From Thailand with Love Page 9

  I wink at Logan.

  He shakes his head as Somchai bows and scurries away.

  Cracking a smile—damn, that’s a good smile—Logan pushes off the tree and offers me a hand—also gloves-free—to get up. “Time to go. Smith is hacking through the vines like a human chainsaw. We don’t want to lose him.”

  I clasp hands with him and allow him to pull me up. When we come face to face, I can sustain his curious gaze only for a few seconds before I let go of his hand and bend again, breaking eye contact to retrieve my backpack. I drag it over my shoulders once more with a grunt.

  “Heavy?” Logan asks.

  “Yeah, the camera equipment isn’t exactly feathers.”

  Logan beckons. “Give it here.”

  “What? No! You can’t possibly carry two.”

  “I’m not going to; I’ll see if Somchai can fit it on the mule’s back.”

  Astonished by the kind gesture, I unsling the backpack, take out my main camera, and hand the rest to Logan. “Thanks.”

  He gives me a curt nod and walks away with my equipment. Who knew? Even Satan has a heart.

  Break over, we resume walking single file down the narrow path cleared by Smith. But our pace now is remarkably slower, and with my back unencumbered, I can finally enjoy the scenery in all its hostility.

  The jungle has gotten thicker, more tangled. Torn branches and vines claw at us from either side of the trail, and I have just enough space to raise the camera and snap a few shots:

  Somchai whispering comforting words to the mule while pulling the beast forward.

  Smith swinging the machete, the blade catching a sunray.

  Logan, sleeves rolled up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his machete-free arm.

  Logan, pushing a cane out of the way.

  Logan, staring daggers at me because I’m taking his picture again.

  These will look fantastic on an expedition reportage.

  For three more hours, we venture deeper into the jungle, slipping into territory unknown to mankind for a thousand years. Until the ever-thickening rainforest finally seems to thin away, making our advance easier.

  Machetes back in their sheaths, we trudge on for another hour before Logan halts, raising a hand to signal for us to do the same.

  He stands so still that, for a moment, I wonder what’s the matter. In front of him, a peaked mountain covered in even more vegetation blocks the way. Is he pissed about yet another obstacle to bypass?

  But Logan seems transfixed, turned to stone where he’s standing. With a few strides, I’m next to him, ready to ask what the holdup is, when I notice the glistening in his eyes.

  I follow his gaze toward the hill, not sure what has moved a grown-ass man to tears. Then a rare gust of wind rustles the branches overhead. The light shifts, and, underneath its blanket of vines, the mound seems to sparkle as if it was made of solid—holy crap!

  “Is that gold?” I ask.

  Not averting his eyes from the incline, Logan nods, sinking to his knees.

  He makes for a beautiful image, the gorgeous, teary-eyed archeologist prostrated before his discovery. The photographer in me wants to immortalize the moment, but the woman decides it’s too private for the world to witness. This is Logan’s moment. And his alone.

  Logan

  After years of research spent enduring the skepticism of every single one of my colleagues… The gossip, the snickering comments about me having gone mad after Tara left… Tara’s own reservations delivered by email; she couldn’t even bother to call… I’m looking at the legend: the lost city of gold.

  The city is real.

  Well, sorry to all the big heads of the archeology community: you’ll all have to eat your words.

  Brushing tears of joy—of vindication—away from my eyes, I stand up and approach the building in front of us. With my bare hands, I tear at the vines covering the exterior. Some come off easily, while other thicker, more gnarled ones require me to pull with all my strength, but I can’t risk using the machete and damaging the treasure underneath. So I fight with the vegetation until I’ve cleared a surface of three square feet, revealing the head of a scaly, horned creature, its features contorted in a terrifying snarl.

  A guardian dragon.

  “Hello, my friend,” I say to the beast, gently patting its pointed teeth.

  At once it’s clear the statue isn’t made of solid gold, but rather stone painted golden or covered with gold foil. Still, the effect such a monumental construction will have once the vegetation blanket is cleared off will be unprecedented. A sight like no other.

  A click next to me makes me turn, and I find Winter dutifully snapping pictures of the dragon head, and of me, too.

  I scowl.

  But the damn woman grins at me and immortalizes my frown.

  What part of I don’t like to have my picture taken wasn’t clear, I wonder.

  Anyway, Winter’s interruption reminds me the others are here. I’ve been so absorbed by the temple in front of me, I’d forgotten. But now I turn to them. “Somchai,” I call.

  His mule tethered to a tree, our local guide is next to me in a few quick strides. “Yes, Dr. Spencer.”

  “We need to set up camp for the night. Please see to that.”

  Somchai bows his assent.

  “Then tomorrow, I need you to go back to the main camp and show Dr. Boonjan the way. He should be recovered by now and he’ll want to see this. And Tucker, too, if Archie can manage on his own. We need to establish a permanent secondary camp here. You think you can make a return trip in one day?”

  “Two days,” Somchai says. “One to go, one to come back.”

  Not the answer I’d like, but if Somchai says two days, it can’t be done any quicker.

  “All right,” I say. “When you have the camp arranged for the night, please come help me.”

  Somchai bows and scurries away.

  I turn back to the building and flex my hands, ready for some more hard work. Clearing centuries of undergrowth is going to a bitch. So little done, and the skin on my palms already feels tender.

  “Somchai?” I call.

  “Yes, Dr. Spencer?”

  “Do we have working gloves in the equipment?”

  I need real work gloves; I can’t do this wearing Tucker’s stupid scuba-diving ones.

  “Let me check,” Somchai says.

  He rummages inside the mule’s sacks and then comes back, handing me two pairs of what are basically gardening gloves. Perfect.

  I don one pair, and flap the other in my hands, eyeing Winter.

  She’s been fluttering around this entire time taking pictures.

  Now she must sense my gaze on her, because she promptly turns, asking, “What?”

  I flap the gloves one more time and offer them to her. “Care to help?”

  Her eyes widen, while her mouth pouts into a cute little “o” shape.

  Did I say cute? I meant annoying.

  “You expect us to clear the whole building by hand?”

  Yeah, definitely meant annoying.

  “No, a dedicated team will have to do the work later,” I explain patiently. We’re in a truce, and I’m not about to jeopardize that. “But I want to remove as many vines as possible at the base and see if we can find an entrance.”

  Now she claps excitedly and takes the gloves from me. “This is so like an Indiana Jones movie.”

  I roll my eyes but can’t suppress a little smirk at her enthusiasm.

  She carefully sets her camera on a nearby rock and, side by side, we attack the vegetation. It’s hard work, and we’re already exhausted from the day’s trek. So when our efforts finally reveal an opening, we don’t have the strength to explore further. Eager as I am, it wouldn’t be safe. We pause for the night, eat a cold dinner, and I don’t even have to bully anyone to go to bed early.

  ***

  The next morning, the camp stirs awake at the cra
ck of dawn. Everyone is eager to clear the building entrance and discover what lies underneath. After a quick breakfast of black coffee and protein bars, Somchai and Carter leave with the mule to go back to the base and bring the others and more supplies, leaving me, Winter, and Smith behind.

  While Smith is busy “securing the perimeter”—his readymade excuse to avoid any hard work—I clear the entryway of the remaining vines and weeds while Winter documents my efforts. Without the risk of hitting stone, I hack at the residual vegetation with the machete at double speed.

  Once the job’s done, we all stare at the dark opening. It’s framed by a solid stone arch, and not a sliver of light comes from within.

  “All right.” I break the silence. “Time to go in.”

  I pick up two headlamps from the supplies Somchai left behind and hand one to Winter. She adds it to her basic gear: a survival-essentials backpack equipped with food, water, a first aid kit, and whatever else Tucker put in those; and the camera never missing from around her neck. I don my own survival backpack, secure the headlamp across my forehead, and turn back toward the soldier. “Hey, Smith, you coming?”

  “I’d better.” Hands never leaving the precious rifle strung across his chest, he spits on the ground. “In case you find something funny in there.”

  “Great,” I say. Even if, to be honest, Smith is so creepy I’d feel safer without him. I pick up the last backpack and hand it to him. “Take one of these. Sorry, but we don’t have any more flashlights.”

  Smith shrugs, his beady black eyes darker than the emptiness beyond the passage. “Sure.”

  “If we keep close, the light should be enough for everyone to proceed safely.”

  The hired gun nods.

  Standing at the edge of the portal, Winter and I turn the headlamps on and, exchanging a nod, we plunge into the passage.

  Ten

  Winter

  The headlamps cut two slivers of light into the unforgiving pitch-darkness ahead. We proceed cautiously along a narrow corridor wide enough to admit two people walking abreast. Logan is by my side, and the echo of Smith’s steps behind us tells me the creepiest guard ever is following suit.

  Besides being black as night, the confined space is also eerily quiet, except for the sound of our feet dragging on the floor. When the flutter of a sudden rush of wings flies past us, it scares me witless.

  “Aaargh!” My scream bounces off the stone walls. “What was that? Something hit me in the face.”

  “Just bats,” Logan says.

  “Just bats?” I repeat. “’Cause that’s so comforting.”

  “It’s an abandoned, dark cave.” Satan scoffs. “What did you expect?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Should I look forward to pits filled with snakes, too?”

  “Please, this is not a literal Indiana Jones movie.” Logan pivots, blinding me with his headlamp. “I doubt the place is booby-trapped.”

  I stop walking and raise a hand to shield my eyes. “Hey, point that thing some other way,” I say, and when he does I add, “You doubt we’ll find booby traps, or are you sure we won’t?”

  Logan stops a step ahead and turns back to me, orienting his light toward the wall. “Again, this is not a movie, so it’s improbable—”

  “Ah, but not impossible!”

  “Listen.” Even if I can’t see under the light’s glare, I know he’s rolling his eyes. “If the statues outside are any indication, this should be a place of worship. Like a church. How many churches do you know with booby traps?”

  “Still, I’d rather not have my head cut off by giant rotating blades dropping off the ceiling.”

  Logan shakes his head. “You really watch too much TV. Worse we’re going to find is a maze.”

  “And you’re not worried we’ll get lost?”

  “No. Because I’m marking the way in.” He directs the flashlight beam toward the wall to his right, illuminating a small arrow he must have drawn in white chalk. “But if you’re too afraid to come along,” Logan continues, “you can pass your headlamp to Smith and head out. No one’s forcing you to be here.”

  I purse my lips. “I’m not staying behind.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Without further comment, Logan moves forward.

  I follow him, but now I trail a few steps back. Just in case…

  In the darkness, it’s hard to tell distances. But when, so far as I can judge, we’ve gone some fifty paces, the obscurity gives way to a faint light. Another minute, and we enter the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen.

  An atrium vast and tall like a hall in a cathedral, only windowless. The dim light comes from above, presumably through shafts connected with the outer air and driven into the roof, which arches away a hundred feet above our heads. We’re standing in an enormous single aisle, loftier and wider than any church I’ve visited. Running in twin rows down the length of the nave are gigantic pillars that shine even in the semi-darkness. Contrary to the exterior of the temple, they appear to be made of solid gold. No matter how impossibly heavy they must be, they soar up to the distant ceiling with a delicate beauty. The tops of the pillars are decorated with sculpted capitals, and the main posts are carved with flowers and leaves that climb up and around to the head of each column.

  I try snapping a few pictures of the place, but the images that appear on my camera screen are only a poor imitation of the magnificent chamber. No matter how many times I adjust the exposure and focus, nothing comes even close to the real thing.

  As we make our way further into the temple, three more pillars take form at the end of the aisle, placed horizontally across its width. Only, as we draw closer and the shapes get better into focus, they transform from simple cylindrical columns to three colossal forms standing upon huge pedestals of dark rock. With human bodies and monstrous faces, each gold statue measures about thirty feet from the crown of its head to the pedestal, and they’re separated by a distance of about forty paces.

  Logan points his flashlight at the figure furthest to the left, and whispers, “Garuda.”

  The statue has the torso and arms of a man, and the wings, head, beak, and talons of a bird of prey.

  “Hum, who’s this charming fella?” I ask.

  “Garuda,” Logan repeats. “The legendary bird-like creature, a guardian with the power of traveling anywhere.”

  “So he’s one of the good guys?”

  “They all are.” Logan shifts his gaze, along with the beam of his light, to the statue in the center. “This is Yasha. He or she…” Logan lowers his sights to the sculpture’s chest area. “She, then… is another guardian deity, mostly benevolent.”

  “Mostly?” I ask. “What does she do when she gets angry?”

  Logan gives me a cheeky grin. “She devours nosy travelers.”

  Smith knocks on the statue’s feet. “Well, at least the man-eating bitch is made of solid gold. Hollow by the sound of it, but it must still weigh a few tons. Pity they didn’t make smaller versions we could bring home as souvenirs.” The soldier lets out a low chuckle.

  Logan scowls at him. “Everything we find here belongs in a museum.”

  “Yeah, sure, Professor.” Smith shrugs. “Just saying the bitch’s valuable.”

  The boys are still glaring at each other, so, to defuse the tension, I ask, “And what about the last one?” I stare up at the third statue, illuminating its devil face. “He doesn’t look friendly to me.”

  “That’d be Mock,” Logan says. “He is a monkey god of justice.”

  “So we shouldn’t expect to turn buffet with him.”

  “No. But even Yasha… I’m pretty sure she isn’t here to eat anyone. I think she’s in her nature-fairy capacity, to protect rather than attack. They’re a powerful trinity of guardians.”

  “And what are they supposed to guard?” I ask.

  “Very good question, Miss Knowles.” Logan turns to me, and then back to the statues. “Why don’t we go f
ind out?”

  Our lights cut through the darkness behind the colossi, but they meet no wall. The main aisle seems to open on a smaller cave, same as a lesser chapel that opens out of a great cathedral.

  “Shall we?” Logan asks.

  I nod and follow him to the end of the vast and silent cavern, where we find another doorway—not arched as the first at the entrance of the temple, but square at the top.

  “Rather ghastly,” I say, peering into the dark passageway.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now?” Logan teases, and politely makes room for me to take the front. “Ladies first?”

  “Hell no.”

  “All right.” Logan chuckles and once again leads the way into darkness.

  This passage is smaller, and we have to proceed single file. Logan in the vanguard, me in the middle, and Smith taking the rearguard. The only sound is that of our feet scraping the dusty floor, and I can’t help being overcome by some unaccountable bad presentiment. Like something evil is awaiting us on the other side of the tunnel.

  After about twenty paces, I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic when, thank goodness, we reach a wider space. We’re in a gloomy, rectangular room forty feet long by thirty across, and about thirty-five feet in height. This area doesn’t have natural lighting like the main hall, but at least there’s enough room to breathe, giving my mounting cabin fever a rest.

  The last thing I want to do is admit to Satan that I’m scared. So I concentrate on our surroundings. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimmer light and make out the contents of the new chamber.

  The center of the room is taken over by a massive stone table with a gold figure lying across its length. A reclining Buddha.

  The statue is on his right side, head resting on a cushion with an arm folded underneath.

  Even if the surrounding atmosphere has a slightly grim feel to it, the figure looks serene.

  Still on edge, I babble the first thing that comes into my head. “Great place to take a nap, I guess.”

  “This is a representation of Buddha’s last illness,” Logan says. “He is awaiting death to enter nirvana.”