chapter 34

Paths of the Incas

Climbing the last few feet over a small hillock, they finally stood on the vast, windswept tableland nestled among the loftiest peaks of the Andes. A distant volcano was just visible, rising out of the southwestern mists. A place of frequent rains, this páramo was the source of water for the great rivers of the Magdalena and the Amazon. The high plateau abounded with springs, swamps, bogs, and small lakes.

It was also absolutely desolate, save for the ribbon of a road which snaked across the land to disappear into the distant horizon in either direction. Passing immediately in front of them and paved with smooth stones, the road was a scar across the barren land.

“Amazing,” Nate said with a tinge of awe. “Back home, not once traveling from Boston to Washington, did I come across a road this fine.”

“Do you know who built it?” William asked.

“The shaman said their ancestors long ago built a system of roads extending to the far south, west to the Pacific, and east to the Amazon. They say it linked over twenty-five thousand miles of roads, from the highest páramo to the lowest valley. The Spanish destroyed many of the roads lower down and used the stones for buildings and churches. But up here, the roads survive. They call it ‘the Road of the Gods.’”

Although the Inca road was straight and mostly level, the biting wind never stopped blowing over the flat land. It was gracious enough to blow at their backs all day though, so it didn’t impede their travel.

That evening, when the American was asleep, the British officer reviewed the Frenchman’s diary by the light of the fire. He kept a loaded Manton pistol by his side.

On this route over the páramo, Jussieu advised that the best way to enter the Amazon was south of the llanos, taking the east path leading down through the forest to the jungle. The turnoff was marked by a large fissure in the ground, venting an unusual yellow-green steam. William rewrapped the diary and stored the parcel in his saddlebag. Pax lay at the foot of his bedroll.

Early the next day, they crossed a sturdy grass bridge constructed over a ravine. For part of the morning, they were shadowed by a huge bird of prey soaring high overhead, riding the air currents.

“El buitre,” Nate explained, “largest bird in existence, the Andean condor. A good omen.”

William waited patiently as the American watched the vulture until it disappeared over the far northern horizon. “Guess you want all the luck you can get.”

Absorbed in staring at the horizon, Nate didn’t hear him.

Anxious to make progress, William said, “Bidwell, let’s get on with it.”

The rest of the day was uneventful, until that evening when they were preparing to camp. William pointed. “Is that smoke? There. Back north.”

The American didn’t need to look. “They’ve been behind us since early yesterday. Seems half the damn country is chasing you.”

“When were you going to say something? When we were shaking hands with them?”

“We’re not actually being followed,” Nate said sharply, “they’re driving us.”

“Driving us?”

“Into an ambush. They’ve made no attempt to hide their approach.” Nate paused, then said thoughtfully, “It can’t be up here, it’s too open. The others will be waiting on the way down, wherever that is. There’s time to figure something out,” he continued sharply, “but you’re going to have to tell me where we’re going.” He hated being kept in the dark, having to depend on the Brit for directions.

“There may be a shortcut,” William said hesitantly.

“A shortcut?”

“There’s another way, not in the diary. The old Indian said to avoid the place.” William continued guardedly, “He was stubborn, called it the ‘haunted valley’ or something like that. No one ever goes there—supposedly it’s damned.”

Nate said, “Do you remember any of the Indian words he used?”

“I only remember one, and that was because he repeated it. The word was anchanchu.”

“A mythical demon which spreads terrible sickness,” Nate said. “I have little doubt we’d be in grave danger should we go that way. Besides, those behind us would know we’ve left the Inca path. Maybe something else will come up.”

“They’re moving fast,” Nate said, gazing back.

They were crossing a long stretch of bog in late afternoon. Part of the causeway was replaced with a narrow, woven-reed mat. These were usually quite sturdy when maintained, but this one had seen better days.

“I’ll test it before we chance bringing the animals over.” Nate stepped gingerly forward. The structure felt buoyant.

Nate visually examined the mat as far ahead as he could. He said, “Seems fine.” Further on, a darker section was slightly underwater. “But keep a good distance between us, so as not to overload any one section—some parts look to be rotting.”

Nate went first with Jenny.

Then it was the Brit’s turn. At first, William’s pack animal refused to follow him. The donkey had to be encouraged, pulled, and coaxed along, resulting in frequent delays and tedious progress. Pax ran several yards ahead and waited.

Nate had already reached firm ground on the far side of the marsh; he peered through his spyglass at the men following them, when he heard a peculiar sound: Pax’s yelp. The big Indian dog had an innate sense of trouble, which he expressed the only way he knew how: the strange exhalation that was his version of a bark.

William had been walking cautiously over an especially rotten part of the mat when his skittish donkey suddenly bucked and then leapt clear off the path onto what had appeared to be solid ground.

“What the devil,” he said incredulously, amazed to see the animal plunge up to its belly in wet muck. The more the panicked animal thrashed, the deeper it sank, its flank disappeared first, quickly followed by its hindquarters. William had never encountered anything like it. Not wanting to lose the baggage, he desperately pulled on the reins. It was no use. However, the ground just ahead of the beast appeared stable enough to allow the animal to be dragged out.

Fully expecting firm footing, the Englishman jumped. To his shock, the ground gave way under his weight; his feet sank into the ooze. He struggled to yank them out, but the mud sucked at him like a giant parasite. He sank to his waist. In his struggle to reach the baggage, he sank to his chest. The more he tried to move, the deeper he submerged. Concern for his survival quickly replaced his fear of losing the baggage. He couldn’t move his legs. He continued to sink.

Pax ran back and forth several times, then appeared ready to spring.

“Stay!” William ordered. The muck had reached his armpits and was rising fast, the pressure on his chest making it difficult to breathe. He called loudly, feeling the quicksand tickle the bottom of his chin.