“So where do we sleep?”
“We make ready.”
The Indians led them to the edge of the clearing, where three tents had been prepared. Atoc indicated that the two boys were to share. “You need sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow is very hard.”
He left them together. The tent appeared to be brand new, and inside there were two sleeping bags rolled out on foam mattresses. A battery-operated light hung from the tent pole. Matt didn’t bother undressing. He slipped out of the poncho and rolled it up, using it as a pillow. Then he slid into a sleeping bag. Pedro did the same.
For a brief moment Matt thought about Richard. He wondered if he was being carried ever further away from his friend. And what of Fabian? Was he somewhere in Cuzco, still searching for them?
There was so much he didn’t understand but he was too tired to think about it now. He was asleep before he knew it. This time there were no dreams.
Matt was woken by the light shining through the fabric of the tent. He stretched, with difficulty, inside his sleeping bag. The foam had done little to protect him from the hard ground and his back and shoulders were stiff. He thought of staying where he was and trying to get back to sleep but there was no chance of that. He was too uncomfortable, and anyway Pedro was snoring. Making as little noise as possible, he crawled out of the tent, dragging the poncho with him. Once he was outside, he stood up and put it on.
It was still cold. Dawn had broken but as yet there was no sign of the sun. Matt shivered in the morning air as he took stock of his surroundings. The night before he’d had the impression of jungle – thick undergrowth and mountains. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met him now.
He seemed to be on the edge of the world. The helicopter landing pad had been carved into the side of a fantastically steep hillside. Looking up or down, all he could see was green… a spidery tangle of trees and bushes with vines and creepers knotted among them, continuing, it seemed, for ever. Atoc had said they had a long walk ahead of them but Matt couldn’t even see where they’d begin. There was no way up. The foliage seemed impenetrable. And yet if they climbed down they would surely fall into a brilliant green vortex. The area where they were sitting was flat. Everything else was vertical. It was as if the whole world had been tipped onto its side.
Atoc and the two Indians were already awake, putting together a picnic breakfast of bread and cheese. They had lit a small bonfire with a kettle hanging over it but the water had not yet boiled.
Atoc walked over to him. “Did you sleep all right, Matteo?” he asked. Like Pedro, he was using the Spanish version of his name. “We take food soon…”
“Thank you.”
In the daylight, Atoc looked younger and less threatening than he had in the shadows of Cuzco. He also looked even more like the man Matt had met so briefly, Micos. He had to know.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” he began, nervously.
“I will tell you what I can.”
“When I was in Lima, I met someone who was very much like you. And he was there again in Ica.”
“Micos.”
“Yes.” Matt wasn’t sure how to continue. “Your brother?”
“Yes. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sorry, Atoc. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
Atoc nodded slowly as if this was what he had expected to hear. But his dark, brown eyes filled with grief and he stood, still and completely silent, as Matt told him what had happened at the hacienda .
“I’m so sorry that he died because of us,” Matt said.
“But I am glad that if he had to die, it was for you,” Atoc replied. He took a deep breath. “Micos was my younger brother,” he said. “There were two years between us. In our language ‘micos’ is ‘monkey’, and he was the funny one, always in trouble. Atoc is fox. I was the one who was meant to be clever. And yet when we were playing once, when I was eight years old, I threw a stone at him and almost took out his eye. He had a scar… just here.” Atoc raised a finger and drew a crescent moon next to his eye. “My father took his belt to me for that. But Micos forgave me.
“He wanted to help you, Matteo, because he believed in you. You are one of the Five. He would not be sad that he died if he knew you are safe now and so it is also wrong for me to be sad too. There will be more deaths. Many more. We must grow used to it.”
He turned his head and looked away into the distance, his eyes focused on something far away.
“Now I walk alone for a few minutes,” he said. “When I return, we forget what has been said and we not speak of it again.”
He walked away into the undergrowth.
“Matteo…!” Pedro had woken up and was calling to him from the tent.
Behind them, a trickle of white smoke from the bonfire rose, uncertainly, up into the morning sky.
After breakfast, the two Indians put out the bonfire and packed up the tents. They had already tied down the helicopter and covered it with a green tarpaulin, camouflaging it in case anyone happened to fly overhead. Matt could see these people thought of everything… although he still wasn’t sure who they actually were.
Atoc had eaten with them. Whatever grief he might be feeling, he didn’t let it show. “We leave now,” he said and signalled to one of the Indians who came forward, carrying two new pairs of trainers. “You cannot walk in those 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.