shoes.”
Matt gratefully removed the rubber-tyre sandals he had been wearing since Lima. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that the new trainers fitted him perfectly. All of this had been planned. As he pulled them on, he noticed Pedro holding his own pair with a look of complete awe. It occurred to him that the Peruvian boy had probably never owned a new piece of clothing in his life.
When they were both ready, Atoc reached into his poncho and produced a handful of dark green leaves and what looked like two small pebbles. “You put this in mouth,” he explained, first in English and then, for Pedro, in Spanish. He wrapped a pebble in the leaves, forming a small bundle. “The leaves are coca,” he went on. “The stone we call llibta. The two mix with saliva in mouth and give you strength.”
Matt did as he was told. The coca leaves tasted disgusting and he couldn’t imagine how they would work, but there didn’t seem any point arguing.
They set off. The two Indians went first. Matt followed, with Pedro – tripping over several times as he got used to the new footwear – just behind him. Atoc was at the back. Matt had hoped they would be heading downhill but it seemed that their path was going to be up all the way. The jungle wasn’t as impenetrable as it seemed. Someone, a long time ago, had cut a staircase. The steps were almost invisible, uneven and covered in lichen, but they wove between the trees, twisting up the face of the hill.
“If you need rest, you say,” Atoc said.
Matt gritted his teeth. They had only covered a short distance and already he needed to rest. It wasn’t the steepness of the slope: the air was even thinner here than it had been in Cuzco. If he walked too fast his head would begin to thump and he could feel the burning in his lungs. The secret was to measure out a careful pace, one step at a time, and not look up, as it only reminded him how far they had to go. He turned the llibta over in his mouth. Now he understood why he needed it. He just hoped it would actually work.
The sun climbed higher and suddenly it was hot. Matt could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Everything was wet. Once, he reached out to steady himself against a tree and his hand sank into it as if it were a sponge. Beads of moisture hung in the air. Water dripped through his hair and ran down the sides of his face. Pedro stopped and removed his poncho. Matt did the same. One of the Indians took them, his expression making it clear that he would accept no argument. Matt didn’t mind. He was using all his strength just to keep going. He must have already climbed five hundred steps. And the staircase showed no sign of ending.
Something bit him. Matt cried out and slapped his arm. A second later, he was bitten again, this time on the side of his neck. He almost wanted to cry… or swear… or scream. How much worse could this journey get? Atoc caught up with him and handed him a cloth filled with some evil-smelling ointment.
“Midges,” he explained. “We call them puma waqachis. It means, insects who make the puma cry.”
“I know how the puma feels,” Matt growled. He scooped up some of the ointment and rubbed it into his skin, where it mixed instantly with his sweat. Matt felt it trickle down his body. His clothes were sticking to him like a second skin. Another midge bit him on the ankle. Matt closed his eyes for a moment, then set off again.
They stopped twice for water. The Indian guides had plastic bottles in their backpacks. Matt forced himself to drink only a little, aware that all five of them had to share the same supply. The sun was high above them now and he began to wonder if there was something wrong with his vision. The forest seemed hazy and out of focus. Then he realized that in the heat, all the moisture was turning to steam. Soon he was completely wrapped in a dense white fog, barely able to see the man in front of him.
“Stay close!” Atoc called out. His voice came from nowhere. He could have been on another planet. “Not far now.”
They emerged from the cloud forest suddenly and unexpectedly. One moment Matt was fighting his way through the undergrowth, the next he had emerged on the edge of a huge canyon. The sky was clear. A vast mountain range stretched out in front of him, many of the peaks covered in snow. Some of them seemed to be touching the edge of space. Matt was close to exhaustion. He was soaking wet and he had a vicious headache. But even so, he felt a sense of elation. Looking down, he saw that it was raining in the canyon. But the rain was below him. He had climbed above cloud level.
“You see?” Atoc pointed to one of the mountains. From where they were standing, it looked a little like a human head. “Is Mandango,” he explained. “The Sleeping God.”
Pedro had caught up with Matt. He stood panting on the edge of the abyss. He rasped out a few words in Spanish. Atoc smiled for the first time since he and Matt had spoken earlier. “He says he feels terrible,” he translated for Matt. “But you look worse.”
“Where now?” Matt gasped. He couldn’t believe they had climbed all this way up just to go down again.
“It is not so far,” Atoc said. “But take care. It is very far if you fall…”
Atoc wasn’t exaggerating. A single, well-defined path led down the side of the canyon. Somehow Matt knew that it must have been cut into the rock face by hand. There was something completely unnatural about it. The path was flat and the surface was almost as polished as the streets of Cuzco. The one thing it wasn’t, though, was wide. In places there was barely a metre between the wall and the hideous drop over the side. If Matt had taken one false step he would have fallen… and fallen. He saw a herd of sheep or llamas grazing in the pampas at the very bottom of the canyon. To him, they were like ants. There were no trees here to protect them from the sun and Matt could feel it burning his face and arms. He was nothing in this immense landscape. He could be soaked by the rain or fried by the sun. In his entire life, he had never felt so insignificant.
They walked for more than an hour, descending all the time. Matt could feel the pressure changing in his ears. How long had it been since breakfast? He had no idea but he knew he couldn’t go on much longer. His legs were aching and his feet – in the new trainers – were getting blisters. They turned a corner and Matt saw that the path had brought them to a platform of solid rock with steps leading down on the other side. He took a deep breath. It seemed that their journey was over.
They had arrived.
And there, built – incredibly – on the edge of the canyon, was a miniature city. It wasn’t a modern city. Parts of it reminded Matt of Cuzco and he guessed that it had been built by the same people, maybe around the same time.
First, terraces had been cut into the rock. These were the foundation and there must have been fifty or sixty of them, jutting out of the mountainside like giant shelves. Some of the terraces had been planted with crops, some were dotted with grazing sheep and llamas. The city itself consisted of temples, palaces, houses and storerooms, all built of blocks of stone that must have been carried at some time through the cloud forest and over the mountains. A great rectangle of grass ran through the centre: a meeting place, a sports ground, the focus of everyday life. Matt knew instantly that there would be no electricity here, no cars, nothing from the modern age. And yet he wasn’t looking at a ruin. The city was alive. There were people everywhere. They lived here. This was their home.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“Vilcabamba!” It was Pedro who had replied.
Atoc nodded slowly. “The lost city of the Incas. Many great men search for it. For hundreds of years, they search. But none have found it. Vilcabamba cannot be found. It cannot be reached.”
“Why not?” It seemed easy enough to Matt. After all, they had reached it without too much difficulty. The path that had brought them down the side of the canyon must be clearly visible. Anyone could follow it here. “The path…” he began.
Atoc shook his head. “There is no path,” he said.
“No. What I’m trying to say is…” Matt took a couple of steps back and looked around the corner.
Impossible.
The path wasn’t there. The canyon wall was a sheer, vertical drop with no way up or down. The path that they had just taken, which they had walked down for more than an hour, had disappeared.
“Do not ask questions,” Atoc said. “You have friends who wait for you.”
“But…”
The Indian rested a hand on his shoulder and together the two of them walked round the corner. Pedro and the other men had already gone on ahead. Matt saw them walk through a stone archway, and at the same time a man appeared, climbing up the steps towards them. He was in a hurry. And he was European.
Then the man drew closer and Matt felt a huge surge of pleasure and relief. He shouted out and ran forward. The two of them embraced.
