Eight

by WW Mortensen

  “I did wonder that.”

  “I know you’ve been wondering about the city’s location, too, and why it was built out here, in the huge bowl. I believe the people of Intihuasi were attracted here. This place is a vortex, a convergence of the energy—the force—we witnessed in action moments ago.”

  Rebecca drew a deep breath. “You’re suggesting the T’aevans were attracted here because, for whatever reason, this area is most in tune with their ‘power’?”

  “Yes. It’s been suggested ancient peoples have been attracted to various sites around the world, possibly drawn by an energy they could somehow sense. We’ve seen Native Americans—and Australian Aboriginals—embroiled in legal fights over sacred land later discovered to be rich in uranium. Perhaps they sensed the natural radioactivity?”

  Rebecca frowned. “Okay, let’s assume there’s a repulsive force undiscovered by science but known, somehow, to these people. How does it work, exactly? How does one tap into it?” She shook her head. “What’s the connection between the disc, the moai, and the sun? How do they fit into the equation?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Ed said. “But some scientists theorise antigravity technology might be achieved through a yet-to-be discovered connection between electric and magnetic forces. We know the Earth’s magnetic field extends far into space, effectively connecting with the Sun’s atmosphere. Solar flares affect this field, causing geomagnetic disturbances on our planet: power surges, blackouts, disruptions in radio, television, or satellite communications, navigational problems. But more than that, these ‘gusts’ of solar wind change the chemical make-up of our atmosphere and create electrical fields. The effects are more pronounced at the northern and southern poles of the planet, where more of this solar wind gets through in places known as ‘cusps’. What if there are other places, like these cusps? That bowl down there might be the site of some geomagnetic and electrical irregularity exacerbated by the Sun itself, a place where the repulsive force is most effective.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rebecca said, not sure if she was following. “What about the disc, then? What’s the story with that?”

  Ed took the stone disc out of his pocket. “Admittedly, the disc has shown nothing out of the ordinary in any of our tests. It seems to be an average—though intricately carved and polished—piece of stone. If there’s a field here encouraging some kind of repulsive force, it’s obvious that certain stones interact with it. Complete the circuit. Maybe this disc exudes something we’re not familiar with.”

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  “It’s not so far-fetched. Lodestones, pieces of magnetite used as magnets, were once thought to be magical. Likewise, maybe this disc, or the statues themselves, or both, are imbued with a force immeasurable by today’s standards, one the T’aevans were aware of. Some metals, for instance, when hit with light, can create electricity. This is called a photoelectric effect. Maybe there’s a similar effect happening here with these stones, fuelled by the Sun’s energy. Science tells us magnetic fields push things that have been charged by static electricity.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rebecca said again.

  Ed looked at her. “Most of it I don’t understand myself. Of course, there are other less scientific theories out there.”

  “Here come the UFOs.”

  “Not quite. But there have been strange goings on at ancient megalithic sites around the world—sites like Stonehenge, for example—and some suggest these places, which number literally in the hundreds, were built deliberately in alignment with invisible energy lines within the earth. ‘Ley lines’ are the hypothetical straight lines of energy that some say connect these prehistoric sites across the globe.”

  “Strange goings on?”

  “Visions, unexplained healing. And more significantly, levitation.” He hurried on. “And there are legends, too, that tell of the Atlanteans having flying aircraft—gravity-defying aircraft.”

  “It’s never been just about the city, for you, has it?”

  Ed nodded, smiling excitedly. “This is it, Bec. Just think about it: the power to move huge objects using a free, clean, naturally occurring and renewable source of energy! We’re not just talking about moving stone—we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg. I mean, once we learn to harness it, who knows what this power can do?” He grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes wide and intoxicated with promise. “Hell, forget the implications for science. This could revolutionise everyday life, make for a better world! Imagine gravity-defying cars and planes! Being no longer dependent on fossil fuels! Imagine the impact on greenhouse gas emissions and global warming! This could mean a cleaner, more efficient world!” He was nearly jumping out of his skin, and it took him a moment to calm. “Look, I know it’s a leap. Quite a leap, in fact. And out here, outside the city, it’s all speculation. The legend of Intihuasi suggests the true secret of its power lies within the pyramid.”

  Rebecca said nothing.

  Ed raised his eyebrows, imploring her to say something, anything. “So, what do you think?”

  For some time, Rebecca maintained her silence. At last, she cleared her throat and drew a sharp breath. “What I think, Ed, is that I’ve never heard such an expansive collection of ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs’ in my entire life.” She looked away, off in the direction of the city, before turning back to him. “What I also think, is that you’re right.”

  34

  Rebecca shook her head. “I mean—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—in a way it makes sense, doesn’t it? Something’s going on, I saw it myself. And something attracted the T’aevans to that huge depression in the ground. What’s more, something attracted the new inhabitants, too. The spiders.” She felt giddy at the thought of it all. “You mentioned that indigenous peoples have been drawn to sites rich in uranium, which is naturally radioactive, and we know what exposure to radiation or radioactive materials can do, how it can cause genetic damage, birth defects. Aren’t there even theories purporting electromagnetic rays cause cellular mutation? What if there is something in there, within that bowl, that exudes high levels of radiation? That might explain the size of the spiders, mightn’t it?”

  In the distance, they heard the first guttural stirrings of an afternoon storm. Ed turned to Rebecca. “I don’t know. I choose to believe the energy’s safe and clean. But trust me, something is in there, and I want to find out what.”

  With that he turned back to the pyramid and fell into a thoughtful silence. Rebecca checked her watch, surprised it was almost four o’clock. If everything had gone to plan, Owen and Sanchez might have called for the chopper already. Still giddy, she made for her gear, readying to leave, but paused and glanced at Ed. “When the chopper gets here, you’re getting on it with the rest of us. Just so you know.”

  Jolted from his reverie, Ed looked mildly surprised. “You don’t think I’d let you go alone, do you?” He tossed his head in the direction of the camp. “No need to worry. I’ll be taking the chopper back, and when I know Jessy’s okay, when she’s settled in safe and sound, I’ll return—with a plan, and more equipment.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Rebecca said, unable to prevent her upper lip from curling into a half-smile.

  Ed grinned, too. “I better head back and check on Jess.”

  Rebecca nodded, and turned to scan the pyramid. “It seems quiet down there… it doesn’t look like we stirred anything up. I might stay a little longer.”

  Ed nodded. “If I need you, I’ll call on the radio. But don’t be long. When that chopper gets here, we’re all getting on it. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  35

  The chopper wasn’t on its way just yet.

  Sanchez had hoped for swifter progress. Maybe it was the weather, or fatigue. Most likely it was both. In any case, they were behind schedule.

  This morning, when the sun had first begun to rise, obscured once more by dark, grey clouds, the jungle had been slow to lighten. Still, Sanchez had been relieved to see the first ra
ys break the canopy. Though uneventful, it had been a long night.

  Owen had woken with those rays, having slept straight through. Sanchez had expected criticism, and he’d gotten it: Owen had been mortified he hadn’t taken a watch. The debate had been short-lived, however, and in minutes they’d broken camp, Sanchez eager to push on and confident there was every chance they’d get to Base Camp by mid-afternoon as anticipated. That, Owen had been happy about. Now, though, it didn’t appear they’d be getting in before nightfall.

  Sanchez thought briefly of the others. He hoped they were safe. He thought, too, about the chopper. Now, the rescue crew would have to work in darkness. More than that, a storm was brewing.

  He hoisted his pack, adjusted its weight upon his shoulders, and pushed himself even harder, Owen right behind him.

  They were almost there. Two more hours would do it.

  36

  The Zodiac entered the ravine under cover of the approaching storm, its motor cut and silent. Half a mile back, they’d switched to the quieter electric motor before shutting it off, too, hoping to retain the element of surprise.

  Not that they should have been concerned, Cartana mused. No-one was around to hear them, and anyway, the rain and rising waters masked their passage. Still, the eight of them dipped their paddles silently, pushing the craft through the gorge.

  Cartana pressed closer to the edge of his seat. He could barely contain his excitement—or his relief. The gamble had paid off. The fork in the river had brought them exactly where he had hoped. This was the place.

  From his position at the front of the boat, he scanned the ravine walls.

  There.

  He put up his hand and balled it into a fist. “Stop. This is it.”

  Cartana had made sure they’d brought with them the necessary climbing gear. As the boat bumped against the wall, bobbing in the chop of the swollen stream, he reached for the rock face, searching for a suitable spot to secure the vessel.

  Oliveira was beside him. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  “Yes, this is it.” Cartana ran his eyes up the wall. “Look.” He pointed to the small ring of metal—a carabiner—dangling from the camming device wedged into one of the many cracks above.

  In no time, the eight of them had scaled the wall. Crowded with the others on the narrow rock ledge, Cartana looked skyward. At most, they were an hour from their destination, but the fast-approaching night would likely beat them. No matter. Adequate light remained, and besides, they were now two days ahead of schedule, all thanks to him—

  An angry flash of lightning pierced the trees and Cartana jumped. He wasn’t surprised by his edginess. Although the approaching dark was of little concern, the storm was another story. Lightning flashed again, and thunder too, rumbling like a livid god woken from a deep sleep.

  They may have been ahead of schedule, but they still needed to make haste.

  The eight of them moved out swiftly, hunched and silent, and disappeared into the jungle at the ravine’s edge.

  • • •

  A long, ragged peal of thunder caused Rebecca to push the binoculars from her eyes. She cocked her head, listening.

  More thunder, and a flash of lightning, too.

  She glanced at her watch. Ed had left her an hour ago and she’d returned to the blind to resume her observations. Now it was almost dark, and though he hadn’t called, he was no doubt expecting her back.

  She wondered about the chopper, where it was.

  Another crack of thunder.

  For the past hour, the storm had been building, but now sounded ominous. The drizzle of the last few hours had grown heavier, too.

  Okay, time to go.

  She wasn’t keen on being caught out here in the middle of a raging thunderstorm.

  She grabbed her gear, stuffed it into her pack, and turned briskly towards camp, another crack of thunder clapping loudly on her heels.

  As she disappeared, she wasn’t aware of the eyes—eight in total, in four rows of two—that had been watching her the entire time from a hiding place high in the canopy.

  37

  The two hours passed quickly. Sanchez breathed a sigh of relief.

  They were less than a hundred yards from the clearing that housed the team’s Base Camp, and with night almost wholly upon them and the eternal rumble of thunder above, it couldn’t have come sooner. He and Owen pushed their exhausted legs even faster, stumbling through the rain and the last few feet of undergrowth. Effectively twenty-four hours after they’d left the others, and on little or no sleep, they had prevailed.

  Sanchez broke into a jog, but only yards from the clearing, staggered to a halt.

  The sound of rushing water rose above the thunder and rain.

  Not good.

  The alarm bells had sounded a couple of miles out, when neither Elson nor Martins had answered his radio calls. He’d dismissed it as bad reception, or that the two men hadn’t heard the radio above the storm.

  With Owen in tow, Sanchez burst into the clearing as a loud clap of thunder broke overhead. He drew up quickly, his legs suddenly shot through with weakness. Owen fell to his knees.

  Base Camp was gone.

  • • •

  Simply… gone.

  The water had since receded and lapped now at the far edge of the clearing, but it had taken almost everything in the camp with it: generators, tables and chairs, tents… and all their electronic and communications equipment.

  Gazing in disbelief, the two men moved through the fading light into the middle of the clearing. Debris lay everywhere—wedged against tree roots, stuck high in branches—all of it waterlogged and draped in mud and vegetation, no doubt damaged beyond repair.

  Sanchez shook his head. “I told them to move it deeper.”

  “Robert… look.”

  Sanchez turned. Owen motioned to a tangle of partly submerged tree roots. Wedged in there by the floodwaters was a bundle of rags.

  No. Not rags.

  They ran across the clearing, sloshing through puddles of ankle-high water. Sanchez reached into the muck and with a grunt pulled the body from the mass of roots. It flopped limply in his hands.

  The head was missing.

  “Holy shit…” Owen said.

  “I think it’s Elson.”

  The corpse was otherwise intact, although its arms and legs were broken and twisted at grotesque angles. There was also a puncture wound to the chest—to the left of, and just above, the heart.

  “Floodwaters could not have done this,” Sanchez said, pointing to the injury. “And the head has been hacked off.”

  Owen glanced away, swallowing a few times to compose himself.

  “I think he died before the river rose,” Sanchez said, easing the body back into the water lapping the base of the tree. “It would explain why they didn’t move the camp.” He gazed about. “But where is Martins?”

  “I’ve heard of this before,” Owen said ominously. “Explorers, anthropologists, FUNAI agents—literally hundreds of people over the years, their bodies found mutilated. Some with their heads missing…”

  Sanchez looked up at him as Owen glanced at the surrounding treeline, scanning. He seemed agitated, on edge.

  Sanchez eyeballed him. “What is it, amigo?”

  But Owen had fallen silent, his face paling. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “We’re being watched.”

  • • •

  Sanchez froze.

  Thunder boomed.

  “Keep talking,” Owen said. “Act normal. We’re being observed.”

  “By what?”

  “Actually, by whom. Behind you, in the trees about twenty yards away—a young indigenous man. He’s standing there, looking at us.”

  Sanchez glanced again at Elson, at his punctured chest, the ragged stump of his neck…

  Slowly, he moved his hand up to his shoulder, to the rifle.

  Damn. Anxious to rid himself of their weight, he’d left the rifle, and his pack, by a tree when th
ey’d first entered the clearing.

  “What does he want?” Sanchez whispered.

  “I don’t know, but we’re about to find out. He’s coming over.”

  Slowly, Sanchez turned.

  “Stay calm,” Owen said. “No sudden movements.”

  The man was short. He was also entirely naked, except for a thin cord around his waist. Sanchez guessed from his boyish but stocky frame he was in his late teens, early twenties. Crouching, he crept towards them, his bare feet skipping lightly over the forest floor. He was incredibly quiet. In one hand, he carried a tall, thin bow, in the other, several arrows. Sanchez noted his jet-black hair was cropped in a ring around his head and shaved at the top, as though he were wearing a crown of thorns. His intensely dark eyes were encircled with red and black dye, his arms banded with red paint.

  The young man stopped about twenty feet away. Sanchez and Owen stood their ground, returning his gaze.

  Perhaps confused by the sight of such unusually pale skin, the man’s focus was on Owen.

  “He hasn’t seen people like us before,” Owen murmured. “He’s curious.”

  “He killed Elson.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  The young man kept staring. He didn’t appear threatened by them, nor was he threatening in his stance.

  “Can you talk to him?” Sanchez asked.

  Owen cleared his throat. “I can try.” He offered a few stuttered words, perhaps in varying dialects. Sanchez didn’t give it much chance; while tribal languages could be similar, he guessed the group to which this person belonged was far removed from any Owen had dealt with.

  Even so, the man cocked his head as though he might have understood. If he did, he said nothing.

  Owen turned to Sanchez and shrugged.

  Straightening, the man spun to face the trees from which he had emerged and made a short, high-pitched whooping noise. Sanchez tensed and followed the man’s gaze to the treeline but saw nothing of note. He glanced back at Elson’s decapitated body, then to his backpack and the rifle resting against the tree.