“I have to,” Mualama cut him off. “Like Fawcett, I have been on Burton’s trail for twenty years, and this is the next step.” Mualama pulled off his shoes and socks.
“Why did Fawcett lie about what he was looking for?” Bauru asked, trying to forestall the professor’s going into the water.
“Because it is a very dangerous path he was trying to follow, and because there are those who guard it most jealously.” Mualama pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his lean torso, a black metal medallion hanging around his neck that featured an eye superimposed on the apex of a pyramid, and a back covered in scar tissue.
Bauru and the porters were shocked by what they saw. “What happened to your back?”
“I was caught in a fire.” Mualama said. He had only his shorts on. “I am going over the side.”
“Here.” Bauru pulled a shorter section of rope out of his pack and handed one end to Mualama. “Tie this around your waist.”
Mualama quickly looped the rope around himself and tied it off. After a sharp exchange in their native dialect, Bauru and the two porters held the other end. Mualama slid over the side of the rock into the fast-flowing, warm water. He took a deep breath, then dove down, running hands along the rock, searching.
He went down about five feet, searching carefully, but there was nothing. He burst to the surface, gasping for air. He dove once more, hands searching along the rock face. He pulled himself lower, eight feet down, and felt an indentation in the rock. Reaching his hand into the opening, he grabbed hold of the inside and pulled himself down. The air in his lungs pressed him up against the top of whatever he was in.
The way ahead was still clear, but Mualama had no more oxygen. He pushed back out and surfaced, sputtering for air.
“Have you found anything?” Bauru asked.
Mualama could only nod as his lungs worked to replenish the lost oxygen. He noted that the porters were looking about nervously, fearful of something. Bauru sat down on the edge of the rock. “It is dangerous to stay in the water too long.”
Mualama was finally able to speak. “Why?”
“Snakes. Piranha. They usually are not in water that flows this quickly, but one never knows. Sometimes they congregate in tide pools along such a river and hunt meat in packs. It is not good to take chances.”
Mualama had come too far to be scared off by a threat that might not be present. “I am going under. There is a chamber. If I do not surface, or pull on the rope three times, by the end of one minute, pull me back out.”
Bauru nodded.
Mualama filled his lungs and dove once more. He slid along the rock and into the opening. He could tell with his hands that it was a tunnel about four feet in diameter, going into the rock itself. He pushed along, searching blindly. Suddenly his hand was free of water. He popped his head up and breathed stale air in total darkness. He tugged on the rope around his waist hard, three times. Then he searched with his hands. A rock ledge was in front of him. It went back as far as he could reach. He needed light.
The African professor retraced his route through the tunnel and back to the surface. He surfaced and opened (…)
Bauru and the two porters were no longer holding the other end of the rope. The three were standing, heads tilted back, looking at the top of the gorge. Mualama followed their gaze. A tall man in dark clothes, along with dozen Guirani Indian tribesmen armed with crossbows, lined the top. The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of a large bush hat.
The man waved his hand and the Guirani raised their weapons. Bauru reacted, dashing toward Mualama and diving into the water. The porters cried out, raising their hands in supplication, in turn to be hit with several bolts each. They dropped lifeless on the stone altar.
“Come!” Bauru grabbed Mualama’s shoulder as a bolt skittered off the edge of the rock less than six inches from his face. “Lead me to the chamber.”
Mualama dove, Bauru’s hand now on his ankle. He pulled through the tunnel, lungs bursting… he had not gotten a good breath when he had surfaced, and the going was slow… pulling Bauru through.
Mualama was starved for air. He reached ahead, hoping to touch the surface, but felt only more water. He pulled harder through tunnel. His hand broke the surface and he grabbed the ledge, pulling himself into the air. Bauru sputtered up next to him.
They hung on the edge, gasping for several moments.
“Who was that with the Guirani?” Bauru finally man-aged to ask.
“The Mission.” Mualama spit the last word out.
“Who?”
Mualama pulled himself onto the stone ledge and rolled onto his side, still breathing hard. “They’ve followed me before. The burns on my back… they almost caught me in England last year. They destroyed the place where I was studying some ancient texts, and I barely managed to escape.”
Bauru joined him. “Who is this Mission? I have heard stories of such a place, but no one seems to know exactly where it is. Why do they chase you?”
Mualama felt the darkness all around. Even here the sound of the waterfalls sounded like a nonending series of drums rumbling. He reached out, searching the stone ledge. “Burton left something in this place. He could get in here during the dry season that year. Every forty years or so during a drought the river dries up and the falls are silent. Burton came here during one of those occasions.”
“Why is this Mission trying to kill us?” Bauru was still focused on the immediate danger.
“They work for the aliens.” Mualama’s fingers brushed against something. Slick cloth. Wrapped around something. He picked it up. It was about twelve inches long by eight wide by two deep and covered with a soft pliant cloth. He slipped it into the waistband of his shirt as Bauru suddenly turned on a small penlight.
Above the rock, one of the Guirani scampered down the rope to the rock. He had a length of cord over his shoulder that he tied to both of the bodies. He fastened the free end to the piton, then rolled both bodies into the river, the blood swirling into the silt-laden water, the corpses banging against the rock. Then he unfastened the nylon rope from the piton and climbed, hand over hand, hack to the top of the gorge. He pulled the rope up.
The small party stood still for a few minutes, watching. Then the water around the two bodies exploded in churning red froth.
“What do we do now?” Bauru asked. He shined the light around. They were inside a chamber about four feet from the ledge, three high by six wide. The rock walls had been polished smooth when water had carved it out ages before.
“We must get out of here,” Mualama said.
“They might be waiting for us.”
“We cannot stay here much longer,” Mualama said. “The air is growing stale.” Bauru considered the situation. “If we stay underwater and swim with the current, we might be able to get far enough down the gorge so that they will not see us.
“All right.” Mualama was anxious to be moving, to get outside in the light where he could see what treasure he had uncovered.
Bauru turned the light off and slid over the edge into the water. Mualama prepared to follow, when the guide screamed and splashed about.
“What is wrong?” Mualama yelled.
Bauru screamed again, and literally jumped out of the water onto the ledge. Mualama could hear him cursing, flopping about.
“Get it off me!” Bauru yelled.
“What is it?”
“Get it off me!” There was a ripping sound, then something splashing into the water. “Oh, God.” Bauru’s voice was low now as he slumped back. The light came on, and Mualama saw a long, jagged tear down the other man’s chest. There was another on his leg. Blood pulsed out of the wounds.
“What happened?”