Time Patrol (70 page)

"Wanda, dear!" The word Roberto used is
querida
, which could mean quite a lot. Not necessarily. I wonder about it for a flicker or two while he: "Please, at least let me come along."

Headshake. "I'm sorry, my friend." No, not exactly;
amigo
doesn't translate one-on-one into English, either. "I'm not sulking or anything. Far from it. All I want is a few hours by myself. Haven't you ever?"

I'm being honest. My fellow guides are fine. I wish the friendships I've made among them will keep. Surely they will if we can get back together. But that's uncertain. I may or may not be able to return next year. Eventually I may or may not make my dream of joining the research staff at Darwin Station. It can't take many scientists; or another dream could come along meanwhile and take me. This trip, where half a dozen of us are knocking around the archipelago with a boat and a camping permit, may well be the end of what we've called
el compañerismo
, the Fellowship. Oh, I suppose a Christmas card or two.

"You need protection." Roberto has put on his dramatic style. "That strange man we heard of, asking around Puerto Ayora about the blonde young North American woman."

Let Roberto escort me? Temptation. He's handsome, lively, and a gentleman. We haven't exactly carried on a romance, these past months, but we've gotten pretty close. While he's never told me in words, I know how much he's hoped we'd get closer yet. It hasn't been easy resisting.

Must be done, for his sake more than mine. Not because of his nationality. I think Ecuador is the Latin American country most yanquis feel most at home in. By our standards, things work right there. Quito is charming, and even Guayaquil—ugly, smog-choked, exploding with energy—reminds me of Los Angeles. However, Ecuador is not the USA, and from its standpoint I've got a lot wrong with me, starting with the fact that I'm not sure when I'll be ready to settle down, if ever.

Therefore, laughing, "Oh, yes, Señor Fuentes in the post office told me. Poor dear, how worried he was. The stranger's funny clothes and accent and everything. Hasn't he learned what can crawl off the cruise ships? And how many blondes do the Islands see, these days? Five hundred a year?"

"How would Wanda's secret admirer follow her, anyway?" Jennifer adds. "Swim?" We happen to know that none of the ships has touched at Bartolomé since we left Santa Cruz; no yachts are nearby; and everybody would have recognized a local fisherman.

Roberto goes red under the tan we share. With pity, I pat his hand while telling the group, "Go ahead, folks, snorkel or whatever else you feel like. I'll be back in time for my share of supper chores."

Quickly, then, striding from the bight. I really do need some solitude in this weird, harsh, beautiful nature.

I could merge myself in it skin-diving. The water's glass-clear, silky around me; now and then I see a penguin, not so much swimming as flying through it; fish dance like fireworks, seaweeds do a stately hula; I can get friendly with the sea lions. But other swimmers, never mind how dear they are,
will
talk. What I want is to commune with the land. In company I couldn't admit that. It'd sound too pompous, as though I were from Greenpeace or the People's Republic of Berkeley.

Now I've laid white-shell sand and mangroves behind me, I seem to have utter desolation underfoot. Bartolomé is volcanic, like its sisters, but bears hardly any soil. It's already hot beneath the morning sun, and never a cloud to soften the glare. Here and there sprawl gaunt shrubs or tussocks of grass, but they become few as I walk toward Pinnacle Rock. My Adidases whisper on dark lava, in simmering silence.

However . . . among boulders and tide pools, Sally Lightfoot crabs scuttle, brilliant orange-and-blue. Bound inland, I spy a lizard of a kind unique to this place. I'm within a yard of a blue-footed booby; she could flap off, but simply watches me, the naïve creature. A finch flitting across my vision; it was the Galapagos finches that helped Darwin understand how life works through time. An albatross wheeling white. Higher cruises a frigate bird. Unship the binoculars hung at my neck and catch the arrogance of his wings in the spilling sunlight, the split tail like a buccaneer's twin swords.

Here are none of the paths I've generally required my tourists to stay on. Ecuadorian government strict about that. Given its all too limited resources, it's doing a great job, trying to protect and restore the environment. Care where I put my feet, as becomes a biologist.

I'll circle around to the eastern end of the islet and there take the trail and stairs leading to the central peak. The view from it, across to Santiago Island and widely over the ocean, is stunning; and today I'll have it to myself. Probably that's where I'll eat the lunch I've packed along. May later go down to the cove, peel off shirt and jeans, enjoy a private dip before turning westward.

Careful about that, kid! You're a bare twenty klicks below the Equator. This sun wants respect. Tilt my hat brim against it and stop for a drink from my canteen.

Catch a breath, take a look around. I've gained some altitude, which I must give back before reaching the trail head. Beach and camp are out of sight. Instead, I see a sweep and tumble of stone down to Sullivan Bay, fiery-blue water, Point Martinez lifting grayish on the big island. Is that a hawk there? Reach for the binoculars.

A flash in the sky. Light off metal. An airplane? No, can't be. It's gone.

Puzzled, I lower the glasses. I've heard enough about flying saucers, or UFOs to give them the more respectable name. Never taken them seriously. Dad gave his children a healthy inoculation of skepticism. Well, he's an electronics engineer. Uncle Steve, the archaeologist, has knocked around a lot more in the world, and claims it's full of things we don't understand. I suppose I'll simply never know what it was I glimpsed. Let's push on.

Out of nowhere, a moment's gust. The air thuds softly. A shadow falls over me. I turn my face upward.

Can't
be!

An outsize motorcycle, except every last detail is different, and it has no wheels, and it hangs there, ten feet up, unsupported, silent. A man in the front saddle grips what might be handlebars. I see him with knife sharpness. Each second takes forever. Terror has me, like nothing since I was seventeen, driving along the cliff tops near Big Sur in a rainstorm, and the car went into a skid.

I pulled out of that one. This doesn't stop.

He's about five feet nine, rawboned but broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, pockmarked, hook-nosed, black hair falling past his ears, black beard and mustache trimmed to points though getting shaggy. His outfit is what's absolutely wrong, on top of such a machine. Floppy boots, saggy brown hose poking out of short puffed breeches, long-sleeved loose shirt that might be saffron below its grime—steel breastplate, helmet, red cloak, sword scabbarded at left hip—

As if across a hundred miles: "Are you the lady Wanda Tamberly?"

Somehow that snaps me back from the edge of screaming. Whatever is going on, I can meet it. Hysteria never has been compulsory. Nightmare, fever dream? I don't believe so. The sun is too warm on my back and off the rocks, the sea too steadily bright, and I could count every spine on yonder cactus. Prank, stunt, psychological experiment? Less possible than the thing itself. . . . His Spanish is the Castilian sort, but I never met that accent till now.

"Who are you?" I force out of my throat. "What are you after?"

His lips draw tight. Bad teeth. His tone is half fierce, half desperate. "Quickly! I must find Wanda Tamberly. Her uncle Estebán is in terrible danger."

"I am she," blurts my mouth.

He barks a laugh. His vehicle swoops down at me. Run!

He draws alongside, leans over, throws his right arm around my waist. Those muscles are titanium steel. Hauls me off my feet. That course I took in self-defense. My spread fingers jab for his eyes. He's too fast. Knocks my hand aside. Does something to a control board. Suddenly we're elsewhere.

3 June 1533 [Julian calendar]

This day the Peruvians brought to Caxamalca another load of the treasure that was to buy their king free. Luis Ildefonso Castelar y Moreno saw them from afar. He had been out exercising the horsemen under his command. They were now bound back, for the sun was low above western heights. Against shadows grown long throughout the valley, the river gleamed and vapors turned golden as they rose from the hot springs of the royal baths. Llamas and human porters plodded in a line down the road from the south, wearied by burdens and many leagues. Natives stopped their labor in the fields to stare, then got hastily on with it. Obedience was ingrained, no matter who their overlord might be.

"Take charge," Castelar ordered his lieutenant, and put spurs to stallion. He drew rein just outside the small city and waited for the caravan.

A movement on the left caught his glance. Another man emerged afoot from between two white-plastered, thatch-roofed clay buildings. The man was tall; were both standing, he would top the rider by three inches or more. The hair around his tonsure was the same dusty brown as his Franciscan robe, but age had scarcely marked a sharp, light-complexioned visage—nor had the pox—and not a tooth was missing. Even after weeks and adventures, Castelar knew Fray Estebán Tanaquil. The recognition was mutual.

"Greetings, reverend sir," he said.

"God be with you," answered the friar. He stopped by the stirrup. The treasure train reached them and went on. Shouts of jubilation sounded from within the city.

"Ah," Castelar rejoiced, "a splendid sight, no?"

When he got no reply, he looked down. Pain touched the other face. "Is something wrong?" Castelar asked.

Tanaquil sighed. "I cannot help myself. I see how worn and footsore those men are. I think what a heritage of ages they carry, and how it has been wrung from them."

Castelar stiffened. "Would you speak against our captain?"

This was an odd fellow at best, he thought: beginning with his order, when the religious with the expedition were nearly all Dominicans. It was something of a puzzle how Tanaquil had come along in the first place, and eventually won the confidence of Francisco Pizarro. Well, that last must be due his learning and gentle manners, both rare in this company.

"No, no, of course not," the friar said. "And yet—" His voice trailed off.

Castelar squirmed a bit. He believed he knew what went on beneath the shaven pate. He himself had wondered about the righteousness of what they did last year. The Inca Atahualpa received the Spaniards peacefully; he let them quarter themselves in Caxamalca; he entered the city by invitation, to continue negotiations; and his litter carried him into an ambush, where his attendants were gunned down and cut down by the hundreds while he was made prisoner. Now, at his bidding, his subjects stripped the country of wealth to fill a room with gold and another room twice with silver, the price of his liberty.

"God's will," Castelar snapped. "We bring the Faith to these heathen. The king's well treated, isn't he? He even has his wives and servants to attend him. As for the ransom, Christ"—he cleared his throat—"Sant'Iago, like every good leader, rewards his troops well."

The friar cast a wry smile upward. It seemed to retort that preaching was not the proper business of a soldier. Outwardly, he shrugged and said, "Tonight I will see how well."

"Ah, yes." Castelar felt relief at sheering away from a dispute. No matter that he too once studied for holy orders, was expelled because of trouble with a girl, enlisted in the war against the French, at last followed Pizarro to the New World in hopes of whatever fortune the younger son of an impoverished Estremaduran hidalgo might find: he remained respectful of the cloth. "I hear you look every load over before it goes into the hoard."

"Someone should, someone who has an eye for the art rather than the mere metal. I persuaded our captain and his chaplain. Scholars at the Emperor's court and in the Church will be pleased that a fragment of knowledge was saved."

"Hm." Castelar tugged his beard. "But why do you do it at night?"

"You have heard that too?"

"I've been back for days. My ears are full of gossip."

"I daresay you give much more than you get. I'd like to talk with you at length myself. That was a herculean journey your party made."

Through Castelar passed a jumbled pageant of the months gone by, when Hernando Pizarro, the captain's brother, led a band west over the cordillera, stupendous mountains, dizzyingly deep ravines, brawling rivers, to Pachacamac and its dark oracular temple on the coast. "We had little gain," he said. "Our best booty was the Indio general Challcuchima. Get the lot of them together, under control. . . . But you were going to tell me why you study the treasure only after sunset."

"To avoid exciting cupidity and discord worse than already afflict us. Men grow ever more impatient for division of the spoils. Besides, at night the forces of Satan are at their strongest. I pray over things that were consecrated to false gods."

The last porter trudged past and disappeared among walls.

"I'd like to see," Castelar said. Impulse flared. "Why not? I'll join you."

Tanaquil was startled. "What?"

"I won't disturb you. I'll simply watch."

Reluctance was unmistakable. "You must obtain permission first."

"Why? I have the rank. None would deny me. What have you against it? I should think you would welcome some company."

"You'll find it tedious. Others did. That is the reason they leave me alone at my task."

"I'm used to standing guard." Castelar laughed.

Tanaquil surrendered. "Very well, Don Luis, if you insist. Meet me at the Serpent House, as they're calling it, after compline."

—Stars glittered keen and countless over the uplands. Half or more of them were unknown to European skies. Castelar shivered and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. His breath smoked, his boots rang on hard-packed streets. Caxamalca enclosed him, ghostly in the gloom. He felt glad of corselet, helmet, sword, needless though they might seem here. Tavantinsuyu, the Indies called this land, the Four Quarters of the World; and somehow that felt more right than Peru, a name whose meaning nobody was sure of, for a realm whose reach dwarfed the Holy Roman Empire. Was it subdued yet, or could it ever entirely be, its peoples and their gods?