by Greig Beck
“Smells funny.” Megan bent down, her nose almost to the water. “Hard to detect, being so close to the thorn wall, but it smells like a cross between rosewater and iodine.” She reached forward.
“Stop.” Megan froze, cringing at the sudden command. In the quiet space, devoid of the normal jungle noises and enclosed by towering trees and fern fronds, the sudden sound made everyone stare at Carla.
“Just wait. The water does look tainted; it could be the flowers, or the thorns and their poison that’s permeating it. Could be as toxic as battery acid. We need to do tests.”
Steinberg’s face screwed up tight. “Oh bullshit, Ms. Nero. We already know the Ndege used to dive into it.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Kurt, drink some.”
Kurt’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open as he turned to the movie producer in horror. Steinberg nodded firmly, and then motioned to the water.
Carla shook her head. “We know the Ndege dove into water, but not if they dove into this water.”
“Oh for God’s sake, there’s freakin’ tree roots in it. Kurt …” He jerked a thumb at the water.
Grumbling, the big man stepped forward and got down on one knee, staring into the depths.
“Don’t, Kurt … please.” Megan shook her head, and mouthed don’t again when he looked up at her.
Matt snorted. “Freedom of choice — let him.” He felt Carla’s glare burning the side of his face.
Kurt grinned and winked at Megan, then stabbed a hand into the watery depths. He frowned, and fished around just below the surface for a few seconds, before slowly pulling his hand out.
“This gets better and better.” He held up a small object — gold. Megan rushed over, followed by Jian and Joop, while Matt and Carla waited on the other side of the pond.
Steinberg, the shortest, was crowded out at the rear. He raised his voice. “Let me see that.” Kurt hesitated for a second or two before tossing the object to his boss.
Steinberg snorted in appreciation. “Looks old — an alligator maybe.”
Curiosity got the better of Matt and he wandered over, staring hard at the item. It was certainly a piece of gold, thumb-sized, and only slightly crusted with minerals. It had a long, dragon-like face, round eyes and a tongue lolling in the typical ancient Indian style.
“Alligator? No … something much more fearsome than that. I think it’s Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god.” Matt held out his hand to the movie producer. “May I?”
Steinberg tossed it to him, and Matt grabbed it and held it close to his face, examining the fine detail.
“Beautiful. This little guy has been around for about two and a half thousand years. Both the Incas and Aztecs had a similar deity. Quetzalcoatl was a feathered serpent, a flying reptile, even a dragon, and was the symbol of death and resurrection.” He looked across to Carla.
“He traveled to Mictlan, the underworld, and created a world, our world, from the bones of the previous races, using his own blood … and skin.”
Carla nodded her understanding, and Matt tossed the small idol back to Steinberg.
“Feathered serpent, you say? Funny, that’s sort of what we’re looking for.” Steinberg threw it back to Kurt. “Keep it.”
Matt saw that Moema was frowning so deeply that his brow was nearly touching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was about to challenge Steinberg’s gift-giving, and Matt thought he’d better try to intervene first.
“Um, Mr. Steinberg, that object could be part of the missing treasure of the Incas. You can’t give it away. It belongs to the people here.”
Steinberg’s eyebrows lifted. “Missing treasure?”
“Well, yeah. Legend has it that after the fall of Vilcabamba — the last hidden city of the Incan empire — the ruler at that time, Atahualpa, ordered his people to carry the last treasures of his empire off into the jungle so that the Gold-Eaters — the Incan name for the Spanish invaders — could never feast on their wealth. They’ve never been found.”
Steinberg looked engrossed as he listened, and soon smiled. He turned to Kurt and nodded.
Matt suddenly realized that mentioning treasure in his attempt to appeal to the man’s altruism was probably the wrong tack to take. Wonder if it’s too late to mention a curse, he thought, glancing briefly at Moema, whose teeth ground behind his cheeks. His frown deepened when Kurt polished the small idol on his chest, grinned, and stuck it in his pocket.
“By the way, the water’s fine.” He sniffed his fingers and shrugged.
Carla was scooping some into a couple of small vials. She shook one and lifted it to stare intently at the swirling residue, then tucked them both into her kit.
“So, what now? The breathing bags?” Matt pulled one of the Ndege’s skin bags from his backpack and let it unfurl.
Steinberg looked up from the small silver device he was tapping away on, shaking it. “Piece of shit.” He pressed a few more buttons, then smiled at Matt.
“Be my guest, Professor Kearns. But I’m not keen to place my lips over something that’s probably crawling with some type of disgusting disease.”
“It was measles, and we’re all safe. I only brought one.” He tossed it to Kurt. “Probably your man’s job to be first.”
Kurt looked at it with disdain, then his eyes lifted to Matt. “Me? Dive in there, with a bloody giant animal’s testicle sticking out of my mouth? Don’t make me laugh.” He turned to Steinberg. “Boss?”
Steinberg looked quickly at the small silver box he held. “A lot of distortion now, but in five minutes, put a flare up.” He looked up at the dense canopy. “Maybe a few, just to be sure.”
Carla shook her head. “It’ll never make it.”
Kurt lifted a flat metal case from his pack just as the electronic device pinged in Steinberg’s hand. He nodded to Kurt.
Kurt opened the case, which contained a stubby revolver and half a dozen fat, copper-jacketed shells. He loaded a plug into the flare gun, and stuffed the rest in his pocket, then looked up, firing at the spot where the branches appeared to be thinnest.
The flare sped away, rising over a hundred feet, before striking the thick branches overhead. It pinballed around for a few seconds before exploding in a burst of orange light underneath the canopy. Matt and the group were brilliantly lit up in the semi-gloom as it fell back to earth.
Kurt wasn’t put off. His expression grim, he mechanically reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, and then again twice more. Two of the four shots managed to punch through the dense canopy and disappeared from sight. Almost immediately, there was an answering series of pings on Steinberg’s communicator.
“Take cover folks, we got incoming.”
They hugged trees, just as a tea chest-sized box crashed through the leaves hundreds of feet overhead, and thundered off huge branches on its way to the ground. Matt marveled at their aim — a few dozen feet to the west and it’d be on the thorn wall.
A second or two later, the box pounded into the thick underbrush. It didn’t explode, but Matt could feel the dull thump beneath his feet as it hit the soft, loamy soil. Kurt charged off, and everyone else followed.
Matt nodded with admiration. “Good aim — the pilot, I mean.”
Steinberg shrugged. “The chopper was having trouble getting a fix — magnetic distortion everywhere — so I had them drop half a dozen. Fucked if I know where the rest ended up.”
Kurt and Joop dragged the box back to the edge of the pond, and the bodyguard took his longest knife from its scabbard and hacked at the rope. Matt recognized it from his time in Antarctica; it was caving rope, strong and elasticized — perfect for binding a box that would be dropped from several hundred feet.
Kurt threw the ropes to one side, flipped the catches up and lifted the box open. Matt, like the rest, crowded in, curiosity overcoming his antipathy toward Kurt.
Inside, there was a top layer with foam packing material cut into perfect shapes for the cargo. Eight strange-looking helmets nestled in custom-made c
ompartments. Matt leaned forward — full face masks, with a small canister set on the side of the Perspex faceplate — individual breathers. Kurt lifted one free, and touched a small stud on the side. Immediately, a bright light came from a coin-sized LED bulb embedded on the brow ridge. He threw one to Matt.
“This one can be yours … if you can pull yourself away from the thought of wrapping your lips around that big ball bag.” He winked.
Matt felt his face go hot, but he ignored the barb, and instead studied the helmet. Steinberg clapped his hands.
“Good. Light lunch first, and a rest — and then we explore.”
* * *
Matt sat with Megan and ate some of the dried mystery meat, along with some local vegetables that Moema had found. There was awkwardness between them now.
“How’s the hand … and finger?”
She lifted her wrapped hand and looked at for a second before carefully unwinding the bandage. Matt could see that most of the redness was gone, but there was a small, crusted black hole at the tip of her finger, where the thorn had pricked her. The skin looked dead.
“Yecch.” She flexed her fingers, examining the wound. “Not nice. Imagine falling into those thorns — even if you survived, which is unlikely, you’d look like a walking pincushion.”
He nodded. “I bet the Ndege knew about those thorns, and I bet they also had some sort of remedy for the poison. We lost a lot when they were wiped out.”
She looked toward the massive wall covered in thorns. “And I bet they knew exactly what’s behind that crater wall.”
He picked up a small round pebble and tossed it into the dark pool. “What else could they have told us, and shown us?” He sighed. “Passed into history, extinct — and probably only weeks before we got here. It’s a damned shame.”
“Yeah, that’s what usually happens when one advanced culture meets another that’s less advanced — one ends up losing everything. It was obviously why Atahualpa hid his gold from the Spanish.” She gave him a crooked smile, then reached out to take his hand and squeeze it. “Nothing you could have done.”
He smiled back, and took his hand back. Her smile dropped. She looked down at her hand and squeezed her finger. A small drop of clear fluid appeared in the crusted hole.
“Hmm.” Megan rewrapped her hand. “Hope it’s okay to get this thing wet.”
“What? No way — forget the finger, you just suffered a heart attack and had a needle jammed into your chest. You are not going deep-sea diving. Forget it.”
“Diving in a pond, you mean.” Megan’s eyes narrowed. “So now you care?”
Carla, who had been resting nearby, groaned and wandered over to where the doctor was chatting with Joop.
Matt watched her go, then turned to shake his head. “Megan, even forgetting about the possible dangers we might encounter, if it’s a deep dive, the pressure alone will stress your circulatory system.”
Matt looked over at the doctor, trying to get John’s attention.
“Hey!” Megan grabbed his arm and wrenched him around to look at her. “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you lately, but don’t you fucking dare try and stop me. I’m going.”
Matt spluttered, seeing the volcanic glare and the determination on her face. “I’m only—”
“You’re only acting like a prick. Who are you?” She got to her feet.
“Wait.” He brought his hands together in a praying motion, almost begging her. “At least not on the reconnaissance dive this afternoon. That way, we can judge the depth. Let’s at least find out what we’re in for.”
She ground her teeth, and he reached out to touch her leg. She stepped back.
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Matt was fairly fit, and a good swimmer, and since he had discovered the relationship between the bird and the water, Steinberg had designated him Kurt’s dive buddy for the first swim. By then it was about three in the afternoon, and already the sun was dipping a little in the west.
Steinberg had only just returned to the group after swearing loudly at his phone for a while. It seemed that something, either electronic or human, wasn’t obeying his instructions.
The semi-gloom around the pool was stickily oppressive, but Matt still couldn’t find the enthusiasm to step into the cool water. By now he and Kurt had stripped to their shorts. Matt was fit and in decent shape, but Kurt’s shoulders bulged with power and were crisscrossed with old scars, testimony to numerous adventures — or maybe a taste for S&M. He glanced at Megan and winced, shaking the thought from his head.
Kurt looped his belt around his waist, and paused to lift his huge hunting knife from its scabbard. He pulled a condom from his pocket, opened the seal, and rolled it down over the handle. He noticed Matt looking at him.
“Old jungle trick — keeps the pommel and its contents dry.”
Matt felt his face go hot. He looked at Megan and caught her watching him, but she turned away before he could smile. I’m an asshole, he thought.
“Just a quick reconnoiter. If there’s a way through, check if it’s negotiable, and then return. Capiche?” instructed Steinberg.
“Ottenuto,” Matt played along with Steinberg’s kitchen Italian. Steinberg just looked blank.
Ropes were wound around their waists and Kurt put the facemask on his head, pushed up on his forehead. He looked across to Matt, all business now.
“Ready?”
Matt nodded and the big bodyguard held out his fist for he and Matt to knock knuckles. Matt recriprocated, the shared danger overriding any residual coolness between them. They stepped into the pool at the same time.
It was cool. Matt knew it was probably about seventy-five degrees — it was just that it felt cooler, given the sultry ambient atmosphere out of the water. He waded in farther, to his knees, then his waist, then stopped and looked down. The rock platform at the edge suddenly fell away into nothing. He felt his stomach lurch at the thought of something down there, staring up at him. His mind played tricks, creating shadows within shadows; monstrous tentacles moving in the depths, eager to clutch at him, to squeeze the breath from his body, and rip the flesh from his bones. This was made worse by the knowledge that beasts like that really existed.
They’re not here, they’re not here, he repeated silently. Matt shuddered, then shook his head quickly to throw off the disturbing thoughts. He looked across to Kurt and nodded, then took a deep breath before pulling his mask down, fiddling with the breathing canister, and switching on the small light. He could feel his heart racing as he sucked in fast breaths, wasting his oxygen.
“Professor Kearns.”
Matt stepped back, momentarily alarmed.
Joop waved. “Don’t forget to repressurize your ears if you go deep.” He made a show of pinching his nose and blowing his cheeks. Matt nodded and mouthed, thank you. He stared into the dark water, feeling his nerves tighten.
“Good luck.” It was Megan. He looked around and she smiled at him … just him. She threw him a kiss with her bandaged hand.
Thank God that was meant for me, he thought. She calmed him. Kurt leaned forward into the water and glided out to the center, seemingly oblivious to any danger. He floated on his back, waiting for Matt.
Matt allowed himself to fall forward into the water. He kept his face down, allowing his light to penetrate the depths. His breathing was loud in his ears as he hovered over the bottomless void. He could see he was at the center of a huge stone column that fell away into a nothingness that his ineffective light did nothing to penetrate.
Minute particles drifted across the beam of light, but except for a slight reddish tint to the water, it was extremely clear. The small motes floated past and then down. As he concentrated, Matt saw that they were being tugged toward one side of the column. He lifted his head and paddled to Kurt.
“There’s a current … deeper down.”
Kurt gave him a thumbs up, and then dove.
Neither of them had swim fins. Mat
t had to swim hard to keep up with the bigger man, and to fight against the buoyancy that continually threatened to drag him back to the surface.
As they got deeper, the dim light from above quickly disappeared. When they were only a dozen feet below the surface, Matt looked back up to see a mirrory mirage view of his companions at the edge of the water. The bottom was still well out of sight, and he kicked on to catch up with Kurt.
Matt swam toward the rock wall, preferring its partial protection to hovering over the bottomless black pit. He floated for a moment, trying to slow his breathing, and realized he had been unconsciously holding his breath.
He was torn. Part of him, the cognitive thinking part, wanted to know what was down there. Sinkholes were like time capsules. Anything that fell or was thrown in lay undisturbed on the bottom for thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of years. There could be all sorts of interesting archeological relics just out of sight. But the more primitive part of his brain rang loud with warnings about what else could be down there. A crawling sensation traveled up his spine.
He followed the rock wall down, running his hand along its sides. It was strange. Some parts of the wall looked hewn, with extraordinary flat surfaces — far too perfect to be naturally occurring geology.
He slowed his descent. The flat surface started to show definite chisel marks, which became recognizable shapes — writing.
With the Ndege gone, Matt could only guess at how the writing had been formed — either underwater or when the level was somewhat lower. He drifted back a few feet to take in more of the message — absorbing the glyphs, images, and impressions. The ancient language was complex, and took skill and patience to unravel.
“Let not … the unclean … pass back to the land of man.” As Matt tested those words against a few other possible translations, he saw that Kurt’s light had disappeared. In a panic he kicked himself downward, following Kurt’s rope into the gloom.
