its own members would surely be willing to do far worse to them.
The man, whom Merritt could only assume was some sort of leader or chief, inspected them like livestock, as though he were accustomed to the sight of strangers walking through his village. He bellowed something Merritt couldn't understand in a deep, thunderous voice.
As one, all of the natives lowered their bows. The arrows remained notched, but at least they were no longer an immediate threat.
Merritt looked back at Sam. A puzzled expression crinkled her pale face. When he turned back to the building, he saw only the silhouette of the man disappearing into the dark doorway.
'What just happened?' Merritt whispered.
'Just keep walking,' Colton said, picking up the pace. He caught up with Rippeth at the front of the line and the two men spoke in hushed tones.
Merritt noticed he had unconsciously fingered the safety off on the weapon, and clicked it back on again. As much as the feel of the cold steel in his hand repulsed him, he couldn't bring himself to release it. He drew reassurance from its familiar power.
The path forked at the edge of the central courtyard. One branch veered to the right toward a series of staircases that ascended the sheer slope to where topless women tended to flourishing crops in stone-walled gardens. They weren't slathered with paint like the men, and had far lighter skin than Merritt would have expected, only a few shades darker than his own. The women stopped and watched them as they reached the intersection, and resumed their tasks when Rippeth led them down the path to the left, which descended toward the outer fortification.
Painted men continued to parallel their progress from the shadows. They darted from behind one tree to the next, weapons at the ready.
Ahead, a lone figure stood before an identical contraption of pulleys and gears to the one they had seen upon entering the village. The large stone that served as the door was still fitted in place. An alpaca grazed at the base of an agave plant beside the path. It was the same man they had encountered in the light gap. He gripped the handles of the gears and looked to the other natives as if seeking permission.
'You'd better open that gate,' Rippeth said. 'Now.'
He raised his pistol and pointed it at the native's chest.
The man quickly recoiled.
An arrow sang through the air.
Rippeth cursed and his weapon fell from his grasp. He grabbed his right hand by the wrist. Half of the arrow protruded from either side of the base of his thumb. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Cradling the hand to his chest, he dropped to one knee and reclaimed his weapon in his other hand. He pointed it toward the trees, where now all of the natives had their bows raised.
'No!' Sam shouted.
She shoved through Merritt and the others until she reached Rippeth, and stood between him and his assailants.
'What are you doing?' Rippeth asked. He tried to sight down the barrel around her, but she moved from side to side to block his shot. 'Get out of the way!'
'When you raised your gun, they perceived it as an act of aggression,' she said. 'They could have killed you, but they didn't.'
'That doesn't change the fact that they shot me!'
'In the hand. It could just as easily have been through the neck.'
Merritt studied her. She could have been killed stepping between the trained soldier and his target. He had seen it in the man's eyes.
'Everyone lower your weapons,' Sam called without breaking eye contact with Rippeth.
'You're out of your mind,' Rippeth said.
'Would you just lower your gun before you get us all killed!'
With obvious reluctance, Rippeth slowly allowed his pistol to fall to his side.
'Thank you.'
Sam turned to face the native who again stood at the gears. He glanced to his armed companions, then unlatched the handle and cranked the wheel of the contraption. With the grinding sound of stone on stone, the massive slab inched backward from the wall to reveal the dark passage.
They passed through cascading streams of vines and shadows to find themselves in the jungle. Again there was the grinding sound as the stone slid back into place, sealing them outside the village.
'You should have let me shoot them,' Rippeth said. His lips pursed over his clenched teeth as he yanked the arrow out of the back of his hand and cast it into the forest.
Sam said nothing, and instead shed her backpack, opened the flap, and removed a long-sleeved shirt. She ripped it at the seam and tipped her chin toward Rippeth's bloody hand.
He appraised her for some time before holding it out.
She wrapped the wound twice around and then tied the fabric tight. Rippeth flexed his fingers into a fist, but the thumb didn't respond.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'That's going to have to do for now.'
Rippeth whirled and stormed away from her down the earthen path.
The others followed in silence. Merritt had to jog to catch up with Sam.
'What did he say back there?' he asked.
'That I should have let him kill them.'
'No. Back there in the village. The man with all of the scars and the headdress. I saw the look on your face when he spoke. You understood him, didn't you?'
Sam looked off into the forest as she whispered to him.
'It was a dialect of Quechua I've never heard before, so I can't be completely sure.'
'Okay. So what do you think he might have said?'
She turned to face him and their eyes locked.
'It sounded like he said something to the effect of 'Let them pass. They are dead already.''
VII
Sam hung back toward the rear of the group. Her thoughts were a blur. She had seen so much, too much. It was sensory overload on a scale she'd never experienced before. She could spend a lifetime cataloguing and studying just what she'd been able to see from the central path leading through the village. What else could be stored inside the buildings? What other surprises lurked just out of sight? All of the answers she had sought during the course of her education and career were somewhere within those city walls, which were now falling rapidly behind her. Not only could she unravel the mystery of the disappearance of an entire culture half a millennium ago, but she could hear it told in the words of the people themselves. How had they managed to stay hidden for so long in an age when technology had shrunk the globe to the size of a pebble and laid bare so many of its secrets? They couldn't be more than forty-five miles from Pomacochas, and yet it might as well be a thousand.
She wished she could turn around and head back to the village, if only to memorize the history told through the carvings on the stone walls. There was so much they didn't know about the Chachapoya. No one was even sure what language they had spoken. Some speculated Aymara like so many Andean tribes, while others believed they spoke Quechua, especially following their defeat at the hands of the Inca. And now she had incontrovertible proof that they did indeed speak a variant of Quechua, but at the moment there wasn't a blasted thing she could do about
