The area is unstable, geologically speaking, with the oceanic Nazca plate sliding under the South American continental plate at a rate that, while imperceptible to us, is the fastest tectonic activity anywhere. It is this action that created the Andes and an extraordinarily deep ocean trench off the coast. It is also the reason for a geological instability that results in bad earthquakes on a reasonably regular basis and sporadic volcanic activity. Puma’s and Pachamama’s choice of Peru as a place to avoid the cataclysmic upheavals of Armageddon was, from that standpoint, a poor one.
This is Moche country, I thought and marveled at it. How could such a remarkable civilization, capable of the art I had seen and held, flourish in such an inhospitable place? I wondered. But it had. Around 100 B.C., some kind of political alliance coalesced in the Rio Moche Valley, then spread north. Enormous complexes were built at Cerro Blanco, a capital city dominated by two enormous pyramids, the Huaca de la Luna and the Huaca del Sol, temples of the Moon and the Sun.
For several centuries, the Moche consolidated their position by building ceremonial and administrative centers in the river valleys—control of water being absolutely critical to their empire in such an arid part of the world—to the north and south of their capital. They had a system of canals, high up in the Andes, that diverted water from the river chasms in the mountains to irrigate the desert lands.
The Moche had a complex social structure, with an elite, a warrior class, artisans, and commoners; they practiced elaborate rituals, many of them involving human sacrifice; buried their most important citizens with treasures that rival the Egyptians; and had a vivid mythology, tantalizing hints of which remain.
Late in the sixth century, though, environmental catastrophe began to wreak havoc on the northern coastal desert. Long periods of blistering drought interrupted by sudden and devastating flooding destroyed much of Cerro Blanco and other Moche cities. There were attempts to rebuild, but the damage to the empire proved irreversible, and gradually the Moche culture faded away to be replaced by others. And it was a very long time before the grandeur of that period became known and appreciated once again.
It occurred to me, as I pondered the rise and fall of civilizations, that I might better spend my time contemplating events a little closer to home. I felt I hadn’t always been thinking as clearly as I might like in the last little while, not since I’d found Alex barely conscious in the shop, and the charred body of Lizard, and certainly not since my grisly discovery at the Ancient Ways Gallery in New York.
I could laugh at Puma’s notions about “ ‘pocalypses” and the dangers of unleashing curses from tombs, but there was no question I felt that all the bad things that were happening were linked to some Moche artifacts, and that strange things had started happening right after I’d acquired the so-called replicas. Furthermore, almost everyone who had some association with them, however tenuous, had endured some unfortunate happening in their lives, some of them coming to a very bad end indeed. Even A. J. Smythson, the late owner of the Smythson Gallery, who hadn’t actually acquired them but was supposed to, had died a horrible death.
The point was, I didn’t believe in curses, not when I was being rational, anyway.
And now here I was on a bus headed for the purported point of origin of at least one of these artifacts, the flared vase from Campina Vieja. I was almost three hours north of Trujillo, four or five hundred miles north of Lima, and a lifetime away from the people I cared about.
This is nuts, I thought. Go home. You can persuade Rob of Alex’s innocence and yours. He’s angry, but he’ll get over it, and he will help put this right.
“Campina Vieja,” the driver called out. I’d arrived at my destination, good idea or not. I disembarked. So did my two young friends.
Steve Neal had said that he’d be in town to meet me, and he was as good as his word. For the very few minutes I had to wait for him, I did a quick survey of my surroundings. I was in a reasonably large town and across from a bustling open-air market. I also watched the two young hippies—really there was no other word for them, as outdated as the term might be—try to negotiate their onward journey to the commune.
The preferred method of transport in Campina Vieja appeared to be motorcycle taxi. Puma and Pachamama carefully counted out their change—they were obviously broke, even more so than I—and then tried to negotiate the fare with one of the drivers near the bus station.
They were at a serious disadvantage, not speaking Spanish, and dealing with a destination that was either unknown to the driver, or one which he didn’t want to go to. Eventually they picked up their packs and started to walk. Shortly after, Steve Neal pulled up in a grey Nissan truck.
For the next half hour or so, Steve did a few errands around town, giving me a running commentary on the place as he did so. We picked up four large plastic cubes of water, a tank of propane and some kerosene, and then we were headed out of town on the northbound Pan-American highway once again. A couple of miles out of town, I saw up ahead of us the two young people, trudging along the edge of the road. They were covered in dust, and the young woman, in particular, looked tired.
As reluctant as I was to pursue this relationship—inhabitants of communes waiting for the end of the world are not exactly my cup of tea—my maternal instincts, usually dormant, were roused, they looked so forlorn. I told Steve about them, and he pulled on the shoulder several yards ahead of them, and I got out and waved. The two of them ran to catch up to us.
“Steve,” I said, “these are my new friends Puma and Pachamama.”
I could see mirth touching the corners of Steve’s eyes and mouth, but he managed to control himself. “How do you do,” he said gravely, shaking their hands in turn. I explained where they were headed, and Puma showed him some directions. “Throw your stuff in the back and hop in,”‘ he said, gesturing to the backseat. “We have one stop, but it’s on our way.” The two grinned ear to ear with gratitude.
Puma sat up front with Steve, while I took the backseat with Pachamama. She didn’t have very much to say, but I noticed Puma was doing card tricks for Steve, which must have been a little distracting.
A few miles out of town, Steve made a left turn on a dirt road that ran between two buildings. Standing in front of one of them was a tiny woman, skin very brown and wrinkled, wearing a brown felt hat the shape of a lamp shade, an embroidered blouse covered by a brown vest, a short full skirt of navy blue over leggings, and black work boots. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was twisted into two long, thick plaits. Beside her were two very large woven baskets in bright colors, pink and orange and green. Steve pulled the truck up beside her, loaded the baskets in the back, then helped her up into the back of the truck as well.
“Ines Cardoso,” he said, getting back behind the wheel. “Our cook. With our dinner,” he added.
About half a mile down the dusty road, he pulled off the road again, and we bumped down what was essentially a cart path in the general direction of a clump of trees. I could see a few primitive huts to one side, some laundry flapping in a breeze, a fenced-in area beside them where a few tired stalks of corn were growing. “Here we are. The commune,” Steve said. My heart sank for my two young friends.
We disembarked, and Puma and Steve unloaded the bags from the back of the van. I smiled at Ines, who was staring at me. She didn’t smile back.
I hugged both the kids and, in a moment of weakness, slipped the Peruvian equivalent of about twenty dollars to Puma, then watched as they headed toward the encampment. “Don’t forget what I told you,” Puma called back to me. “About December 31 and everything.” How could I forget when I was being reminded about it everywhere I went?