Gold of the Gods Read Online Free PDF

ancient wooden door that
looked like it hadn't been opened for many
years.
    'Dad always keeps it locked and no one is
allowed in,' said Marco. 'The old part of the
hacienda was built by Gonzalo himself,
using beams from the galleon he sailed in
from Spain. It's like stepping back into
history.'
    Marco slowly inserted the larger of the
two keys into the lock. There was a flinty
sound like a rusty bicycle chain as the key
turned with a rough jolt. Marco pushed and
the door creaked open on its ancient hinges.
Shafts of early morning sun lit up the
interior of the room in a swirl of dust.
Inside, a long wooden table was surrounded
by carved high-backed chairs. Five brass
candlesticks covered in dribbling waterfalls
of melted wax stood in a line along the
centre of the table.
    Hanging from the beams were the everyday
objects of a Spanish warship. A musket,
its butt almost entirely rotted away, was
displayed next to a curved rapier with
moth-eaten tassels still attached to the
scabbard. On an oak-panelled wall at the far
end of the room hung a ship's wheel.
    'The table was taken from the map room
in Gonzalo's flagship,' said Marco. 'We
think Columbus himself may have sat
around it on these very chairs. There are
many legends surrounding Gonzalo. When
we were younger, we were very frightened of
this room. My family have always believed
that Gonzalo was sitting in the chair at the
head of the table on the night he died.' He
paused. 'It's also said that anyone who sits in
that chair will find the Lost City . . .'
Marco's voice trailed off.
    'Or die trying.' Christina was standing
silently behind Beck and her voice made
him jump. 'Dad never allows anyone to
come in here except on very special
occasions. And as far as we know, he's never
sat in the chair.'
    'Until perhaps a few days ago.' Marco's
face was stern now and he looked worried.
'The day before you and your uncle arrived
in fact. Dad was muttering our family
motto all day. I asked him about it and he
told me he had been into Gonzalo's room –
he was sure there was some kind of puzzle or
a clue. But he wouldn't say what.'
    'Do you think the map to the Lost City
may be hidden in this room then?' asked
Beck.
    'It's not possible,' replied Marco. 'Every
inch has been searched many times, even
under the floorboards and behind the
panels. Dad badly wanted to find it but he
never could.'
    Beck walked slowly into the room and
made his way towards Gonzalo's chair. His
heart was beating fast now. As a child he had
been taught not to believe in ghosts or
superstitions or tales of Bluebeard and
things that went bump in the night.
    'Poppycock,' Uncle Al had once told
him. 'All poppycock.' And Beck was
inclined to agree. Although these days he
used a different, rather ruder, word to
describe it himself. In the school dormitory
when he was a new boy, he had realized at
once that it was one of the older boys
making tapping noises to scare the 'piglets',
as the juniors were known.
    Once he had got himself into serious hot
water when he tried to turn the tables after
lights out one night: covered in a sheet, he'd
leaped out at one of the seniors, making
screeching banshee noises. Just his luck it
happened to be the Head of House. Bentley,
or Bent Jaw, as he was known, had chosen
not to see the funny side and Beck had
spent the following two Saturdays in
detention.
    But now Beck was pacing boldly across
the room, the ancient floorboards creaking
ominously under his feet. His eyes flicked
ceaselessly back and forth. As a young child
he had spent time in the bush with the
Masai in Kenya and he had learned how to
use his eyes to survive. Now it was pure
instinct. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace
he saw a scattering of ancient coins
and the tattered remains of an old flag.
    Finally he came to a halt behind
Gonzalo's chair, placing the palms of his
hands on its high back. Then, without
warning, he pulled the chair out from under
the table. And sat down. A jolt like
an electric shock surged