Blood of the Incas

Excerpt: Hiram Bingham discovers Machu Picchu: February 1909.

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Chapter 1

‘Steady.’ Hiram pulled the reins tighter.

His mule’s hoofs scrabbled on the path. It twitched its ears and jerked its head violently. ‘Whoa! What’s going on?’ Hiram felt the mule’s fear. He wrapped the reins tightly around his hand.

To Hiram’s horror, the mule’s hind legs skittered sideways in panic, kicking rocks off the narrow path. As the rocks fell Hiram thought, That could be me. The rocks hit the face of the cliff, bounced out into emptiness and tumbled smaller and smaller until they vanished. More than a mile below, clouds of mist swirled over the raging river. The roar of the river rolled along the canyon.

‘Come on, steady,’ Hiram snarled through clenched teeth. He dragged at the reins and leant all his weight away from the edge. There was no room for error on the path cut along this cliff, which towered above and plunged down an abyss.

Ahead, Hiram’s guide, Castillo, leapt from his mule. Red poncho flying in the wind, Castillo yelled at Hiram. ‘Off, off, get off.’
‘What?’ Hiram’s heart pounded. Thunder rumbled, but Hiram hadn’t seen lightning flash. Zzzup … Crack. A stone whizzed down, hit the path and exploded.

Castillo crouched between the cliff and his mule, using its body as a shield. He waved frantically at Hiram to get off and shelter himself.

Hiram flung himself from the mule and against the wall of rock.

Waves rolled beneath the earth. The mountain shuddered. For a horrible moment, Hiram felt as if the mountain was about to tip over.

Still gripping the reins, he knelt as low as his tall gangly frame could bend. His cheek was pressed against the saddle blanket. Feeling stupid, he realised one hand was holding his hat hard on his head. As if my hat will stop a boulder, he thought. But it was his lucky hat with the wide brim.

A dreadful grating noise came from inside the mountain. Its vibrations shivered through Hiram’s boots and into his body. Zup, crash. White smoke puffed near the mule’s hoof. Sharp fragments stung the mule and hit Hiram’s jacket. The mule snorted and its leg muscles quivered.

Spurts of dust like machine gun bullets raced along the path towards Hiram. He winced in anticipation of the impact but they stopped a metre from the mule. A great boulder thumped into the track and bounced into the chasm. Hiram held his breath. Another boulder hit near Castillo, smashing away half the path.

One or two smaller stones struck. Then Hiram felt the stillness. Uncertainly, he stood up and patted the mule’s trembling neck and shoulder.

Castillo’s face appeared above his mule’s back. His floppy hat was askew. The whites of his eyes showed. His almond-shaped, Peruvian eyes slowly closed to their normal size. Wind ruffled his thin beard. ‘Muy Accidentado.’ He smiled feebly, showing stained teeth from chewing coca leaves. ‘We call my land Muy Accidentado. He has many accidents.’

‘There’s one.’ Hiram pointed past Castillo. The path had disappeared. In its place was an avalanche of loose soil and rocks. Castillo made a face as if he’d bitten a lemon. He pointed behind Hiram.

The cliff had sheared off. There was no path, only a wall of rock, smooth as glass. They were trapped.