Restless Soul - Alex Archer [10]
“Pity that people have to ruin things,” Annja said. “Inadvertent or no, people don’t understand how precious the past is. I wonder what the artist was like. He or she probably painted it with burned bamboo. A lot of bamboo still grows around here.”
“The cave paintings off-limits today are in better condition,” Zakkarat said. “Perhaps it is why they stay off-limits.”
Zakkarat led them up a damp slope, then down, stepping over and through pools of water and past columns that dripped with moisture and glimmered like jewels in the gaslight. They walked down a set of rickety wooden steps, and they reached the river again.
“A beach, I say,” the Australian man grumbled. “That’s where we’re going next. With a book in one hand and a drink in the other. I’ll sit on my bum and soak up the sun. Aruba, I think. Or maybe Jamaica. Rum and cola from a bottomless glass with one of those paper parasols in it.”
Zakkarat pushed the raft into a darkness that his small lamp couldn’t keep at bay. Bats screeched from high overhead and fluttered their wings. The air turned thick with the smell of guano.
“God, the stink. It’s incredible. I can’t believe we paid to smell this stuff.” This came from the ecowife. She doubled over and retched. Her husband hunched over, too, and held his stomach.
“It is the bat droppings,” Luartaro said. “That is what stinks so bad. Thousands of bats. Probably hundreds of thousands. Far more than there were in the other chamber. Amazing. The smell is truly amazing.”
“Amazingly awful,” Annja said. She could tell that even he was affected by the intense smell. She cupped her hand over her nose and mouth and tried not to gag.
Her stomach roiled. She’d been in caves many times before, but none of those had such a large bat population.
Their guide seemed inured to it.
She was grateful when the raft docked and Zakkarat took them up an incline and through a short tunnel that opened into a chamber filled with what looked like coffins.
Though musty and close, the air was considerably better there. No bats were present.
“As I mentioned before, the tribes not afraid of this place stole from it,” Zakkarat said. His voice took on a sad tone. “Stole from this chamber and others. Stole some of our history.”
He turned up the lantern, and the Australians gasped as more details were revealed.
The coffins were hollowed-out teak logs ranging from seven to nine feet long and were relatively well preserved.
“The pamphlet said they date back at least two thousand years,” Luartaro said.
The logs had been intricately carved, and one had deep designs of leaves and vines on it. There were heavy pottery remnants, too, and Zakkarat said the tribes no doubt stole all the good, intact pieces.
Perhaps they’d also stolen the bodies, as Annja couldn’t see a single bone left behind. She shuddered as she stepped close to the largest coffin, as if a cold wind had just whipped across her skin. Her skin prickled, as if tiny red ants were crawling over her.
Were there real spirits here? Were they trying to tell her something? Perhaps they were upset at the presence of tourists who had come to disturb their eternal rest. Maybe they were angry that their remains and relics had been stolen and were seeking justice or retribution. She could provide neither for them.
Sometimes she had an innate sense that something was wrong or that a problem needed addressing. She’d thought it came from inheriting Joan of Arc’s legacy and the sword, but she’d eventually realized it was more than that. Even when she was growing up in the orphanage in Louisiana, she’d had an uncanny knack for knowing when things were amiss or when something untoward was about to happen.
“What?” she mumbled. “What is wrong here?”
“What?” Luartaro touched her shoulder. “I did not catch what you said, Annja.”
“Are there more chambers here with coffins?” Annja directed the question to Zakkarat and hugged herself when she felt the chill intensify. A heartbeat later the odd feeling vanished.
“Not here, in this cave.