the gods had carved out of the ground – the coastal road circumnavigating the narrow brim of the mountain. Driving to the hacienda, cut into the rock halfway up the mountain, was like driving in a trench. There was no space for error on either side, which meant that once the minibus reached this part of the journey there was no going back, no getting on or off until Juan came out the other side onto the terraced landscape of the Gran Tablazo de Ica and the hacienda.
Once the van reached the canyon road, the surface evened out, widening a little to accommodate the rows of terraced olive and grape vines on one side and to provide a safe distance from the sea crashing beneath them on the other. On this first leg of the climb, every Pacific wave sprayed water over the van. The students laughed as if they were on a ride at Disneyland. The soldier had closed his eyes, the businessman was reading and the Brazilian couple was arguing. Let the poor sucker win this one, thought Juan, watching the Brazilians in his mirror. It’l be his last.
Juan shifted his gears, compensating for the surface changes of the now unpaved road and the gradual incline as the minibus climbed even higher above sea level. With these first few miles of the coastal road, he needed al his concentration. He’d shift his attentions to the real job at hand once he and his passengers were safely at the top.
7
AIMING HER BINOCULARS out across the landing strip, Isela tracked a plane coming in low through the mountains. It was stil a speck, shifting in and out between the snow-capped peaks. She turned her attention to the canyon road, watching for the minibus that would soon be visible on the horizon. Then, shifting herself out of the sun, she turned her binoculars to one of the guests at the hotel who had been reading in the shade of an umbrel a at the café since early morning.
According to one of the hotel’s sous chefs, the man had simply appeared the night before when the town was locked up tight against a raging Pacific storm. The weird thing was, the man hadn’t banged on any doors, hadn’t shouted for anyone to open up, had made no anxious cries for shelter. He’d simply pul ed up his coat col ar and huddled against the front gates of the hacienda, the lashing rain and buffeting winds pelting him for hours.
According to her mother, this man was charismatic and charming and cursed – she could smel it on him. That morning at breakfast, after her father had excused himself to his study, her mother had insisted that the stranger smel ed of death. Isela rol ed her eyes as she remembered her mother’s admonition to stay away from him.
‘This stranger has the soul of El Cóndor , the ancient one fal en from the heavens, unable to return,’ said her mother in the tone of voice she reserved for North American tourists and Isela. Her mother lifted a pewter goblet to her ful red lips. ‘ El Cóndor carries darkness inside him. His burdens are pressing on his soul. You must stay away or the darkness wil suffocate you.’
‘How do you know this?’ prodded Isela, wel aware that this conversation was shifting into territory that forced her mother to remember her roots, to have to say out loud that she was also Cuari, like her mother and her mother before her, a line stretching back to the Sun King, one of the chosen tribe of women meant to protect the mountain. With three marriages, and a considerable amount of make-up, Isela’s mother had managed to conceal that part of her identity. Until recently when the first tremors began and the mountain got angry.
‘I am not stupid, Isela,’ said her mother. ‘I know how you think you can goad me so easily, but mind my words. One day, you’l understand. Yes, I am a Cuari, and so, my love, are you. So beware.’
Her mother lifted her goblet and moved to the tal arched window that looked out over the family’s private gardens. Gazing up at the mountain’s plateau, she shivered. Turning to face her
Once the van reached the canyon road, the surface evened out, widening a little to accommodate the rows of terraced olive and grape vines on one side and to provide a safe distance from the sea crashing beneath them on the other. On this first leg of the climb, every Pacific wave sprayed water over the van. The students laughed as if they were on a ride at Disneyland. The soldier had closed his eyes, the businessman was reading and the Brazilian couple was arguing. Let the poor sucker win this one, thought Juan, watching the Brazilians in his mirror. It’l be his last.
Juan shifted his gears, compensating for the surface changes of the now unpaved road and the gradual incline as the minibus climbed even higher above sea level. With these first few miles of the coastal road, he needed al his concentration. He’d shift his attentions to the real job at hand once he and his passengers were safely at the top.
7
AIMING HER BINOCULARS out across the landing strip, Isela tracked a plane coming in low through the mountains. It was stil a speck, shifting in and out between the snow-capped peaks. She turned her attention to the canyon road, watching for the minibus that would soon be visible on the horizon. Then, shifting herself out of the sun, she turned her binoculars to one of the guests at the hotel who had been reading in the shade of an umbrel a at the café since early morning.
According to one of the hotel’s sous chefs, the man had simply appeared the night before when the town was locked up tight against a raging Pacific storm. The weird thing was, the man hadn’t banged on any doors, hadn’t shouted for anyone to open up, had made no anxious cries for shelter. He’d simply pul ed up his coat col ar and huddled against the front gates of the hacienda, the lashing rain and buffeting winds pelting him for hours.
According to her mother, this man was charismatic and charming and cursed – she could smel it on him. That morning at breakfast, after her father had excused himself to his study, her mother had insisted that the stranger smel ed of death. Isela rol ed her eyes as she remembered her mother’s admonition to stay away from him.
‘This stranger has the soul of El Cóndor , the ancient one fal en from the heavens, unable to return,’ said her mother in the tone of voice she reserved for North American tourists and Isela. Her mother lifted a pewter goblet to her ful red lips. ‘ El Cóndor carries darkness inside him. His burdens are pressing on his soul. You must stay away or the darkness wil suffocate you.’
‘How do you know this?’ prodded Isela, wel aware that this conversation was shifting into territory that forced her mother to remember her roots, to have to say out loud that she was also Cuari, like her mother and her mother before her, a line stretching back to the Sun King, one of the chosen tribe of women meant to protect the mountain. With three marriages, and a considerable amount of make-up, Isela’s mother had managed to conceal that part of her identity. Until recently when the first tremors began and the mountain got angry.
‘I am not stupid, Isela,’ said her mother. ‘I know how you think you can goad me so easily, but mind my words. One day, you’l understand. Yes, I am a Cuari, and so, my love, are you. So beware.’
Her mother lifted her goblet and moved to the tal arched window that looked out over the family’s private gardens. Gazing up at the mountain’s plateau, she shivered. Turning to face her
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