Page 67 of The Lost Guardian

“‘The Friars’?” Ali repeated in English. “Why do they call them that?”

Because they look like a procession of monks, he wanted to answer, but he couldn’t fathom wasting the air for speech.

“They look like a line of monks,” José said, pointing at a cluster of rock formations.

I knew that, Santi thought irritably.

Santiago had always been healthy. He went to the climbing gym religiously, and he even made sure to add cardio and weight training into his routine. There was no reason why this simple hike should take so much out of him.

“They say some of the rocks resemble other things, like animals,” José continued.

Unable to hold it any longer, Santiago took the gasping gulps of air that his body demanded of him. He sank down on a large stone.

“Rios! Are you all right?” Ali cried out. He didn’t respond. He was too busy shoving his face between his knees.

“Oh shit,” he heard her mumble as her shuffling steps approached. Then he felt his pack pulled off his shoulders. The reduced weight alleviated the pressure on his chest a little, but the awareness that he no longer held Abuelo Manco’s urn set him equally ill at ease.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, still not sure what was happening to him. “I don’t know…”

“It’s the altitude.” José was there, crouching at his feet.

“The al—” he started, but Ali shushed him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Despite his current discomfort, his body reacted to her touch, pinpricks of awareness shooting from his spine into his belly. It was, at the very least, a welcome distraction.

“We’re thirty-five hundred meters above sea level,” José said, gesturing around them. “That’s even higher than Cusco, and people always get soroche there.”

Soroche, Santiago thought as his breath evened out. Altitude sickness. Of course.

After a few more deep inhales, he felt well enough to push himself upright, though he stayed seated. Ali removed her hand from his back, and Santiago lamented the loss of her touch.

“You two seem fine,” he gasped.

Ali shrugged. “Soroche is weird. You can be born and raised in this country and have a worse case of it than anyone you know. Or you can be a tourist from Denmark and be absolutely fine.”

Santiago rubbed his chest. “Really?” he asked, suspicious that she was only attempting to make him feel better, but she nodded.

“Yeah, it does not discriminate. You can be a professional athlete, completely out of shape, tall, short, fat, thin—no one ever knows how it’s going to affect them.”

Santiago’s heart rate lowered, and breathing was getting easier.

“Do you have a headache? Are you dizzy?” she asked, looking concerned.

He shook his head. “I was a little lightheaded, but I think it’s because I wasn’t getting enough air.”

Ali looked unconvinced.

“I promise,” he assured her. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“Even so, you should take this,” José said, digging through his pack for something, finally coming up with a fistful of dried green leaves. “Here, chew on these. It helps.”

He accepted them, satisfied his hands didn’t tremble.

“Don’t swallow the leaves, just chew, then tuck them between your molars and cheek,” he cautioned.

“What are they?” he asked, slipping them between his lips and chewing. Immediately the inside of his mouth tingled, but not unpleasantly.

“Coca leaves,” José answered.

Santiago froze. “Coca, like…”