The Temple Walls

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

Hillwood:40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W

No Puede Ser
4°55'22"N 52°19'37"W
September 25th, 13:55

A/N: I want to say, prior to beginning this chapter, that you have two options when it comes to these next few chapters. There are pieces of dialogue in here in Spanish, now, the idea behind that is that Helga cannot understand what is being said. As the reader, you have the option of translating the Spanish and, thus, knowing more than Helga. Alternatively, if you choose not to translate then you continue on knowing just as much as Helga (as this is a limited perspective story, in any case). Though I suppose if you speak both languages, then that kinda takes away the option - sorry guys.

Anyway, if you do choose to translate, you'll just essentially be getting a few little spoilers. That's the difference. But yes, it's all up to you!

The San Lorenzo officiates had no time for outsiders seeking reclusive native tribes. They'd made that abundantly clear the moment she'd stepped off the plane and found herself utterly stranded for transport to the American Embassy. Or, rather, the International Embassy; because there was only one and, as vacant as it had looked, nobody there acted any less than entirely unhappy to assist her. The documents they'd had her sign and date from top to bottom were primarily constructed in Spanish and her vocal protests over fair conduct fell on Spanish-speaking ears. She'd intended to storm out of the building entirely before being turned directly around for a full-scale identity check.

The residual anger that lingered after finally exiting the ministerial hell had obviously clouded her judgement enough that, when faced with her provided transport, she'd not stopped to think of the possible downsides. Actually, she'd been relieved enough as it was to know someone was taking her to the godforsaken outpost, lest she be forced upon a safari bus with the entirely unhelpful pocket-map she'd been handed to figure it out herself. The reality of this lapse hit her the very moment they left the maintained roadways of the capital. And the fact that it hit her was a literal observation, as ten minuted into the trip a chipped stone had flown at her face. The Jeep she was shoved in the back seat of was old, roofless and, apparently, suspension-less. The fact that it also had no seatbelts proved an utterly unwelcome bonus.

Their arrival at the final location was marked by a sudden and unsteadied stop. The Jeep's heavy-duty tyres spun up a thick cloud of dirt, even though they stood above thick green undergrowth. Helga's apparent cue to exist the battered and unsteady vehicle was the thud of her backpack onto the jungle floor. The driver, having not said a word to her the entire journey, slid his eyes to her expectantly and only belatedly, at her halting stare in return, did he thickly pronounce Cruzeiro.

Her descent from the carriage was immediately followed by the deposit of an unidentified and heavy cotton sack. It landed directly on Helga's toes.

"Oi, chucklehead!" she seethed, foot stamping at the ground, "What's your deal? This ain't mine."

Ordinarily she'd have continued on in a similar fashion for as long as it took him to regather the sack and get it off her toes. This instance, however, Helga was almost certain the heavy-set man in the truck had almost no grasp of English and that, save for perhaps the venom in her tone, a barrage of her best insults wasn't going to kick his ass into gear. Keeping that in mind, she planted her feet and prepared to toss the thing right back at him.

And she would have, had he not graced her with a simple word.

"Supply."

His accent remained thick and the difficulty in pronouncing the word was evident in the slow delivery. Helga, within a small window of morality, almost felt apologetic for having intended to launch a survival sack at his face.

However, the apologetic feeling quickly disappeared as he stomped down the accelerator on his bulky ride and tore off like a bat out of hell.

Helga spent the ensuing moments flicking slick dirt and shredded green matter from her body, all the while muttering a line of expletives. The silence that settled across her surrounds in the wake of his departure coincided with the moment she raised her eyes to look around. Ahead of her lay what could only be Cruzeiro; a secluded and rag-tag village of hut-like homes strikingly offset by a central log cabin style building. The most surprising thing was that she realized it to be faintly familiar.

Somewhere between the confusing and tenuous hours in which they'd managed to get the slip on Mr. Simmons and the remainder of their fifth-grade classmates and, yet, well before they'd been sent careening down a half-forgotten mine-shaft, Helga, Arnold and Gerald had argued briefly over the relevance of seeing oases in the desert and the risks of approaching seemingly innocuous jungle settlements. There were no prizes for guessing who wanted to put his faith in the kindness of foreign strangers. And Helga remembered very well that he'd been outvoted in a rare display of accord between the two most combative of their unlikely trio. The village - Cruzeiro, apparently - had therefore been avoided.

The one relevant detail that she'd neglected to keep in mind, though, was which direction they'd approached from fifteen years ago. The undulating ground, thickly covered with vegetation, nestled in a dense and tall surround of trees, looked almost identical from every angle. The general continuity was only broken by the village itself; which was, as an aside, almost certainly more populated than Helga could recall. Perhaps it had appeared smaller in the past as she'd strictly avoided going anywhere near as close as she presently stood.

Helga was quite suddenly confronted with the displeasing feeling of uncertainty.

The pint-sized map shoved in her rear pocket was of no use. She'd taken the most brief of glances at it upon receiving the thing and found it to be primarily a small green piece of paper saying 'uncharted jungle'. Cruzeiro was there, in print almost impossibly small, but besides being surrounded by the endless, detail-lacking green, it was also located on the very border of the page. Asking around would likely do her little good; she had no illusions about finding someone who spoke her language. Furthermore, she was evidently limited to travelling on foot and she remembered well how dangerous that could be. If she was lucky enough to escape being maimed by wild animals, then perhaps she'd have the pleasure, instead, of slowly staring herself to her grave through lack of supplies.

The supplies she'd packed herself could only hope to sustain her for so long and one quick glance into the cotton sack that'd almost broken her toe revealed a weighty sack of water crammed in with a handful of gimmicky power bars and an industrial sized package of raw pasta. Besides the possible benefit of being full of carbohydrates, Helga could hardly imagine herself sacrificing water for the sake of boiling a kilogram of ravioli. There was also the small concern that rattled around her brain almost constantly on the journey over - she had almost no idea how to actually light a campfire. She'd never been the camping type and only once in her life had outdoor survival been of any serious priority. During that period of her life, campfires had strictly been Arnold or Geraldo's responsibility, as Helga had always made herself scarce after sundown. She'd disappeared into their lone, tiny tent each night with a sarcastic quip and the fist-shaking threat that neither boy dare follow her.

But she wasn't ten any longer and there was no ever-trusty golden haired boy to save her this time. This time, she'd simply have to go it alone. Helga resolved then to actually move forwards. She swung the heavy cotton sack over her shoulder for support and departed her place alongside the ramshackle roadway. The familiar log cabin building stood directly ahead of her, wrapped thickly in vines and moss. A flutter of activity had begun to bring life into the community around her. The children inside one of the smallest huts ran outside excitedly to play, followed soon by an older man. His keen eyes scanned the village, as though taking inventory, and eventually landed upon Helga, who stood some ten or fifteen feet away. The look on his face became one of unadulterated shock.

And then, in an instant, he was shouting.

"¡No puede ser!"

Shockingly fast, he darted away from his own hut and through the encampment. His shouts weaved between the dwellings as he raced through them, seemingly headed for the central cabin. Helga held tighter to the cotton sack slung across her back as his short, sharp exclamations brought people outside.

"¡Es ella, es ella!"

Taking a cautionary step backwards, Helga considered then if perhaps only considering food, water and clothes as necessary survival tools had been a mistake. Curious onlookers openly peered at the zealous man now racing onto the cabin's landing. Those who looked to Helga begun shouting themselves, until the sounds began to mingle and a young man came jogging from inside the main building itself.

"¡Ha regresado, vengan a ver!"

The chatter rose alarmingly as the man who'd originally begun the furor stopped to point directly in Helga's direction. Whatever peace had existed among the residents previously had become utterly broken. There was movement in every direction; some villagers took to loud exclamations, others disappeared quickly into the dense cover of the surrounding jungle and, at the log cabin, the young man on the landing blinked forcefully at the sight of her as though she were a mirage. Then, he hopped determinedly down the wooden steps and headed directly for her.

Summoning her most formidable expression, she raised her hands rigidly as he approached.

"Hey, buddy, I can't help you." she said warningly. "I don't speak Spanish."

He stopped a few feet away, seeming entirely nonplussed by her tone.

"I can speak English." he disclosed easily.

"Oh, good," said Helga, lowering her hands. "Tell these weirdos to put their heads back on, will you? What're they all shouting about?"

It was as though he entirely ignored her question, instead he took to watcher her very seriously, in utmost silence. Helga startled when he spoke again.

"There are people here who must see you."

"Look," she said sternly, crossing her arms. "I'm just here to find a Football Headed twirp. He's in there," she demonstrated with a flinging sweep toward their surroundings, "somewhere. I just need someone to tell me where to find him. And then I can go home."

Although his English was no less than perfect, the man had begun to look at her oddly, as though her phrasing was difficult to process. His frown was deep by the time he responded, slowly, "Football... Headed..."

"Yeah. Short guy. Big weird shaped head. You know him?"

This time, the pause seemed almost like hesitation.

"I can show you."

"What?"

"I can show you the way."

Helga narrowed her eyes. "To the guy with the weird shaped head?" she repeated, demonstrating, to the greatest of her ability, the flattening of a circle in a borderline-violent sort of manner.

"To Arnold Shortman," he said confidently. "Yes."

"Oh." she uttered, feeling momentarily bereft of air. "Right. Well, lead the way then, bucko."

Meanwhile, the village had become something of a warzone. The overzealous shouting had continued as groups talked fast and furiously between themselves. There were others running between huts as though they'd no concept of where they were going. Helga narrowed her eyes on an elderly woman doling out painted wooden poles, thick red sticks and bound pipe-like instruments from her mossy shelter. Mostly, though, there was an awful lot of fire. Countless branches and leaves were being piled onto a burning pit in the centre of the village. Another family appeared to have set their own hut alight.

She'd intended, more forcefully this time, to demand her new guide tell her what raucous mess she'd walked into, but he'd already disappeared to the edge of the treeline. Helga followed slowly after him, though not before almost being bowled over by a young boy, racing to the end-most dwelling.

"¿Por qué estamos celebrando?" he spoke quickly, impatiently.

The man, clearly his father, grasped him fiercely by the shoulders and lifted him clear into the air.

"¡Hijo mío, la Diosa de la Guerra ha regresado!"

Also, P.S., and things. I have decided to make a writers Tumblr for myself so as to keep the fandom feels coming to me and, hopefully, negate any future long bouts of suffering inspiration and whatnot. The intention is to update it as I update fanfics but also to post up all the little tiny drabbly things I come up with (and usually ultimately scrap for being too small) that aren't right for FFnet but might help keep me motivated. It's not Hey Arnold exclusive, it'll have stuff I do for all the fandoms I seem to be spreading myself out to, but, yeah, if you wanna check it out or you have Tumblr and wanna follow then it's just 'aiyta' dot tumblr dot com (or there's a direct link from my FFnet profile page) and thank you and good day and I think you're swell. And gooodnight.

P.P.S: Many thanks to nattgeo for assisting me with the Spanish!