Chapter One ©

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A cold sun rose in the east, a cold wind blew from the west, and morning mist dissipated on Mount Ampato.

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Zachariah Cooper yawned and calculated the distance of three low piles of stones that materialized through the haze on a ridge no more than 50 feet above his camp. The dry wind that careened through high, Andean valleys from the Pacific blistered his face and he pulled the drawstring of his hooded parka tightly around his face. His forehead and cheeks, smeared with thick, white sunblock, were blistered and the parched altitude had split his chapped lips, now caked with painful scabs.

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The 20,000-foot summit of Mount Ampato, visible in shredded glimpses above the ridge, loomed behind a patchy cloud that blew from west to east, threatening, a grave reminder of a place that was unwelcoming. Cooper understood that he was out of place, that he had no place being on the roof of the planet. Defiantly, he reminded himself that without pain, there was no gain, that a man reaped what he sowed, and, chuckling at the clichéd irony, thought, a man shouldn’t wish for anything because he may get it. It’s too cold here for anything more than clichés, he reflected, and clichés are wisdom served cold.   

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“The Ice Maiden’s playmates are waiting, Vilca. Let’s go,” Cooper said to the small Quechua man sitting next to a weak camp fire. Cooper had risen before the sun. “We’ve found them. They’re here. They’re waiting to play. Let’s dig them up. They’ve already waited for us a day.”

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The small man threw a pinch of Breuzinho incense on the fire and mumbled an incantation. The resin in the chips of an Almécega tree sputtered in the flames and released a musky aroma that complemented the earth. When he finished, he lifted his eyes to Cooper.

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“They have waited longer than that. Her escorts are patient but sad that she has been taken from them. Juanita does not call them to come to her in Arequipa. She wants them to rejoin her here. She wants to return to Mount Hamp’atu,” Urcaguary Vilca replied.

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“Juanita? You make your relationship to the Ice Maiden sound personal,” Cooper laughed. “Aren’t you being a little too familiar? When did you get on a first-name basis with the Maiden? It’s scandalous!” Cooper joked.

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“Please, Señor Cooper, I am serious. We should not, we cannot remove Juanita’s escorts.”

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“Maybe they enjoy freezing mountain tops. Maybe you enjoy the cold. I don’t. It’s colder than a witch’s tit here and I’d like to get on with what we came to do.”

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“This is a sacred place, Señor Cooper,” Urcaguary Vilca said in a low voice, as though there were eavesdroppers within earshot and he were in danger of being overheard. “We should not dig up the dead. The mountain god will be angry. I cannot do this, Señor Cooper. I agreed to help you find Inca graves. I was wrong to do so. I should not have brought you here. We cannot dig them up. It is a sacrilege. I cannot dig them up. I am a guide, not a grave robber. Please, let us forget this adventure.”

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“You are also an educated man, Vilca. No more of this nonsense—and there’s no need to whisper here. No one can hear us. The mountain gods and those in the graves can’t hear you, so feel free to shout. We are not robbing graves. This is a phenomenal archeological find. Mountains and graveyards own nothing. They have no ears to hear you and they can’t be angry.”

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“We must respect the gods and the dead. I was wrong to lead you here.”

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Vilca withdrew a handful of incense from a pocket under his colorful serape and tossed it into the fire. Loud cracklings of moist chips punctuated his repetitious, unintelligible words.

“You will be rewarded.”

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“I do not want more. The amount you gave me to be your guide is generous enough.”

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“There’s more from—”

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“I will return to you what you paid me, Señor. I do not want it. I should not have accepted your offer. Our Lady of Hamp’atu did not want the others to take her from her grave and she does not want her escorts removed now. She wants to return here—to her home and her friends. I was wrong.”

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“When we announce our discovery in Arequipa, my friend, you will be recognized throughout the world as the man who found and preserved a national treasure. The Museum will be overwhelmed with gratitude and the National Geographic Society will reward our efforts. This is the biggest discovery since the Ice Maiden herself was found here in ’95. It is incredible that Reinhard and Zárate missed the escorts’ graves.”

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“They were missed because they were hidden, as was Momia Juanita. They were not meant to be found.  Momia Juanita was not meant to be found. She was hidden. The heat of the volcano exposed her frozen hiding place and an earthquake toppled her into a ravine. She was in plain sight. It was an unfortunate accident. She was not meant to be found. She was hidden and so are her escorts.”

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“Perhaps the mountain god wanted her to be found and that’s why he expelled her from her grave. Perhaps he wants her to deliver a message. Have you considered that?”

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“The mountain gods do not want the secrets entrusted to them revealed.”

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“The team excavating Mummy Juanita didn’t miss the escorts’ graves on this ridge because they were hidden, Vilca. Look around. Mount Ampato is like a crumpled piece of paper,” Cooper said, his gloved hand sweeping the wrinkled landscape of the mountain. “The Andes are a labyrinth of ridges. No one knows where the Ice Maiden’s original grave was before she rolled down into the ravine and became visible to anyone with eyes. Somewhere up there,” Cooper said, pointing to the summit of Mount Ampato. “Who knows where?”  

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“Our Lady of Hamp’atu —”

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“We are uncovering and preserving the past of your people, Vilca, and you will also be rewarded for your efforts. Think of how good that will make you feel.”

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“I know that you are a good man, Señor Cooper. I admire you. I mean no offense. Sometimes, I think you are not only looking for the wisdom of the past. Sometimes I think you are looking for its gold.”

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“Ah, the lost Inca gold!”

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“Hidden, not lost, Señor.”

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“If we stumble across any gold, my friend, lost or hidden, all the better—for both of us. The government’s finder fee is substantial. Let’s let the gods and government decide. We have a dig to excavate.”

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The smaller man, head bowed towards the ground, intoned a prayer in Quechua, his native tongue, and crossed himself. When he finished, he straightened to his full 5-foot height and faced the man who had hired him as a guide.

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Gesturing to a mountain to the north, Vilca said, “Look there, Señor Cooper. Mount Sabancaya is angry.”

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Cooper turned to face the volcano to the north of Mount Ampato. Wisps of black, volcanic gases streaked the pale morning sky as they were blown to the east. As far as Cooper could see in every direction, there was no vegetation, no growth to color the gray mountains. Further up the mountain and on the summits of the surrounding range, he had trouble distinguishing the white of snowcapped peaks from the clouds that passed over. To the south, a regiment of volcano cones stood, waiting to be called to duty.

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“Just fumes, my man. Sabancaya hasn’t erupted since the late ’90s. Don’t worry. If it does, the game will be over for us, anyway, so let’s get on with it. You’ll be paid well.”

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“I have said that I do not want this money. This is not a deed that can be purchased. What we do is wrong—and dangerous.”

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“Don’t be superstitious. You’re an educated man. Volcanos and earthquakes are natural events, not angry Inca gods.  Now, let’s go.”

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Cooper tossed the remainder of a cup of cold, instant coffee to one side, hooked some tools on his backpack, and stuffed three coca leaves into his cheek. He offered the Ziploc bag of fresh leaves to Vilca, who pointed at a lump in his own cheek, and tucked the bag into a pocket on his jacket for later use against altitude sickness and to give him energy.

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“Not superstition, Señor Cooper. I didn’t learn everything I know at the Universidad Nacional de San Agustin. People in my village know these mountains better than the professors in Arequipa and better than you. Our storytellers tell the old stories. These graves hold sacrifices to the mountain goddess, Hamp’atu. What is in them does not belong to us. Taking anything from them is an offense to the goddess who is this mountain. If we take anything, Señor Cooper, her son will come down on us.”

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“Mount Ampato is dormant.”

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“Sleeping. Hamp’atu is sleeping. Her son Sabancaya is not. The son protects the mother. The Ice Maiden and her escorts are an offering to Our Lady and—”

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“—and your own mother needs an operation in Lima. That’s science, pure and simple, not superstition. You are an educated man, Vilca. For Chrissake, wake up. Be practical. You must protect your own mother. To hell with Sabancaya’s mother.”

“Do not curse the gods,” Vilca said, the fear in his voice as real as the wind that lashed his leathery face.

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“Sorry, Hamp’atu. No offense intended.”

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“What is in these graves is not ours to take.”

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“Rubbish. Archeologists do not take. They discover and preserve. You must decide if you are a man of science or a man of old stories.”

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Cooper slung his backpack over his shoulders and started to climb the steep incline that led to the top of the ridge. Feeling the effects of altitude dizziness and his knees weak, he wobbled, his steps uneven. The saliva in his cheek soaked and digested the coca leaves, their beneficial effect slowly penetrating his system.

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“We should call the others before we continue, Señor Cooper,” Vilca said, hoping to delay the excavation.

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“The satellite signal is too weak, too much interference, and it will take too long to hike back down to the base camp to get a message through. At least two hours. Stop procrastinating. Let’s see what we can do together before we bring them up. I’m curious. It won’t do any harm to take a quick look.”  

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Cooper photographed the three mounds of stones on the narrow ridge above, each positioned a dozen feet apart. Like vertebra on the spine, they led up towards the summit of Mount Ampato.

Behind Cooper, Vilca’s eyes darted from grave to grave to the peak of Ampato, then to the smoking giant to the north.

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Bone-chilling wind pushed at the treasure hunter and his guide, making Cooper, already woozy from the altitude, unsteady on his feet.

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Vilca thought of the Ice Maiden locked in a refrigerated glass case on display in the Museum of Andean Sanctuaries in Arequipa. In reverence, he envisioned the 12-year-old virgin hunched over in the frozen position in which she had been found on Mount Ampato. Momia Juanita, Our Lady of Hamp’atu, the object of veneration in the cult that had formed around the mummy since her discovery. The Quechua sect that fused Incan legend and Catholic mystery into a syncretic whole had spread throughout the region. In villages in the Andes above Arequipa, Momia Juanita was adorated as a fusion of Cavillace, the Inca virgin goddess, and the embodiment of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Vilca pictured the delicate features of Juanita’s tranquil, refrigerated face in Arequipa, the resigned gaze that reminded him of his own ailing mother. He beheld the silent resignation of Juanita’s immaculately-preserved corpse, 500 years frozen in ice, that defied disbelief, challenged science, and did not yield to death. Clothed in the colorful, ritual alpaca garments of her sacrifice, her body was miraculous proof of the divinity to whom she had been sacrificed.

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To protect the graves, Vilca unloosed a cascade of last-minute, defensive objections.

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“We are not equipped, Señor Cooper. We have not mapped the site. We don’t have proper tools. We should notify the authorities before we begin. We will damage the site. We must come back another day with experts from the Museum and do this the right way.”

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“We start with this one,” Cooper said, pointing to the nearest mount. “Come, let’s dig.”

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Cooper did not ignore Vilca. He had not heard him. He was disoriented, enclosed in altitude delirium and a narrative of his own making. Not himself, he was able to pursue only his own irrational dream that had a single purpose.

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With the exception of a few undergraduate courses in anthropology as the University of Illinois before he dropped out, Cooper was not an informed explorer. He did not consciously disregard archeological procedures, but the thrill of exploration surpassed the intellectual comfort of scientific rigor. Intoxicated by expectation and the act of discovery, not what was to be discovered, he pointed to the first mound.

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Cooper’s head swam with images of what he imagined beneath the stones stacked before him. Not thinking clearly, he saw frozen gargoyles surrounded by clay pots containing gold jewelry, a cache of weapons, shields, helmets, spears, spiked clubs, and handfuls of small emeralds, Inca rose rhodochrosite that was blood red, and twisted, rococo seashells. Misled by desire and physical disequilibrium, he no longer had even amateurish scientific interest. His body was a vehicle of his own illusions. He was possessed by visions.  

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Kneeling, Cooper pried a stone loose from the mound with a small, folding trench shovel. He carefully placed the stone aside, less carefully reached for another, and handed it to Vilca, who reluctantly took it. They continued in silence throughout the morning, each relay of stone from hand to hand more reckless, until the pile of stones covering the grave was removed.

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Vilca received each stone as if he were in a trance. He was a man caught between moral weakness and shame. His mind was clear. His body was an automaton of habit—the habit of respect for others, including his friend Zachariah Cooper. His beliefs ran deep, but Urcaguary Vilca was a docile and peaceful man

When the frozen earth above the grave was exposed, Cooper struck at it repeatedly with an ice axe. Hard chucks of earth cracked. He wedged the flat end of his axe in a fissure and leveraged a clod of the permafrost. Vilca joined in and worked the large piece back and forth until it came free. Together, they lifted it from its place, and discarded it.

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A routine was established. Hunks of frozen earth, clod by clod, were removed.

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“The Ice Maiden will be happy to see her little playmates again in Arequipa,” Cooper said.

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“Hamp’atu is their only home. This will come to no good, Señor Cooper. What we do is wrong.”

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“Knowledge of the past is a worthwhile goal. Don’t worry. Keep your mind on your own mother.”

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“My mother is the only reason I continue, Señor Cooper,” Vilca said remorsefully. “She is innocent. She will not bear the curse that will come to us. I alone bear the responsibility. My mother will live. Here my soul dies to save her.”

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“Good enough,” Cooper said, wiping the sweat from his forehead and handing his ice axe to his dejected companion. “Dark clouds have silver linings. Now, keep digging. We have a foot of permafrost before things get easier.”

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By noon, the two men chopped through the permafrost to soft soil. Cooper, exhausted by the altitude, sat beside the pile of frozen earth. His head ached and spun. In the distance, he fantasized movement in the crags that surrounded him. Delusional, he saw creatures emerge from behind boulders and hide in shadows. His sleep the night before had been disturbed and in the troubled morality play of his dark imagination shapeless monsters chased him through gloomy nightmares and repeatedly woke him. Now, he saw them while he was awake.

His stomach was uneasy and the nausea he felt grew by the minute, another of the effects of altitude. 

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He added three coca leaves to the wad in his cheek and sipped water from a canteen kept warm under his jacket.

For an hour, Vilca, neck muscles taut in anticipation, carefully scraped the earth of the grave with the side edge of his shovel, fraction of an inch at a time. Cooper looked on, nausea, dizziness, and deep headache growing—joined by confusion, frustration, impatience, and inexplicable anger.

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Vilca placed the shovel aside and began to brush the loose soil with his fingers and remove it in small handfuls, inspecting the dirt as he respectfully poured it on a pile on the side of the grave.

“Give me that shovel, Vilca. You’re too damn slow. You’re not going to hurt anyone down there, man. They’re dead.”

Cooper snatched the shovel, motioned Vilca to move, and repeatedly thrust the blade deep into the surface of the grave. He drove the shovel into the earth again and again until it met resistance. His impatience rewarded, Cooper grinned at Vilca.

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“Bingo!”

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“Slow down, Señor Cooper. You will damage what is below. You may have done so already. Use your hands.”

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Vilca reached over and, once again, began to scrape and brush the dirt into small mounds, scoop it in both hands, inspect it for shards, and dump it to one side of the grave. Cooper was disoriented. He watched Vilca for a long minute, not comprehending, then mindlessly copied his guide.

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“You don’t look well, Señor Cooper. We should get back to the base camp.”

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“Keep digging.”   

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Handful by handful, within minutes the two men came to a layer of brittle fabric. They brushed aside and removed dry earth until, no more than a few inches deep, small pieces of patterned strands matted the surface.

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“This is it, Vilca!”

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Braided threads and knots were exposed as Vilca brushed the loose dirt away with his fingertips.

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The threads were tattered and cut where they had been damaged by Cooper’s shovel. Faded red, green, yellow and black strands showed through the dirt that dusted the surface.

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Working slowly, Vilca and Cooper removed layer after layer of stiff material that covered the area. They blew away the remaining dirt.

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“What are these? Tattered dresses? Aprons? What is this material? Llama?”

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“Cotton, I think. Maybe some llama wool.” Vilca said, standing and holding the material up by two ends of a cord from which numerous smaller, knotted strings were attached, some severed by the shovel, others frayed by age. “I think there are three or four layers here. They’re frozen and the threads are stuck together. It’s brittle and cracked in many places. We damaged it. We need to collect all the fragments.” 

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“Maybe they’re blankets. Very considerate of the Ice Maiden to provide blankets for the playmates sacrificed to accompany her into the afterlife.”

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“Her clothing was made of alpaca. She was a princess. These are made of llama wool and cotton. It is too rough to be alpaca. Llama was for servants, not royalty.”

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“They’re shredded and stringy, all stuck together over time. I guess we gashed them when we were digging.”

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“You, not me, Señor. You are in too much of a hurry. I told you to slow down.”

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Cooper ignored his guide.

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“Not a very good blanket against the cold now. Feel how light it is.”

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“They are not blankets, Señor Cooper.”

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Cooper heard nothing. He was not listening.

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His eyes were fixed on the surface of the uncovered grave.

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Jutting out of the beige soil, the edge of a gold plate sparkled in the overhead sun. A foot and a half in diameter, the disc came to the surface easily when Cooper pulled. Mercifully, Cooper’s shovel had missed it.

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“What have we here?”

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“I think it is an Inca Sun Disc. It represents Inti, the Sun God.”

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“Maybe there are other gold pieces here, too.”

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A low hissing sound echoed through the valleys becoming louder until it overtook the mountains.

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Cooper, on his knees, was thrown from the ridge by the sudden jolt that shook Mount Ampato. He tumbled down the side of the ridge to the campsite, loose stones chasing him, until his battered body rolled to a stop in front of his tent. The landscape rumbled and heaved in all directions.

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 Vilca fell forward, flattening himself over the grave to protect it. He glanced over the edge of the opening and saw a massive fountain of red and black magma showering Mount Sabancaya. Plumes of black smoke puffed out from vents on the sides of the volcanic cone in the distance. A pyroclastic flow of poisonous gas and rock billowed down the sides of the mountain, hissing and gaining momentum, and the earth shook violently.

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The roar of the earth was deafening and filled every space, every crevice and canyon, the air, and crowded every thought out of the treasure hunter’s mind until there was nothing in it except uncompromising sound. The epileptic earth shook as though possessed. Cooper tried to regain his feet. Unable to find his balance, he was knocked to the ground when the earth moved from under him. He shouted to Vilca, but his words were butterflies in the maelstrom, lost in the curses of the earthquake. Jerked randomly from side to side and back and forward, he struggled to his knees. The earth shook him like an irrate parent shaking a helpless child. In his right arm, he clutched the gold disc tightly.

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A jagged edge of the Sun Disc pierced Cooper’s jacket and forearm. He did not feel the wound and was again thrown a dozen feet when the earth thrust him upward into the air and he fell on his back with a thud, breath forced from his lungs. Disoriented but refusing to stay down, he again stood, legs spread wide for balance, and rode the bucking earth like rodeo bull rider. He shoved the gold disc in his backpack and, falling and stumbling, he climbed the incline to the ridge. Purposefully, he concentrated on the ground before him as he lifted each foot and tried to place it before the traitorous earth moved aside and he was toppled.

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Cooper saw Vilca lying face-down in the grave. He bled from his temple.

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Scores of stone balls bounced down the mountain, some as large as a soccer ball. A few, leaping in high arcs, headed directly for the open grave. Cooper threw himself over the smaller, unconscious man, whose head was bleeding from a gash on his right temple.

And prayed.

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Cooper prayed to every god he knew, including Hamp’atu and her protective son, Sabancaya, though the adventurer believed in neither.

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One stone, thrown into the air when it ricocheted off other stones covering the highest grave mound, flew upward and curved down towards Cooper, striking the shoulder that covered his guide’s head. An audible crack, followed by an agonized cry of pain, and Cooper passed out.

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Mount Ampato continued to roil around the two unconscious men, throwing stones in all directions, until movement gradually subsided and stopped.

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To the north, Mount Sabancaya stopped erupting as suddenly as it had begun.

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A world of chaos gave way to a world of stability.