Excavation

The monk lowered his face. “The Lord is all the sustenance we need, but as travelers we would be remiss in refusing your hospitality.”

Philip bobbed his head like a fool; he could not help himself, so giddy with relief was he. “Then, please, come to my tent. I have juice, water, and can put together some quick sandwiches.”

“That is most gracious. Then perhaps, out of the harsh sun, you can tell me what has befallen your group.”

Philip led the monks toward the cluster of tents, though he noticed that three lagged behind, continuing their ministrations among the workers.

The friar noticed that Philip had paused. “They will join us later. The Lord’s work must always come first.”

Swinging back around, Philip nodded. “Of course.” In short order, Philip and the friar were ensconced in his personal tent upon camp chairs. Resting between them was a platter of hard cheeses and sliced meats. The other two monks had shyly accepted glasses of fresh guava juice and had retired outside in the shadow of the tent, leaving Friar Otera and Philip in peace.

After sampling what Philip offered, the friar leaned back in the canvas chair with a sigh of gratitude. “Most delicious and kind.” He placed both palms upon his knees, studying Philip. “Now tell me, my son, what has happened here? How can we help?”

Philip sipped his juice and collected himself. The simple duties as host had calmed his nerves, but he found himself unable to meet the friar’s gaze. In the dim tent, the man’s eyes were dark, penetrating shadows, wells that seemed to see into his soul. Philip had been raised Presbyterian but had never been particularly religious. Yet, he could sense power in this quiet figure who sat opposite him, and his initial relief had slowly changed to a mild trepidation in the presence of the man. He knew he could not lie to him; the monk would know his true heart.

Setting down his glass, Philip began his story of Gil’s betrayal and subsequent sabotage. “… and after the explosion, the temple continued to collapse in on itself, driving those trapped deeper and deeper. There was nothing I could do to help them.”

Friar Otera nodded his head, once, like a benediction. “Be at peace, Philip. You’ve done all you could.”

Philip drew strength from these words. He had done all he could. He sat up straighter as he continued relating how the Indians were attempting to dig a rescue shaft, and how Sam and the others had discovered a secret tunnel behind a golden idol. He found himself going on and on. He even described Sam’s discovery of the statue’s key. “A gold knife that somehow transformed.”

The friar’s eyes grew wide at this last bit, slowing Philip’s tale. The monk interrupted, “A gold knife and a hidden tunnel into the mountain?” The man’s voice had grown strangely dark and deep.

“Yes,” Philip said tentatively.

The friar was silent a moment, then returned to his normal even demeanor. “Thank the Lord for their salvation. At least your friends found a safe shelter. The Lord always opens a way for those of good heart.”

“I hope to have the rescue shaft completed in two days or so. But if the Indians I sent can fetch more help—?”

Friar Otera suddenly stood. “Fear not. The Lord will watch over all those here. In his eyes, we are all his beloved sheep. No harm will come.”

Philip quickly pushed from his own chair, meaning to accompany the friar.

The man waved him back down. “Rest, Philip, you’ve earned it. You’ve done the Lord’s work here protecting your friends.”

Sinking back into his chair, Philip sighed as Friar Otera bowed his way from the tent. “Thank you,” he called as the monk departed.

Alone in his tent, Philip closed his eyes for a moment. He believed he could sleep. The burden was no longer his own, and the onus for his questionable actions had been absolved.

Philip stared at the closed flap of his tent. He remembered the smoldering power he had sensed in the man.

Friar Otera must be a truly religious man.

Well away from the tents, at the edge of the forest, Friar Otera met with one of his fellow monks. Otera forced his fingers to stop trembling. Could it be true? After so long?

The monk fished through his shoulder pack and passed Otera the radio. Stepping a few paces away under the forest’s eaves, Otera dialed the proper channel and called to his superior.

He reverted to Spanish. “Contact has been made. Over.”

A short burst of static, then a quick response. “And your assessment?”

“Favorable. The site appears golden. I repeat golden.” Friar Otera gave a terse summary of what he had learned from the pasty-faced student.

Even across the airwaves, Friar Otera heard the mutter of shock and the whispered words in Spanish, “El Sangre del Diablo.”

Friar Otera shuddered with the mere mention of that name. “And your orders?”

“Befriend the student. Earn his trust. Then light a flame under these workers. Dig a way to that tunnel.” A long pause, then his final order. “Once contact is made, clean the site… thoroughly.”

For the first time that day, Friar Otera smiled. He fingered the dagger in its wrist sheath. The haughty student here reminded him of those youths who had once spat upon Otera’s poor upbringing, his mixed blood. It would be a pleasure to see this americano beg for his life. But more important, if what he suspected was true, there were even larger victories at stake. He had waited for so long, borne too many indignities from these Spanish missionaries who thought themselves his superior. No, if he was right, he would show them their mistake, their blindness. He would no longer be shunned and glanced over. Otera raised the radio to his hard lips, playing the good soldier. “Confirm contact and clean the site. I understand. Over and out.”

Otera stepped back from the forest and returned the radio to the monk who stood guard. “And?” the fellow asked, packing away the radio.

Friar Otera straightened his pectoral crucifix. “We have a green light.”

The other monk’s eyes grew aghast. “Then it’s true!” The man made the sign of the cross. “May the Lord protect us.”

Friar Otera trudged back toward the camp. The words from the radio still echoed in his head.

El Sangre del Diablo.

Satan’s Blood.

Maggie fumbled with the second flashlight, her fingers trembling. She thumbed the switch, and light flared out into the black caverns, blinding her for a second. The pale faces of her fellow students and the young Indian boy stared back along the trail. In that minute of darkness, more of the tarantula scouts had scurried onto the gold trail. To the side, more spiders approached, their albino limbs like pale-legged starfish against the black rock.