Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) (2 page)

Once
hidden safely away from the eyes of the native priests who would be arriving soon,
the plan was to rest up, drink plenty of water, and wait.

2

The night was clear and warm, and
the air heavy with moisture and the threat of a coming storm. In the distance,
a fire burned brightly in a pit that had been constructed roughly fifteen feet
directly in front of the Door of the Gods.

Jackson
wondered what sort of fuel the Peruvian shamans had used to stoke the blaze, as
it burned with greater than any campfire he had ever seen. Flames leapt
straight up, as if straining to reach the heavens, roaring to heights greater
than that of the men feeding the fire. Wood crackled and the fire seemed to take
on a life of its own, emitting a guttural sound like throaty moan of a
suffering animal. The rocks forming the edges of the pit glowed a bright red.

The
ceremony was in full swing and had been for more than an hour. Drums pounded
and men danced, their moves oddly hypnotic, their bones seeming to lose all
rigidity, so fluid were their motions. There was no food consumed that Jackson
could see, but there was plenty of drink, and pipes with massive bowls were
passed among three men at the center of the activity.

Those three
men were the shamans, Jackson knew, and he focused most of his attention on
them. So far he had yet to observe any sign of the reason for this bizarre
journey: the golden disk. He hoped his time had not been wasted, as none of the
men performing the ritual in front of Puerta de Hayu Marka seemed to possess a
single item worth stealing. They were simple people, dressed in simple native
garb, deeply involved in their strange ritual. That was all.

Wesley
and Amos had begun mocking the Peruvians almost from the beginning o the
ceremony, their voices low, snickering and chuckling, and they turned resentful
gazes on Jackson when he shushed them. Their young guide was transfixed. He
stared at the activity, taking it all in, watching with all of the reverence the
Krupp brothers lacked.

And
then Jackson saw it.

The
golden disk. The reason they had come out here.

Without
warning, a short, squat man materialized out of the pitch-dark Peruvian plains,
walking slowly into the ring of flickering light provided by the fire. Even
from a distance and in the dim light, it was clear the man was old. He was more
than old; he was ancient. Wrinkles lined his face, and skin sagged from his
jowls despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that he was thin
to the point of emaciation.

The man
moved slowly, purposefully, carrying the heavy disk before him at chest height,
arms extended and locked in what had to be an extremely uncomfortable position.
The man didn’t seem to notice. He trudged toward the fire from somewhere out in
the wilderness, head up, eyes focused forward.

The
drumbeats increased in intensity now, and the strangely fluid dancing of the
men around the fire became frenzied. They whirled and jittered, arms moving
this way and legs that, seemingly in defiance of the laws of human anatomy.
Jackson watched, spellbound, jaw hanging open, one hand resting on the butt of his
Colt revolver.

The
drums pounded and throbbed and the dancers whirled and the ancient shaman
priest moved slowly forward and the pace of the tribal music increased until it
seemed something would have to give—

—and
then the old man arrived at the fire and stopped moving, and instantly, all
activity ceased.

The
drumbeats abruptly stopped, although no signal had been given that Jackson
could see. The dancers froze in place, their bodies suddenly rigid and
unyielding, the men holding themselves in positions that didn’t seem humanly
possible. They remained as unmoving as statues, the only indication they were
even alive being the expansion and contraction of their chests as they panted
from the exertion of the dance.

For a
long time—Jackson guessed at least five minutes, maybe ten—nothing
happened. No one moved. No one spoke. The fire roared and crackled, but
otherwise the silence was complete. It was unnerving after the frenzy of
activity preceding it. The Krupp brothers had long since abandoned their
mockery and stared at the scene below, their skin pale and their eyes nearly as
wide as their Peruvian guide’s.

Just
when it seemed the inactivity might continue forever, stretching into eternity,
the ancient shaman priest holding the golden disk began moving. When he had
stopped initially, he had done so directly in front of the mammoth door carved
into the sheer rock face—Puerta de Hayu Marka—and now he crept forward,
the disk still clutched before him like a sacrificial offering.

The old
man approached the alcove carved into the center of the door. The other shamans
watched but remained motionless. When he arrived at the alcove he stopped
again. He stood motionless and Jackson could see his lips moving, like he was
reciting some kind of prayer or incantation. When he finished, he reached
forward with great solemnity and placed the golden disk into the depression
Jackson had seen when they examined the alcove earlier in the day. It fit
perfectly, locking into place, glittering dully by the light of the fire.

And
then the impossible happened.

The
door began to open.

The
ground shook and a rumble emanated from deep within the solid rock and then,
incredibly, the alcove that was no more than a rendered carving of a
door—Jackson knew it to be true, he had examined the cursed thing with
his own eyes, had run his own hands over the solid surface—swung slowly
outward, and as it did, a brilliant blue light pierced the darkness, appearing
from the other side of the door, the side buried deep within the solid stone. The
impossibly bright beam burst outward into the South American night.

Still
no one moved, either at the site of the ceremony or in the bandits’ hiding
place above it. The door rumbled open, and when it had formed a perfect ninety-degree
angle with the surface of Puerta de Hayu Marka, it ground to a halt. The thick
slab of rock stood open, once again solid and immovable, and the strange blue
light continued billowing outward from somewhere deep inside the rock, forming
a thick rectangular shaft of oddly hypnotic illumination.

And
then a figure stepped through the opening.

***

The man, if it even was a man,
was bigger by far than anyone Jackson Healy had ever seen. He –
it
– glided through the open
doorway that had been nothing more than solid rock just moments before. The
figure’s feet touched the ground but he moved with a smoothness and economy of
motion Jackson had never seen out of another human being. His bearing was
regal. His skin appeared paper-thin and translucent, and his body pulsed with a
pale glow that seemed to emanate from deep within.

In his
hands the visitor held a clear tubular container. From a distance the container
resembled glass, although Jackson guessed it was not, and it was filled with an
amber liquid that sloshed around inside it sluggishly like a thick gel. The rock
doorway’s brilliant blue light illuminated the visitor from behind, casting his
features in deep shadow. His clothing was unlike anything Jackson had ever
seen: a billowing robe flowing off massive shoulders, stretched out behind him
like the train on a society matron’s ball gown.

The
visitor moved to a point directly in front of the shaman priest and stopped. He
bent and spoke a few words into the priest’s ear before handing him the tubular
container filled with the gel-like liquid, his movements somehow ceremonial. He
straightened abruptly and gazed over the crowd and then up the hill in the
direction of the Healy-Krupp gang’s hiding place.

For a
long moment Jackson froze, certain the visitor’s penetrating eyes were locked
onto his. Then the otherworldly being turned and glided back through the open
Puerta de Hayu Marka, disappearing through the stone door, swallowed up almost
immediately by the brilliant blue light.

And
then the rumbling began again, seeming to originate from somewhere deep below
the surface of the earth. The door swung slowly closed, and less than a minute
later was gone, melted back into the surface of the rock, and the alcove
appeared exactly as it had before the bizarre ceremony had begun.

And
Jackson Healy knew now was the time to act.

3

The bandits herded the ritual’s participants
into a more or less straight line in front of Puerta de Hayu Marka. The shamans’
meager security detail—a couple of tribal warriors armed with spears; it
was clear the pagan priests had expected no visitors and certainly no
trouble—had been brought under control quickly and easily. Jackson had
simply shot the first man to act aggressively in the head, point-blank, and the
remainder of the tribal members immediately recognized the wisdom in doing as
they were told.

The
fire continued to burn brightly in the stone pit behind them, throwing dancing
shadows onto the once-again sheer rock face. The Peruvian natives gazed at
their captors with stony expressions. They seemed to save the worst of their
scorn for the young boy who had served as guide for the Healy-Krupp gang.

For his
part, Juan seemed shell-shocked at the sudden turn of events. He had agreed to
serve as guide in exchange for more American money than anyone in his family
had likely ever seen, but he had clearly not expected violence, believing the
three gringos wanted nothing more than to observe the mystical ceremony from a
distance. Only in the last few minutes had he learned the truth.

Now he
would be put to use as a translator. Although the language being spoken by the
shamans was not quite the Spanish Juan was accustomed to, the dialects were
similar enough that with a little effort the boy could make the two parties
understand each other, more or less.

While
the Krupp brothers brandished their revolvers menacingly to keep the natives
under control, Jackson examined the alcove. He placed his hand on the rock, sliding
it slowly across the smooth surface. It was solid and unyielding, with no sign
that any part of it had only minutes ago swiveled as if on a hinge and opened
into a door. A vibration, so faint Jackson wondered whether he was imagining
it, seemed to emanate from the massive rock formation.

The
golden disk, roughly a foot in diameter, remained locked into the depression in
the middle of the alcove where it had been inserted to turn the massive rock
into a mystical portal. Jackson grazed his fingertips lightly across the disk’s
surface, and felt the vibration again. It was a little stronger, a humming that
was felt rather than heard, and it ran up his fingers and into his hand,
dissipating in his forearm.

Jackson
shuddered with a sudden and irrational sense of misgiving. He was gripped by
the thought that he should abandon this insane project, jump on the back of his
burro and get out now, while he still could.

Before
it was too late.

Then
the feeling was gone, evaporating as quickly as it had arisen.

He
shook his head, angry with himself for falling victim to what was clearly no
more than superstitious pagan nonsense, and felt around the edge of the disk, probing
and prying, looking for a handhold to use to pry the valuable golden relic out
of the rock.

Within
seconds he found one. On the right side of the circle, near the top, the
otherwise uniform depression sank slightly deeper into the stone. It provided
just enough room for him to slide his fingers between the disk and the smooth surface.
Jackson patiently worked his fingers under the disk, conscious of the skin
being rubbed off his knuckles, as well as of the angry stares of the natives
from behind him.

At last
the disk levered out of the depression. It slid away from Puerta de Hayu Marka
slowly, as if doing so only with the most extreme reluctance. It began to fall
and Jackson caught it with his left hand. As he did, a mutter of protest arose from
the warriors. The sound was brief and ended abruptly, and he knew one of the
Krupp brothers had raised his gun to the head of a random tribal member in an
unspoken threat.

Jackson
examined the back of his hand and observed blood welling through the scraped
and shredded skin of his knuckles. He wiped the blood away on his vest, aware
that the gesture was futile; more blood was already taking its place. He
shrugged. A little scrape on his knuckles was a small price to pay for this solid
gold disk, which was big and thick and heavy, and clearly worth a fortune.

He
turned and moved away from the alcove. Walked to his burro and slid the
priceless treasure into a saddlebag. Walked back to the rest of the gang and
stood before Juan. The boy’s enormous smile had long since disappeared and he
stared at Jackson with a mixture of fear and confusion.

Jackson
ignored it. His plan was working to perfection and he wasn’t about to alter it
because of the feelings of a little boy. He fixed the child with a stare and
said, “Ask the priest what that…man…handed him before he disappeared back into
the rock.”

The boy
stared back, and for a moment Jackson thought the kid was going to spit in his
face. Then he broke Jackson’s gaze and trudged toward the ancient shaman
priest, whose skin was lined and weathered and who looked even older up close
than he had from a distance.