Page 80 of The Lost Guardian

“You think that’s funny?” he demanded with fake severity. “I’m supposed to be a Guardian de la Tumba. A descendant of the followers of Atahualpa. My ancestors walked these very lands, climbed these very mountains…and here I am, breathing harder than a teenage boy at a swimsuit competition.”

Ali let the laugh escape her, a puff of air bursting from her lips. The sound delighted him.

She shook her head at his antics and turned back to the tree.

“Just like the image,” she murmured, reaching up to trail her fingers down one of the curling tendrils.

“It’s spectacular,” Santiago breathed, gazing up at it. “Lianas.” He called them by name, pointing to the woody vines that coiled around the immense tree like a snake.

More vines dripped from the tree’s outstretched branches, tumbling to the ground in heavy swirls. “They use host trees for stability, support, and even nutrition. But I’ve never seen one so big. Let alone such a perfect overhang like this.”

The lianas engulfed their host so thoroughly that Santiago couldn’t be sure what type of tree it was. It was huge, though, stretching into the forest canopy, branches thrown outward like a yawning giant.

Ali parted the hanging vines like a beaded curtain, stepping through and out of his sight. Santiago hesitated for a moment, then joined her.

Immediately the air was quieter, softer, more serene. Foliage dangled around them like the lace of a canopy bed, rustling with the occasional breeze.

The sun’s dappled rays filtered through the gaps in the leaves, creating shifting patterns of light on the ground. It was like stepping through a portal to another world.

He found Ali leaning against the tree trunk, chin tilted upward with her eyes closed. He didn’t want to intrude on her moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave it, either. He approached slowly, pressing his back to the wood beside her.

“I’ve always loved being in nature,” she said without opening her eyes. “The city was so loud, so bright and dirty. Always someone yelling out of a storefront window or cars blaring their horns. You can’t smell the grass, or flowers, or sap, just gasoline and cigarette smoke.”

Santiago understood what she meant. It’s why he’d spent so many weekends away in the wilderness growing up, a reprieve from the bustle of Los Angeles. But he stayed quiet.

“One time, my parents took my sister and me to a ranch a few hours outside of Lima,” she continued. “I think we were visiting family members, a distant cousin maybe. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is the peace. The quiet. The solitude. The kind that isn’t lonely but freeing.”

Santiago nodded. He thought he understood that feeling, though he felt it most often getting lost in a good book or in his research.

“I loved it there,” Ali admitted. “I didn’t want to go back. I would’ve gladly stayed, gathering eggs and feeding the goats and mucking out the donkey stalls. But my parents insisted I return with them. I was so angry. I screamed so loud I made Naya—that’s my little sister—cry. I refused to speak to them for days after that, no matter how hard they tried.”

Santiago watched as her eyes squeezed tighter.

“They died in the accident three days after we returned.”

Santiago’s heart collapsed inside his chest.

He hurt for the little girl who had lost her family, and for the woman who still felt guilty over it. He wanted to assure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she shouldn’t live in regret. That she had been a child, and it was only a fight. That her parents had loved her, that they knew she loved them back.

Instead, he reached out his hand to gently clasp hers. It was stiff and cold, but after a few moments, Ali relaxed enough to allow her fingers to curl around his.

They stood for a long moment, under this blanket of soft green, suspended in time. And Santiago was sure that he had never seen a color more beautiful.

…

Eventually, the urgency of their mission forced them to move south in search of the next waka, and an hour later, they found themselves at the base of a mountain, countless stone steps circling its bulk. Just as the ceque had depicted.

If Santiago thought their hike was difficult before, he was horribly ill-prepared for this. At first, he welcomed the change of scenery, rising higher into the Andes and farther into the forgotten world of his ancestors.

Even the burn in his legs was welcome for a time—it was like working out, which cleared his mind and lifted his spirits.

His optimism only lasted so long.

As before, he struggled to breathe, and the endless stone stairway only made the struggle worse. More than once, Santiago was sure he saw the crest of the peak, the end to their relentless climb—only to reach a turn in the mountain with far more left to go.

Beads of perspiration accumulated over Santiago’s brow and at the nape of his neck. The heat trapped between his back and his bag blazed. His legs trembled with effort. And he didn’t check, but he was sure there were semicircles of wet fabric underneath his armpits.

He gave up counting steps after the first few hundred. He thought about digitizing the archives back home but couldn’t take it seriously. He recalled the apparitions of Incan warriors until his head swam.