Cloud Forest, August 1st
The bells in the rustic church tower began the midnight count. The town was covered in darkness except for the lampposts’ weak light around the modest main square. That’s how the explorers, a couple of Swedish professors, wanted it. They didn’t want witnesses to their climb or their possible findings. The Sachapuyo kingdom, the place where the artefact they found in French came from, was theirs. They had waited all day for the stroke of midnight, meandering around Leymebamba, the town from where they had to climb to exposed ruins from the mysterious culture.
They ascended the mountain aided by the five robust men they’d hired for the heavy lifting and digging. Three of the five men were young archaeology students from Europe and the United States. These three young men had been at the end of their semester studies when they found an enticing offer: a year abroad in search of adventure, knowledge, and possibly, fame, if they found the lost treasures of the Peruvian jungles. Stipend and college credits provided. The other two of the five were men from a nearby community. They took the job as a reprieve from their daily hard labor for little pay. Their hardened hands pulled the mules’ reins. The mules climbed steadily with thick feet from years of ploughing the land and herding cattle through those rugged mountain paths. They were made for all weather. Tough campesinos in worn-out clothing in which others would shiver on cold nights such as this. They herded this time, instead of livestock, two Swedish professors with royal blood and young scholars learning about the other side of their remote world. Their mules moved steadily, transporting high-tech digging equipment on their backs, covered with strong plastic tarps to protect it from rain and viewers.
“What a magnificent place,” Søren Håkansson said, gesturing to his brother to follow his headlight to the lush greenery on the side of the raging Atuen River.
They continued the march up. The copious vegetation on both sides of the path prevented them from wandering off the narrow trail.
“And filled with undiscovered jewels carefully protected between these green walls, and tumbling rivers, abrupt gorges and mountains,” answered Jesper Håkansson, the other twin. He mounted up the trail, his dimmed headlamp glowing, projecting spectral night shapes. Giant trees spread their branches into the narrow rocky path. The air was cool and smelled of maguey in bloom and wild licorice.
Far away in the town they had left behind an hour ago, bells chimed excitedly in the towers of the rustic Catholic church at an unusual hour. The town had already fallen asleep, except for the night owls drinking chicha and beer in a bar, playing guitar and singing mountain verses. As heeding an emergency call, for it was indeed, people got up and ran to the main square in the clothes they had fallen asleep in.
The brothers and the guides marched steadily, unaware of the tolling bells. Søren looked at his watch—it was almost one in the morning. They hurried to make up for the time wasted under their disguise of regular tourists interested on walks around town, conversing with the locals about their history. They were ghost explorers and looters on a mission. The mules climbed the mountain slope unwillingly, as if understanding the intentions of the group.
“Vamos, más rápido, por favor! Can we pick up the pace?” Jesper demanded to one of the hired men, smacking the mule’s behind with his opened palm.
“Sure, but your instructions were to avoid drawing attention. There are houses and people in them all over these mountains,” Joaquín answered, pulling his mule forward.
“Está bien, Joaquin, sigamos. Let’s go!”
They continued the march in a silent procession as if pushing a saint to his niche. Suddenly, behind them, there was a commotion, flashlights floated in the dark like fireflies while voices cursing in Spanish called them to stop where they were. Breathing heavily, a delegation became visible under the moonlight before the scholars. Several men and women, among them the town mayor, upon learning of the reason for the midnight call, had hiked to stop the foreigners. They crowded all around the brothers and the team.
“Why are you climbing in the middle of the night?” asked the mayor, pointing his light from one brother to the other, and to the rest of the caravan.
“We have permits. You see?” Søren pointed his flashlight to a piece of paper he procured from his shirt’s pocket. It was a signed permit provided by the minister of “Well, our leaders in the capital city are corrupt, it’s common knowledge. A few dollars and the town is yours, but not this time. You are not the only ones who have come from abroad to loot our sacred ruins, but we’ll try to make sure you the last.” The mayor spoke with great conviction, recognizing the local workmen hired.
“What proof do we have that your intentions are just? Why start this exploration in the dark of the night?” The town priest asked, shining the lights on the Swedish brothers and the crew.
“We understand. We are people of science. My brother is an anthropologist and I am an archaeologist. We want to study and learn about the ancient culture settled here over a thousand years ago,” answered Jesper, picking carefully through his Spanish vocabulary. The wrong word would cancel the operation and bring them all back to town. The brothers hadn’t stopped regretting the sale of the ancient tablet they had found in their excavation in French Polynesia. When they had learned about Shinji Norfolk’s death while following the artefact to this land, they made their quest to find the origin, the remains of that ancient people. If one of the wealthiest men had left everything in pursuit of the object, there must have been a powerful reason for it. A reason worth billions and billions of dollars, because money and knowledge were power. They had to press on. “We hike at this time to avoid the heat of the day. But, please, come if you wish. You could keep an eye on us and we can always use an extra pair of hands.”
Søren nodded in approval to the strategy, and that’s how seven became ten. But they had to keep moving to the ruins that the town people rumored were exposed. The irregular torrential rains and land displacement had exposed structures that until then, lay hidden inside impenetrable foliage.
The brothers marched toward the promised treasure, fanning the greed burning deep in their souls. Shielded by their blue blood, titles, and accolades, Søren and Jesper Håkansson were used to open doors, leading expeditions to remote villages. They knew by experience that the locals, by ignorance and poverty, could not protect their ancient vestiges. And the leaders in charge of safeguarding their cultural heritage, would often turn a blind eye when payment was dropped in their accounts along with little objects from the plundered ruins to display in the local museums. While the valuable pieces were trafficked and sold on black markets or “kept safe” at some ivy league college as payment for their excavation sponsorship.
They climbed side by side as they always did, and always had, from their conception. They were almost identical, but it wasn’t difficult to know who was who. Jesper had shoulder length hair and Søren tried to always have it short. Their friends, like their vices, were few. They had each other, and for both of them, it was more than enough.
Joaquin, the workman and guide in charge, gestured to the brothers. “Look!”
The brothers and the team pointed their flashlights to the walls that were decorated with ochre paintings on the rocky side of the mountain.
“Are they funeral mansions?” mumbled Søren, trying to get a closer look.
“It looks like a variation of the Andean Crosses,” whispered Jesper to his brother, taking pictures.
“Right. The horizontal line is this world we live in, the land of the living. Below is where we go when we die, and above is the land of the gods,” said Søren, tracing his finger above the image without touching it. He wondered if this was giving them a true indication of the culture’s understanding of the world or if it had been made by the young Inca culture when they were around that area.
“Here are some painted animals,” mumbled the mayor with serious regard and a puffed up chest. “These are mountain lions or what we call Otorongos.”
“But these other animals didn’t really exist…” Søren commented, showing interest to gain the trust. He pointed his light to a dark opening, trying to move on. He wanted to get to the exposed ruins as soon as possible, any other stop was a waste of time. But maybe this was worth taking a look. He nodded to his brother to follow him.
“The ancient people combined distinct parts from different animals,” said Jesper to the mayor. “Interesting!” He followed his brother curious to see what he had noticed, “The artefact we found in French Polynesia was way older and made by a higher intellect,” he said in Swedish, checking his watch and the rest of the path. They’ve been hiking for over five hours.
It was almost dawn. The sky was getting lighter, but night gear was still useful.
“The sarcophagi above are also very interesting. Maybe you’d like to see?” said the handyman, flashing the light up the mountain.
But Søren and Jesper didn’t pay attention this time. They looked at each other as if they had just struck gold. They shared a common thought and took notes of the location, and pictures. It was a mosaic of a leafy tree embedded on the rock of the mountain at the entrance of a cave. The tree was outlined with gold and silver and seemed to have emeralds and jade stones for leaves, and ancient letters around its edge. Was it ancient Phoenician, or Aramaic, or Hebrew? They had yet to determine the language. But one thing they were sure of was that it was the same tree with the same letters as on the tablet from French Polynesia. Their hearts ricocheted in their chest. They were getting close.
The wet mist that had veiled the landscape during their hike was lifting, revealing the luscious cloud forest of the northern Andes. A solitary condor glided silently above and a vulture on a tree branch watched the delegation below with a taciturn gaze.
“Joaquin, are we close?” asked the brothers, assuming they had to be close to their treasure.
“Another ten hours, I would say. We must cross to the other side of the river.”