Night of the Condor (13 page)

Eyes downcast, she allowed Rourke to escort her back to the living-room. It was primitive enough, she saw in the lamplight. There was a stove for heating, a hard-looking couch covered in blankets, and a rickety table with some folding chairs.

Greg Mayhew's smile was welcoming, but there was a reserve in him as he courteously seated her at the table. There was a thick bean and potato soup, followed by a rice dish, savoury with onions, tomatoes and herbs and accompanied by mutton stew. In spite of her unhappiness, Leigh found she was ravenous, and ate every mouthful placed in front of her. The men drank
chicha
, but Leigh was offered and accepted cola.

The conversation was general, and Leigh was brought into it in a way which excluded her as completely as if they had ignored her. They were being civil to the outsider, that was all, she thought ruefully.

'So what brings you to this part of the world, Leigh?' Greg asked at last, as they sat drinking mugs of milky rather sweet coffee.

Leigh moved a shoulder. 'I came to find someone,' she said evasively. She thought, I came to find myself first, although I didn't know it. Then I found Rourke. She had to resist the impulse to look at him in case her eyes betrayed her.

'She came to find her fiancé.' There was an undisguisedly harsh note in Rourke's voice. 'A man called Evan Gilchrist, who used to be at Atayahuanco with us.'

There was a silence. Looking up, Leigh saw the two men exchange glances, Greg's brows lifting in inter-rogation, then snapping together in a heavy frown as he absorbed whatever unspoken message he had received from Rourke.

After a pause, he said, 'Well, I sure hope you find him soon.'

The words were polite, but at the same time loaded, Leigh thought as she finished her coffee. She got the strong impression that the story of Evan's disappearance was not news to Greg Mayhew, and that he regarded the younger man's hunt for lost treasure with the same disfavour as Rourke himself. But why?

She felt an ache of compassion for Evan so doggedly and single-mindedly pursuing his dream— with not the slightest idea it was in vain. The sooner she could catch up with him and be totally honest with him the better. Perhaps if he had found some ancient Inca gold, it would soften the blow a little. At least, she hoped so.

Greg was speaking again. 'Now, Leigh, as your medical adviser, I recommend an early night for you. Carlota will show you where you're to sleep.' He smiled at her. 'I apologise again for the primitive arrangements, but Rourke assures me you're accustomed to far worse.'

A protest about being so blatantly bundled out of the way was hovering on the tip of Leigh's tongue, but she bit it back. Clearly the two of them had private matters to discuss, she thought bitterly.

The store room was small, with a single, barred window high in one wall. A space had been cleared on the floor, and two thickly woven straw mats placed there at a discreet distance from each other. A small lamp was glowing gently on top of a pile of wooden boxes.

Leigh chose the mat nearest the window, and lay down, removing nothing but her slippers. Carlota had not offered her any kind of nightwear, and judging by the roguish twinkle in her eyes as she bade Leigh '
Buenas noches
,' she had clearly decided that as the night would be spent in lovemaking, such refinements were unnecessary.

If only she knew, Leigh thought, turning on to her stomach, and pillowing her head on her folded arms. There was far more to separate Rourke and herself than a simple space between two mats, as he had made plain on their journey here. The barrier of silence had been imposed once more with a vengeance. He had appeared wrapped in his own thoughts, practically oblivious of her presence, returning monosyllabic answers to any tentative conversational overtures she had made.

It was obvious he regretted those all too brief moments of lovemaking. 'Madness', he had called them, and perhaps he had been right, but sanity was so cold.

Leigh shivered, biting her lip. Her body ached for the fulfilment it had been so brutally denied, the intensity of her frustration almost shocking. In the past, she had always been so totally in control, or so she had thought. Now she knew that was only an illusion. Before Rourke came into her life, she had only scratched the surface of experience, she realised wearily. Now, quite explicitly, she had been made aware that she was a woman with all a woman's needs.

But though Rourke had aroused those needs, she had to face the fact that he was not obliged to satisfy them, and his whole forbidding attitude to her emphasised this.

She shifted restlessly, wondering once again about the unknown Isabella, and the lesson' Rourke had learned from her. It must, she supposed dolefully, have been a potent one if his subsequent reactions were anything to go by. In her mind's eye, she saw a dark-eyed Spanish beauty, all voluptuous arrogance, with a flower in her hair. The kind of woman who met fire with fire, whose passion would be unforgettable, making all other women pale into insignificance beside her.

Particularly, Leigh thought with a sigh, spoiled brats of English girls, who had never been more than a nuisance from the beginning.

She began to sigh again, then determinedly turned it into a yawn. If she continued with this train of thought, she would become thoroughly depressed. In spite of her annoyance at being sent off to bed like an unruly child, there was no denying that she was tired. It had been a long and difficult day, but everything would seem better after a good night's sleep.

She closed her eyes, deliberately relaxing each limb and muscle, and eventually she must have succeeded, because when next she opened her eyes with a little start, the lamp had burned right down, and a glance at her watch in its fading light told her that several hours had passed. And she was still alone, the neighbouring mat unoccupied.

Last night, she had slept in his arms. Tonight, he couldn't even bear to be in the same room with her, she thought restively.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and as she did so, she heard the music.

Wide awake now, she listened intently. She could hear the throb of a drum, then, as if in answer, the soft wail of high-pitched pipes.

Of course, Greg had said there was to be a fiesta. She had intended to ask about it over supper, but the opportunity had never arisen. Now, it seemed, the festivities had begun, but she was being excluded from them as from everything else. 'Well, that's what they think,' she muttered to herself, as she rummaged through her ill-used shoulder bag for a comb. She found other things, too, that she had entirely forgotten about during the last crowded days and nights. A lipstick for one thing, and a purse-size phial of scent—her favourite
Amazone
. She grimaced slightly, as she removed the cap, and the familiar fragrance drifted to her nostrils. She had worn it that night in Lima, but not since, finding it all too evocative of things best forgotten, but now, almost dreamily, she allowed a fine mist of scent to cling to her hair and skin, and touched the new vulnerability of her mouth's curve with colour.

If I'm going to gatecrash a party, she told herself with desperate gaiety, then I may as well do it in style.

The rest of the building seemed empty, the once crowded verandah deserted.

Once in the street, Leigh allowed the sound of the music to guide her towards the square. When she reached the end of the alley, she paused in the shadows for a while.

There was a slip of a new moon in the sky, but its radiance could not compete with the light from the fires which had been kindled in each of the square's corners. In between the fires, in serried ranks, the villagers were seated quietly.

For a fiesta, it was a pretty muted affair, Leigh thought with astonishment. Or were they waiting in silence for it to begin, perhaps? There was an almost tangible sense of anticipation in the air that somehow went deeper than mere excitement. Leigh felt her own scalp tingle in response.

She looked around, and saw Greg and Rourke standing together a few yards away, their backs turned to her. Summoning all her courage, she went over and tapped Greg on the arm.

'Good evening,' she said with a fair attempt at nonchalance. 'I seem to have mislaid my invitation.'

Rourke said levelly, 'I looked in on you a little earlier, but you were asleep.'

'You could have woken me.' She kept her voice light.

He shrugged. 'I thought you needed your rest.' His voice was brusque, but the glance he shot her was revealing, edged with trouble.
Or perhaps I didn't trust myself.
The thought reached her as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud.

She could see him standing over her, watching her in sleep's abandonment. She could feel his hand reaching out to her, then withdrawing at the last moment. Perhaps it was some subconscious sense of deprivation which had woken her. , She wrenched herself back to reality. 'Isn't this rather a dull party?' Deliberately she made her tone flippant.

'It's quite a serious occasion,' Greg said quietly. 'I'm sorry if you were expecting a carnival—dancing in the streets.'

'Isn't it usual?'

'Oh, there'll be dancing,' Rourke confirmed. 'But much later. What happens first is a kind of ritual. There've been a couple of bad harvests, and they want to make some powerful magic to ensure it doesn't happen again.'

The drum was sounding again, with its insistent rhythm, and this time, as well as the pipes' response, Leigh heard the poignant ripple of a harp like a wind sighing, and she saw the waiting crowd sway to the music. She looked round for the musicians, but they were well concealed, adding to the potency and mystery of the sounds they made.

Which was probably the intention, she thought, then tensed as a man's voice, tuneless and pleading, came out of the shadows. '
O, condorcito
,' it wailed. '
O, condorcito
.'

Every hair on the nape of Leigh's neck lifted. She said under her breath, 'What's that?'

'That's the
curandero
,' Rourke told her softly. 'The town's wise man, summoning the spirit of the condor.'

'And will it come?' She felt breathless.

'Yes, it will come.' He was almost whispering. 'It will come to fight and overcome the spirit of the bull, and regain the power of their ancestors.'

She noticed they were alone, Greg having moved to another part of the square.

She said stiltedly, 'I'm sorry. Did my questions annoy him?'

He considered the matter gravely, 'No, but he's very involved in this—more than a mere spectator. These are his people, or that's the way he sees it, so this is his magic too.'

'You said the condor would come to fight a bull— you don't mean a real animal?'

'At one time it would have been,' he said drily. 'And there'd have been a real condor tied to its back, so they could fight it out—the spirit of the Inca against the power of the
conquistador
.'

Leigh shivered, wrapping her arms across her body. 'How cruel!'

'It's a cruel country,' he said. 'Don't pretend you haven't discovered that for yourself.' His voice was almost derisive.

She said unevenly, 'Don't—please. I'm trying to learn. I want to know…'

'What do you want to know?' His hand was on her shoulder suddenly, his fingers digging into the skin exposed by the wide neckline of her blouse.

'Everything,' she told him, her gaze meeting his. 'The cruelty as well. I'm not afraid, Rourke. You have to believe that.' She stopped abruptly, wondering what on earth had made her say such a thing. She hadn't consciously formed the words at all, or considered their implications.

'Aren't you afraid, Leigh—aren't you?' The topaz eyes were glittering as they looked into her own. 'But the night—this night of the condor isn't over yet.'

There was a long, harsh sigh from the waiting people, and a man sprang into the firelit square. He was almost naked, his only covering some form of loincloth, and his face was completely concealed by the elaborately constructed mask and face of a huge bull.

The drum's rhythm was paramount now, filling the air as the bull-man pranced and strutted, and pawed at the ground, his movements forceful and ponderous.

All the crushing might of the Spanish conquest seemed encapsulated in the powerful thrusting movements of that grotesquely oversized head, the destructively stamping feet.

The chanting voice came again, '
O condorcito
', and this time the crowd echoed the sound in a full-throated roar. The bull-man stopped, shoulders hunched, the great head turning from side to side, questing, as if preparing to charge. In spite of herself, Leigh felt the breath catch in her throat.

And then the condor was there, facing him so swiftly and suddenly that it might have dropped from the skies. The face mask was beaked and awesome. Great, trailing black feathered wings attached to the man's arms gleamed blue-black in the firelight as the dancer began to move, turning and swirling, wings dipping at one moment, raised on high at the next.

They must weigh a ton, Leigh thought, fascinated. Yet he was so graceful, so totally in control, obeying every ripple of the harp whose music now filled the listening square.

The bull was moving again too, pawing at the ground, the horned head swinging in menace.

They were both dancers, it was all make-believe, but as the bull charged Leigh cried out, completely caught up in the fantasy. The condor side-stepped the charge, the sweeping wings as taunting as some bullfighter's cape.

As the bull charged again, Leigh gasped. 'That was close!'

'It was meant to be,' Rourke murmured against her ear. 'The battle is a real one, which the condor must win if the magic is to succeed. Condor dancers have ended up being badly gored by those horns, but that beak can do some damage too.'

She should be shocked. She should walk away in disgust, but it was impossible. She was riveted to the spot, hardly breathing, her eyes fixed on the two masked figures as they circled each other. She could see the trickles of sweat running down their backs and chests, hear, in the intent atmosphere, the rasp of their breathing, as they leaped and ran and turned.