by David Harris
Hiram grasped Castillo by the arm. ‘Wait. I’m coming with you.’
‘No, no. He will trust me. You will make too much danger.’
‘But what if …’
‘Is okay. My friend, you want Espiritu Pampa. I find it for you.’
From behind Hiram the doctor shouted, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’
Unarmed, Castillo walked quietly to the young man. They turned and within a few steps the jungle swallowed them.
Hiram stood at a loss. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be if Castillo so nonchalantly gave away his life.
So he had something useful to do, Hiram took out his gold fob watch, clicked the lid open and checked the time. He remembered the archivist he met back in the museum at Cuzco. ‘The Flesh-Eaters of Espiritu Pampa are terrible. Unbelievably cruel. They’re ruled by a crazy old king. He sits on a throne and has fifty chiefs in his court. Don’t become involved with them.’
Hiram clicked his watch closed.
Behind him, his team and the porters were silent. Tension grew.
Seventeen minutes gone.
A small branch snapped. The sound was close. Leaves rustled.
Hiram slipped his watch in his pocket and raised his rifle. ‘At the ready,’ he said. His team formed a circle, rifles aimed, fingers curled around triggers.
Someone was moving towards them.
Chapter 26
The same young Flesh-Eater came into the clearing and stopped. He was unarmed. His friendly, relaxed smile showed teeth stained green.
Hiram was sick with worry. Where is Castillo?
The young man waved at Hiram to follow him back into the jungle.
Hiram hesitated. Was this a trick? What if Castillo is already dead?
The young man smiled again and pointed into the jungle and said, ‘Paltaybamba.’
‘Paltaybamba?’ The porters broke into frightened whispers. One or two took off their packs and glanced back along the trail.
Hiram heard heavy boots crunch on the ground. Erikson the Viking stood beside him. Red hair, flushed face, fierce temper simmering, Erikson’s finger was on the trigger. ‘Let’s sort this out.’
‘He seems friendly enough.’ Hiram willed the young Flesh-Eater not to move suddenly. ‘No hail of arrows is coming at us.’
Hiram slowly crouched and put his gun on the ground.
The young man smiled and gestured again for Hiram to follow.
‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ The doctor was aghast. ‘You’ll walk straight into an ambush.’
‘I’m not abandoning Castillo. ‘While keeping his eyes on the Flesh-Eater, Hiram said loudly, ‘Okay, who wants to come with me?’
‘Me,’ said Erikson.
‘I’m with you,’ grumbled Buchan, his arm in a sling. With his free hand he reached for the revolver in the doctor’s belt. ‘Give me your gun, Doc.’
‘I’ll keep it, thank you very much. You can be my shield, you big lunk, and I’ll shoot around you.’
Hiram went back to the nervous porters. Strung to a pack was a pair of plump partridges hung on a cord for that night’s stew. Hiram cut the cord and slung the birds over one arm.
‘Not much for a king and fifty chiefs,’ said the doctor. ‘It’d take a flock of sheep to take the edge off their hunger.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Buchan strode towards the jungle.
Chapter 27
The young Flesh-Eater led them through a tangle of trees and vines so thick they blocked the sun. A Flesh-Eater — or a lost city — could be an arm’s length away but invisible.
Hiram had to jog to keep up. Rays of sunlight broke through the tree tops. The light ahead looked smoky.
Through thinning trees, the mountain side became visible. Inca terraces appeared, covered with sugar cane. Hiram’s eyes were playing tricks. A layer of cloud slowly changed its shape into a thatched roof. Smoke, not mist, rose from the long roof. But the building had no walls. It was a roof supported with pillars of tree trunks.
When he came out of the jungle Hiram stopped in astonishment. Castillo was inside the building, feeding wood into a fire pit. He waved cheerily at Hiram through the smoke. Beside him an old man bent over a steaming pot.
Castillo called, ‘Come and try some.’
Then Hiram smelt the cooking. It reminded him of when he’d worked in a sugar factory in his student days, the same smell. This was definitely a sugar factory, cannibal style.
But where are the fifty chiefs and the mad king the museum archivist had talked about?
Instead of an imagined palace, Hiram saw chickens pecking at the dirt. Two little children with runny noses and shiny top lips sat in the dust and gaped at Hiram.
Shrunken skulls hung on poles near huts. Painted faces peered from dark doorways.
Mangy dogs, ribs sticking out, snarled and fought over a pile of cooked bones. Hiram stared at the bones. Ribs, thighs, a pelvis, vertebrae, kneecaps and toes. They’re too big to be monkey. Not sheep or goat. The long bones had been all chopped and split by an axe.
In the sugar factory the old man tipped the steaming pot over a hollow log. His brown skin glistened with sweat. From the pot poured a stream of golden-brown melted sugar. Square moulds, cut into the log, were filled one by one with liquid sugar. The old man glanced up at Hiram. He smiled a two-tooth greeting then went back to work. Scars crisscrossed his face. He spoke to Castillo who scooped up a wooden bowl of peanuts and followed the old man, dropping a handful of nuts into each mould as it filled with sugar.
Hiram noticed faded designs on the pot. It was an original Inca pot, hundreds of years old and worth a fortune.
With the last mould filled, the old man straightened a little but his spine was curved so badly he had trouble looking up at the tall strangers.
Castillo brushed peanut shells from his hands as if he’d lived and worked here for years. ‘Let me introduce you to King Paltaybamba.’
Paltaybamba bustled over to Hiram who, totally bewildered, held out the partridges.
The old man accepted them, pinched their plump flesh and sniffed their necks. He nodded, smiled a welcome and took one of Hiram’s hands in his. Hiram didn’t move to pull his hand away. He stood as if it was the most natural thing in the world to hold the hand of his old friend, a cannibal.
Chatting happily, Paltaybamba led Hiram by the hand through the compound of about ten huts towards the edge of the village.
Castillo walked beside them, interpreting. ‘King Paltaybamba thinks you are first white man here in four or five generations. He says you bring many of your tribe. He asks where are your wives?’
The old man gave Hiram a wicked smile.
Hiram cleared his throat. ‘Tell the King we are honoured to be his guests and that his fame and the exploits of his ancestors goes through all the world.’
The old man stopped and let Hiram’s hand go. He gave a short speech broken by sudden smiles, as if he knew an amusing secret.
‘The King thanks you. He says you are funny. Your words are stiff like a spear. You must be honest with him. He knows why you here. He will show you valley of Espiritu Pampa.’
The King led Hiram to the edge of the village, which jutted out over a valley. Steep mountain sides fell away into jungle. For a while Hiram enjoyed the spectacle of mighty mountains, the fertile terraces where men, women and children tended corn. The valley was a beautiful land of green jungles and high mountains. Columns of clouds rose in high pillars, like ranks of soldiers. Some two or three miles away a river wandered into a narrow gorge on the other side of the valley. Reluctant to break the beauty and peace of the moment, Hiram eventually went back to duty. ‘Can the King tell me where Espiritu Pampa is?’
The King pointed to a patch of jungle that was less thick, not far from the river.
Hiram was elated at how close the ruins were. ‘And can the King tell us where that river leads?’
‘It joins the Urubamba.’
‘Another question. What is the name
of the King’s village, town? What do I call it, Castillo, without insulting him?’
Master diplomat Castillo said, ‘Leave it to me.’
The King listened, said the name of his village and cackled with laughter.
‘He calls it Conservidayoc.’
The old man put one hand over his mouth to hold in the giggles. His laughter was infectious. Castillo chuckled while he interpreted. ‘It means Saver of my Life.’
Hiram was dumbfounded. Conservidayoc was the name Captain Garcia gave to the city where the Inca hid. So was the Inca city down in Espiritu Pampa or up here somewhere?
The King coughed and chatted on while Castillo translated. ‘He says Conservidayoc is saver of his life.’ Castillo’s eyes twinkled. ‘But not saver for all the people he eat. But for him, yes, saver of life. Fifteen wives he had. Three young ones now. All very good savers.’
Hiram shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Mrs Beecham’s Handbook of Etiquette for the Antipodes and other Uncivilised Lands didn’t have a chapter on how to deal with a giggling, lecherous, bone-splitting, marrow-sucking, peanut crunch-cooking, coca-chewing, head-shrinking old cannibal king.
‘One last question. Was there an ancient name for Conservidayoc?’
The old man started giggling again. ‘Jesus Maria.’
‘What?’ Hiram’s mind was spinning.
Castillo grinned. ‘The first Spanish here called this place Jesus Maria.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that is what Spanish said when first he saw it.’
The King placed his hand on Hiram’s arm, looked up into his face and spoke to him.
Castillo said, ‘He says you go see old city. But first he invites you to eat.’
Hiram gulped.
Chapter 28
‘You have place of honour.’ Castillo pointed to a flat stone. ‘Wait for the King to sit first.’
The King shuffled under a shady tree and stood near a flat stone.
Hiram noticed a movement in the doorway of a nearby hut. A young woman appeared, watching the old man carefully. She was maybe seventeen or so, with blue streaks painted across her cheeks, a loincloth around her waist and a chubby baby astride her hip.
The King raised his eyebrows at her and she hurried to him, held one hand and eased him onto the ground. He folded his legs on the soft sand, wriggled to get comfortable, and gave the baby a pinch on the foot.
Through the door of the hut Hiram saw two other women busy at an open fire.
The King touched the flat stone as a signal for Hiram to sit. His team followed and sat in a circle facing the King.
The other two women staggered out, holding a large pot by ropes tied in two loops near the rim. Steam and a delicious aroma rose from the pot. Hiram’s eyes were on the shape of the pot. One side was flat for fitting against an Inca servant’s back. Hiram winced. Another priceless artefact was being used for cooking what smelt like a stew. But Hiram was also thrilled to see the ancient pot. It meant that there had been a palace nearby. If only it was Vilcabamba. Hiram chafed that this meal was using valuable daylight.
The pot was placed in front of Hiram.
The King nodded at another young woman, perhaps fourteen. Wife or daughter, Hiram couldn’t tell. She took a dagger, plunged it in the pot and lifted out a split bone with the dagger point stuck in the open end. She wrapped it in a leaf and presented it to Hiram.
He took the bone and stared at the grey marrow oozing out. The bone looked awfully suspicious. Hiram glanced at the doctor, who grinned and said, ‘Definitely human.’
The King beamed and nodded, meaning, eat.
Who was he about to eat? Hiram blew on the bone, not to cool it but to give himself time to think. He glanced at the shrunken heads on sticks. He looked at his friends. Buchan was grinning. Erikson was grinning. The doctor was grinning.
What can I do? If I refuse it, I offend the King. If I eat it, I offend a lot of important people back home. Buchan will take delight in telling everybody that I’m a cannibal. Maybe I can pretend to drop the bone? No, the King would just give me another. And there’s no chance of slipping it to the dog waiting behind me.
A piebald, hairless dog, slavering at the aroma, slunk closer on his belly.
The King’s smile was fading. He was looking puzzled.
Quick, Hiram, before you insult his hospitality.
Hiram blew on the bone one more time and held it at an angle so the King mostly saw the leaf wrapping. Nibbling the end, Hiram pretended to chew. ‘Tell the King, Castillo, this is delicious.’ Hiram wiped his mouth elaborately with the back of his hand.
The King was delighted. As soon as he was served by a wife, the King got busy sucking out the marrow with happy slurping noises. Hiram slid his bone behind him. The dog snapped it up and ran.
Pot after pot, dish after dish was served. Some things Hiram could recognise. Roasted chicken legs smothered in melted sugar that cooled to toffee. Bananas rolled in coffee syrup …
‘What is this?’ On his palm were stringy things.
Castillo had a close look. ‘Bird tongues.’
‘And these little green sacs?’
‘From the stomach of snake,’ Castillo said.
‘Gall bladders, you oaf,’ chortled the doctor, tucking into his second shin bone.
‘The green bags are good for, you know, with women,’ Castillo said seriously. ‘Gives much strength.’
Sweetcorn, roasted sweet potato, skewered guinea pigs grilled over the fire. Hiram was grateful for some ordinary food.
The final dish, carried out with pride by the youngest woman, was a bowl of cold monkey’s brains and eyes on corn. The brains leaked red, staining the corn. The eyes stared up from their little puddles of jelly.
The King watched him expectantly.
Hiram decided, I’ll pretend they’re oysters.
He scooped out a wobbling eye. Don’t smell it. Get it in fast.
Luckily, as a sign the feast was drawing to a close, the three women brought jugs of foaming warm chicha. The youngest filled Hiram’s cup. With his eyes closed, he slid the disgusting, slippery eye into his mouth. He tried to swallow but his throat clamped shut. Quick, before you vomit. He forced the eye to the back of his tongue and took a huge mouthful of chicha to wash it down.
The doctor quaffed his first cup of chicha, held it out to be filled again, watched the beer pour and sighed, ‘Do we really have to go, boss?’
Chapter 29
The first ruin at Espiritu Pampa showed Hiram all he needed to know. He stared miserably at an unfinished wall. No Inca would stay in such a place. There were a few small houses of cut stone. Undoubtedly the Inca’s people lived here. Also beyond doubt, this wasn’t Vilcabamba, the great city of the Inca. The Incas loved their mountain tops and luxuries. Why live in this sweltering hothouse valley where the menu was monkey brains and eyes?
In any case, the fleeing Inca had no time for his men to have built even the half-finished wall. Garcia was too close. The last Inca, Tupac Amaru, had only camped here then left in a hurry. Besides, Espiritu Pampa was too far from Vitcos. The histories said it was a two-day walk from Vitcos to this city. It had taken Hiram five days of gruelling effort.
Where did Tupac Amaru go after he left here? Garcia’s report said that the Inca, his family and a few surviving warriors fled in canoes heading for his last remaining city of refuge. So Vilcabamba must be near to the Urubamba River.
Captain Garcia had set out with the King of Spain’s command to kill the Inca, his family and all his followers. By this stage, Hiram guessed, the hunt had become personal. Garcia simply couldn’t give up the chase.
Garcia built rafts and followed. But his rafts were smashed and turned over by rapids. Garcia swam for his life. With only a few men, exhausted and starving, Garcia kept going. Before dawn one morning he surrounded the Inca camp. The jungle concealed his few men and even fewer guns. Garcia called on the Inca to surrender or die.
Exhausted by the horrific journey,
weak and ill, Tupac Amaru had a dreadful choice. Refuse to surrender and see his family shot before him. Or surrender and hope brave Captain Garcia would treat them with respect. The Inca submitted.
Garcia defied the King of Spain’s orders and treated with honour the last Inca, his family and followers. But when Garcia delivered his captives to the authorities in Cuzco, they did not show the Inca honour. After a sham trial the Inca, his wife, children and men were killed by ghastly tortures.
Now Hiram stood in The Land of Ghosts by a water channel where the Inca’s children would have splashed and drunk cool spring water.
Hiram looked back at the colossal mountains they must climb to reach the Urubamba Canyon, hidden from sight and many days away.
His face set with determination, Hiram walked back to King Paltaybamba’s village.
The King was snoozing in a woven hammock under the shade of two trees. Because of the curvature of his spine, he lay on his side. His face, so savagely marked with scars, was as peaceful as a baby’s. The old mouth hung open, with a thin trail of dribble across his chin. One arm hung down. On the ground beneath his hand was the two-tubed nose straw with a white crust around the ends of each tube.
‘It seems a shame to wake him,’ whispered Hiram.
But the wife with a baby on her hip went to the old man and gently caressed his cheek. He mumbled away the last of a dream and opened his eyes. ‘Ha,’ he murmured to the woman and stroked her arm.
Castillo coughed and moved into the King’s sight.
The old man’s face lit up. He struggled from the hammock, stood unsteadily for a few moments, then patted the back of Castillo’s hand.
Castillo turned the old man’s hand over and pressed his palm against it.
‘He calls me his favourite son,’ Castillo murmured to Hiram. ‘He pretends I have returned to him from wars in the Land of Shadows, where the gods’ fight.’
King Paltaybamba held up one hand. He had a bright idea. Signing for Hiram and Castillo to follow, he trotted over to the sugar factory. At the hollow log he used a knife blade to dig out squares of sugar-nut sweets. One by one he piled them up into heaps until they were all dug out.
