Gold of the Gods

by Bear Grylls

  'Or was murdered, like the legend says,' muttered Marco darkly.

  His words were interrupted by the sound of a bell clanging in the courtyard outside. The teenagers jumped guiltily, as if they had been caught red-handed in the middle of a bank robbery.

  'Quick,' said Marco. 'There's someone at the front door of the hacienda. We mustn't let anyone see the map or the amulet.' Beck quickly folded the parchment and slid it into his back pocket, then hung the amulet of the toad around his neck and tucked it under his shirt as Marco and Christina replaced Gonzalo's portrait on the wall.

  Marco led the way back across the courtyard and along the corridor towards the main entrance of the house. Through the stained glass of the front door they could see the flashing blue lights of police cars and the familiar outline of the peaked cap of an officer of the Colombian police force. Señora Cordova was already at the door.

  Ramirez was in no mood for pleasantries as he strode past Marco into the hall. The harsh click-clack of his leather boots on the flagstones echoed loudly around the walls. He was greeted by a screech and the sound of flapping wings. Beck looked up to the balcony, where the family's pet parakeet was hopping from leg to leg on the banister, cocking a nervous eye at this unwelcome intruder.

  Ramirez stared up at the bird with an expression of ill-disguised malice. Señora Ramirez was an expert cook and would surely know a tasty recipe for stuffed roast parakeet.

  He spun round to address the three teenagers. 'Buenos días, amigos,' he said, before launching into a volley of quick-fire Spanish. Gone was the oily mask of concern of the previous evening, when he had escorted them back to the hacienda. Today it had been replaced by impatience verging on rudeness.

  Expressions of disbelief and anger flitted like dark shadows across the faces of the twins. Beck recognized only one word of the policeman's speech. But it was enough to make his heart freeze. The horrified look on the twins' faces confirmed his worst fears. Señora Cordova gasped.

  There was a brief silence as Ramirez let the impact of his words sink in. When he continued, it was in short bursts, as if he were giving orders. Marco nodded sullenly and shot brief glances at his sister, who was still staring at Ramirez in disbelief.

  And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, Ramirez was gone. Outside, a flunky saluted and opened the door of a police car bearing the crest of the Chief of Police of Cartagena. Ramirez sank into the comfortable leather seat before barking an instruction at the driver. In the distance Beck saw the electric gates swing open and a pair of armed guards saluted and stood to attention.

  The single word still echoed in his brain.

  'Narcotráficantes,' repeated Marco, reading Beck's mind. 'Drug traffickers.'

  'Ramirez says he thinks Dad and Professor Granger have been kidnapped by one of the drug cartels,' explained Christina in a stunned monotone. She let out a long groan and put her head in her hands. 'I'm just so worried about them.'

  Marco shook his head and took a deep breath. 'Ramirez says it's more important than ever that we don't leave the hacienda. He says it's for our own safety. All calls to the hacienda have been diverted to police HQ. There's an armed guard on the gate. Basically, we're prisoners too.'

  The horrified silence was broken only by the eerie cawing of birds in the palm trees outside the window. After what felt like an age, Beck broke the spell. 'We've got to do something. We can't just sit on our butts and let this happen to Uncle Al and Mayor Rafael. What if Ramirez is wrong and the gang are more interested in looting the gold from the Lost City? Why don't we just give Ramirez the map? Then the police can get there first and ambush the gang when they arrive.'

  'It's too risky,' Christina insisted with a toss of her curls. 'And anyway, Dad hates Ramirez. He says he's a trigger-happy fool. No one trusts him. He'd probably end up killing them, not saving them.'

  'But now that we have the map, we must at least try,' said Beck. 'We owe it to Uncle Al and your father. If we can't trust the police, then we'll just have to find the Lost City ourselves. Surely there must be some way out of here?'

  'There's chain-mail fencing all the way round the grounds on three sides, right the way down to the sea,' replied Christina. 'We could always fly. Got any other good ideas?' Her eyes were turning red and watery. Marco stretched out an arm to comfort her but was brushed irritably aside.

  Beck was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay attention. 'I'm telling you, we can get away from here without Ramirez noticing. He's a goon, Christina. You know that better than anyone.' He paused. 'Come with me, guys,' he said after a while. 'I've got an idea . . .'

  Beck led the way into the formal dining room at the front of the house. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the French windows that opened out onto a terrace, from where steps led down to a manicured lawn. Beck walked over to a glass display case. 'It was one of the first things I noticed when we arrived,' he said. 'I just couldn't keep my eyes off it. I think it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. It's also given me an idea.'

  'It's gold filigree work,' said Christina, opening the top of the glass case. Inside lay a delicate gold object on a bed of blue velvet. 'Dad forbids us ever to touch it because it's so valuable.'

  In front of them lay a miniature model of a raft. Matchstick men stood on a square platform of logs lashed together with rope. One held a tiller while another brandished a spear and gazed over the side into the sea of blue velvet. On the mast a rectangular sail was operated by two gold braids.

  'It's like a spider's web made with gold fibres,' said Christina. 'It belonged to Gonzalo. We think it was made by the Indians who lived in the Lost City. The Kogi people we told you about who still live in the jungle. Remember?' She paused. 'Like the Indian man you thought you saw in the square last night.'

  A flicker of pain passed over Beck's face as the memory returned. The man's eyes still burned brightly in his memory, but now even he was beginning to think he had just imagined the Indian in the heat and the chaos. And anyway, his mind was on other things now. The garden of the hacienda was surrounded by a fence all the way down to the sea . . . Surely Ramirez's men would not look for them there.

  Marco's voice broke through his thoughts. 'When Gonzalo arrived in South America, the first time they saw the Indians was on the sea. The Spanish cronistas – historians – made drawings of the rafts they used. They looked almost identical to this one.'

  Beck studied the raft closely, screwing up his eyes as he inspected the delicate gold web. 'Time for a walk,' he said suddenly.

  The twins followed as Beck led the way onto the terrace. The scent of ripe peaches hung in the morning air like perfume. On the far side of the lawn, the jungle that surrounded the hacienda on three sides closed in again – the fence that ran around the grounds was out of sight from here, buried in the undergrowth. As they made their way along a path skirting the jungle, tendrils hanging from the branches of the huge trees brushed past them like the tentacles of giant jellyfish.

  They soon found themselves in a grove of tall palm trees, where the undergrowth gave way to sand, and saw that they had reached a small bay. White spume seethed and bubbled on the shore, where a steady stream of rollers was breaking.

  'There's only one way out of here without being noticed,' said Beck as they stared out towards the horizon. 'And that's by sea. If we can build a raft like the one the Indians used, we can sail down the coast. That's how Gonzalo found the Lost City, so why shouldn't we?

  'You can see on the map that it's in the mountains not far from the coast. If we're lucky, we'll find it before the kidnappers. Then we'll have the element of surprise. If we sail tonight after it gets dark, by the time Ramirez works out we've gone we'll be miles away down the coast.'

  Beck had only just stopped speaking when, from somewhere behind them, there was a rustle of leaves in the bushes. For the second time that morning, his blood ran cold.

  A familiar voice broke the silence.

  'Buenos días, amigos,' said Ramirez
.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beck's heart sank as the awful truth dawned. Hiding in the undergrowth, following them just out of sight, Ramirez the Reptile had tricked them into revealing their plan to sail down the coast and find the Lost City. Their only chance of rescuing Uncle Al and the twins' father was now gone.

  Drawing himself up to his full height, Beck turned to confront the police chief with a frosty glare. He was greeted by a loud screech from behind the bushes, followed by a burst of hysterical laughter. Marco and Christina were shaking uncontrollably, tears rolling down their cheeks.

  'Will someone please explain—?' began Beck.

  'Buenos días, amigos,' spat Ramirez for the second time. His words were greeted with a renewed explosion of mirth as Marco and Christina doubled up once more.

  'Ringo! Stop that, Ringo!' shouted Christina as she disappeared behind the bushes.

  Beck looked on in amazement, hardly able to speak. 'Will someone please—?' he began again as Christina reappeared, clutching a flapping mass of brightly coloured feathers that squawked loudly, while every few seconds pecking at her earrings with sudden darts of his head.

  'Señor Beck,' said Marco in a pompous voice, as if they were in the presence of royalty. 'May I introduce Don Ringo the Gringo.'

  'Otherwise know as plain Ringo the wicked parakeet,' added Christina. 'Dad called him Ringo because beetles are his favourite food' – she shook her head with a despairing look – 'which he thinks is very funny. When he was young, Dad was a sailor on a ship that visited Liverpool and he met John, Paul, George . . .'

  'And Ringo,' said Marco as the parakeet jumped from Christina's arm onto his shoulder while directing an inquisitive eye at Beck. 'Ringo was Dad's favourite. He said he never stopped cracking jokes . . .' He paused and gave Ringo a sideways glare. 'Which I guess explains everything.'

  'Bingo!' exclaimed Beck, a huge smile lighting up his face.

  'No, Beck, Ringo,' said Christina, trying unsuccessfully to hide her impatience. 'You know, the pop—'

  But Beck wasn't listening. 'Balsa,' he said, pointing excitedly into the distance. 'That tree over there. The really tall one. It's a balsa tree. That's what the Indians used to build rafts like the one in Gonzalo's model. We've got all the materials we need to build the real thing right here. And unless we get away tonight' – he glared at Ringo – 'it really will be Ramirez jumping out at us from behind the bushes.'

  Beck led the way through the undergrowth. 'You can tell they're balsa trees by the flowers on the ends of the branches. They look like ice-cream cones.' He pointed up at the smooth white bark of the trunk, which rose straight as an arrow towards the sky. 'It grows faster than almost any other tree in the jungle and because it floats so well, it's brilliant for making rafts.'

  'And model airplanes,' added Marco wistfully.

  'How do you know all this stuff, Beck?' asked Christina.

  'My parents lived all over the world and my father was a survival expert,' replied Beck. 'He taught me everything he knew. When I was a kid, he showed me how to make shelters in the wilderness and find food and water. Sometimes it was in the jungle, sometimes in the desert or in the mountains. I made my first abseil down a cliff when I was five years old.' He sighed wistfully, but then turned his attention once more to the job in hand. 'There's no time to waste,' he told the twins. 'We must hurry if we're going to leave tonight.'

  There was a note of urgency in his voice now. 'We need a sharp blade to cut this tree down. It shouldn't be too difficult as the wood is so soft but this trunk is more than half a metre thick. With the logs from three or four trees like this we should easily be able to make a raft that's big enough.'

  As the boys went in search of more balsa trees, Christina hurried off in the direction of the hacienda. She reappeared a few minutes later, a leather sheath slung around her waist. Long tassels hung down almost to her feet. 'Dad's machete,' she said, pulling the steel of the blade free and turning it in her hand so that the sharpened edge flashed in the sunlight. 'He likes wearing it when he's on his own at home. Mum says it makes him feel like a conquistador.'

  The team set to work. Aiming a series of heavy diagonal blows at each side of the trunk of the balsa tree, Beck sent chips of wood flying into the air. Marco picked a piece up and turned it over in his hand. It was as light as a feather and the colour of porridge oats.

  'Stand back behind me,' shouted Beck a few minutes later. The tree began a slow-motion topple forward before gradually accelerating and smashing through the undergrowth onto the ground with a dull thump.

  Repeating the process with the other trees they had found nearby, they lopped off the branches and cut each trunk into three until twelve logs lay side by side on the jungle floor like giant matchsticks. As the boys admired their handiwork, Christina went in search of some bamboo for the decking layer. Adrenalin surged through her veins as the blade of the machete swung through the air and dug into the base of a clump of tall bamboo poles with a loud ker-chunk.

  She remembered the tales her father used to tell her of the tribe of women warriors who once lived in the forests of the Amazon just a few hundred kilometres away over the mountains. A glint of fierce determination sparkled in her eyes as, one by one, the giant bamboo stems fell free.

  'All we need now is some long lengths of vine,' said Beck as they dragged the last of the bamboo poles back to the beach. 'Not exactly a problem round here.' He pointed out the best lengths for the purpose, and Christina and Marco took it in turns to hack away at the thick tendrils that clung to the trunks of the jungle trees.

  With all the materials for the raft now assembled, Beck demonstrated how the vines should be woven between the balsa logs at both ends and across the middle of the raft, and then pulled together under tension. A top layer of bamboo, laid crosswise, strengthened the structure and formed a deck.

  When they had finished, Beck went off into the undergrowth; he reappeared a few minutes later dragging more wood behind him.

  'Mangrove,' he said. 'It's much harder than balsa but grows just as fast. We can make the mast out of this and lash bamboo across it in a frame for the sail. The Indians would have used palm leaves woven together, but I seem to remember sleeping in some cotton sheets last night.'

  As Christina set off back to the hacienda to raid the linen cupboard, the boys lashed together the mast and the bamboo frame for the sail. Then they lowered the finished structure into place through the circular hole that Beck had cut in the deck. 'Perfect,' he said as they slotted it into place. 'Just enough movement to let it swivel. Now we'll be able to change direction when the wind gets up.'

  When Christina returned with the sheets, Beck cut four lengths of vine about the thickness of his little finger and threaded them through the edges of the sheet like the stitching on a wicker basket. Once the sail was in place, he lashed more lengths of the mangrove together in the shape of a large A. When he had finished, he wedged it into the deck platform at the other end of the raft from the sail. 'One tiller,' he said, rubbing his hands together with the satisfaction of a job well done. 'All we need now is a long pole to use as a rudder.'

  By now the sun was sinking in the sky and the shadows of the trees were growing longer by the minute. 'Just one more rather important thing,' said Beck as they looked at the raft in the gathering gloom. He swung the machete down hard into the green spongy skin of a large object like a giant football that lay under a nearby palm tree. As it split open, a milky sap oozed out.

  Picking up the coconut and shaking it, he sent arcs of milk squirting over the deck of the raft before passing it on, first to Christina and then to Marco, so they could do the same.

  'I name this ship the Bella Señora,' said Beck solemnly as they passed around the coconut, drinking a toast. 'Long life to all who sail in her.'

  'To the Bella Señora,' echoed the twins.

  When the ceremony was over, Marco led the way back to the hacienda, where Beck disappeared upstairs and the twins began filling a large hamp
er, ransacking the kitchen for provisions. Marco had persuaded Señora Cordova to go home early, saying that they were too tired to eat much supper and would be going to bed early. She had left them some food out to make sandwiches.

  As they were adding a few last afterthoughts, Beck reappeared. He was clutching a shiny black object with a large colour screen. 'Global Positioning System,' he explained. 'Otherwise known as a GPS. I take it with me everywhere I go with Uncle Al. He's forever getting lost so it comes in handy every time. It talks to satellites in space to pinpoint your position. With this we'll know exactly where we are to within about two metres anywhere on Earth!'

  The twins watched as Beck punched instructions into the keypad and the familiar outline of South America appeared on the screen. As he repeatedly punched a button marked ZOOM, Christina felt as if she were landing in an alien spaceship: the outline of Colombia drew ever closer, until at last they were hovering over the streets of Cartagena itself.

  'This little gizmo tells you everything. High tide tonight is just after midnight, and once we're out at sea, the current should be running east. Exactly where we need to go. I've calculated it should take us less than two days to reach the shore where Gonzalo landed. We'll be able to find more food and water in the forest. But let's eat something now and then sleep for a few hours.'

  The hacienda was quiet as the grave when Beck woke the twins, just before midnight. Out of his bedroom window he could see two police cars blocking the driveway beyond the electric gates, the tip of a lighted cigarette and the silhouettes of two policemen chatting idly together. A full moon hung in the sky like a ripe cheese.

  The three ghostly figures made their way across the lawn and along the forest path to the beach, the twins carrying a hamper between them.

  Beck fetched the machete from where it had lain hidden and slung the belt around his waist. The GPS was safely in his pocket, the map strapped around him under his shirt.