Yawning, Sam ran a hand over the knee-length beige tunic he now wore and readjusted the short, knotted yacolla cape that he had slung over one shoulder. Unwilling to part with his Stetson, he tugged the hat lower over his brow.
Once comfortable, he leaned back on his hands. “How could these folks have remained hidden here for so long?” he mumbled.
Maggie stirred beside him. “Because they wanted it that way.” She was decked out in a long sienna tunic that reached to her ankles. It was secured by an ivory white sash and matching shawl. She fingered the gold dragon pin holding the shawl in place. “Did you notice that most of the village is purposefully hidden in the jungle? Almost camouflaged. I doubt even satellite scans could pick out this hidden town, especially with all the geothermal activity around here. It would confound any thermal scans.”
Sam stared at the misted night skies. Few stars could be seen. “Hmm. You may be right.”
Maggie changed the tack of the conversation. “So, Sam, how does it feel to be a messenger of the thunder god?”
He smiled lazily. “Prophetic pebbles or not, I think that shaman must have heard echoes of our rifle blasts. I think that’s why he associated us with Illapa.”
Maggie glanced quickly at him. “I never even considered that. It’s a great theory.”
Sam enjoyed the praise, grinning slightly.
“But what about the necropolis down below? How does that fit in? It’s almost a mirror image of this place.”
Sam frowned. “I don’t know. But considering its location, it may have something to do with the Incas’ three levels of existence. If this village was considered to be part of the middle or living world—of cay pacha–then the village below this one would certainly be thought of as uca pacha, the lower world.”
“The world of the dead.”
“Exactly… a necropolis.”
Maggie’s brows drew together in thought. “Hmm… maybe. But if your theory is sound, where’s the third village?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Incas were very structured. If they built matching cities in the lower and middle worlds, where’s the village of the upper world, of janan pacha?”
Sam shook his head, growing tired. “I don’t know. But we’ll get more answers tomorrow. For now, let’s just enjoy the celebration in our honor.” He raised his mug of chicha, a fermented corn drink, and took a long sip. He grimaced at the bitter taste.
Maggie settled back. “Not to your liking,” she teased.
“It’ll never replace a cold bottle of Bud. But, sheesh, this brew packs quite a kick.” Sam found himself becoming a little light-headed. By then, the celebration had run long into the night. Even the moon had set.
Maggie smiled and leaned into him a bit. He took a chance and put his arm around her. She did not pull away or make a joke of it. Sam took another swig of the corn beer. He hoped the moment’s warmth was not all from the fermented brew.
Before them, a new group began an elaborate dance around the central fire pit. The celebrants, both men and women, wore gold or silver face paint and danced in precise rhythm to a tune played on the skull of some jungle deer, the horns of which acted as a flute.
“It’s beautiful,” Maggie said. “Like a dream. Stories we’ve read come to life.”
Sam pulled her closer to him. “I only wish Uncle Hank were here to see it.”
“And Ralph, too,” Maggie said softly.
Sam glanced at the woman in his arms. She was staring into the firelight, her eyes ablaze, the warm glow bathing her face.
She must have sensed his scrutiny. She turned to him, their faces close, too close. “But you were right, Sam,” she said softly. “Before… when you said the dead don’t begrudge the living. You were right. We’re alive… we’re here. And we mustn’t waste this gift with guilt an’ sorrow. That would be the true tragedy.”
He nodded. “It’s wrong to live a life as if you were dead.” His voice was just an exhaled whisper. Sam remembered the years following the loss of his parents. He and his uncle had shared their sorrow together, leaning on each other. But in truth, the two of them were not unlike Maggie. In part, they, too, had barred outsiders, using their shared tragedy as a barrier against getting close to others. He didn’t want to do that any longer.
Sam dared to inch a little nearer to Maggie.
She stared up into his eyes, her lips slightly parted.
He leaned nearer, his heart thundering in time with the drums—then suddenly the music ended. A heavy silence descended over the plaza.
Maggie glanced away at the interruption, ending the intimate moment. “It seems the party’s over.”
Sam’s heart squeezed tight in his chest. He could not trust his voice. He swallowed hard, freeing his tongue. “I… I guess it is,” he choked out.
A figure crossed toward them. It was the shaman, whose name they had learned was Kamapak. On his tattooed face, he wore a wide smile as he approached, climbing the stairs. Sam and Maggie rose to greet him. He babbled in his native tongue, arms lifted in both thanks and farewell, clearly wishing them a good night’s rest. Already the fires around them were being extinguished.
Standing, Sam’s head spun slightly with the effects of the chicha beer. Steadying himself for a breath, he stared at the fading flames, a mirror of his own inner hopes and passions. He turned away. It hurt too much to look.
Chaperoned by the shaman, Sam and Maggie drifted back toward the rooms assigned them. The Inca still talked excitedly as he led them.
Sam wished Denal were still there to translate for them, but he was able to discern a few familiar words. Something about one of their mythic gods, Inkarri. Not understanding, Sam just smiled and nodded in the universal manner of the nonfluent.
When they reached the row of homes bordering the square, Kamapak finally grew quiet and patted Sam on the shoulder. The shaman bowed his head, then whisked away to oversee the end of the celebration.
Maggie paused, watching him leave. Her room was separate from the men’s. Sam stood awkwardly, wondering if that moment ago could be rekindled, but Maggie’s next words doused cold water on those embers. “What was all that about Inkarri?”
Sam shrugged, recalling the Inca’s epic story. Supposedly, Inkarri was the living son of Inti, the Sun, and the last god-king of his people. It was said he was captured by the Spanish conquerors and beheaded, but his decapitated head did not die. It was stolen away and hidden in a sacred cave—where, to this day, it had supposedly been growing a new body. When the body was complete, Inkarri would rise again and restore the Incas to their former splendor.