When she finally came to, she had been surprised to find herself in a hospital bed. Phillip and Marcelo were the first people she saw. When the doctor told her the extent of her injuries, she had cried. She'd suffered a concussion and a broken jaw, but it was her shattered leg that concerned the doctor the most. It hung above her bed in a cast suspended by wires and pulleys. She had overheard the doctor telling Marcelo there was a good chance she would end up walking with a limp. It was like a death sentence. To be a cripple at her age meant she probably would never find a husband, certainly not a good provider.
That's when Phillip had come to her rescue. He felt so responsible for her injuries that he convinced Marcelo to let her travel with him to Los Angeles where a team of specialists would make her whole again. He had a plane standing by, and when he asked her if she would be willing to go, Catalina recalled how foolish she must have sounded trying to speak through clenched teeth. All she was able to do was mumble an incomprehensible, "Thank you." She spent two months in the hospital convalescing. A team of surgeons had replaced her shin bone as well as her knee. They repaired the damage by surgically implanting several prosthetic devices. It took several operations. With the exception of a couple of thin scars, no one would have known she had surgery. After eight months of prescribed therapy as well as rigorous daily exercise, she was able to walk unassisted without a limp.
During her hospital stay, Phillip had come to visit her at least once a day to inquire about her health. He read to her, and brought her all kinds of gifts. And then there were the flowers. Other than at a flower shop, she had never seen so many bouquets. The entire hospital room was filled with roses. She thought it was wasteful for any one person to have so many so she gave most of them away to the nurses who distributed them throughout the ward.
When she had first met him, Phillip had been her "Prince Charming." Knowing that he was considerably older didn't make him any less attractive. Maybe it was his premature graying hair, which gave him a distinguished look, or possibly it was his poise and self-assurance. He had "movie star" good looks, that's how handsome he was; a perfectly proportioned nose, a set of high cheekbones and thick, graying dark hair. For as long as she knew him, she had never seen him out of control.
In retrospect, she now realized she would have gravitated to just about anyone who would have paid the least bit of attention to her. In those days, she had been such a gangly teenager that people never bothered giving her a second look. And here was a suave, good-looking man who doted over her, pampered her, and catered to her every whim.
Once she had fully recovered, Catalina thought Phillip would put her on a plane to Manaus, but that didn't happen. The day she was released from the hospital was the day Phillip had taken control of her life.
* * *
The aircraft's change in altitude and the whine of its wing flaps indicated she would be landing soon. As she buckled her seat belt, she again wondered if she had made the right decision. At first she had agreed to stay with Phillip until she found a job, but a job never materialized because Phillip had encouraged her to go to school. She had taken a couple of courses at a local junior college and was surprised when she received high marks. Once Phillip discovered she had an interest in archeology, he pulled a few strings and got her admitted to the University of Southern California. He paid her tuition, bought her beautiful clothes, and had been her one and only companion.
For the first time in her life, Catalina was able to conceptualize what money could buy. She loved the comfort and security that Phillip's wealth provided. In the beginning of their strange relationship, Catalina had every intention of paying Phillip back the money he'd spent on her education. She rationalized that once she earned a B.A. degree, she would get a job and become self-sufficient, but somehow that had gone by the wayside. By the time she had graduated, she had become quite interested in Phillip's collection of South American artifacts. He insisted she stay in school and once she obtained her doctorate degree, he ensconced her in a condo and hired her to oversee and expand his collection. "You'll be my director of acquisitions," he had said. "Your job will be to purchase the finest quality pieces of South American antiquities. You know me well enough by now. I want only the best. You also know what my collection lacks."
She had been expanding upon Phillip's collection for the better part of two years and now, at twenty-eight, she was flying to Manaus to take a look at an old aryballos that had piqued her interest.
CHAPTER 7
The first thing Catalina did upon arriving in Manaus was visit her grandfather. She loved Marcelo dearly. Here he was, in his mid-eighties and as spry as ever-that is, if he was telling her the truth about his age. She didn't remember her grandmother as she died when she was just a little girl. For the last several years she had been trying to talk Marcelo into leaving Manaus and come live with her in Los Angeles. Today was no exception. "Just think, you wouldn't have to ask me about the weather anymore. I'd buy you your own television set so you could listen to the weather broadcast every day."
Marcelo kissed her fondly on the cheek. "You don't want an old man like me around. I would only be in the way."
"We've had this conversation before," Catalina said sternly. "I only see you a couple of times a year. Come on. Come back with me. Would you, please?"
Marcelo winked. "What about my friends? Did I tell you I have a new girlfriend? She is younger than me. She says she is seventy-five, but she's older. She lies about her age just like I do."
"Oh, Granddad. You are impossible, but I love you." Catalina reflected on the two-bedroom house Marcelo owned. It was half the size of her condo, but it had been her home for the better part of three years. Although it had been adequate, she was glad she no longer lived in Manaus. Phillip's cosmopolitan style of life was broadening her horizons-at least that's what she kept telling herself.
Marcelo took her to see Arcell who told her he had no objection to letting her have the aryballos for a couple of days providing she returned it in good condition.
She immediately took it to Marcelo's place and sat in her old room with a strong light and a magnifying glass for most of the night. After examining it, she came to the conclusion that it was in much better condition than the photographs had revealed. She picked up the aryballos by its gourd-like stem and shook it gently. Nothing. Should she assume it was empty? No. There has to be something in it or why else would it be sealed?
Although some of the anthropomorphic design had faded, she could spot a definite logic to the Topuku caricatures lining its sides. Although Catalina couldn't make out all of the writing, she was definitely left with the impression that whoever had scribed the pictographs was telling a story, a story she was determined to unravel.
Two days later, she returned the aryballos to Arcell. This time, she purposely avoided taking Marcelo with her. Because Arcell was her grandfather's friend, she didn't want Marcelo to be there when she negotiated price. Although she couldn't be certain, she felt the ancient water jar contained a secret. Why else would the word "derrotero" appear? She thought a guide text could be a map, but a map to what?
Catalina hoped her facial expression didn't convey her inner excitement at the prospect of purchasing it. She set the artifact on Arcell's counter. "How much do you want for it?"
"Well, being that Marcelo is your grandfather, I think ten thousand euros would be a fair price."
Catalina was certain that Marcelo had told her Phillip was rich. Intuitively, she felt Arcell was going to milk as much money out of the artifact as he could. "It's not made of gold, you know. In fact, it's not even in pristine condition. Ten thousand euros is simply out of the question. I'll give you four thousand and not a penny more."
Arcell appeared to mull over her offer. "You must admit it's somewhat unusual to find one this ornate. Also it's sealed. I could come down to eight thousand."
Catalina was qualified to appraise South American artifacts. She knew eight thousand euros was simply an outrageous price.
Although Phillip would never question the sum, it was a professional challenge for her to obtain the artifact at a market price, especially since it wouldn't be the finest piece of terracotta in his collection. Feigning disinterest, she turned away from Arcell and headed for the door. She prayed that her ploy would prompt the dealer to come closer to her offer.
"Six thousand then. It's certainly worth six thousand euros," she heard him say.
Catalina reached for the knob. "That's not going to happen. The receptacle may be old, but age in and of itself doesn't determine value." She opened the door and was about to walk out when she heard Arcell's pleading voice.
"Wait! Five thousand. Have a heart, will you? I know it's worth at least that much."
Catalina removed her smile before turning to face him. "I'll give you four thousand five hundred for it, Arcell. And only because you are my grandfather's friend."
* * *
Her heart was racing with excitement when she left Arcell's shop with the aryballos. She couldn't wait to call Phillip to tell him of her purchase. Catalina was anxious to break the seal, but decided to wait till she returned to L.A. She also vowed to spend whatever time it would take to figure out the meaning of some of the Topuku pictographs that were on the jar.
CHAPTER 8
Eric Shade was bored. It had been raining the entire week since he and Chris had returned from the Amazon. The hikers they had guided safely through the jungle had paid their bill, and although Eric had looked forward to a few days' rest, he certainly hadn't expected to have to hang around Chris's shack for this long, waiting for the weather to clear.
"Will you quit pacing, for Christ's sake!" Chris admonished him. "You're like a caged animal. Relax, will you? Go read a book or something."
Eric grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and plopped down on a rickety chaise lounge. "If this damn rain would only stop. I hate being cooped up in the house."
"I wish it would stop, too," Chris said. "I'd like to hitch a ride on a barge that's heading toward the Purus River. I heard a mestizo say there were ruins of an ancient temple in the jungle a mile east of the Amazon River. Maybe we could-"
Eric cut him off. "I know why you want to go there. You're still looking for a pot of gold in the proverbial rainbow. It takes money to search for ancient relics in the jungle, money we don't have. We'll soon be entering the off-season for tourists. We have to make enough to live through some upcoming dry months."
"You're right, Eric. You're always right. But one of these days?.?.?."
"I know, Chris. One of these days I hope to save up enough money so I can continue to search for my father."
"He's been gone for months, Eric. Do you really think he's still alive?"
"It's a long shot, but I have to give it one more try."
"Where will you look?" Chris asked.
"I'm sure he's somewhere in Mato Grosso."
"Ninety percent of Mato Grosso is nothing but jungle. You're talking about thousands of square miles. Hell, Eric. You could spend a lifetime there, and you'd never find him."
"I know," Eric replied. "I thought I'd head toward Roncador Mountain. There are a number of tunnels in that region. Maybe he entered one of them."
"You aren't going there alone. You and I climbed that mountain several times. It would be suicidal to attempt a solo climb. Besides, you've heard the stories same as I. People who have entered some of those tunnels have never been heard from since."
Eric was only too aware of the dangers involved. "What I would like to know is why the Murcego Indians had taken such an interest in guarding one of them."
"Are you referring to the Bat Indians?" Chris asked.
Eric shook his head. "The Murcego's earned the nickname because they are nocturnal-just like bats. Those Indians may be small, but they are supposed to be fierce as hell."
"I know, I know," Chris said. "But if I became frightened of every yarn that's been told about the strange things that happen in Brazil, I probably would never venture out of bed."
"Your point is well taken," Eric replied. "But you must admit some strange occurrences have been reported in and around the mountain. Some even say you can hear choral singing coming from one of those tunnels."
Chris laughed. "Come on, Eric. Choral singing? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"Think what you like," Eric replied. "All I know is it would be just like my father to enter one of those tunnels." Eric glanced at Chris. "I can't go there alone. But if you were to come with me, maybe with your help, I'll find him-that is, if that's where he went."
Chris turned serious. "When are you going to face reality, Eric? Your father is gone. Are you going to spend the rest of your life searching for a dead man?"
Eric drained his beer and walked over to the refrigerator to grab another. "I know the situation seems hopeless, but I at least have to try. You don't have to come with me, you know."
Chris's voice softened. "It's not that I mind helping you look for him. It's just that you have no clues. We'd be better off if we were to follow the Amazon River upstream and talk to villagers along the way. Someone may recall seeing a white man that fits his description. I have a hard time believing he would have gone to that mountain by himself."
"You don't know my father," Eric said. "The man is absolutely fearless."
"Colonel Fawcett was fearless, too. And look where that got him." Chris countered.
Eric knew the story well. Percy Fawcett considered himself to be invincible. The English adventurer had explored many areas of South America where no white man had even been. Eventually he disappeared forever into the wilderness. "You make perfect sense, but then why argue about it? We can't do a damn thing anyway, at least not until we latch on to some money."
* * *
In the late afternoon of the fourth day, the rain clouds dissipated, and the sun came out just long enough to set in the western sky. The evening was pleasant so Chris and Eric sat outside. They gazed at the multitude of stars, small twinkling jewels that dominated the entire sky. Eric was the first to break the silence. "Have you ever heard of the Star Walkers?"
"No. Not really. Who are they?"
"That's a question I've been asking myself off and on for quite some time. Most Indians living in South America believe that thousands of years ago, a group of gods descended from the sky. They supposedly came from the constellation of Orion shortly after the last deluge to impart their ancient wisdom to the Ugha Mongulala, a tribe of Indians who lived long, long ago."
"You said deluge. What kind of a deluge?"
Eric resettled himself on the chaise lounge. "Roncador is an active volcano. Did you know that?" He didn't wait for Chris to reply. "Geologists claim it erupted some thirteen thousand years ago. Legend has it that a group of white-skinned men in long flowing robes lived in a subterranean city nearby. As you can well imagine, when the earth shook, and day turned to night, there came from the crevasses in the ground deadly gases. Blinded, asphyxiated, and maddened beyond human endurance, the people that lived above ground fled. It was said those who did not escape were either burned, or engulfed in the yawning earth, but not the Star Walkers."
"Do you believe in the myth?" Chris asked.
"I'm not sure I do. Lewis Spence, an expert on ancient history of South America, claims there were survivors of this holocaust and that evidence of them has come to light from time to time over the years. Reports of strange, pale-skinned guardians of subterranean cities abound. The question is: were they some unknown race that lived in Brazil thousands of years ago or were they descendents of the Star Walkers who initially had come to earth from the stars, or so the story goes." Eric turned to face Chris. "Do you remember my telling you that my father took me on a quest to find the lost city of Ingregil?"
"Yes. In fact, I recall you saying the two of you found an unusual statue there."
Eric nodded. "Actually they were three statues in one. The men definitely had Caucasian features. I'm sure of it. They wore long
flowing robes. My father was convinced the statues were a facsimile of the Star Walkers. It's been years since I've seen those statues, yet when I close my eyes, I can see the three figures just as clearly as I see you. They were carved out of a solid piece of granite, three men, or maybe I should say gods. Their facial characteristics weren't Indian. They had high cheekbones like the Greeks and sculpted noses like the Romans. The one in the middle held a staff. Now I ask you, how could ancient artisans create figures so unlike themselves unless they had actually seen the men they depicted?"
Chris was hanging on Eric's every word. "Maybe they were conquistadors?.?.?. if the city was built in the sixteenth century. As you know, the Spaniards were in South America at about that time."
"You forget I used to teach South American history," Eric said. "The first white man to reach a South American shoreline was Christopher Columbus. This took place at the end of the fifteenth century at a time when he made his third voyage to the Americas. If my memory serves me correctly, the conquests of Pizarro and Cort?s took place much later. Also, for the record, Ingregil was not built by the Incas. Archeologists have determined the city was built at a time when Jesus Christ was preaching in Jerusalem. Now you tell me how a group of indigenous Indians could have possibly known what white men looked like in the days when Jesus was alive."
"Your point is well taken," Chris said. "Both of us have seen some strange things in the jungle. So what's your theory? Do you think they were ancient aliens? Did they come from another world?"