2
Pit of Death
Indiana Jones instinctively took a step back, bumping into yet another of the ubiquitous poles which surrounded him. He held his flare out. There on the muddy floor of the pit, lay multiple sets of human bones. Skeletons in various positions and agonized contortions were strewn about. At his feet lay a complete skeleton, the left side of its aged, brittle rib cage crushed a few moments ago by the archaeologist's own boot. Poking up through the center of the sternum was one of the numerous poles to be found all around. Indy traced his eyes up the seven foot tall pole to where it grew slender and terminated in a finely honed, sharpened point, as did all of them. In a moment he realized the sinister nature of the space into which he had been rudely deposited.
It was a pit of impaling spikes, meant to cause an agonizing death to anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. Jones looked down at the spot where he, himself had just landed moments ago, and swallowed hard. He'd missed the spikes by inches on either side.
"Luck of the Irish," he mumbled to himself with dark sarcasm.
He looked down again at the bones of the individual who had apparently not been quite as fortunate as he had been. Lying not too far from one of the femurs was an ancient rusted sword, and the distinctly shaped helmet of a Spanish Conquistador, which explained the metal on metal sound.
Indy bent down to pick up the sword. Despite the rust it was still in decent condition. But the helmet was rusted nearly through, eaten away by the passage of hundreds of years spent in the darkness of this pit of death.
He raised his magnesium flare higher and illuminated more of the pit. It appeared to be a natural cavern, cleverly adapted to its diabolical purpose by the Inca tomb builders. Carefully he made his way through the maze of tall spikes. Stepping over the macabre sets of bones which littered its floor Jones reached the approximate center of the space, and looked up at the smooth rock of the ceiling.
About seven or eight meters above him he could discern at least three or four tunnels, all of which terminated into the pit, probably from different locations throughout the tomb. Natural lava tubes Jones thought; the Incas once again making clever use of a natural feature. Then he lowered the flare and studied the walls more closely. They were of the same, smooth volcanic rock as the ceiling. They were smooth, and inwardly concave, and to try and climb up would be impossible, unless one were a fly. However, the far wall appeared to be man-made, and he hastened towards it, hopeful of finding a way out. The rats had to have run to somewhere, he thought to himself, and maybe he could go the same way.
Picking his way between the spikes and amongst the bones, he made his way to the far wall. It was indeed man made. And like most examples of Inca stone work it was a wonder of intricately matched, jigsaw puzzle pieces of large and small stones, matched so closely that it would be nearly impossible to fit even a knife blade between them.
He held the flare close up against it, and felt along the seams of the nearly seamless wall all the way down. There, at the bottom were two small arches, maybe six inches in height. He moved his flare closer to the small openings to get a better look.
"To let the rats through," Jones answered his own silent question out loud.
It wasn't bad enough to die on the spikes, he thought with revulsion. But to ensure the complete suffering of the victims, the Incas who had designed this death chamber had made sure that even the dead or dying would have no rest, and would be picked apart and devoured by the hungry vermin that these small holes in the wall allowed passage to.
He again raised his flare up. This small section of Inca stonework was indeed the only man made section of wall in this cavern of death. And with no way to ascend back up to the tunnels above it was apparent that these small passages at the bottom were the only exit
Unless he could figure out a way for a six foot man to squeeze through a six inch hole......... Jones swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment to allow a momentary surge of claustrophobic panic to pass.
Looking to his right he saw yet another set of skeletal remains. But there was something different about these. He bent towards them and held his now diminishing flare outward.
This skeleton had none of the sinister spikes thrusting up through its remains. Instead it was positioned close to one of the small "rat passages" in the stone wall. The white skull, luminous in the bright light of the flare, rested despairingly upon the extended forearm bones. A short distance from the skull was another conquistador style helmet. Another Spaniard Jones thought. Another who came in search of gold, but instead found only death.
He swallowed hard again and his heart began to race as he studied the forlorn looking skeleton. It was apparent that this Spaniard had landed between the spikes, and survived his fall into the pit just as he had. But it was just as apparent that this Spaniard had never found his way out, and had probably starved to death, slowly, in total darkness, the rats nibbling on his weakening body as his life slowly ebbed away........too slowly. A chill ran up Indiana Jones' spine, and a lump of bitter tasting fear rose in his throat at the thought that this might be his own fate.
He closed his eyes and did his best to shake off the pangs of fear and panic before they could take hold, then studied the figure some more. Close by to the leg bones was another old rusted sword. Then he noticed something he hadn't seen before. He lowered the flare down towards the figure's bony hand and saw something held in its dead grasp. It was a folded parchment.
Indy reached down and endeavored to pull the document from between the fingers. But the bony digits were reluctant to let go. He pulled harder until the Spaniard finally gave up his last possession, one he'd held on to far longer than his own life. The ancient thumb bone broke off with a crisp, cracking noise and rolled away, and the brittle, waxy, old paper slipped easily into the archaeologist's hand.
The flare was now burned down almost to the end and Jones could feel its heat on his fingers. Wanting to preserve the light as long as possible, he kneeled down and placed the flare carefully atop the skull of the Spaniard where it could burn itself all the way to the end.
"Sorry Senor," He said in a genuine apology to the dead man.
He then slowly and carefully unfolded the parchment. Some portion of the edges crumbled as he opened it, but it was of a heavy, hammered, type of paper, and most of it held together despite the aged, crackling sounds it made as its folds were tested again for the first time in centuries.
Jones studied it carefully, quickly discerning that it was a map. It was a hand drawn map that displayed a mix of crudely drawn physical features together with exquisitely etched examples of fine Inca artwork. It was obvious that more than one hand had contributed to its creation. Here and there what appeared to be notes in Spanish had been scripted in. Jones traced his finger along lines that had been drawn hundreds of years ago with good Spanish indigo.
"Via Del Dios," He read the words from one of the many notes on the old map, paused, and then translated the Spanish into English, "Path of God".
His voice echoed in the stale air of the cavern, reflecting off the smooth, damp walls; the same walls that had probably listened with stony indifference to the prayers, laments, and finally the last mad gasps of tortured souls who had perished in unimaginably slow agonies.
His fingers traced along another line on the wrinkled old map, this one written in black.
"Via Del Diablo," He pursed his lips and furrowed his forehead, before once again translating the Spanish to English..., "Path of the Devil".
He continued to study the old Spanish map in silence for a few more moments, until the flare sputtered, sparked, and then went dead.
A glowing ember remained where the skull bone of the Spaniard had begun to burn from the heat of the flare, but that quickly went out as well, and once again Indiana Jones found himself in a sea of total darkness, sealed within an Inca death pit, somewhere in the bowels of the tomb of Payahuatac.
Tiny footsteps, squeaks, and squeals announced the return of the rats, emboldened by the return of the darkness.
Jones felt in his pack for his two remaining flares.
Pit of Death
Indiana Jones instinctively took a step back, bumping into yet another of the ubiquitous poles which surrounded him. He held his flare out. There on the muddy floor of the pit, lay multiple sets of human bones. Skeletons in various positions and agonized contortions were strewn about. At his feet lay a complete skeleton, the left side of its aged, brittle rib cage crushed a few moments ago by the archaeologist's own boot. Poking up through the center of the sternum was one of the numerous poles to be found all around. Indy traced his eyes up the seven foot tall pole to where it grew slender and terminated in a finely honed, sharpened point, as did all of them. In a moment he realized the sinister nature of the space into which he had been rudely deposited.
It was a pit of impaling spikes, meant to cause an agonizing death to anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. Jones looked down at the spot where he, himself had just landed moments ago, and swallowed hard. He'd missed the spikes by inches on either side.
"Luck of the Irish," he mumbled to himself with dark sarcasm.
He looked down again at the bones of the individual who had apparently not been quite as fortunate as he had been. Lying not too far from one of the femurs was an ancient rusted sword, and the distinctly shaped helmet of a Spanish Conquistador, which explained the metal on metal sound.
Indy bent down to pick up the sword. Despite the rust it was still in decent condition. But the helmet was rusted nearly through, eaten away by the passage of hundreds of years spent in the darkness of this pit of death.
He raised his magnesium flare higher and illuminated more of the pit. It appeared to be a natural cavern, cleverly adapted to its diabolical purpose by the Inca tomb builders. Carefully he made his way through the maze of tall spikes. Stepping over the macabre sets of bones which littered its floor Jones reached the approximate center of the space, and looked up at the smooth rock of the ceiling.
About seven or eight meters above him he could discern at least three or four tunnels, all of which terminated into the pit, probably from different locations throughout the tomb. Natural lava tubes Jones thought; the Incas once again making clever use of a natural feature. Then he lowered the flare and studied the walls more closely. They were of the same, smooth volcanic rock as the ceiling. They were smooth, and inwardly concave, and to try and climb up would be impossible, unless one were a fly. However, the far wall appeared to be man-made, and he hastened towards it, hopeful of finding a way out. The rats had to have run to somewhere, he thought to himself, and maybe he could go the same way.
Picking his way between the spikes and amongst the bones, he made his way to the far wall. It was indeed man made. And like most examples of Inca stone work it was a wonder of intricately matched, jigsaw puzzle pieces of large and small stones, matched so closely that it would be nearly impossible to fit even a knife blade between them.
He held the flare close up against it, and felt along the seams of the nearly seamless wall all the way down. There, at the bottom were two small arches, maybe six inches in height. He moved his flare closer to the small openings to get a better look.
"To let the rats through," Jones answered his own silent question out loud.
It wasn't bad enough to die on the spikes, he thought with revulsion. But to ensure the complete suffering of the victims, the Incas who had designed this death chamber had made sure that even the dead or dying would have no rest, and would be picked apart and devoured by the hungry vermin that these small holes in the wall allowed passage to.
He again raised his flare up. This small section of Inca stonework was indeed the only man made section of wall in this cavern of death. And with no way to ascend back up to the tunnels above it was apparent that these small passages at the bottom were the only exit
Unless he could figure out a way for a six foot man to squeeze through a six inch hole......... Jones swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment to allow a momentary surge of claustrophobic panic to pass.
Looking to his right he saw yet another set of skeletal remains. But there was something different about these. He bent towards them and held his now diminishing flare outward.
This skeleton had none of the sinister spikes thrusting up through its remains. Instead it was positioned close to one of the small "rat passages" in the stone wall. The white skull, luminous in the bright light of the flare, rested despairingly upon the extended forearm bones. A short distance from the skull was another conquistador style helmet. Another Spaniard Jones thought. Another who came in search of gold, but instead found only death.
He swallowed hard again and his heart began to race as he studied the forlorn looking skeleton. It was apparent that this Spaniard had landed between the spikes, and survived his fall into the pit just as he had. But it was just as apparent that this Spaniard had never found his way out, and had probably starved to death, slowly, in total darkness, the rats nibbling on his weakening body as his life slowly ebbed away........too slowly. A chill ran up Indiana Jones' spine, and a lump of bitter tasting fear rose in his throat at the thought that this might be his own fate.
He closed his eyes and did his best to shake off the pangs of fear and panic before they could take hold, then studied the figure some more. Close by to the leg bones was another old rusted sword. Then he noticed something he hadn't seen before. He lowered the flare down towards the figure's bony hand and saw something held in its dead grasp. It was a folded parchment.
Indy reached down and endeavored to pull the document from between the fingers. But the bony digits were reluctant to let go. He pulled harder until the Spaniard finally gave up his last possession, one he'd held on to far longer than his own life. The ancient thumb bone broke off with a crisp, cracking noise and rolled away, and the brittle, waxy, old paper slipped easily into the archaeologist's hand.
The flare was now burned down almost to the end and Jones could feel its heat on his fingers. Wanting to preserve the light as long as possible, he kneeled down and placed the flare carefully atop the skull of the Spaniard where it could burn itself all the way to the end.
"Sorry Senor," He said in a genuine apology to the dead man.
He then slowly and carefully unfolded the parchment. Some portion of the edges crumbled as he opened it, but it was of a heavy, hammered, type of paper, and most of it held together despite the aged, crackling sounds it made as its folds were tested again for the first time in centuries.
Jones studied it carefully, quickly discerning that it was a map. It was a hand drawn map that displayed a mix of crudely drawn physical features together with exquisitely etched examples of fine Inca artwork. It was obvious that more than one hand had contributed to its creation. Here and there what appeared to be notes in Spanish had been scripted in. Jones traced his finger along lines that had been drawn hundreds of years ago with good Spanish indigo.
"Via Del Dios," He read the words from one of the many notes on the old map, paused, and then translated the Spanish into English, "Path of God".
His voice echoed in the stale air of the cavern, reflecting off the smooth, damp walls; the same walls that had probably listened with stony indifference to the prayers, laments, and finally the last mad gasps of tortured souls who had perished in unimaginably slow agonies.
His fingers traced along another line on the wrinkled old map, this one written in black.
"Via Del Diablo," He pursed his lips and furrowed his forehead, before once again translating the Spanish to English..., "Path of the Devil".
He continued to study the old Spanish map in silence for a few more moments, until the flare sputtered, sparked, and then went dead.
A glowing ember remained where the skull bone of the Spaniard had begun to burn from the heat of the flare, but that quickly went out as well, and once again Indiana Jones found himself in a sea of total darkness, sealed within an Inca death pit, somewhere in the bowels of the tomb of Payahuatac.
Tiny footsteps, squeaks, and squeals announced the return of the rats, emboldened by the return of the darkness.
Jones felt in his pack for his two remaining flares.