The trek the next day is hard. With the first stretch of jungle inland already cleared of vines and undergrowth, Logan is setting a punishing pace. I swear he’s doing it to provoke me. To force me to ask for a break or for him to slow down, most likely to tell me that if I can’t keep up, I’m welcome to go back to the camp and wait there.
Fat chance!
If today’s the day we finally reach the gold city, I won’t be left behind. I’ll be damned before I miss capturing the moment. Finding a legendary lost civilization in the jungle won’t be career-making only for Logan. We’ll be the first humans to set foot in the forgotten place in over a millennium. My pictures will be the only photos of the treasure city. The news of the discovery is bound to blast through every information network in the world: newspapers, magazines, newscasts, websites… My shots will appear everywhere. I’m going to be famous.
Right! You’re not shaking me off, Satan.
I can already picture National Geographic asking me to be a regular correspondent. I’ll set up a pop-up gallery in LA to display the best shots, and the exposition will become such a raging success, it’ll move to New York next, then London, Paris, Milan…
As eager as I am to reach that level of international recognition, first comes the hard part. The camera equipment is heavy on my shoulders and it’s weighing me down. I shrug, readjusting my backpack to cut my aching trapeziuses a break, and trudge forward. Thank goodness Somchai and his mule are carrying the rest of the supplies: sleeping tents, water reserves, and Logan’s mysterious archeological tools.
As the morning progresses, things get worse. Leaving at dawn, if not fun, at least spared us the worst of the heat. But now, three hours into our little stroll through the jungle, the temperature has become insane. Even if we’re not standing in direct sunlight, the humidity trapped beneath the canopy makes it hard to breathe. It feels like walking through solid air. The moisture clings to my clothes, mixing with sweat so that everything I’m wearing—down to the socks in my boots—is damp. Even though I’ve tied my hair back in twin French braids, small tendrils have escaped and stick to my forehead regardless of how many times I push them back. Not to mention I have to hike through this hell of a place wearing gloves and Kevlar leg warmers—the snake gaiters.
I get the need for the gaiters, I really do, even if we haven’t spotted a single venomous snake since we’ve arrived, but I can’t stand the gloves anymore. I peel them off my hands and let my skin breathe some well-deserved air.
Gosh, I really hope today is it. That there’s a shiny golden city waiting for us at the end of this hike. I wouldn’t want to start over tomorrow. Heck, I probably wouldn’t be able to even if I wanted; my legs would not carry me. Tramping through the deepest, darkest parts of the Thai jungle is not my idea of a good time.
I’m so over the forced march that when, twenty minutes later, Somchai suddenly stops at the head of the column, I almost sag to my knees with relief. A wall of tangled vines and branches is blocking the road ahead. It appears we’ve reached the end of the cleared path. If we have to start hacking our way through, I can finally rest a little and let the boys play with their machetes.
Smith and Carter, our militia escort, take the first shift and start hacking at the tangle of vegetation, slicing through the thicket in short order.
There’s only the five of us today. Dr. Boonjan wasn’t feeling well this morning, a stomach bug or something, and he remained at the base. Tucker had to stay back to care for Archie. And Montgomery is with them to guard the camp.
Groaning, I strip off my backpack and lower it to the ground. I sit at the foot of an old gnarled tree, its tall, thick trunk soaring into the air until it joins the blanket of leaves far overhead, a merciful screen that lets only a few patches of sunlight filter down.
Somchai, my guardian angel, offers me a water canteen before he goes back to attending the mule. The animal is getting restless after the abrupt break.
Head tilted up, I gulp down the liquid in long, greedy sips.
“Slow down,” a familiar voice says. “We don’t know how long the water has to last.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Logan is observing me while leaning against a nearby tree.
I glare at him, and he rewards me with a mockingly sweet smile. “Are you enjoying the jungle stroll?” he asks, eyes twinkling.
Before replying, I study him. He can’t be faring much better than I am. The hair on his forehead and at the back of his neck is sticky with sweat, and his shirt has more damp patches than dry spots. And, damn me, the son of a bitch has never been more good-looking.
Anyway, I’m too tired to argue with him right now. So I give him a tension-defusing answer.
“I’ll be honest,” I say. “Crap as it was, I’m sorely missing the resort’s air conditioning.”
Logan gapes, taken aback by my sincere, unchallenging reply. “Yeah.” He nods. “Every time I breathe I feel like I’m standing in a steam room.”
We stare at each other, both surprised at how civil our exchange has turned. When the silence becomes awkward, Somchai mercifully breaks it by coming back to fetch his canteen.
“More water, Miss Knowles?”
And even though I could drink my weight in water right now, I refuse the offer. “No, we’d better save our reserves, we don’t know how long they have to last.”
I wink at Logan.
He shakes his head as Somchai bows and scurries away.
Cracking a smile—damn, that’s a good smile—Logan pushes off the tree and offers me a hand—also gloves-free—to get up. “Time to go. Smith is hacking through the vines like a human chainsaw. We don’t want to lose him.”
I clasp hands with him and allow him to pull me up. When we come face to face, I can sustain his curious gaze only for a few seconds before I let go of his hand and bend again, breaking eye contact to retrieve my backpack. I drag it over my shoulders once more with a grunt.
“Heavy?” Logan asks.
“Yeah, the camera equipment isn’t exactly feathers.”
Logan beckons. “Give it here.”
“What? No! You can’t possibly carry two.”
“I’m not going to; I’ll see if Somchai can fit it on the mule’s back.”
Astonished by the kind gesture, I unsling the backpack, take out my main camera, and hand the rest to Logan. “Thanks.”
He gives me a curt nod and walks away with my equipment. Who knew? Even Satan has a heart.
Break over, we resume walking single file down the narrow path cleared by Smith. But our pace now is remarkably slower, and with my back unencumbered, I can finally enjoy the scenery in all its hostility.
The jungle has gotten thicker, more tangled. Torn branches and vines claw at us from either side of the trail, and I have just enough space to raise the camera and snap a few shots:
Somchai whispering comforting words to the mule while pulling the beast forward.
Smith swinging the machete, the blade catching a sunray.
Logan, sleeves rolled up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his machete-free arm.
Logan, pushing a cane out of the way.
Logan, staring daggers at me because I’m taking his picture again.
These will look fantastic on an expedition reportage.
For three more hours, we venture deeper into the jungle, slipping into territory unknown to mankind for a thousand years. Until the ever-thickening rainforest finally seems to thin away, making our advance easier.
Machetes back in their sheaths, we trudge on for another hour before Logan halts, raising a hand to signal for us to do the same.
He stands so still that, for a moment, I wonder what’s the matter. In front of him, a peaked mountain covered in even more vegetation blocks the way. Is he pissed about yet another obstacle to bypass?
But Logan seems transfixed, turned to stone where he’s standing. With a few strides, I’m next to him, ready to ask what the holdup is, when I notice the glistening in his eyes.
I follow his gaze toward the hill, not sure what has moved a grown-ass man to tears. Then a rare gust of wind rustles the branches overhead. The light shifts, and, underneath its blanket of vines, the mound seems to sparkle as if it was made of solid—holy crap!
“Is that gold?” I ask.
Not averting his eyes from the incline, Logan nods, sinking to his knees.
He makes for a beautiful image, the gorgeous, teary-eyed archeologist prostrated before his discovery. The photographer in me wants to immortalize the moment, but the woman decides it’s too private for the world to witness. This is Logan’s moment. And his alone.
After years of research spent enduring the skepticism of every single one of my colleagues… The gossip, the snickering comments about me having gone mad after Tara left… Tara’s own reservations delivered by email; she couldn’t even bother to call… I’m looking at the legend: the lost city of gold.
The city is real.
Well, sorry to all the big heads of the archeology community: you’ll all have to eat your words.
Brushing tears of joy—of vindication—away from my eyes, I stand up and approach the building in front of us. With my bare hands, I tear at the vines covering the exterior. Some come off easily, while other thicker, more gnarled ones require me to pull with all my strength, but I can’t risk using the machete and damaging the treasure underneath. So I fight with the vegetation until I’ve cleared a surface of three square feet, revealing the head of a scaly, horned creature, its features contorted in a terrifying snarl.
A guardian dragon.
“Hello, my friend,” I say to the beast, gently patting its pointed teeth.
At once it’s clear the statue isn’t made of solid gold, but rather stone painted golden or covered with gold foil. Still, the effect such a monumental construction will have once the vegetation blanket is cleared off will be unprecedented. A sight like no other.
A click next to me makes me turn, and I find Winter dutifully snapping pictures of the dragon head, and of me, too.
I scowl.
But the damn woman grins at me and immortalizes my frown.
What part of I don’t like to have my picture taken wasn’t clear, I wonder.
Anyway, Winter’s interruption reminds me the others are here. I’ve been so absorbed by the temple in front of me, I’d forgotten. But now I turn to them. “Somchai,” I call.
His mule tethered to a tree, our local guide is next to me in a few quick strides. “Yes, Dr. Spencer.”
“We need to set up camp for the night. Please see to that.”
Somchai bows his assent.
“Then tomorrow, I need you to go back to the main camp and show Dr. Boonjan the way. He should be recovered by now and he’ll want to see this. And Tucker, too, if Archie can manage on his own. We need to establish a permanent secondary camp here. You think you can make a return trip in one day?”
“Two days,” Somchai says. “One to go, one to come back.”
Not the answer I’d like, but if Somchai says two days, it can’t be done any quicker.
“All right,” I say. “When you have the camp arranged for the night, please come help me.”
Somchai bows and scurries away.
I turn back to the building and flex my hands, ready for some more hard work. Clearing centuries of undergrowth is going to a bitch. So little done, and the skin on my palms already feels tender.
“Somchai?” I call.
“Yes, Dr. Spencer?”
“Do we have working gloves in the equipment?”
I need real work gloves; I can’t do this wearing Tucker’s stupid scuba-diving ones.
“Let me check,” Somchai says.
He rummages inside the mule’s sacks and then comes back, handing me two pairs of what are basically gardening gloves. Perfect.
I don one pair, and flap the other in my hands, eyeing Winter.
She’s been fluttering around this entire time taking pictures.
Now she must sense my gaze on her, because she promptly turns, asking, “What?”
I flap the gloves one more time and offer them to her. “Care to help?”
Her eyes widen, while her mouth pouts into a cute little “o” shape.
Did I say cute? I meant annoying.
“You expect us to clear the whole building by hand?”
Yeah, definitely meant annoying.
“No, a dedicated team will have to do the work later,” I explain patiently. We’re in a truce, and I’m not about to jeopardize that. “But I want to remove as many vines as possible at the base and see if we can find an entrance.”
Now she claps excitedly and takes the gloves from me. “This is so like an Indiana Jones movie.”
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a little smirk at her enthusiasm.
She carefully sets her camera on a nearby rock and, side by side, we attack the vegetation. It’s hard work, and we’re already exhausted from the day’s trek. So when our efforts finally reveal an opening, we don’t have the strength to explore further. Eager as I am, it wouldn’t be safe. We pause for the night, eat a cold dinner, and I don’t even have to bully anyone to go to bed early.
***
The next morning, the camp stirs awake at the crack of dawn. Everyone is eager to clear the building entrance and discover what lies underneath. After a quick breakfast of black coffee and protein bars, Somchai and Carter leave with the mule to go back to the base and bring the others and more supplies, leaving me, Winter, and Smith behind.
While Smith is busy “securing the perimeter”—his readymade excuse to avoid any hard work—I clear the entryway of the remaining vines and weeds while Winter documents my efforts. Without the risk of hitting stone, I hack at the residual vegetation with the machete at double speed.
Once the job’s done, we all stare at the dark opening. It’s framed by a solid stone arch, and not a sliver of light comes from within.
“All right.” I break the silence. “Time to go in.”
I pick up two headlamps from the supplies Somchai left behind and hand one to Winter. She adds it to her basic gear: a survival-essentials backpack equipped with food, water, a first aid kit, and whatever else Tucker put in those; and the camera never missing from around her neck. I don my own survival backpack, secure the headlamp across my forehead, and turn back toward the soldier. “Hey, Smith, you coming?”
“I’d better.” Hands never leaving the precious rifle strung across his chest, he spits on the ground. “In case you find something funny in there.”
“Great,” I say. Even if, to be honest, Smith is so creepy I’d feel safer without him. I pick up the last backpack and hand it to him. “Take one of these. Sorry, but we don’t have any more flashlights.”
Smith shrugs, his beady black eyes darker than the emptiness beyond the passage. “Sure.”
“If we keep close, the light should be enough for everyone to proceed safely.”
The hired gun nods.
Standing at the edge of the portal, Winter and I turn the headlamps on and, exchanging a nod, we plunge into the passage.