sickness the men in camp didn't recognize but could only guess at. His only possession was a book the men had mistakenly taken for a Bible that the survivor held tightly to his injured chest. Every time they tried to relieve him of the book, the man would rise like a tiger to protect it. They even tried to pry his fingers from it when he had passed out, but that had proven just as futile.
When Father Corinth arrived at the small outpost with a rank of Pizarro's personal guard, the man was waiting for him, only he waited on his deathbed. For hours the lone survivor of the expedition spoke softly with Corinth. The priest had listened, never interrupting the soldier while he examined his wounds and nursed him through the strange sickness. As he spoke, gasping in inner pain and getting weaker for each word he managed to hiss out through clenched teeth, he reached into his tunic and withdrew two small objects. One was a large golden nugget. The other was a strange green mineral, a strange chalk-like substance imbedded in stone. It was strangely warm to the touch. The soldier pulled Corinth close to him, close enough that the priest could feel his high temperature rising from his face. A dire warning was told, barely audible and with fetid breath. Corinth removed his large cross from around his neck and removed the bottom portion. The inside of the cross was hollow and he easily slid the small mineral samples into it. The cross was made of a soft metal covered with gold, not only for beauty but to give the cheap metal more strength. It was of a sort the church frowned upon as being arrogant, but it had been a ceremonial gift from his dead mother given to him on the day he took his vows. It was very beautifully engraved and far too large, and she had spent every ounce of her meager savings to present him with it. He put the end back on the cross and placed it around his neck.
It was long after sunup when Father Corinth finally emerged from the small hut, and he carried the book with him.
'How is he, Father?' one of the soldiers asked. 'Is there any news of our friends? Is Captain Padilla still alive?'
'The soldier is dead. His name was Ivan Torrez.'
'Lieutenant Torrez? We know this man, he looked nothing like him,' another soldier said as many of the escort gathered to hear the Father.
'The plague will change a man's features so you would not even recognize your own brother.'
The men stepped away in fear. That one word was enough to weaken their knees and make the brave conquerors cringe.
Father Corinth brought the book to his chest and started to turn from the gathered soldiers.
'What of the expedition, Father, did he give a location of their whereabouts?'
He stopped and turned. 'Captain Padilla and his men will stay where they are. Get your men ready to break camp, and bury Lieutenant Torrez deep. Honor him, he was a brave man,' Corinth said as he bowed his head and crossed himself. The Padilla diary, which contained the unholy route the doomed expedition had charted, was clutched tightly to his chest.
He slowly moved away from the stunned men. The Father knew he would have to either destroy the diary and the map that would again take the greed of man to follow Padilla's directions, or bury them so deep no one could ever find them. The diary was the only proof of what wonders the captain had found under the falls of that lost lagoon, but because of men like Francisco Pizarro, the contents could never see the light of day. For only death could come to those that ventured into that dark lagoon and he would take it upon himself to make sure the pope sided with his decision.
A few months before the death of Francisco Pizarro, the general ordered one last expedition sent out to try and trace the route of Captain Padilla's ill-fated journey. The Spaniards found only helmets, rusted armor, rotted clothing, and broken swords on a path that stretched for thirty miles along the Amazon, which was clear evidence of a running battle with an enemy that had since disappeared into the jungle. The trail leading to the deep tributary that led to that dark and beautiful lagoon was never found. As for the men of Padilla's brave band, the Spaniards never found a trace of them or the gold they had sought. Pizarro, in what little time remained to him, would continue to lust for El Dorado. But in the end another generation of explorers and adventurers would have to do the searching.
Rumors of the lost expedition of Captain Padilla filtered down through the years, and even a few old artifacts turned up from time to time as the jungle begrudgingly gave up her digested secrets. Whatever lived in that forgotten lagoon would wait patiently for men to come into its realm once again.
