Author: Kirk Straughen
Synopsis: After a crash landing Joshua Roman finds himself marooned on a high plateau in the vast Guiana Highlands. Here he encounters an unknown tribe and the horrible creature they worship. Ordeals, perils and wild danger abound in this uncanny jungle romance.Those with weak hearts should read it at their own risk.
Edit history: Minor changes were made to this story on 26 June 2021
A man lay face down in the dirt, singed and unmoving. Behind him red tongues of roaring flame wreathed the wrecked Cessna in a leaping conflagration - an inferno that was contained by a deep gulley, one of several channels cutting through the high plateau on which the hapless craft had come to grief.
The body twitched, indicating that life remained. The man’s eyes opened. Slowly, painfully, he rose swaying and stared in numb silence at the burning plane. Joshua Roman remembered. He remembered the horror of the spluttering engine, the nightmare glide as he fought to urge the powerless machine towards the high plateau. Then had come the frightful impact of the crack-up – the Cessna’s wheel had struck a rock on the uneven ground. The machine had flipped, crashed nose first into the narrow gulley, one wing torn away and fuel spraying from its ruptured bladder.
Dazed and bleeding Roman had struggled from the wreckage and all about the frightening stench of fumes was heavy in his gasping lungs. A mad nightmare struggle ensued as he’d scrambled from the gulley; then had come the bloom of angry flames and the deafening explosion whose burning shockwave had slapped him to the earth. That he was still alive and his injuries were minor was something of a miracle, but one overshadowed by his grim predicament.
Roman was marooned. He was stranded on a high plateau of the vast Guiana Highlands, the most remote and least explored region of Venezuela. The young man cursed. He cursed the rebels who’d forced him so hastily to flee the Republic of Mayuca - a dirt-poor dictatorship sandwiched between the southern border of Brazil and Venezuela.
He had landed at the capitol’s run down airport to refuel when the revolution had exploded in his face like a stick of sweating gelignite. Fear came upon him with remembrance: The truck bursting through the airport’s gates, shouting bearded rebels leaping from the vehicle, machineguns blazing indiscriminately.
Roman had dashed for his plane, bullets whining past him, others kicking up tarmac at his heels. Leaping into his machine he had roared down the runway, heedless of safety and flight procedures, seeking only to escape the screaming, death dealing fiends behind him. A bullet slammed into the fuselage, another tore through the cabin, shattering his radio to ruin. Then the Cessna was lifting and he was away.
Soon, he was over the Guiana, a wild region of massive plateaus and steep-sided mesas. Here, the tablelands rose, one after another like gigantic steps, in sheer breath taking escarpments thousands of feet high. Numerous gushing rivers, fed by heavy rainfall, tumbled over the edges of the mighty plateaus, the magnificent waterfalls, brushed with pastel rainbows, cutting deep gorges in a landscape of green exuberance. But Nature’s beauty was lost to Roman, for here the engine of his plane had coughed, died – another bullet having wrought the fatal damage.
Roman brought his mind back to the present and considered his dire situation. His flying holiday in South America had come to an abrupt and dramatic end. The chaos in Mayuca had effectively put an end to any hope of rescue from that quarter. No one knew of his position – the bullet in his radio had seen to that. His plane was a burnt out wreck that lay at the bottom of a deep gulley – virtually impossible to spot by searchers, and his only possessions were the clothes he wore and the meagre contents of his pockets.
The Guiana Highlands was a remote, inaccessible and sparsely populated wilderness. Even a well prepared and fully equipped explorer would find it highly challenging. Roman had no illusions about the grim situation he was in, but he also knew that to give way to despair was the surest way to seal his fate. He was in a battle for survival and he wasn’t going to go down easily.
Forcing aside his understandable fears, Roman began to examine his surroundings. The plateau was grassland in the vicinity of the crash. He had come in low, barely scraping over the edge of the plateau, and it was this luxuriant, waist-high vegetation that had concealed the hazards which had brought his machine to grief. To the north, perhaps a mile and a half distant the savannah gave way to flourishing rain forest – an untamed tangle of emerald verdure starred with bright flowers and populated by raucous and brilliantly coloured birds.
Roman glanced at his watch. The full heat of the day would be upon him in an hour, and it wouldn’t do to be caught in the open. Already, he was sweating and his throat dry. He set out for the forest, seeking its cooling shade and, hopefully, a bubbling stream whose clear water would quench his growing thirst.
The American’s long strides swiftly carried his tall muscular frame through the swishing grass and to the margins of the towering trees. Here, he paused. The rainforest before him was a dim wilderness of green shadows, dark and foreboding in its ancient, primordial wildness. Life was here in abundance. It flitted through the trees – the bright flash of a bird’s plumage, the chirr of insects and the more threatening slither of a serpent through the dense undergrowth.
Roman entered cautiously, forcing a careful path through a tangle of flowering vines and found himself in another world, one vastly different to the familiar streets of New York - a world that knew nothing of civilization and even if it did, wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. Fortunately, the pilot wasn’t entirely helpless. He had an adventurous spirit and had acquired knowledge of bushcraft through his love of camping and hiking.
His most immediate concern was water. Food, he could go without for several days if need be. The ground to his left sloped sharply downward. If there was a stream hereabouts it would most likely be following the downward contours of the land. Roman descended. The slope steepened and the way became more difficult, precipitous.
The American lowered himself, shinnying down a vine as thick as his wrist. A slither of movement caught his eye. He froze. Sweat stood out upon his brow. The movement was a serpent – huge, mottled in yellow and black, twice as long as he was tall. It was entwined about another vine. Cold black eyes stared into Roman’s. The flat head arched. Its mouth gaped, darted.
Roman threw up a warding hand. The constrictor latched onto his arm. He screamed, fell, jerking the serpent down with him. Man and monster tumbled, crashed through leaves and vines and plunged with a tremendous splash into the stream at the bottom of the ravine.
Cold water closed over Roman’s head; a swift current tumbled him. The constrictor fling coils about his torso, squeezed. Bubbles burst from Roman’s mouth, his nose. His ribs felt as if they were being crushed by a hydraulic vice. Frantically, he jammed his fingers into the constrictor’s eyes. The snake writhed. The desperate man fought clear of its loosened coils, kicked for the surface.
His head burst through and he gasped air into his heaving chest. Dark water was all about him, beneath which was his hideous adversary. Roman fought the current, struggled for the shallows, casting an anxious eye over his shoulder. The man went cold, but not from wetness – a monstrous shape slithered through the water like a writhing torpedo. The pilot’s foot touched bottom. Tripping on a rock he stumbled, fell, felt a heavy stone beneath his hand. A flat head reared from the water, darted at him. Roman swung the rock. It crashed against the constrictor’s head. The thing went down. He leapt on it, rained wild blows on its ugly skull as it writhed beneath him. Blood swirled in the dark water of the shallows as the thing’s struggles grew weaker and weaker, then still.
Panting heavily and wild eyed, Roman climbed off the clammy carcass and staggered to a bolder where he sat heavily, thoroughly shaken by his frightening ordeal. Long minutes passed before he could think coherently. He’d found water and the snake would supply him with food, though he didn’t relish the thought of eating its flesh.
Well, he thought with wry amusement, you wanted an adventure, and here it is in full.
**********
The world lay wrapped in night’s obscuring darkness. Roman huddled by the fire, tending it with all the care a mother would lavish on her child. The flames grew higher as he fed them, driving back the ebon night a little further from his cramped campsite – a shallow cave he’d found a quarter mile downstream.
Beyond the flickering island of light lay a sea of shadows, impenetrable and menacing. Before, when he’d been camping, Roman had always had one companion or another. But now, utterly alone, depressing solitude was a heavy weight upon him as he chewed on broiled snake, ignored the foreign taste and swallowed mechanically.
A bush rustled, making him start. Was it the wind or another serpent slithering up upon him? For a moment Roman almost choked on his fear as his mind painted unseen terrors on night’s black canvas. He knew it was the loneliness, the isolation that was unnerving him. Never before had civilisation seemed so remote, and in his brief moment of terror he realised how much he had taken for granted.
Silently reproving himself, Roman piled more wood on the fire to keep at bay any lurking predators, and leaned back tiredly against coarse stone. Despite the roughness of the ground and the need for vigilance the warmth of the flames, their hypnotic flickering and his weariness soon conspired to make him sleep...
A noise stirred the slumbering man to wakefulness. Roman opened his eyes. The fire had burned to a low flicker, almost to ashes. He ignored it for the moment, listening intently. The sound came again, rising and falling in a wild beat that pulsed through the hot darkness. It was the sound of drums thundering in the night.
Roman rose to an elbow, excitement mounting – drums meant people, rescue - an end to biting loneliness! But the more he listened to the savage and untamed beat rolling through the shadowed ravine the less enthusiastic he became. The surging rhythm was wild, abandoned, primeval and hinting at something that sent a thrill of fear through the listening man. It was the music of some unknown uncivilised tribe that might consider him a mortal enemy.
Still, he must investigate, but without rushing blindly into danger. Rising, he cautiously exited the cave and carefully turned his head to catch the direction of the wild throbbing. Downstream, he decided, facing that direction, and when he looked sudden fear washed over him for in the distance was an eerie glow – an unearthly crimson radiance that seemed to pulse in harmony with the cadence of the unseen drummers.
Was it the glow of a fire? No, the unsettling illumination held none of that comforting normality. The glow was otherworldly, like a luminous mist that pulsed and swirled as if it were infused with unnatural life.
For a moment Roman shrank back at the unnerving sight, the unsettling fear of the supernatural upon him. Then he gathered his courage to face the unknown, shamefaced at his momentary lapse into irrational superstition. Drums were made and played by mortal men. If there was any danger it would be entirely ordinary – one that courage, strength and intelligence could overcome.
Thus fortified, he set off in the direction of the pulsing glow and the throbbing of the drums. Carefully, Roman made his way along the verdure choked bank of the river, the eerie light providing a dim illumination that helped him find his way, and within ten minutes he reached the gorge’s end. Here, the river tumbled in a small but foaming cataract to a bowl shaped depression that in the moonlight the American judged was about two square miles in extent.
Below, grass rather than jungle predominated, with a scattering of coppice. High cliffs, purple shadowed, rose up at the further end of the depression against which could be seen the spume of another waterfall, silvered with moonlight, and also the burbling river at its foot that flowed to a central lake whose placid surface reflected the sweep of the starry night.
But it was not this vista that grabbed the startled man’s attention. From thirty feet below rose the eerie light, writhing, pulsing, mist-like. It oozed, ethereal yet strangely viscous from its source - a fissure behind the curtain of the fall whose sheet of tumbling water was bloodied with its weird luminosity.
From here the strange unsettling vapour crept across the landscape- an uncanny tide of faintly glowing mist that curled and heaved like a phantom sea of pellucid radiance – an unnerving light that transformed a scene of beauty to one tinged with preternatural horror.
The drums had fallen silent. The players had vanished. Roman swept his gaze across the disturbing otherworldly scene. Everything was distorted by swirling mist, the uncanny light shining through the spray – a surrealist vision of indescribable strangeness tinged with horror. His eyes found something. He squinted, gasped in shock. On the edge of the cataract’s boiling pool two posts had been driven deep into the earth and strung between them, spreadeagled was a struggling human figure.
Roman went cold with sick horror. But it was not just the wildly struggling figure that engendered this emotion. Something else was there, hidden in the crimson mist - something monstrously inhuman, indistinct in the swirling light yet pregnant with nightmare menace. Icy fear stabbed the pilot as he vaguely glimpsed it – a shadowed form that crept with slow and terrible purpose from the water towards the sacrificial victim.
Now the victim saw it, too. A shrill scream rang out, a scream imbued with unimaginable mind shattering terror – the wild, desperate cry of a helpless man facing a ghastly death.
For a moment Roman stood paralysed with dread; then the wild cry of utter terror again sounded. It pricked his conscious – a helpless man was in dire peril and he must act. The American unfurled his pocketknife, clenched it between his teeth and dived from the cataract’s rim, heedless of the danger.
He cleaved the water, prudently swam for the shore at an angle so he would not come directly upon the unknown menace. The glowing mist thickened, obscuring his vision. Again the scream sounded, more terrible than before. Numbness came upon Roman’s limbs, his arms and legs grew strangely heavy as he gained the bank.
With an effort he staggered dizzily from the water, the knife now in his hand. An eerie and terrible silence greeted the American. Then, through the swirling mist came the ominous and sickening sound of crunching, of huge jaws rending flesh and bone with horrific relish. Appalled, Roman realised he was too late. Then fear for the hapless victim became fear for himself. He was far weaker than either his exertions or his terror could account for.
At last the terrible truth dawned upon his giddy brain – the weird mist was soporific, robbing him of strength, eating at his consciousness. With a stifled cry of terror he turned to flee, stumbled on a rock, fell. The American struggled to rise, fell back. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision. Roman’s last thoughts were of unbridled terror - in but moments he would be completely helpless and at the mercy of the monstrous horror lurking in the crimson mist.
**********
Roman woke groggily. For a moment he lay confused and disoriented, puzzling over where he was. Then memory came flooding back – the unsettling mist, the ghastly screams of the sacrificial victim and the sickening sounds of the unknown creature crunching on the hapless fellow’s bones.
The American staggered up, wild fear stamped upon his sweating visage, expecting at any second to be set upon by the mist concealed ghoul. But his frantic gaze discovered it was early morning – the lurid fog had dissipated, and the unearthly landscape of the mist enshrouded night looked quite Arcadian with the coming of the day. His relief, though, was alarmingly short lived. As he turned about his eyes alighted on the posts and to his horror saw one arm, its stump torn and bloody, dangling from a pole.
Roman spun away, retching violently as he stumbled to the dense coppice that grew about the margins of the pool beneath the cataract. He leaned heavily against a tree as he fought to calm his bolting panic, which spurred him to flee the scene of utter nightmare. For a long moment blind fear and reason contended for possession of his spinning brain. Slowly, reason won and he calmed, knowing he was trapped in this wilderness, and that his chances of survival would increase if he understood the nature of the threats confronting him.
What was the monster of the mist? Did it roam far and wide, or was its range encompassed by the bowel-shaped valley? What was the mist and did it spread beyond this area? If so then its soporific qualities would make the entire plateau unsafe. In addition, how was it that the drummers and the victim had not succumbed to the glowing vapour, and would these unknown people be another threat he’d have to face?
Roman’s swirling thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shout. His head jerked up and he gasped in alarm at the sight before him. Four men had emerged from the screening verdure – tall brown-skinned natives, naked but for tasselled loincloths patterned with red and blue chevrons. Their faces were hidden by grotesque masks, skull-like in form, but with a long proboscis reminiscent of an ibis’ bill. The masks were white with crimson rings about the staring eye sockets, these covered with quartz discs. Unsettling blood-like paint upon the pointed teeth added to the demonic aspect of the things.
For a moment the group stood frozen in surprise, staring at the shocked American who returned their gaze with wary scrutiny. Then the senior priest, denoted by a fanning crest of ebon feathers and his mace of office shouted a command that sent his neophytes leaping wildly at the pilot.
Roman cursed. There was no time to run, no time to try and reason with his foes, no time to reach the knife he’d dropped. He threw a savage punch with all his weight behind it. His blocky fist slammed against the solar plexus of one enemy and sent the native crashing to the earth. Another grabbed him in a crushing bear hug that pinned the American’s arms to his sides. Roman gasped in pain as he was lifted from the ground. He managed to drive his knee into the man’s groin. His opponent screamed, collapsed.
The pilot fell with his foe. The third native who had hung back rushed in and aimed a vicious kick at the American’s head. Roman managed to grab the man’s foot, jerked his leg out from under him and sent him tumbling. From the corner of his eye a blur of motion alerted him to further danger – the priest had flung his heavy wooden mace.
Roman dodged, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The mace cracked against his skull. The American saw stars. He reeled, tumbled to the ground. The native he’d just felled pounced upon him and in his dazed condition the pilot was easily overpowered. By now the other foes he’d felled had recovered. They brought rope from the posts, bound his hands behind his back with relish and hauled him roughly to his feet.
Satisfied he was fit to march; his captors forced Roman ahead of them and onto a broad processional way lined with towering sandstone stele carved with strange pictograms, and as they made their way through the coppice and out upon the grassland the American cursed his own stupidity. He should have heeded his instincts and fled as soon as he’d awoken. He should have realised that someone would return to see if the sacrifice had been accepted. Still, what was done was done, and rather than engage in fruitless self recrimination he’d best concentrate on escape.
He glanced surreptitiously at his captors. Were they Warao; Wapichan, perhaps? Roman wasn’t an anthropologist, and the travel guides he’d read had only basic information on the native cultures of the region. But even so he felt certain in the light of all he’d seen so far that these people were unknown to ethnologists. It was possible they’d never seen a European before and had captured him out of curiosity, as one might snare a strange animal; or perhaps it was for other more sinister reasons he shied from contemplating.
Onward they marched towards the high escarpment at the depression’s further end. Roman continued to search for some means of escape as they traversed the stele lined way that stretched out before him, arrow straight, as it cut through the lush grassland. But all his efforts proved a futile exercise, for he was still a prisoner when they reached their destination an hour later. Here, near the second tumbling cataract at the foot of the soaring cliffs, was a sight that made the American gasp in wonder.
Beneath an overhang, perhaps three hundred yards in length, was a village of singular architecture. The composition of the conurbation was asymmetrical – a startling aggregation of many square and round towers of sandstone, all linked together by low flat roofed buildings of cubic form that were ornamented with tessellated friezes of bright turquoise above their slit-like windows. Paved terraces, ramped walkways and broad stairs gave access to the habitation, before which curved the waterfall fed river, and further on were fields of maze that sustained its substantial population.
The party crossed a stone bridge and ascended the major thoroughfare to the citadel, and Roman grew bleak of face as the natives on the path threw themselves in the dust as his haughty captors passed on by. Clearly, the priesthood had great power if the laity were prepared to debase themselves in such a grovelling manner. Too much power, he grimly thought, especially in the awful light of the brutal sacrifice he’d witnessed.
They continued on towards a round tower higher than all the rest and more heavily ornamented with mosaic bands of turquoise to the point where its entire surface was almost hidden beneath the precious stones. The party passed along a zigzag of additional walkways that led to the door of the structure, which was guarded by four huge warriors armed with heavy two-handed clubs that had curved handles and knobbly heads of carved hardwood.
Here, they passed within and entered a spacious room hung with bright tapestries of abstract design. At the further end of the chamber was a raised platform, and on this dais a jadeite cube carved with snarling jaguars. Upon this cube of emerald hue sat a man, naked but for an embroidered loincloth and adorned with a crown of bright feathers. His body, still muscular despite middle age, had been oiled and dusted with powdered gold that shone startlingly in the soft light of large clay oil lamps resembling stylised suns that were set on pedestals about the chamber’s walls. Two naked slave girls knelt on either side of him and all about the room were other fierce eyed warriors as still as bronze statues.
Roman’s masked captors – the priest and his neophytes - forced the worried pilot to his knees and then to his belly before the golden man, who regarded the American with contemptuous eyes as hard as diamonds and as bleak as winter - eyes that stared out from a face heavy with the unbridled cruelty of an absolute tyrant.
The man upon the dais fired sharp questions at the senior priest who replied in their guttural and unknown tongue. The tyrant then barked an order at one slave. The girl leapt to her feet and raced through a side doorway, soon returning with a badly limping man who leaned heavily on a staff.
Roman’s hopes rose when he glimpsed the fellow. The cripple was a European – a Latino judging by his features and colouration. A dozen questions trembled on the American’s lips, but he wisely kept silent. One false move and he’d be dead. The demeanour of the golden man made that clearer than a shouted warning.
The cripple’s eyes widened as they alighted on the American. Hope flared in his gaze and his face lost its strained expression, for he had thought he’d never see another civilised man again. He opened his mouth to speak, for in his excitement at seeing the pilot he almost forgot the dark presence on the dais. Then, just in time he remembered, and flung himself face down upon the floor as the golden tyrant’s sharp gaze fell upon him.
A lengthy conversation then ensued between the tyrant and the cripple at the end of which the Latino, still face down upon the floor, turned his head to the American and spoke:
“I pray to God, young man, that you speak Spanish,” he said in that language.
Roman, who knew enough to hold a conversation, having studied the language in preparation for his South American holiday, eagerly replied:
“Yes, but what ...”
“No, no. Do not speak,” interrupted the Latino worriedly. “You are in great danger. Listen carefully,” he continued. “Your life depends on it. These people, the Yacapa, as they call themselves, are ruled by a warrior caste that admires bravery and cunning. All captives must face an ordeal, a deadly trial. If they survive they are given the opportunity to join the tribe. Very few do for the odds are weighed against them. You will now be taken to the Place of Blood. I, Carlos Garcia, can say no more except God be with you and that Ixtol, their chief – the golden man before you– has commanded you be entrusted to my care should you live.”
Garcia then turned to Ixtol and switched to the Yacapa tongue: “Great Lord, I have spoken as you bid me,” he confirmed.
Ixtol nodded, signalled to his warriors and issued further orders. Two huge guards hauled the American to his feet and manhandled him from the building with Ixtol and his cortege following close behind. The party swiftly traversed another ramp, soon gaining a train of curious plebeian onlookers who maintained a respectful distance, and thus accompanied Roman and the chief’s entourage made their way up another flight of steps to a higher level of the rambling citadel.
Within about five minutes they had reached a trapezoid courtyard in whose middle was a rectangular stone-lined pit roughly forty feet in length, fifteen in width and as many feet in depth. A timber beam six inches wide spanned the pit’s length, supported in the centre by a stone column that also bore aloft a square platform level with the beam bisecting it.
As Roman’s guards forced him towards the pit he noticed that its bottom was densely studded with slender cones of carven granite, each about knee height. To his horror he also saw impaled upon one stony spike a grinning skull that seemed to stare at him forlornly, and upon the floor the jumbled remains of the hapless victim’s skeleton, clearly left to intimidate prisoners.
The dour faced American got an inkling of the ordeal he’d have to face. His bleak surmise was quickly strengthened when one guard, at the golden chief’s command, traversed the beam above the pit. The warrior gained the central platform of the narrow way with fearless ease and stood in readiness upon the timber square. The native, tall and magnificently muscled, stared at Roman with extreme belligerence as he drew the heavy club from his waistband and gripped it, his face and stance a disturbing study of untaimed ferocity.
Ixtol spoke, Garcia translated: “You must walk across the beam and, unarmed, kill the warrior on the platform to reach the other side. Succeed and you will prove yourself worthy. Fail and you die. May the Spirit of the Jaguar be with you. Now go!”
The ropes about Roman’s wrists were removed. A rough shove from his guard sent him stumbling towards the beam. For a brief moment he thought of trying to make a wild break for it, but there was nowhere to run in this savage citadel. Below him were stone spikes whose sharp tips would bring an agonizing death should he lose his balance; before Roman was his savage foe and a host of natives ranged about the pit. Gathering his courage the trapped American grimly set his feet upon the narrow way and bravely walked towards his waiting enemy.
As Roman carefully walked across the narrow beam he observed his savage foe with wary scrutiny. The warrior stood ready, huge and powerful. His right arm and the heavy club were held high above his head while his left, wrapped in tough leather straps, was raised like a boxer to ward off the blows of his opponent. The American sweated. His enemy would strike in one swift and brutal stroke as soon as he was close enough to hit, and there was little he could do to evade the fatal swing.
The American fought down his nerves as he came nearer, closer still. The warrior tensed. The crowd of onlookers waited in expectant silence. Roman was almost within striking distance. He inched forward, knees bent. The club swung down – a blur of lethal life destroying swiftness.
Roman swayed back; jerked his head away and the rushing weapon missed by a fraction of an inch. Then he sprang at his opponent – a wild leap of utter desperation. The pilot struck aside the warriors warding arm, grabbed the fellow’s other limb as he collided heavily with the man. Both crashed upon the small platform, wrestling desperately.
The savage was down but hardly out. He sank strong teeth into Roman’s shoulder. The American howled. His wild foe broke free, jerked erect and swung again. Roman fought through pain, rolled. The club crashed against the platform like a sledgehammer. The pilot lunged, caught the fellow’s ankle, and pulled his leg away. The warrior crashed to the platform. Roman struck out with both feet, kicking him, sending his foe skidding towards the edge. The savage clawed desperately at the boards, barely stopped himself from going over.
Again, Roman lashed out with a kick to topple his opponent. But his wily foe, now alerted to the tactic, caught the pilot’s foot and countered with a wild swing. Desperately, the American struck out with his free leg. His boot heel slammed against the warrior’s wrist. The man howled. The club flew from his grasp, sailed over the edge.
Both men staggered to their feet. Despite his broken wrist the savage came at Roman with barely diminished wildness. The American threw a solid right that slammed brutally against his opponent’s jaw. The warrior staggered back, swaying. The pilot stepped in with a straight left that spun his enemy from the platform. Roman quickly turned away, but he couldn’t block out the brief but terrible cry as the savage was impaled upon the stony spikes below.
For some time Roman stood panting, recovering his vigour and regaining his calmness. Then, when he felt strong enough he began to cross the remainder of the gap between the platform and the further side. Perhaps a less observant man would have been elated, but not so Roman, for he had noticed as he rested that the onlookers still possessed an expectant demeanour. It was as if the warrior alone wasn’t the only danger; that his ordeal wasn’t over, that some other threat yet remained.
As he crossed with all the care of a tightrope walker, the fatal points below a fearful incentive to extreme caution, the American noticed a narrow, ten foot slot had been cut in the beam at mid-point of the remaining half, and beneath this aperture was a mechanism of some kind. As Roman drew near a growing sense of disquiet came upon him. From his precarious position he couldn’t determine the exact nature of the device, but even so he sensed the unknown threat it posed.
Pausing for a moment, he carefully looked behind him. The other warrior had followed and now stood on the central platform, cutting off retreat. There was no choice but to cautiously advance. Roman proceeded, nervous and sweating as he walked across the slotted section of the beam. He neared the end. No threat showed itself and his nervous tension eased. But then he placed his foot upon the carefully hidden catch and danger sprang upon him in an instant.
The catch released a counterweight connected to a cunning rope and pully system attached to the pole beneath the beam. The pole swung up on its pivot, whipping through the slot and arced down upon the pilot’s unprotected back. Roman sensed more than saw it. He hurled his body forward in a wild leap, screamed as the pole struck his calf a glancing blow.
Roman hit the beam, slid off. He hung dangling by a single arm, desperately fighting agonizing pain that threatened to loosen his tenuous hold and send him plunging to the frightful spikes below. With a groan he caught the beam with his other hand. His arms trembled. His body shook from fear and agony. With a mighty heave he hauled himself back upon the beam.
The effort took all his strength and left him weak and drained for many minutes. But at last a semblance of vitality returned and he inched forward, clinging to the beam, not daring to stand in his debilitated state. Finally, he gained the end, exhausted mentally and physically, and wept unashamedly with relief as he crawled onto solid earth.
Strong arms took hold of Roman. Garcia’s face hovered anxiously before his eyes. Then the American fainted and all was utter blackness.
**********
Roman awoke in cool darkness. He was in a circular room sparsely furnished and ornamented with strange abstract frescos that seemed to twist and turn in the manner of writhing serpents. Sunlight shone through a high, narrow window, haloing Garcia’s mane of unruly silver hair. The Latino sat on a stool, staff across his knees. He regarded the American with kindly eyes, but ones shadowed with suffering and sadness that made the pilot forget his own troubles for the moment.
“Ah, good; you are awake,” observed Garcia. “Drink the contents of that flask,” continued the Latino, pointing at a painted clay vessel in the shape of a squatting figure that rested by his stool. “Trust me. It’s not witchdoctor’s mumbo-jumbo. You’ll actually feel better.”
The American painfully raised himself from the mat he lay upon. His leg ached abominably as did every other muscle in his body. He downed the contents of the bottle, grimaced at the bitter taste and hoped Garcia knew what he was talking about.
“God, that was foul,” commented Roman as he wiped his lips.
“You’ll find fouler things here than that,” replied the Latino, his kindly eyes growing grim for a moment. “Now, let us tell each other of ourselves. I will speak first if you do not mind.”
Roman had no objections. Garcia spoke for about half an hour and the essence of what he said was this: Twenty years ago he had been a citizen of Mayuca, the country from which Roman had been forced to flee. Even then the tiny nation was plagued by instability. Wild eyed revolutionaries lurked in the hills, idealists who sought to overthrow Alonso Rodriguez, president of Mayuca at the time. The Latino, a doctor in those days, had sought to join the freedom fighters when his lawyer father had been arrested, tortured and executed for speaking out against the brutal regime that called itself a government.
The young Garcia had barely escaped the secret police and, with another group of disaffected men, had been on his way to the rebel’s base hidden in the Guiana Highlands. The journey was long and the terrain rugged. A storm had struck along the way and during the wild chaos of the raging elements Garcia had become separated from the party.
Alone and completely lost, he had wandered for many days. Near to death form lack of food and water (being a city dweller he hadn’t wilderness survival skills), and in his weakened state the Mayucan had been captured by a Yacapa war band. Nursed back to health, he had survived the trial as Roman had, but had been crippled in the ordeal’s fray.
“So you see,” he concluded. “I must stay here, trapped by my injury. Even for a fit man, the journey back to civilization would be extremely arduous. For a cripple such as I now am it would be impossible. And now, please tell me of yourself.”
Roman briefly outlined his experiences and how he had come to be here, and as the American reached the end of his narration Garcia’s expression grew troubled and he sadly shook his head.
“It seems that the only thing the revolution accomplished,” observed Garcia bitterly when the pilot had completed his account, “was to replace one dictator with another, for the current despot you just named, General Vega, was the very leader of the insurgency I so eagerly sought to join.”
The Latino was about to make further comment when a voice from the room’s doorway made him pause. Both men turned and Roman saw that a young native woman, slim and attractive, stood on the threshold. The girl, who appeared to be about eighteen, was clad in the feminine attire of the locals – completely nude but for a necklace, bracelets and anklets of turquoise and jadeite beads. Her glossy black hair had been plated, and the braids coiled about her shapely head and pinned in place with long and colourful feathers. The girl’s skin was of a lighter hue than the Yacapa, and there was a subtle and puzzling difference in her features that mystified the American for a moment.
“My daughter, Quena,” explained Garcia, seeing Roman’s baffled expression. “My wife Inaca was a Yacapa woman. She passed away several years ago from a fever,” he added sadly. Then, to his daughter with a smile: “Come in, child. This man is from America, one of the many countries I have told you of. He speaks Spanish, so use that language please.”
Quena entered, and as she drew near Roman saw the heavy weight of fear upon her. There was a haunted expression upon her face. Her large dark eyes were wide with terror and her body trembled slightly. Garcia saw these things, saw also the crimson dot in the centre of her forehead – the dreaded mark of Tecaca and all the horror it implied.
“No,” he wildly cried as he lurched erect. “No, not my beloved daughter,” came his anguished denial as he staggered to the girl and collapsed weakly within her arms.
Roman, who was confused and ignorant of what was happening, quickly helped Quena lower her swooning father to the stool.
“What is it?” he said to the shocked man. A vacant look and numb silence was the Latino’s only answer. “Come on, snap out of it,” continued the American irritably as he shook Garcia’s shoulder.
“Stop,” said the girl angrily as she grabbed the pilot’s arm, her own fear overcome by concern for her father. “I am to be sacrificed to Tecaca, god of the underworld.” she explained sharply, touching the crimson dot upon her forehead. “Is it any wonder that horror has stilled his tongue?”
Roman stepped back, abashed, and watched in silent embarrassment as Quena comforted her father as one might comfort a frightened child. Slowly, Garcia regained his composure and after a time gently sat his daughter by his feet. Then he turned to Roman, and although sick fear still marred his face determination now glinted in his eyes.
“You must save Quena. You must take her away from here before nightfall, before the foul ceremony commences.” It was more of a command than a plea that the Latino uttered.
“I will go only if you come with us,” interjected the girl before Roman could utter his assent. “You know the law – a family member takes the place of those who flee, and I would not have you die on my account.”
“I’m a cripple, child,” gently countered Garcia. “If I came with you I would only hinder your escape. No, if you would save me then save yourself, for you are my daughter and therefore I will live on in you.”
It was a noble thing to say, and all were deeply moved bar one: Ixtol, who had been lurking in the shadows beyond the door, strode angrily within the room, four towering warriors close upon his heels. The Yacapa’s face was bleak with rage, his eyes were narrow slits of fury and his words were like the cracking of a whip.
“It is as I thought,” he spat. “I suspected you would oppose our customs and try and save Quena. You’ve never truly embraced our ways. No, do not deny it. Over the years I have gained sufficient knowledge of your language to understand your speech, your attitudes.” Then, to his warriors: “Seize the girl and take her to the Tower of the Priests.”
The Latino lurched erect, a wild look of utter desperation on his face. He seized the stool and with a savage cry hurled it in the nearest warrior’s face. The man went down with a broken jaw; the others flung themselves at Garcia, heavy clubs swinging with brutal savagery.
Roman leapt to Garcia’s defence, threw himself upon one savage as Quena flung her arms about another’s legs and brought the fellow down. As the American wrestled wildly with his foe he saw the Latino, from the edge of vision, thrust his staff at the remaining warrior. The man dodged the clumsy blow and whirled his weapon round in a mighty counterstroke. Garcia blocked the hammering swing, but his crippled leg gave way beneath its tremendous force and he crashed with an anguished cry upon the floor.
The American kneed his opponent in the groin. The man cried in agony. Roman saw the other savage about to crush Garcia’s skull. He spun about, and with all his brawny strength hurled his gasping foe against the sneering warrior.
Ixtol cursed as both warriors crashed to earth like downed ninepins. The Yacapa chief snatched his obsidian dagger from its sheath and lunged at Roman’s unprotected back. Quena, who was clawing at the eyes of her downed and screaming foe, thrust out a shapely leg and tripped the snarling man.
The chief stumbled. His blade grazed Roman’s ribs as the American spun about, alerted by Quena’s cry of warning. The pilot cursed, slammed his fist against the fellow’s jaw. The wild blow staggered Ixtol. He toppled back and tripped upon Quena.
Roman leapt for him as he fell upon the girl. But the wily chief had retained both wits and dagger, and as he crashed upon Quena his brawny arm quickly snaked about her slender throat while his other hand pressed the dagger to her breast, causing her to gasp in wild fear.
“Stop or she dies,” he shouted in his native tongue.
Roman halted. He didn’t need to speak the language to know the meaning of the brutal chieftain’s words and he cursed the man with utter vehemence.
Ixtol slowly stood, hauling up the girl. There was a look of gloating triumph on his face as he barked commands. The chief’s warriors staggered up under his lashing tongue and covered Ixtol as he retreated out the door, dragging Quena with him.
The girl looked back. Her imploring eyes made Garcia weep bitter tears of fear and rage, while Ixtol’s sadistic laugh caused the American to ball his fists in the anger of impotent helplessness, for the bitter truth was that no matter what he did the girl, young and beautiful, would die a horrid death.
Roman and Garcia were under house arrest. One warrior had remained to guard the single exit of the room, and was shortly relieved by seven fresh savages under orders to kill the prisoners at the slightest sign of trouble.
The American paced the room in a state of great anxiety. Garcia had informed him that they would die by slow torture at Ixtol’s leisure. But this grim revelation was not the sole cause of Roman’s agitation. He thought of Quena and her horrid fate. It outraged his sense of decency, of justice. It was an abomination that the life of one so young and fair should be snuffed out in such a brutal manner. There must be something he could do to save her, but what? He was ignorant, like a man groping in darkness. Without the light of knowledge he was sure to stumble in his efforts to save the girl.
Roman turned to Garcia. The Latino sat on the stool, head in hands. He was a forlorn study of broken humanity. It seemed all the will to fight had been sapped from him by the brutal turn of events. The American glanced at the doorway. Occasionally, a guard would poke his head into the room to check on the captives. None were visible at the moment and so the pilot moved to his companion’s side and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I haven’t given up hope of rescuing Quena, and neither should you,” he said encouragingly. “But I need information to formulate a plan. Tell me briefly of the Monster of the Red Mist - Tecaca, god of the underworld, I think your daughter called the thing, and of those ceremonies associated with its cult.”
Garcia stirred, rubbed his face wearily and gave Roman a weak smile. “Forgive me,” he replied. “I’m not the man I was. Since the death of my beloved wife I’ve fought off black despair for Quena’s sake. Now, after what has happened to my daughter it is, I think you say in English ‘the final straw.’ I just can’t see any way out of this. But you are right. I must not give up hope. So long as life remains we must do everything we can to save Quena.”
The Latino paused for a moment as he gathered his thoughts, then he spoke again.
“On two consecutive nights every five years, obeying some natural cycle whose workings are a mystery, the red mist flows forth and fills this bowl-shaped valley, rendering all who dwell within unconscious. The monster, too, emerges, ravenous after its long slumber – awakened by the same gas that is soporific to us. The priesthood’s description of the creature is too fantastic to believe. What manner of beast it is I do not know, but to the Yacapa it is a god.
“Things were not always this way. Fifty years ago an earthquake shook the land. The earth split open, the gas flowed forth and the thing roamed the valley, preying on the populace who, in the grip of drugged slumber, were helpless to escape. But eventually a ritual was established by the priesthood who used the situation to bolster their power and prestige.
“Victims, usually those who offended the chief or clergy in some way, were chosen as a sacrifice to appease the beast and bring a halt to its random depredations. I feared for Quena, greatly. My daughter refused Ixtol’s advances, for she has vowed to never endure the embrace of a man for reasons that I ... that I do not wish to speak of.”
Garcia paused. He glanced at the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the narrow window of his home and shook his head dejectedly.
“We haven’t much time,” he observed worriedly. “There are only a few hours til evening, and then the red mist will begin to flood the valley. If we haven’t rescued Quena and fled this place before that happens...”
“The priests have found a way to counter the soporific mist,” interjected Roman, spurred by the realisation of urgency. “I heard the drummers at the ceremony. Have you any idea as to the method?”
“I don’t know,” replied Garcia bitterly. “A herbal antidote, perhaps. They’re very skilled at compounding natural remedies. But whatever it is, it’s a closely guarded secret.”
Both men fell silent – Garcia again on the verge of again giving way to utter despair; Roman thinking furiously. The American considered a desperate rush at the guards barring the door, but dismissed the idea almost immediately – there were simply too many to overpower and he’d accomplish nothing but his own death. But the red mist would render them unconscious. If only he could stay awake.
Again, Roman thought of the priests. How was it that they remained unaffected by the red mist? He remembered the shock of his first encounter with them - their grotesque masks, skull-like in form, but with a long proboscis reminiscent of an ibis’ bill. The masks! It suddenly dawned upon him – the long proboscis was a filter that absorbed the anaesthetic gas. Quickly, he outlined his hypothesis to Garcia.
“As a former laboratory assistant I have some knowledge of chemistry. I think I might be able to make a primitive gas mask if I had some charcoal,” concluded Roman. “Do you have a hearth?”
Garcia nodded, his interest stirred. He pointed. “Over there, by the sleeping alcove.”
Roman quickly went to the fireplace and began sifting through the ash. Soon, he had a handful of charcoal. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t activated, so its gas absorbing efficacy was questionable at best. The American looked at it critically. He was only too aware that his desperate plan might come to nothing. Still, it was the only thing he could think of and he felt that to try something, even if it had only a small chance of success was far better than to do nothing.
Garcia brought more materials at Roman’s request and the pilot set about the construction of his crude filter. Time passed and the American began to worry. The task was taking far longer than he’d anticipated, complicated by the prying eyes of their captors, who on several occasions had nearly caught him at his work. He glanced at the window. Night was falling, and in his mind’s eye he saw the crimson mist gushing forth from the cleft, creeping across the landscape like a monstrous and formless beast of bleak nightmare.
Roman muttered an oath as a sickening vision of Quena strung between the posts sprang up in his inner vision. He forced aside the haunting thought and what it implied. He redoubled his efforts.
The minutes ticked on. Garcia lit an oil lamp and placed it next to Roman as darkness came fully upon the world. The worried Latino wanted to spur his companion to greater haste. Thoughts of his daughter and her terrible fate were a constant torment, and his agitation had been growing by the hour. But he could see the American was working as fast as was possible. Not wishing to distract Roman Garcia turned away only to gasp in sick fear at the sight which met his eyes.
“Look,” he cried in wild horror as he clutched the pilot’s shoulder. “The red mist... The red mist is upon us. Oh, my daughter, my daughter.”
Roman turned, went cold. Tendrils of the luminous crimson gas were swirling within the room, creeping across the floor, writhing, slithering like ghostly serpents. Hurriedly, he sewed the final stitch and slipped on the filter. The device resembled a surgical mask. The charcoal, now ground to a fine powder, had been sandwiched between two layers of cloth moistened with vegetable oil, the whole device being held over nose and mouth with strings.
The nervous American adjusted the mask as the swirling eerie vapours rose about him. Would it work? Quena’s life depended on it. His biting worry was suddenly added to by another threat – one of the guards, prompted by Garcia’s outburst, peered within the room to find the cause of the disturbance. The warrior saw the mask. Instantly he grasped its purpose, shouted an alarm.
Roman cursed, grabbed the stool as more savages burst within the room. The warriors charged him. Garcia leapt in front of the American, threw himself upon the foremost foe, only to be struck down by another’s club. Roman swung his stool wildly as the Latino fell. Hardwood crashed against another foeman’s skull. The desperate American leapt among his attackers. Another savage crashed to earth; then a glancing blow sent Roman spinning to the floor.
He hit hard, gasping, dazed from the combined impact of club and fall. His foes loomed over him, cruel, merciless. They raised their clubs. Roman struggled to fight back – a hopeless task. The redness of the mist was before his eyes. The clubs fell through it, shadows of death swooping down upon him. They struck painfully, but amazingly without bone shattering force. Then the warriors tumbled. The clubs had dropped from their palsied hands as the red mist overcame them, and now they lay all about as still as fallen mannequins.
Slowly, Roman struggled up, clutching his aching head. The wound was swollen and bleeding, but it appeared that these were the only injuries the glancing blow had caused. He staggered to Garcia and examined the fallen man. The pilot gasped in sick horror. The Latino was dead, his skull shattered by the frightful impact of the club.
Roman pulled himself together. Garcia was beyond help. It was a tragedy, but perhaps his daughter could be saved. The mask worked. There was a chance. Resolute with determination the American snatched up a club and raced from the building. Red mist was everywhere. Fear touched the pilot as he sped along the citadel’s deserted walkways. At this very moment the foul ceremony might be under way.
The horrid thought lent wings to his heels as he raced from the habitation, across the bridge and out upon the plain, following the line of towering stele that vanished into the eerie light of the red mist. His feet pounded on the gravel pathway, the noise strangely muffled in the glowing fog. Breathing was difficult through the mask. He laboured on, straining his muscles to the utmost, a premonition of looming danger spurring his Olympian efforts.
Roman reached the margin of the coppice near the place of sacrifice, panting heavily. Dizziness assailed him and he stumbled to a tree, clutched its trunk for support. Fear came upon the American like a knife’s thrust. His faintness was not from exhaustion alone – his makeshift gasmask was losing its efficiency. The soporific mist was leaking in, robbing him of strength and consciousness.
Then the thunder of slit drums burst upon him. The pilot swore. The ceremony was commencing. Time had run out. He reeled, sick with fear for Quena, dizzy from the insidious gas. Roman gathered his strength, his courage. He shook his head to clear it, lurched forward, determined to try and save the girl.
The desperate American came upon his foes. From behind a tree he peered through the swirling, glowing mist that both illuminated and obscured the nightmare scene. The drummers had their backs to him as they beat out their wild tattoo of pagan savagery with dark exuberance. Further on, silhouetted in the crimson murk he glimpsed the hazy outlines of the posts and the writhing girl strung between them. The priests, too, were there, chanting, swaying; summoning their hideous god with ululating cries that sent sickening shivers up the American’s spine.
Quena screamed. Something was coming, huge, terrible. Roman knew he had only moments before the red mist claimed him and the monster the helpless girl. He stumbled from concealment towards the drummers, growing dizzier with every lurching step, a desperate plan forming in his mind. The world eddied dangerously. His limbs grew weaker. With an effort the pilot raised his club, brought it down upon the skull of one unsuspecting player. The man crumpled to earth. Roman dropped to his knees, tore the mask from the drummer’s face and jammed it on his own where it clung by means of a sticky resin about the rim.
The second musician spun around. For a second he stared in shock; then with a wild cry he aimed a savage blow at Roman with the mallet used to play the instrument. Roman, now breathing filtered air, threw himself to one side. The mallet brushed his hair. The pilot lashed out. His heels slammed against the man’s shins. The savage cried, fell. The American cracked his skull with the club, lurched erect as Quena screamed again.
The two priests, drawn by the fray, leapt at the American the moment he was on his feet, obsidian knives stabbing wildly. The pilot jumped aside, barely avoiding the savage attack. Again Quena cried in terror – a high pitched wail pregnant with utter horror. Roman went cold. Through the swirling crimson fog his glimpsed a form, monstrous, indistinct, perilously near the struggling woman.
Distracted, Roman gasped in agony as a glassy blade slashed his arm. The priests were between him and the helpless screaming girl. With a wild yell he rushed them, swinging with utter savagery. One fell. But his remaining foe, more skillful, dodged, stabbed at him, knife darting like a striking serpent – so fast that Roman barely dodged the blade.
Quena’s screams of utter terror rose in shrieking pitch, then silence fell, her cries cut off like the swift falling of a guillotine. Roman went berserk. He threw himself at his adversary, club whirling in a vicious arc that battered down his foe in a spray of blood and brains.
Wild eyed the frantic American dashed towards the posts, but when he arrived he found only dangling broken ropes. Quena was gone. The monster had taken her, had vanished into the swirling crimson fog. Roman leaned heavily against a post; sick with utter fear at the thought of what had happened to the girl on this night of diabolical horror.
As the American leaned against the post sick with rage and grief, struggling to deal with his churning emotions, it slowly dawned upon him there was no sign of blood, freshly spilt. Hope rose within him. Perhaps the monster had carried the girl to its lair intending to devour her at its leisure. It was possible she might be still alive.
Roman looked up. The red mist was streaming out from behind the waterfall, eerily twisting and curling through the spray, turning the cataract to a sinister fall of blood. The scene was like a vision of Hell and the sight of it caused his nape hairs to rise. Thoughts of Quena in the clutches of some nameless horror again burst upon him in a vivid and disturbing scene – the beauteous girl torn asunder by monstrous slavering jaws, a wild vision of blood, of death.
The American thrust aside his fear. He had to act even if it meant his own death. Roman stepped into the river and waded towards the cataract. He pushed through the curtain of the fall and found the cleft behind it from which the red mist flowed. At the mouth of the entrance was a tumble of rocks the earthquake had dislodged, and across the jumbled decades old debris the weird glow of the fog disclosed a wide tunnel whose rocky floor was marked with wet footprints.
Roman gazed at the creature’s spoor, more distinct where dirt had accumulated – huge, viciously clawed. He went cold at the sight, but pressed on, following the length of the tunnel with wary caution and shortly emerged into a huge cavern whose floor fell away into a pit of illimitable depth.
He stood on the verge of a precipice, staring down into a vast heaving sea of crimson mist whose depths were as obscure as that of a watery ocean, and for a moment he looked on, overcome by the weirdness of the incredible scene before him.
Roman shook himself. Quena was somewhere down there, amidst that nightmare world, the helpless captive of some unimaginable horror. Quickly, he looked about and spotted the monster’s spoor descending into the luminous abyss. Relieved, and at the same time fearful of what he would encounter, the American followed the trail of the beast and plunged into the unknown, praying the girl was still alive.
A rocky, treacherous track spiralled downward, and as the nervous man groped his way through the red murk the uneven ground of the narrow path caused him to trip on several occasions. He tumbled, nearly plunged to his death, only saving himself by the narrowest of margins as his scrabbling hands clawed desperately at the rock. Roman cursed. Fear for the girl spurred him while prudence cautioned him to slow his pace. The conflicting needs were an added torment to the agony of his physical exertions. By the time he reached the bottom after what seemed an age he was drenched with sweat from his harrowing ordeal.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath and as he looked about he saw weird unsettling shapes rising from the mist. The black growths, each at least twelve feet in height, were incredibly strange – spiky six pointed stars that jutted from the ground on a central trunk with an equal number of curving horns sprouting from the middle, horns whose structure was a network of ridges with pits between them that gave the rough appearance of honeycomb.
Were they plants; were the clusters of spiky white ovoids dangling from the points of the stars fruit? Roman couldn’t be sure, but what seemed certain was this: The subterranean world had a unique ecology all its own. Indeed, it was a world in the fullest meaning of the word, for although the cavern in which Roman found himself was large he sensed it was merely an antechamber to even greater caverns extending into the bowels of the Earth, into the very depths planet from where the mysterious red mist arose.
It appeared that Garcia had been wrong. The flowing forth of the red mist didn’t awaken the monster. Instead it enabled the beast to extend its range to include the surface world. The American went cold at the thought. There must be a population of the things unless the single creature possessed incredible longevity. At this very moment a dozen of the horrors, cloaked by the swirling mist, might be creeping up upon him.
A sudden scream made Roman forget about any peril to himself. It was the scream of a woman – Quena’s cry of unrestrained terror. Instantly, lashed by wild fear for the girl, he dashed in the direction of the piercing shrieks. The ground rose sharply before him. The screams grew louder. He raced up the acclivity in a burst of frantic speed and in but moments came upon a scene of utter nightmare.
The monster stood above Quena – a hideous incarnation of wild horror. The thing was taller than a draft horse. Its pale ivory hued body, which resembled that of a tailless scorpion, was armoured in bony plates along the back and flanks. The head was crocodilian in appearance, the four legs like those of an ostrich, but more massive in build. The creature had two long and powerful arms ending in three fingered hands, viciously clawed, and in their crushing grip was Quena, helpless and terrified. Beneath the girl was the monster's stony nest and in it the horror's single young, freshly hatched, its snapping jaws eager for her flesh.
Roman swore. Quena had been kept alive as food for the horror's ugly brood. He dashed madly towards the thing, hurled his club in utter desperation as the terrible teeth were about to close upon the swooning girl. The whirling weapon struck the hatchling's skull with shattering force. For a moment the adult monster stood stock still as if in disbelief, then spun around to confront the killer of its hideous progeny.
The frantic American was ready for it. He stooped, snatched a rock from the ground and cast it with all his might. Roman's aim was true. The creature hissed in stabbing agony, dropped Quena and staggered back, sickening ooze dripping from its ruined orb.
In seconds Roman reached the unconscious girl. But the creature, still full of fight darted forward, shot out a massive arm as the pilot tried to carry her away. He barely ducked its rending claws, snatched up his fallen club and then dived beneath the belly of the monster in a desperate bid to distract it from Quena who had fainted in sheer terror of the thing.
Roman struck out viciously at its soft underside as he rolled beneath the creature. Again, the monster hissed in agony as it was hammered by the club. Huge claw tipped hands groped for the American. He scuttled away, was nearly stomped upon as the monster tried to trample him. The desperate pilot scurried from beneath the enraged beast, leapt upon its armoured back, thinking that it couldn’t reach him there.
The thing went berserk. It raced one way, then the other. Huge clawed hands, more dexterous than he’d imagined, reached for Roman. The man cursed, jumped as one mighty talon hooked into his shirt. Cloth ripped. He landed badly, fell. The monster spun about as Roman tried to struggle up. The thing’s jaws gaped. Its remaining eye glittered with savage triumph as its rending claws swept down upon him like flying sickles.
Roman flung up an arm – a useless, futile gesture. A stone shot above his head as the monster’s talons were about to close viciously upon him. The missile, flung by the girl who had recovered, struck its remaining eye. It stumbled aside hissing in agony, spinning about in the grip of pain. Blinded, the creature staggered towards the sheer side of the rise. Its feet slipped over, the thing began to topple, scrabbling madly to save itself.
Mighty claws hooked into stone, held. Roman saw his only hope. He charged the beast, threw his weight against it in a desperate bid to break its precarious hold. The thing reached for him. He heaved with all his might, broke its grip. The monster’s arms flailed wildly as it fell. One huge limb struck Roman’s shoulder and sent him spinning in agony to the ground.
Quena, in a panic, heart beating wildly, dashed to Roman’s side and knelt by the groaning man who clutched his injury. A fervent prayer was upon her lips as her gentle hands explored his wounds. Gradually she calmed, vastly relieved to find no serious hurt. Satisfied that Roman wasn’t in danger of dying, and with no sign of any lurking threat, Quena laid his head in her lap and waited for him to recover from the pain and the exertions of the battle.
“You’re a very brave man,” observed Quena with unfeigned admiration. “And strong, too,” she continued as she touched one heavily muscled arm. “Not even Oaca, most courageous of the Yacapa warriors would have come to rescue me.”
“I ... I had your help as well,” stammered Roman, slightly embarrassed by the directness of her praise and the stirring nature of her touch. “The rock you threw saved my life.”
The girl laughed depreciatingly. “I’m afraid I fainted on several occasions. Never before have I been so terrified, but when I saw the monster threatening you I lost all fear and found within myself undreamt of courage.”
Quena fell into thoughtful silence as she gazed upon him. Here was a man, other than her father, who combined the qualities of strength and courage, and yet lacked the brutality and overblown machismo of priest and warrior. It was an intriguing combination to a woman who had been born into that type of culture. Could she give herself to this man, could she put the evils of the past behind her? It was a sudden thought, one which startled her with its unexpectedness.
With her face hidden by the mask it was impossible for Roman to know what she was thinking. His eyes wandered to the large, dark areolas of her youthful breasts, which hung above him as tempting as ripe pears. For a moment he had a vision of himself exploring her body with his lips and tongue, but then harsh reality intruded. He remembered Garcia telling him of her vow never to endure the embrace of a man for some unelaborated reason, and then there was the fact her father was dead - grim news he’d have to tell her when they were out of here, if they got out of here for the monster might still be alive.
“I think I’d better see if the thing is dead.”
“Yes, I suppose we’d better,” agreed Quena soberly, her dreamy longing for the man now broken by cruel circumstance where thoughts of love seemed a hopeless hope, a mere fantasy that was dissipated by the intrusion of the brutal world.
The couple walked to the edge of the rise and looked down. Below, through the swirling mist, they saw the carcass of the beast. It had fallen onto jagged rocks and now lay deathly still, blood flowing from its broken body in gory streams.
“The thing was no god, just an animal,” observed Quena, quietly. “All those people sacrificed to it... needless deaths. It could have been hunted down and killed like any other dangerous beast. Damn the priests and their false religion. My father was right after all... How is he?”
Roman hesitated. This was the moment he’d been dreading, and as he searched for the right words Quena gasped, sensing something was terribly amiss.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked in a frightened voice, her trembling hand clutching at her wildly beating heart.
“Yes,” admitted Roman, sombrely. “Ixtol’s warriors attacked us when they saw we were attempting to escape to rescue you. He died bravely defending me. I’m... I’m so terribly sorry.”
Quena sobbed. Roman caught her as her knees gave way and held the weeping girl as bitter tears of grief flowed freely from her haunted eyes. As the minutes passed she slowly settled and as she nestled in the pilot’s arms he could see she was exhausted both mentally and physically from the experiences she endured and the dreadful and unexpected news of her father’s death.
Roman, too, was close to exhaustion from the frenetic pace of his daring rescue of the girl. Both of them desperately needed rest. Gently, he picked her up and began an exploration of their surrounds, looking for shelter of some kind. Shortly, he found a shallow overhang in the cliff face that proved large enough for both, and in but moments the couple were asleep despite the Spartan nature of their shelter and the unknown terrors that lay lurking in the mist.
**********
Roman awoke hungry but refreshed. It was impossible to tell if it was morning or still night in this subterranean world. His watch was useless, having been broken at some stage during one of his many wild ordeals. He turned his head and saw Quena was awake, sitting next to him – a sight worth looking at.
“I’ve been thinking,” Quena said soberly when she became aware of him gazing at her. “My father’s death must not be in vain. Tecaca, the false god, must be exposed to my people as a lie. The priests use religion to dominate the population, working hand in hand with that brute, Ixtol, to oppress us. The priests are vicious, as cruel as Ixtol. Even though the monster is dead I’m sure next time they will kill the sacrificial victims themselves to maintain the pretence the creature is still alive. They are evil and their power must be broken completely. I... I know what I plan is very dangerous. Also, it is none of your affair, but will you help me?”
Roman sat up, thinking hard. What she said was true – it was a perilous enterprise, opposing ruthless and powerful interests. But could he walk away and leave her to face the dangers on her own? It seemed a cowardly and immoral thing to do – to abandon a woman who sought his aid. Besides, pragmatically, did he have anywhere to run? A trackless morass of wild and threatening jungle lay between him and civilization. He could perish just as easily on the homeward journey. If he were to die then it was better, or so he felt, to give up his life for a more noble cause than mere self-preservation.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “You know your people better than I. What’s your plan?”
Quena smiled behind her mask. She wanted to embrace him, and her heart beat faster at the thought. But she put aside her feelings. Perhaps later, if they lived, something might come of her flowering desire.
“Thank you,” she replied; then continued gravely: “My people know what the monster looks like from descriptions given them by the priesthood. We’ll cut off its head and display it before them. Then they’ll see it’s not a god, but merely an animal that can be killed like any other.”
“Will that be enough?” queried Roman, doubtfully. “Religion is a very powerful force. Humans can rationalise just about anything. It is possible your people may cling to their beliefs despite the evidence before their eyes.”
“Many have suffered at the hands of the priests,” explained the girl. “Not only from having their loved ones sacrificed. Just about every man, except for the warriors and the chief’s family, has had to watch impotently as his daughter has been raped by these degenerates. They claim those chosen are honoured to serve the god by serving his priests. But now I am certain it is a lie the clerics have concocted to justify their bestial passions. I, myself, had to endure this awful fate.”
Quena paused for a moment. A sob escaped her trembling lips as she struggled with the overwhelming memories of the horrid crime which had been inflicted upon her when she was just sixteen. Then, with an effort she regained her composure and continued.
“It is only the fear of Tecaca’s wrath that holds smouldering rebellion in check. Once my people see the god is false – an artefact of lying priests - they will not hesitate to overthrow their bestial oppressors.”
Roman was deeply shocked and sickened by Quena’s admission she had been sexually assaulted. His heart went out to the courageous girl, and he could clearly see what drove her to destroy her debased foes.
“Very well,” replied the pilot, determined to do all within his power to help her exorcise the demons of the past. “I’ll trust your judgement. I’ll aid you in every way I can.”
**********
Quena made hand axes by knapping suitable stones, and the couple set about the gory task of severing the monster’s head. It was hard and bloody work, but at last the ugly job was done and the bony crocodilian skull, three feet in length, thumped heavily to the ground.
Roman wiped the blood from his hands. Both he and Quena were splattered with the monster’s stinking gore. The American desperately wanted a hot bath, but their odious task had just begun, for now they had to carry the dripping head up the narrow and treacherous path to the outer world.
The American stooped in preparation to haul the heavy head to his shoulder when a scuttling sound made him pause. The couple turned. Quena gasped. Through the mist both glimpsed another fearful creature, brother to the slain beast. The thing paused, a forked tongue flicked out to taste the air. The monster swung its head in their direction, drawn by the pheromones in the blood of the slain creature – chemicals released in injury or death to alert others of its kind.
Instantly, the monster’s eyes locked upon them. Its black orbs were bleak pits brimming with wild malevolence. Its entire body quivered in the grip of untamed fury. Then a feral hiss of raging hate exploded from its gaping jaws as it lurched towards Roman and the girl, cruel talons flexing with the savage lust for blood.
Roman swore. The couple bolted, abandoning the heavy head as the furious creature bore madly down upon them. Man and girl dodged between the star-shaped growths as their nightmare pursuer rapidly closed the distance. Quena stumbled. The American caught her. They raced on, the monster ever nearer, the clattering of its clawed feet on stone ever louder.
A bulk loomed through the swirling crimson mist – another nightmare shape. Quena would have screamed had she the breath. Roman silently cursed. The way was barred. He grabbed his companion’s hand, tugged her towards a denser clump of growths. They plunged within as a tremendous bellow shook the fog about them.
The second creature, who had been feeding on the strange growth’s fruits, turned to face its mortal enemy. Herbivorous though it was the beast was as frightful as that which pursued the panting couple. Its pale carapace was tortis-like and covered in horny cones. Unlike a tortis the creature’s legs weren’t splayed, but ursine in form. The head was beaked in the manner of a parrot. Its long tail, which it used to knock fruit from the strange trees, was armoured in thick scales and tipped with a knob of spiky bone that doubled as a weapon.
In an instant the two monsters clashed ferociously. The herbivore slammed its mace-like tail with cracking force against the armour of its raging foe. The furious predator shook off the blow, lunged, its fearsome talons grappling with its prey. Claws as large as sickles grated on the other beast’s armour. The plant eater slammed a huge paw against its antagonist’s head, swatting aside the gaping crocodilian jaws of its brutal opponent.
Both beasts surged about, locked in savage and unrestrained combat, the two humans quite forgotten. One tree-like growth crashed to earth, toppled by the smashing impact of the wildly battling protagonists. Roman dragged Quena clear just in time and another falling plant missed her by a frighteningly small margin.
“Come on.” He cried as he clutched her hand. “We’ve got to flee while their distracted.”
The couple burst from the far side of the weird coppice, only to be brought up short. Another scorpion-like predator, attracted by the furore of the battle, barred their path with its fearsome bulk.
Desperately, they dodged around it, but the thing caught the scent of the pheromones splattered on their bodies and set off after them in wild pursuit, roused to savage fury by the ferment of rage inducing chemicals.
Roman led the way as the couple made their desperate break for freedom. The pilot thanked providence for his sense of direction as he found the path to the surface world. Both began the dangerous ascent and the American was beset by knifing fear that the pursuing beast would overtake them in but moments.
Urging Quena to take the lead Roman threw a glance behind him and was gripped by sickening fear at what he saw. The monster was perilously close. The narrow path had forced it to slow its sprinting pace, but even so its bulky body, partially clinging to the path, partially to the rocky wall, was clambering up the trail with a speed that matched their own.
The creature shot out one of its huge taloned hands. Roman battered aside the lunging claws with his club, losing his balance in the process. For a moment he tottered frighteningly over the yawning depths, then managed to latch onto a stony protuberance and saved himself from a fatal plunge.
“Hurry,” he breathlessly urged the girl.
Up the narrow way they struggled, the horrid monster lunging at them, the desperate man battering aside its grasping talons. Quena stumbled, fell. She struggled up. Onward they fled through the nightmare of the crimson murk, their savage pursuer slowly gaining on them inch by inexorable inch, and Roman knew it was only a matter of time before those fearsome claws closed fatally upon him and the girl.
Again the monster lunged, the tiring man avoiding its lethal grasp, but only just. Quena cried, but it was the cry of vast relief – she staggered free of the swirling mist. Before her was the exit from this nightmare world. The girl turned. She saw Roman stumble from the clutching crimson fog and the monster hesitate.
“The creature has stopped,” she panted as the American staggered to her side.
Both kept a wary eye upon the monster as they paused to catch their breath, tearing off the masks to gulp fresh air. The thing wavered upon the verge of the abyss, swaying indecisively as conflicting urges pulled it one way then the other. On the one hand the pheromones spurred it to pursue its prey; on the other it was hesitant to leave the familiarity of the misty underworld and enter what to it was an alien environment.
Perhaps the thing would have retreated, but wicked fate played its hand – a breeze flowing in through the tunnel from the outer world wafted the scent of pheromones in greater concentration to the flicking tongue of the vacillating monster. The balance was tipped in an instant. The creature charged. Again the couple madly fled before the raging beast.
Roman and the girl burst through the curtain of the waterfall and plunged within its foaming pool. Both swam swiftly for the shore and scrambled on dry land only to be confronted by another menace: It was early morning. The red mist had dissapated and a party comprised of Ixtol, his warriors, clerics and further back a straggle of about twenty Yacapa onlookers had come to investigate the failure of the priests to return from the ceremony of the night before.
The pilot cursed. Quena gasped in wild alarm as Ixtol’s eyes narrowed dangerously. In an instant the Yacapa chief put two and two together. The bodies of the priests he’d discovered and the presence of the American clearly showed who was responsible for the profanation of Tecaca’s holy sacrifice.
With a wild cry of hot outrage Ixtol shouted orders to his spear armed warriors. The savages leapt at the couple, weapons poised to kill, then froze in wild alarm as the raging beast burst forth from behind the cataract and plunged within the pool. The thing’s legs churned, sending up a spray. Ixtol’s party stumbled back as it swiftly gained the shore.
Disoriented and dazzled by the intensity of unaccustomed sunlight, the thing lashed out in pain crazed fury at the dimly sensed man-things. Red mayhem erupted. Warriors were seized, torn apart by the monster’s rending claws. Huge jaws pulped men to bloody ruin. Screams rent the air in a cacophony of wild terror as the monster exploded into a berserk orgy of destruction.
Roman snatched up two spears, tossed one to the girl as the raging beast rushed furiously towards them. He ducked the sweep of its massive claws and thrust for one glaring eye, missed. The creature swung its massive head, brutal jaws fearsomely agape. The American dodged, but wasn’t quite fast enough – the monster’s snapping teeth missed, but the backswing of its ugly head struck the man and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Quena leapt in as the slavering beast lunged at Roman. She thrust her spear with a wild yell and stabbed it in the eye. The monster hissed explosively, staggered back, jaws agape in burning agony. Again the girl dashed at the horror, aiming at its other glaring eye. But the thing was now alerted to her tactic. Its monstrous hand shot out and closed with vice-like strength upon the leaping girl.
Roman gasped in wild fear as Quena screamed in stabbing pain and dropped her spear. As the monster drew the struggling girl towards its drooling maw the frantic pilot grasped his fallen weapon. The creature’s other hand darted for him. In utter desperation Roman dived beneath its grasping claws, leapt forward as the horror’s fangs were about to close upon Quena and with a savage yell thrust his spear between its gaping jaws and up into its brain.
The thing stiffened. It dropped the girl and staggered. Roman caught up Quena as the horror stumbled, bright blood gushing from its maw. Swiftly, he carried her clear of the collapsing beast which crashed to earth and writhed in gory death throes upon the blood soaked soil.
Roman swung upon his human foes with all the fury of a cornered lion, prepared to fight to the bitter end rather than surrender. But his enemies had been scattered by the fury of the beast’s attack, and those who’d survived the savagery of its assault looked on in silent disbelief at the slowly dying monster they believed to be a god.
Quena, who had recovered somewhat from the pawing of the beast, knew she had to swiftly act while their foes were disconcerted to the point of vulnerability. Quickly, she urged Roman to set her on her feet and then addressed the stunned onlookers in their native tongue.
“My people,” she began in vibrant tones, “for many generations our loved ones have been sacrificed by the priesthood to this horrid monster. Look well upon the beast. See how it bleeds. See how it dies. It is no god, just an animal that can be killed like any other.
“The priests have lied to you,” continued Quena vehemently. “Our sons and daughters have died horrible, needless deaths. Cruel and evil clerics have used the fear of a false god to rule us brutally in connivance with a debased chief. It is time to seek a better way of living, to throw off the tyranny of our oppressors. The beast is dead. The priesthood has no power and we outnumber them. Rise up, my people, and take revenge on those who’ve caused your suffering.”
Quena fell silent, and in the quiet the survivors looked at one another uneasily, hesitant to act, held in check by latent fear from years of cunning indoctrination. Ixtol saw their vacillation. He knew he also had to swiftly act, to kill the girl before she could further sway the crowd and bring his world crashing down around him. Burning anger seized the chief. How dare this audacious chit try and topple him. With a wild yell of hot outrage he seized a warrior’s spear and charged towards Quena.
Roman swore. He interposed his brawny frame between Ixtol and the girl. The two men crashed together like wild bulls. The chief bawled for his surviving warriors. Three savages came running in response as the pilot parried another leaping thrust. The American knew he had to quickly end the fight as Ixtol thrust again, his sprinting men now but yards away.
Roman ducked a wild stab, lunged with all his might. His point caught Ixtol in the chest. The chief screamed, staggered back and collapsed upon the ground, blood spurting in a gory fountain from his fatal wound. The charging warriors, shocked by their chief’s swift demise faltered for a second, and in an instant the pilot was among them, laying wild blows left and right as he whirled his spear like a quarterstaff.
The savage warriors were thrown into complete confusion by Roman’s swift and unconventional attack. One went down, his skull split open; the others had had enough – the death of their god, the demise of their chief, and now they faced a foe that fought with eccentric and wild abandon they’d never seen before. With wails of despair the survivors cast aside their spears and fled like well whipped curs.
Before, the throng had been hesitant, but the sight of their oppressor’s blood had stirred the passions of the crowd. The priests sensed the change of mood as the fleeing warriors left them to face the restless throng. The clerics edged nervously to the margins of the muttering mob, hoping their escape would not be noticed. Quena saw them, pointed dramatically.
“See how the priests flee,” she cried. “See how they do not call upon Tecaca to save them from your wrath. They know their god is false – the stuff of children’s tales - and now they fear your just revenge.”
As one the crowd swung upon the retreating clerics. They saw the fear upon their sweating countenances and the trembling of their limbs. In an instant the cloak of sanctity was torn away and the priests stood before them naked of their power. The mob’s mood darkened as the truth dawned upon them; then rebellion broke free of all restraint.
Someone flung a wild curse, another person hurled a stone. One cleric went down. The crowd swept forward. The priests cried in wild fear as they were set upon with the savagery of a wolf pack. Roman turned away from the ugly scene. The screams were piercing, but mercifully brief. The throng, though, continued to vent its rage on the corpses. Slowly, their anger wound down with the cathartic release of years of pent up rage, and at last they stood about silent, leaderless, and staring numbly at the mutilated bodies of their oppressors.
With Roman’s help Quena swiftly took command, the task being made easier as the throng were understandably in awe of those who’d slain the monster. River stones were soon knapped to hand axes and the head of the beast severed, as was that of Ixtol – bloody trophies that would prove both brutes were dead to the wider populace.
“Quena, we have to be careful things don’t get out of hand,” counselled Roman as they began their march towards the Yacapa citadel. “The power of the priesthood must be broken, but we can’t allow anarchy to erupt, which is what often happens during a revolution.”
The girl nodded. “The people will listen. My father was greatly respected among the populace as a skilled healer and, as his daughter; the esteem in which they held him will extend to me. I have already explained to our group the need for restraint, and I shall repeat this message to the rest of the Yacapa.”
Soon, their swift pace across the grassland brought them within sight of the citadel. Roman advised a cautious approach and suggested a scout be sent ahead, for the three warriors who had escaped the mob’s vengeance had undoubtedly spread news of what had happened. Quena had been counting on the reports of the death of beast and chief to cause sufficient chaos to prevent organised resistance by the priesthood, but the American wasn’t so sure. Ixtol’s death would create an opportunity for those of similar ilk to seize power, and a bold move by such a man could easily succeed.
Accordingly, the party halted and a runner was sent forth to reconnoiter. The chosen man set out at a steady pace, his eyes sweeping the landscape before him as he jogged. Ahead, about a hundred yards distant was an extensive tuft of pampas grass growing by the side of the processional way. Roman saw the scout slow as he approached it, then start as if he’d seen something.
The fellow quickly turned; sprinted back towards the group. But his cry of warning was brutally cut short – a warrior leapt from the tall pampas, flung his spear. It plunged into the scout’s back and stretched him dead upon the sward. Then, adding to Roman’s consternation, twenty howling fiends leapt from concealment and swiftly charged towards his party, their faces wild with savage ferocity.
The American swore as the painted fiends raced furiously towards them, howling wildly with terrifying bloodlust. Quena shouted orders. Her men hurled their missiles at the charging foe – fist-size rocks they’d collected from the river. War-cries turned to screams of pain as half a dozen warriors fell beneath the swift barrage. Then the enemy cast their missiles and wrought equal havoc among the pilot’s party.
Roman dodged a spear, ripped it from the ground. He swiftly cast it back at the throwers who were now but yards away. His aim was true – one man went down, blood spurting, the point buried deeply in his chest. Roman shouted at Quena as others of their party followed his example and flung captured spears back upon the charging foe.
“The monster’s head - bring it forward,” the pilot cried above the cacophony of battle.
At the girl’s command four carriers dashed to the battleline and swiftly held the dripping thing aloft. The charging warriors, shocked with sick surprise, faltered when their gaze fell upon it. A roar of triumph erupted from the rebels at the sight of its demoralizing effect.
“Let the blood flow,” cried Quena, “Attack!”
Her screaming partisans swept forward like a rolling tidal wave and engulfed the shaken foe in a savage melee of unrestrained violence. Clouds of dust were stirred up by stamping feet. Men screamed, fell. Blood soaked the churned earth as warriors swirled about in a grim and wild dance of sheer brutality.
From concealment in the pampas Mezac, high priest of Tecaca, peered forth in growing consternation at the raging battle, for the easy victory he’d envisaged was far from manifest. The warriors who had earlier fled had run directly to him with the news of Ixtol and the monster’s death, and in their end Mezac had seen a marvellous opportunity. With the aid of his fellow priests the cunning fellow had swiftly seized power, craftily keeping secret the false god’s death by ruthlessly strangling those who bore the news.
Then, in command of a band of fanatical warriors under the guise of avenging Ixtol’s murder, he had lain in ambush to slay the rebels before they could reach the citadel and expose the priesthood’s lies. But his plans had gone seriously awry – he hadn’t counted on the rebels using the monster’s severed head as their standard, but rather had assumed they’d take the villages to the body of the beast.
Alarm now clutched the high priest’s heart as he saw the tide of battle begin to turn. The rebels hooted their derision as several of his warriors turned and fled. Sensing victory Quena’s men yelled exultant battle-cries as they flung themselves wildly upon the weakened foe. Warriors cried in consternation. They stumbled back; fell like reeds beneath the brutal onslaught. In mere seconds the attacker’s line was broken, and the enemy began to flee in mass as men cast aside their weapons and ran in utter panic.
Through the swirling dust and chaos Quena glimpsed Mezac peering cautiously forth from concealment, his distinctive headdress of bright feathers giving him away. The girl’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the sight of the man who’d raped her. Her full lips twisted into a feral snarl as she wrenched her bloody spear from the guts of an attacker.
Roman cursed as he saw Quena dash towards Mezac, cutting through the fleeing enemy. The worried American sprinted after the racing girl, wondering what madness now possessed her. He thrust one warrior through as the fellow tried to stab her in the back. Roman uttered a hoarse shout of warning as he fended off another foe. But Quena was oblivious to everything save Mezac. Her face was contorted by a wild look. Fury possessed her, lent her strength as she outpaced the sweating pilot, scattering foes left and right as she swiftly ploughed through them.
Mezac saw her coming. His harsh visage held contempt though he saw a presage of his death in her savage gaze which held not the slightest hint of mercy. The high priest called for his bodyguards. Two men leapt forth from behind him to confront the racing girl as he tactically retreated to lie in wait within the thickness of the pampas.
Roman’s heart was in his mouth as he saw both warriors lung at Quena in simultaneous attack. But the girl, her spear held horizontally, swiftly dived beneath their darting points. Her weapon’s shaft struck each foe across the shins, and with howls of pain they tumbled to the earth. Then, rolling to her feet, Quena plunged within the pampas, her entire being ablaze with the unconstrained desire for revenge.
Roman put on a burst of speed as he saw Mezac’s bodyguards fight off pain and struggle to their feet. One leapt within the pampas. The other was about to follow suit. Wild fear clutched the pilot’s heart. The raging foe would stab her from behind. A hoarse shout burst from Roman’s throat. The second warrior spun about as the desperate American, consumed by spurring fear, bore down upon the savage foe.
A wild shriek erupted from the pampas as Roman swiftly closed with his muscular opponent. The piercing cry knifed his heart with raging tumult. Someone was being brutally attacked. Was it Quena or her foes who were shrilly screaming? There was no time to think. With a savage snarl his opponent leapt at him and in an instant both were battling for their lives.
Roman parried the leaping spear, thrust in deadly riposte. His wild opponent blocked the lunge and whipped his weapon’s butt at the desperate pilot’s head. The American ducked the whistling stroke, stabbed upwards. His foe screamed horribly as the razor point took him in the throat.
The savage fell in a gush of crimson gore. The American vaulted the dying man and dashed within the pampas from which came further wild cries. Through the trampled growth he saw a sight that tore a gasp of horror from him. The other bodyguard was dead, the girl’s spear jutting from his chest. But Quena was down, bleeding, wrestling furiously with Mezac who was trying to slit her throat.
Gloating laughter burst forth from Mezac in a black eruption of unbridled sadism. He’d leapt on Quena from behind when she’d turned to kill his bodyguard and had nearly slain her with his treacherous assault. But the girl, alerted by a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, had spun about in time to deflect the plunging blade. Though she fought wildly the wiry priest was far stronger than he looked and had hurled her to the sward. Now he clamped one ruthless and brutal hand upon her throat.
The girl gurgled. Mezac laughed with dark delight. He tore his knife hand from her weakened grasp and raised the blade high above his head. Roman swore, dashed to save the gasping girl. Mezac, with a wild cry of evil triumph, prepared to plunge his dagger down. But the American had cast his heavy spear in a desperate bid to save Quena. The high priest shrilly screamed as its point struck him in the shoulder and knocked him to the ground.
Through a haze of agony Mezac saw Roman charging at him in utter fury. The high priest though down was still as dangerous as a wounded beast. His hand clawed soil and he flung it into Roman’s eyes. The American cursed, stumbled back, blinded by the dirt. Mezac grinned, jerked the spear from his bleeding shoulder. Ignoring the agony he staggered up, a feral look upon his face, arm drawn back in preparation to slay the helpless pilot.
Quena, who lay gasping, saw the danger. The thought of Roman dying fired her with superhuman strength and drove her to a state of utter frenzy. With a savage yell she snatched up Mezac’s knife and leapt upon his back like a pouncing jaguar. The high priest staggered, screamed in unimaginable agony as with a wild yell she plunged her blade deep within his loins. In an instant he collapsed upon the ground. Quena was on him, mauling him with all the untamed savagery of a wild feline. She struck and struck again - a crazed whirlwind of slashing blows that ripped a torrent of horrid screams from her writhing foe.
Roman, appalled by the hellish cacophony, frantically dashed the dirt from his eyes; saw the girl hacking at the corpse like a demented butcher. Horrified, he leapt and caught her flailing knife hand.
“Enough,” he cried. “Enough I say. He’s dead!”
His familiar voice broke through the berserker madness that had come upon Quena. The glazed look slowly left her eyes as sanity returned, and when she looked upon her bloody handiwork she turned away and retched.
Roman held the sobbing girl, comforting her as best he could. From the nature of the violence she’d wrought upon Mezac he had an inkling of her motivating reasons. Quena, like most people wasn’t normally brutal. But the heat of battle had roused those dark passions that lie beneath all the masks we wear, and the sight of Mezac, the man who’d cruelly raped her, had fanned the flames of bloodlust to a conflagration of all consuming rage.
But now, her anger was spent. She was drained of hate and fury, and sickened by what she’d done. Mezac was an evil man, true, but the manner of his death at her mutilating hands ... was that not evil also? Quena pushed aside these thoughts for the moment, for other things required her immediate attention.
The girl looked at her blood splattered hands and body. She shuddered, but managed to pull herself together.
“I must take command of my people,” she murmured as she wiped her hands upon the grass, “least they, too, descend into such savage madness.”
Roman helped her rise and they exited the pampas to find their victorious followers swiftly marching towards them. Quena quickly questioned her men who reported that those of Mezac’s warriors who hadn’t been killed in the rout had fled, and that the way was clear of hindering enemies.
Orders were given and, as Quena washed away the blood in a nearby stream, Mezac’s head was severed and added to the other gory trophies. Soon, the band was again on the march and shortly arrived at the Yacapa citadel to find the place in a chaos of confusion. The people milled about restlessly. The priests had barricaded themselves in their sacred tower at the further end of the village, about which were ranged a ring of nervous and uncertain warriors who tensed at the approach of the party.
The severed heads of men and beast were brought forward and displayed to the gathering crowd and the warriors about the tower of the priests. Quena raised her voice above the murmuring throng. Silence descended as she spoke for long minutes, concluding thus:
“My people,” she summarised, “we have been deceived for many years by a cruel and lying priesthood who used our fears against us. The proof lies before you. Your sons, your daughters, your loved ones were sacrificed not to a god but to a mere animal that could have been slain had these debased clerics told the truth. Ixtol is dead, Mezac is dead; the monster is dead. Let us disband the priesthood and establish a better way of living free of cruelty and bloody sacrifices.”
For a moment the members of the crowd looked at one another. Then all eyes turned upon the warriors before the tower. These men sensed the change of mood that had come upon the throng. The people’s eyes were hard, their backs were straight. No longer were they cowered for they realised the old order and all it stood for had collapsed. The warriors fingered their weapons nervously. With Ixtol and Mezac dead they were leaderless and outnumbered by the angry mob. One man dropped his spear, and then others clattered down in sensible surrender.
From a high window in the tower came a wail of despair as the watching priests realised the depth and completeness of their defeat. Shortly, a wisp of smoke escaped the window; then a roar of flames erupted as oil splattered timbers caught alight. The crowd retreated, and from a safe distance Roman and the girl watched the building burn as the priests chose suicide by immolation rather than humiliation at the hands of the outraged populace.
Slowly, the weakened tower crumbled as tremendous heat began to fracture stone. Then the leaping flames rose higher as air rushed through the cracks to fan the raging fire. The pace of destruction accelerated and with a mighty roar the building crashed to earth in billowing smoke and flames... Shortly, all that remained of the tyranny of a savage religion was a smouldering heap of broken rubble – a fitting end to a cruel theology.
**********
Several weeks had now passed. Roman watched as the Yacapa stonemasons hauled the last of the blocks behind the waterfall to complete the sealing of the entrance to the underworld. Never again would the red mist or the fearsome monsters that dwelt within the secret caverns of the Earth pose a threat.
The men went about their work eagerly. All were glad to be free of their brutal chief and the oppressive priesthood which helped him stay in power. The worship of Acilla, goddess of fertility, long oppressed by the male dominated death-cult, but kept alive in secret by the womenfolk, was making a swift resurgence under Quena’s patronage. Roman didn’t have much time for religion, but he was grateful that the goddess was symbolic of love in its spiritual and earthy forms – a far healthier theology than the obsessive death and violence of Tecaca.
Quena stood by Roman’s side as he watched the stonemasons disappear behind the watery curtain of the cataract. She smiled at him as he looked at her. The girl was now the leader of the Yacapa by universal consent, a role which she adopted with gracious ease. The American wondered what the future held. He was attracted to the girl, but their acquaintance was so brief, and he was uncertain if the cultural differences between them could be bridged, for they were from very different worlds.
The sound of an engine made the couple start. Roman looked up and saw a light aircraft in the distance. Was it a search plane looking for him – from Venezuela, perhaps? He thought it might be so. The machine was flying low, heading in their direction. It would be upon them in perhaps ten minutes. Now was the moment of truth, of choice.
He gazed at Quena and saw the girl knew his thoughts. This was his ticket back to civilization, an environment in which she’d be lost. All he had to do was stand here and waive his arms. The spotter in the plane couldn’t miss him. But Quena would, tremendously. Once back in the bright lights of civilization and in the company of sophisticated white women she felt she’d soon be forgotten, and that she’d never see him again.
The girl’s full lips quivered. She lowered her tearful eyes. If that’s what he wanted she wouldn’t stand in his way even though she felt she could find happiness with him, for with Mezac’s death so too had died the evils of the brutal past.
A lump rose in Roman’s throat as he thought about leaving her. What would he gain by returning to civilization? He’d risen from laboratory assistant in his father’s company, Hygeia Pharmaceuticals, to ownership on the old man’s death. But for all that he found the job insipid and tedious, and it was only his sense of duty to his late father, to fulfil his sire’s expectations rather than any real enthusiasm for the job, that kept him at it. Neither lover nor close family were waiting for him. If he returned he’d gain little and lose much. He came to a decision and took Quena’s hand.
“Come on,” he urged. “We can hide behind the waterfall.”
Quena looked at him, surprise then joy showing on her face as she realized the import of his words.
They kissed briefly but passionately. Then quickly, the laughing couple waded through the pool hand in hand and disappeared behind the cataract’s concealing spray. Shortly, the plane passed overhead and gradually disappeared into the azure distance, its occupants oblivious to the wonders hidden from their prying eyes.
THE END