. His movements were slow and jerky as might have been expected after five hundred years of immobility. But his intention was clear enough. He was arming himself with the bow and arrow that had been placed with him in the alcove. More of the Inca kings were coming back to a kind of life, as well, and they, too, were collecting their primitive weapons.
Primitive but effective. An arrow flew through the air, narrowly missing Groanin’s ear.
“I say, steady on,” yelled the English butler. “You’ll have someone’s eye out with that thing.”
“I think that’s the general idea,” said Sicky. “Maybe you shouldn’t have kicked him.”
“It’s not my fault he’s come back to life,” said Groanin as another arrow flew through the air. “Do something.”
Sicky, who had finally succeeded in removing the last piece of Hevea tree rubber the Xuanaci had used to cover the magical tattoo on his stomach, now thought to show this to the advancing Inca warrior kings in order that they might be turned to stone.
“Cover your eyes,” he told the others, and then showed the marauding Inca kings his intimidating belly.
It didn’t work. None of them were turned to stone. And it was plain to see why. Their dead-looking eyes didn’t see things the way ordinary human eyes saw things. Either that or his stomach was still too dirty for the tattoo to work its Gorgonlike effect.
“Oh,” said Sicky. “Now we’re in for it.”
Muddy brandished the machete in his hand. “I’ll give them a taste of this if they shoot any more of them arrows at me. I’ll fix them old kings. Kill a few. See how they like that.”
“That might not be possible,” objected Sicky. “If they be dead already.”
“Good point.” Muddy hacked the last creeper from the door and tried to haul it open.
Groanin made another vain attempt to revive Philippa. “Miss Philippa,” he said urgently. “We need your help. Quick. Before these zombies make pincushions of us.”
“It’s no good,” said Sicky. “Maybe you should apologize. After all, it was you who kicked that old king back there.”
Groanin sprang up and bowed gravely toward the warlike Inca kings. “Esteemed sirs and princes,” he said in an extremely servile fashion. He was British after all and no one can speak to a king or a queen quite like an English butler. “Your Highnesses. Your Majesties. Your Imperial Majesties. Please, forgive this intrusion. Begging your royal pardon, but I think there’s been some kind of mistake. We are not your enemies. Just unwitting travelers. We had no intention of disturbing your privacy. But if we have offended you, then please accept our respects and abject apologies and our unworthy assurances that it will not happen again.”
An Incan spear clattered onto the flagstones and skidded sharply toward Groanin’s shoe. And recognizing the futility of further conversation, the butler turned and pulled hopelessly at the door.
“It’s no good,” said Muddy. “This door is still stuck fast.”
“We’ll all be stuck fast unless you can get that flipping door open, Muddy.” Making a fist, Groanin hammered loudly on the door. “I say! Is there anyone there? Please, someone, could you open the door? I say, open the flipping door!”
CHAPTER 16
THE EYE OF THE FOREST
Shouldering their backpacks, John and Nimrod moved up the trail, hacking their way through the thick jungle for several hours until they came to the spot where, earlier on, as two fierce jaguars they had fought and killed the giant giant anaconda. The place was easy enough to recognize. There were broken bushes and trees and, in a hollow on a rock, a large pool of blood.
The two djinn did not linger, however, to savor their earlier triumph. At Nimrod’s insistence, they pressed on so that they might reach the Eye of the Forest before nightfall. And, after another hour or two of walking and a series of jungle clearings, finally they found it. Or rather Nimrod did, for the stones of the doorway were so green and overgrown that they might easily have missed their square silhouettes in the encroaching Amazon darkness. And to John’s tired eyes, only the neatness of the extremely large and old trees that surrounded these stones looked in any way remarkable. But, too tired to take much in, the two djinn quickly erected their tents and tumbled into them.
The next morning, John awoke feeling desperately hungry and with an intense sense of anticipation. Nimrod had already cooked a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage, and eggs, and as soon as it was eaten they set about exploring the curious, decaying edifice, which was obviously Incan in its proportions and detail, and a foot or two smaller than any ordinary doorway in a normal sort of house. Most curious of all, on one side of the ancient door was a bolt secured with a giant knot that appeared to have been fashioned from braided human hair.
“They must have been quite small, the Incas,” remarked John.
“Yes, I think they were, probably,” said Nimrod.
“Are you sure that this is it?” asked John.
“Yes,” Nimrod said flatly, “quite sure. There was a set of coordinates on the map that Faustina gave Frank Vodyannoy. An exact latitude and longitude. And this is the place. Look.” He showed John his handheld satnav unit as it confirmed what he had just said.
“Only it doesn’t look anything like the photograph that was in the newspaper,” said John. “For one thing, the door’s not really shaped like an eye at all.”
“No, it’s not,” said Nimrod.
“And unlike the door in the picture, this one appears not to be made of wood but metal. To say nothing of the giant knot securing it. I mean, that wasn’t even in the photograph.”
“I must confess to never having actually seen the Eye of the Forest before, until, like you, I saw it in the newspaper,” said Nimrod. “Or at least until I thought I’d seen it in the newspaper. But you’re quite right, of course. This does look very different from what we saw in the Herald Tribune. As you say, that one was shaped like an eye, and this one clearly isn’t. It’s noticeably rectangular.”
John hacked carelessly at the vegetation covering the stone doorway, which led nowhere but to the jungle on the other side. The noise and movement of his machete disturbed a flock of parakeets overhead that made a sound like the slashing violins in a Hitchcock movie. To his suspicious ears, the monkeys in the trees almost seemed to be laughing.
“It’s also curious, wouldn’t you say,” John continued carefully because he could see that Nimrod was a little annoyed about something, “how there’s no evidence of any expedition having been here at all? No one has even attempted to strip these ruins bare of creepers with their machetes. Which they would have done to take a picture, right?” John’s keen eyes scanned the forest floor. “Either they did a very good job of hiding their tracks or they were never here at all. In fact, I’d say no one has been here for several hundred years.”
“You tread heavily,” said Nimrod, “but what you say is quite true, John. It would seem that the Herald Tribune and, more important, the djinn world, has been the subject of a hoax. It’s
clear to me now that the photograph in the newspaper was a fake, and very likely a fake that was made by Virgil McCreeby.”
“Do you think he meant it to lure us here?” said John. “So that we could lead him to the Eye of the Forest?”
“I believe he did,” agreed Nimrod. “As usual it would seem that McCreeby is in search of power and gold. Perhaps both. The door itself is not without considerable intrinsic value.”
“What does intrinsic mean, when it’s at home?” growled John. He was beginning to feel very slightly aggrieved that Nimrod had prevented him from mounting a rescue mission for Philippa and the others on the strength of the urgency of finding the secret door to a lost city that looked very likely to remain lost for some considerable time to come.
“It’s valuable,” said Nimrod. He hacked some of the creepers away and, using the tip of his machete, began to scrape some of the mildew and mold off a small area of the door. “Look.”
To John’s astonishment a small patch of something bright and shiny was already becoming visible to his eye.
“Holy Peru,” said John. “It’s gold.”
“That’s right,” said Nimrod. “Solid gold. It was part of the trap Ti Cosi meant for the conquistadors who were, of course, obsessed with gold. That they might think that this was some kind of symbolic doorway to El Dorado, the fabled city of gold. Given the size and weight of this door I should say that the gold alone is worth several million dollars.”
“But you don’t think McCreeby’s just after the door itself,” said John, “do you?”
“No. It’s what lies beyond this door that’s probably more important to a villain like Virgil McCreeby. And it must have something to do with those three gold disks.”
“You mean the tears of the sun?” asked John.
Nimrod nodded. “Perhaps he means to go through the door with those tears. It’s just a thought but it may be that he has discovered the details of the forgotten kutumunkichu ritual once carried out by Manco Capac.”
