He waved Baxter on. “Come on. Like you said, we’ve got to be close now.”
The rain had started to fall again. Heavy drops that drummed down on the broad leaves, their hats, and their shoulders. Underfoot, the ground squelched and sucked at their feet, every step becoming a battle against the mud and their fatigue.
Cartwright, leading, snagged an ankle and fell forward, crashing through elephant ear palm fronds to sprawl onto the slimy, composting jungle floor.
“Dammit.”
Baxter followed and was beside him in an instant, but didn’t bend to help. Instead, he froze and just stared.
“Hoo boy.”
Cartwright wiped mud from his face and eyes and looked up. He saw what had grabbed Baxter’s attention and his mouth immediately split into a grin.
“Oh my good God.” He got to his feet. “Oh my God!”
There was a structure; temple-like, set into the side of a sheer rock face that vanished up into the clouds high above them. Holding it in a muscular embrace were gnarled tree roots as thick as his waist, and the heavy-cut stonework was moss-green with age. Everything about it exuded artistry, antiquity, and spiritual reverence.
“Looks like a church, old man.” Baxter crossed his arms, cradling his rifle.
“It does, doesn’t it? But there’s no religious icons, or at least none I recognize.”
“Could it be Spanish?” Baxter asked.
Cartwright wiped water and more mud from his eyes and took a few steps into the small clearing before the building.
“Well, the Spanish have been here since the early 1500s. But this looks more like thousands of years old, rather than hundreds.” He pointed. “See that dead tree trunk that had thrown roots over the foundation stones? That’s an Acomat boucan tree; they can live to be over a thousand years old, and that huge guy looks to have died of old age.”
Baxter whistled.
Cartwright craned his neck, trying to take more of it in. “It’s not really my field, but looks a little like Mayan, but different.”
“Check out the gargoyles.” Baxter flicked water from his hat and then jammed it back on sodden hair. “Or are they more of your dinosaurian beasts — with two heads?”
Cartwright cast his eyes over the stone statues standing rampant on each side of a huge doorway. They were strange, wrong; they rose up on two muscular legs, but seemed to be wrestling with something — a long muscular body wrapped around them, fangs bared and with unblinking eyes.
“No, not two heads, but two creatures, their gods maybe, or perhaps creatures from a superstitious culture.” Cartwright had done his paleontology subjects at university, and there was nothing like these described in the fossil record. “Usually designed to warn strangers away.”
“Well, no wonder the Pemon said this land was taboo.” Baxter spat rainwater onto the ground.
“Jesus.” Cartwright cringed as a roar blasted out from the clouds above them. Baxter’s arms unfolded in an instant, holding his gun ready. After another few seconds, the hunter relaxed.
“What the hell is up there?” he asked.
“Gods and monsters, remember?” Cartwright straightened.
Baxter looked back and forth along the sheer wall. “No way up.”
“And no way down… unless you fall.” Cartwright turned about. “Undoubtedly a good thing.”
“Well, as a betting man, I’d lay money on someone having been up there,” Baxter observed.
“What makes you think that?” Cartwright tilted his chin at the bigger man.
“Those statues, for one. And I bet this temple, or whatever it is, has clues to find a way up there. We should check it out.”
Cartwright licked lips wet from the rain and felt a knot of tension, or maybe excitement, coil in his belly. “Yeah, we should.”
“Well, let’s go; I didn’t come all this way just to look at stuff.” Baxter gave him a lopsided grin. “There might be a secret passage, or treasure, or adventure.”
“Well then; here’s to adventure.” Cartwright hefted his pack and sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
There were several blank pages, and then when the notes resumed, Ben’s brows drew together as he noticed that the handwriting, word choice, and even grammar changed.
Someone else was now writing — he quickly flicked to the end to find the signature notations. And then, there it was:
Alonzo Borges, Capitán de Policía — El Callao, Eastern Venezuela.
And a date indicating three months had passed. But what had happened? Ben quickly turned the pages back and began again. His heart sank as he read on.
Alonzo Borges watched as the man was stretchered from the jungle. His emaciated frame made it easy for the bearers to carry him. He had a matted beard, rags for clothing, and a face marked by abrasions, rashes, and deep grime. There were also deep gashes along his ribs that had festered. But his eyes still blazed from his feverish face.
Being the police captain, Borges had all manner of problems brought to him, from the town or jungle. But it was the first time a strange westerner had been found wandering alone in the jungle. The stretcher-bearers laid the man at his feet, and the captain crouched beside him.
Borges laid a hand on the poor soul’s forehead, immediately feeling the fierce heat of fever. He guessed he was not long for this world. He clicked his fingers to a small boy watching. “Get the nurse.” He pointed at another boy. “You, water, rápido.”
He turned back to the figure. The man’s pale blue eyes remained wide, and his fever-red face made them stand out like blue lights. In his hands, he tightly clutched a leather-bound notebook. It seemed all he had left.
Borges was handed a cup of water, and he wiped greasy hair from the man’s brow, feeling once again the heat emanating from his skin. Borges spoke Spanish and a little English, but if the man spoke any other European language, then he would remain a mystery.
“Drink.”
He lifted the man’s head and allowed him to sip from the cup, but most of the water ran down his bearded cheeks. Borges gently laid him back down.
“Who are you?”
The man’s rolling eyes fixed on him. “Ca, Cart, Cartwright.” His voice was a croak and he licked flaking lips, already out of breath.
“Señor Cartwright, was there anyone else with you?”
Cartwright nodded his head. “Baxter. He was.”
“And where is Señor Baxter now?” Borges leaned closer.
Cartwright sprung forward, making the captain lurch backwards. The man’s eyes were so wide they looked about to pop free of his face.
“Eaten… alive.”
Cartwright grimaced in agony and hunkered over his mutilated side. Dark blood pulsed out onto the stretcher.
Borges turned. “Doctor!”
The luminous eyes fixed on Borges again and the man held out a shaking hand, holding the leather book. “Get this… to… Doyle,” he wheezed and gritted his teeth in agony. “Arthur Conan Doyle; important.”
Borges took the book and only then did Cartwright lay back. “He’ll know… what to do.”
The pale eyes closed, and a long breath came from his mouth and his body seemed to collapse in on itself. Borges made the sign of the cross over him and imagined that his last breath was his spirit leaving the torn and battered body.
The captain stood slowly as the nurse finally came running. He turned to her and shook his head. “No hurry now.” He lifted the book, opening the string and flicked through several pages, looking over the drawings. After a moment, he shook his head.