By the time the llama and I arrive to the clearing, Upachu is on his knees, staring at the smoldering ruins of a structure resting among the rolling hills. The smoke stings my eyes, and the acrid smell of the burning embers forces a cringe upon my face. The plume reaches up into the evening sky, tainting the colorful scene with clouds of black. Several men draped in white robes form a line leading to a nearby creek, passing buckets between them. The last man at the end of this line looks younger than the others, but that’s not saying much, as he is likely much closer to Upachu’s age than mine. He is tossing water onto the heap of black and brown ashes, steam and smoke rising from what was once a mighty building, now reduced to rubble.
I jump in to carry buckets from the tiny creek and douse the fires as best I can manage, running back and forth, back and forth. The weight of the water, combined with the long journey we were just on, causes my muscles to ache, but I tell myself to keep going, keep helping. After some time, however, it’s clear we’ve done everything we can to contain the damage, and exasperated men cease their efforts to begin assessing the destruction.
If the Titans are considered nearly three times the height and size of man, this building would have been regarded as gigantic even to them. Even destroyed, the few walls that remain are still taller than a person. I was only a child when I last spent time here, and because I was so young—when everything can be deemed “large” by comparison, at that age—it’s difficult for me to accurately gauge how big and remarkable everything was. For it to be demolished to ruins is devastating, as clearly noted by everyone’s somber expressions.
Spotting Upachu away from the rest gathered around, I walk over to console him. He acts as if he’s lost someone of considerable worth, his head and folded arms resting on the knees pressed against his chest, and a distant stare fixed on his face. Although no one holds the rope to maintain possession, the llama remains nearby to feed on grass.
“All this way, and for what?” Upachu laments. “This was supposed to be a joyful occasion.”
“Perhaps something can be salvaged from the rubble,” I say, half-convincingly, as I’m not certain I believe that myself. “It appears there are some areas that haven’t been as affected by the flames.”
“Who would do this?” he says. “Why would someone want to destroy a temple with Qantua people inside?”
“It could have something to do with it being called the ‘Temple of the Titans’.” I say. “Maybe someone has a still-lingering grudge against the Timuaq?”
“The war has been over for many seasons now,” he chides me, as if I’m responsible for the wreckage. “There is no excuse for burning down history and all the knowledge contained in that building.”
I understand his point, and this will certainly be investigated soon, but the energy invested in his frustrations and anger seems useless and unhelpful. I also recall that he might have consumed some of the coca he packed for the journey, and coming down from its effects could be contributing to the moodiness.
I survey the scene and notice some of the men walking to the rubble, each with a weathered expression on their face, and their white robes now soiled with soot and ash. They have an exchange with one another and collectively begin moving some of the heavy wooden support beams and crumbled stones. Upachu doesn’t seem as though he’s ready to be consoled, and I quickly grow tired of his moping. So seeing the others struggle to lift the debris, I let Upachu know I’ll be close by and head over to assist them, making the physical labor a welcomed excuse to end this conversation. I have brief exchanges with the men to help pass the time as we work, and I discover that, amazingly, nobody has been killed in the fire. They sing the praises of the gods for protecting us, though I’m a bit reluctant to give credit to deities that are considered to have protected the people while also destroying a prominent building.
I’ve been so focused on the task at hand that I am caught off guard when I notice the sun has already set behind the hills and the minimal tree line. The men have managed to remove a relatively small number of items from the temple: Metallic trinkets and statues shaped to resemble the titans, torn and soiled cloths and robes once used for ceremonies, sacks of a variety of root vegetables in moderately good condition, a mix of now-dimly-colored and dirtied quipus, jewelry warped by the heat of the flames, tattered tapestries collected from all the lands in Pachil, and pieces of damaged wooden furniture. With sunlight at a premium, there won’t be much time left today to continue searching the remains. Some have begun assembling tents to house those who have lost the building they also considered a home. Upachu eventually made himself useful and has been working on transforming our cart into an improvised hut to give us some cover.
While some of the men have returned from hunting game for tonight’s meal, I convince myself to make one last effort in clearing a pile of the collapsed building before turning in for the evening and assisting them with dinner preparations. I’ve made progress on one section that a temple worker determined was their resident quarters, so I’m intent on clearing the wreckage from this area and possibly finding more of the men’s possessions.
There’s a large support beam that pins down much of the area, and I know that removing it will grant us access to the quarters for a search. These men need a victory, and the more of their belongings I can retrieve, the less painful this experience will be. I get into a crouch and place the beam on my shoulder, and with my hands gripping the rough-hewn edges, I brace myself for the tremendous weight. Every muscle tenses and flexes, but initially I yield to the weight of the dense beam. After a couple of tries, I drive the beam upward, hoisting it up and away from the space, just barely clearing the area. Hearing the thud as it crashes to the ground fills me with pride, knowing we can begin to recover more items from this space in the morning.
I begin walking away, but catch my foot on some loose stones. I can hear Upachu’s cackling from here as I trip, the pain shooting from my toe through my foot. I would normally be put off by his laughter and the embarrassment, but it’s the first time since we’ve arrived that he’s expressed something other than despair. So I ignore his heckling and get to my knees, dusting off the soot and dirt. While wiping my tunic, I look down and notice a chest made from the nearby lumuli trees—the rusted pink color of its petrified wood is a giveaway to what material was used to craft it. I’m keenly aware of the highly regarded stone-like quality to the wood, but for it to have withstood a fire and a collapsed building upon it is a true testament to its durability.
The chest is the width of a broad-shouldered man, and half as deep, with oxidized copper making up the joints and bindings. There once was a thin lock at the front, but it’s been knocked loose and dangles off the side. I chuckle at the irony; if only the lock had been comprised of lumuli wood, it likely would’ve survived, I joke with myself. There are markings chiseled into the top—an assortment of lines, dots, and shapes—but I’m not certain what they’re supposed to signify. Given the toughness of this chest, I recognize the amount of work that must’ve gone into its construction, and my mind begins pondering what else it has endured.
“What do you have there?” I hear Upachu shout with partially chewed food muffling some of his inquiry.
“It’s… a chest,” I say, somewhat stupefied at my discovery.
“Well, let’s crack it open and take a look,” he says with child-like enthusiasm. It could be my exhaustion or hunger—or a combination of the two—but Upachu’s encouragement is infectious, and I hurry to his location at our makeshift camp. I might not have been skipping over to him, but it certainly felt that way, though I’m too tired to care about appearances.
I clap and swipe my hands to remove some of the dirt and green rust from them, so as not to silly the contents. Subconsciously, I slowly crack open the lid to preserve some of the mystery and build up suspense. While I hold my breath in anticipation, the smacking of Upachu’s mouth as he masticates his meal briefly takes me out of relishing in the moment.
“Hopefully, it’s more food,” he says. I frown at him and quickly open the chest. We both look inside, perplexed at what’s contained within.
I can’t quite describe it: There appears to be multiple rolled-up sheets of lightly browned cloth stored within. Except it’s not exactly cotton or linen—rubbing the sheet between my fingers, there’s a slight roughness to its texture, and it crinkles as I grip it. It’s as if someone tore cloth into tiny bits and stuck them together to form strips, then wove or stuck those strips together, perhaps with some kind of adhesive. But they’re more fibrous, as though the strips were formed by mashing them all together. Each sheet of cloth contains more of the symbols, painted on in black, similar to the ones carved into the top of the chest, arranged in rows throughout.
“Do you have any idea what these are?” I ask Upachu, puzzled by the revealed treasure stored in this chest.
“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Upachu says, mystified. He expresses a look of awe and wonderment as he studies the mechanism, and we both stare intently as if it will reveal its secrets if we look at it long enough.
“It must be valuable if it’s being stored in a chest made of lumuli,” I deduce. “Are these symbols runes of some kind?”
“I can’t be certain,” he says, “and it’s difficult to determine if these sheets were here at the time of the Timuaq, or even older than the time of their rule.”
“I have so many questions,” Upachu breathlessly says after a long pause. “Who created these? Where did they come from? And are these why the temple was set on fire? To destroy these?”
That last thought had crossed my mind almost immediately upon seeing the cloth strips. This fire suddenly feels less accidental and more intentional. We haven’t even begun questioning the men at the temple—we saw that they were desperately attempting to extinguish the flames and in great need of assistance, so we helped unquestionably.
Our pondering is interrupted by one of the men of the temple, offering me the leg of a rabbit that was cooked on the spit. I almost missed what he said entirely, and it takes me a moment to piece everything together through context and a bit of assuming. I respond with a few incoherent mutterings, looking around feverishly for the chest’s location. I’m soon put at ease when I see Upachu discreetly sliding the chest under a lumpy bedroll while barely inconspicuously shielding it with his torso. His expression of guilt is not subtle in the slightest, but the temple worker doesn’t appear to notice. We both sigh in relief when he returns to the fire to carry on cooking.
“We need to protect this chest until we can get somewhere safe and inspect it,” Upachu says through bites of food.
“Why not ask one of these men what this is?” I ask, confused as to why he would be so possessive over something that existed at the temple in the first place.
“Because,” he says, suddenly in a hushed tone, as if to not raise any suspicions, “I don’t believe it belongs here.”
“Wait, what is that to mean?”
“All that’s supposed to be stored here are quipus,” he says. “More ledgers about the Timuaq rule. So whatever this is...” His voice trails off and he looks hintingly at me, as though we’ve uncovered a grand plot amidst the presence of the conspirators. This seems a bit childish, and I’m far too exhausted to argue with him at this point, so I concede and determine that I will simply inquire with the temple workers at a later time.
“Do you know of anyone who could decipher the meaning of the symbols?” I ask. I’m too distracted by what’s developed, and I take a bite of the well-cooked rabbit as if I’ve never chewed food before, struggling to tear off a piece small enough to consume in a normal mouthful and drop the leg onto the ground.
“There is someone, but he works here at the temple—or, at least, I thought he did,” Upachu says. “During all the commotion and clearing of rubble, I have yet to see my friend, Qaschiqe. Did I mention he might be at the temple?”
“More than a dozen times during the trip,” I say, returning the jabs that he has relentlessly unleashed on me since the beginning of our journey. However, Upachu doesn’t seem to notice my barb, concern growing on his face. His eating slows down while his mind reviews all the information and possibilities.
“Do you think… no, he wouldn’t” Upachu debates with himself.
“Do I think he’s the owner of the chest? Or that he’s responsible for setting the fire to perhaps get to the chest?” I finish Upachu’s inquiry. His face displays a genuine look of concern, and his eyes grow wide like two large moons as he works through the idea that his friend might be a culprit.
“Listen,” I say, attempting to calm the weathered man down, “I don’t know anything about your friend, but I also think it’s too soon to make any conclusions just yet. Perhaps he traveled someplace and isn’t in the area. And perhaps it could be someone else. We’ll find the answers.” I say this during my futile effort to brush dirt and grass from the rabbit leg.
“For now, let’s guard the chest and think of anyone else who can tell us who it belongs to or where it’s from, what’s inside, and may be able to determine what those symbols mean. Perhaps you know of someone back in Hilaqta who can help. Or we may have to travel to the capital city and meet a contact you have in Qapauma. We’ll figure this out, along with all the other questions about this temple and the fire.”
Upachu looks only slightly relieved, and I see the wheels turning in his head about his friend and their possible connection to this chest and the temple’s destruction. By now, he’s ceased conversing, and I leave him alone with his thoughts as I finish what remains of my meal. The evening is growing darker with deep shades of blue consuming the land and sky. I assemble a fire of our own and track down the llama, which reluctantly returns to the cart after enjoying the freedom to roam the nearby countryside during all the activity. As I practically drag the stubborn animal back to our camp, I think about how it could have escaped, and yet it refused to wander further than a couple lengths from where everyone has been all evening.
Because of how late in the day it is, Upachu and I decide we’ll start our investigation in the morning, when everyone will resume clearing the debris and later rebuilding what they can. During the short amount of time we’ve been here, our exchanges with the residents of the temple have been brief and surface-level, at best, while removing the rubble. I hope that our acts of service will garner some good will—well, my acts, since Upachu mostly stayed by the cart the whole time.
It doesn’t take long for Upachu to fall asleep, snoring loudly and irritating the llama enough to cause it to get as far away from him as the restraints allow. Tiredness has yet to reach me, so I decide to expedite the inquiry into the chest and what took place sooner than anticipated. Though several of the men have turned in for the evening, there is still a group of half a dozen or so gathered by a small campfire. I carry a few more pieces of the shattered wood from the destroyed building to repurpose as kindling. I’m met with wary eyes initially, but once I tend to the fire and rejuvenate the flames, the men begin loosening their grips on the robes they’ve clutched tightly around themselves to keep warm. One of them, the tall man from earlier at the end of the line attempting to douse the flames, looks at me and nods to an open place by the fire.
“We are grateful for your help,” an elderly man to my left says. The fire illuminates part of his sunken eyes and angular face that’s covered in stubble. “It would have taken us some time to make any progress on clearing the destruction.”
“Though it wasn’t what I anticipated upon our arrival, I’m certainly glad we could assist,” I say. The chill of the night air occasionally sneaks through the fire’s warmth, and the smell of the burning timber brings to mind flashes of the calm between battles, sharing exchanges of relief among the fellow warriors.
“What has brought you to the Temple of the Titans, good sir?” inquires another seated opposite of me. Short, black hair atop a youthful, round face juts out wildly from the hood of his robe, matching much of his disheveled appearance. He’s not someone I immediately recall helping to combat the fire, and I determine he must be an apprentice or something of the kind, being far too young to be one of the keepers of the temple. Then again, times have changed since the War of Liberation, and perhaps the stringent rules for being an elder at a temple are different now.
I decide I should be careful with my reply, attempting to gauge their position while I’m still uncertain about their stance on the Arbiter’s rule, or what they know about the chest. This can inform me on how I can best obtain the information we’re after.
“Upachu over there,” I say, pointing my thumb at the slumbering old man by our cart, “was eager to finally leave Hilaqta to reunite with an old friend of his, Qaschiqe. Is he here?”
The men look at each other as if speaking to one another through glances. A few appear angry and shake their heads. Something about the mixture of concern and irritation expressed on their dimly lit faces seems ominous, as though there’s something that they’ve determined should be kept hidden from me.
“Unfortunately for your traveling companion,” the elder man says with a jarringly intense voice, finally breaking the silence, “Qaschiqe has departed for Iaqutaq. I’m afraid he isn’t expected to return for several moon cycles.”
After stating this, the young apprentice stands and leaves the campfire, walking toward the group already lying on bedrolls nearby. The other men resume staring at the glowing embers and refrain from looking at one another.
“I see,” I say, realizing I may be touching on a sensitive matter and save this matter to discuss with Upachu later.
I have no way to determine if Qaschiqe is present—only Upachu would know what he looks like—so I make a mental note of the people and faces I’ve encountered to discuss with him in the morning. If Qaschiqe is actually here, there must be a reason why they would protect him from outsiders. Is he wanted by the Arbiter for something? Has he been up to something sinister? Is he responsible for the temple’s destruction? Or was he the target?
There is a lengthy pause in conversation and a feeling of restless unease around the fire. Everyone present is content to watch it die slowly, the glow gradually fading, causing all of our silhouettes to blend more and more into the surrounding darkness of the night. If bringing up Qaschiqe is a sensitive subject, I imagine the chest would be even more so. Eventually, I test the men one last time before turning in for the evening.
“It’s a shame,” I begin to say, my voice jarring after such a long silence, “to see a magnificent and important structure in Pachil become destroyed. Does anyone know what caused such a tragic event?” Perhaps it isn’t the most tactful way to inquire, but social engagements were never one of my strong suits—something I completely regret in this moment. But I’ve already decided that this Qaschiqe is the person who will have the answers I seek anyway. Even so, I wince after asking in such an obtusely direct manner these poor souls who have lost not only their homes, but a cause to which they’ve dedicated their life.
The men’s appearances grow somber, occasionally looking at one another with consoling glances. I begin apologizing, but the elderly man raises a hand to me and bows his head.
“We will have to inspect the damage to see how it was caused,” he says. “However, I anticipate we will find that this was caused by someone with ill intent.”
“Do you know who would do such a thing?” I ask, attempting to sound more empathetic, but most likely failing.
“There are many who want to remove all symbols and artifacts relating to the Timuaq,” he says with a sigh, like this is a battle the men here have fought long before the War of Liberation was ever conceived.
“Have there been threats made to you all, declaring someone would do such an act?”
“All the time,” he says, “which, I suppose, led us to a false state of security, since the threats are so frequent, but nothing has ever come of it.”
“Until now,” another man around the fire says disgruntled.”
“Some,” this first man continues, “wish to cast the titans’ oppressive rule into the annals of history, never to be discussed again. This would be foolish, of course. Ignoring the tribulations of the people, and the errors made by leaders of the Pachil factions, will prevent us from learning from our mistakes, as well as what brought the Timuaq to power. We would be hard pressed to prevent such an event from happening again if we don’t educate ourselves.”
I nod in agreement, as this is something to which I can personally attest. It’s like my own internal struggles, which I know I must confront, no matter how much I would prefer to pretend they don’t exist. Of course, I could probably not avoid them anyway, seeing how vivid the dreams of my sister have recently become. However, I can’t fault those who wish to move on from the most turbulent and trying times to ever exist on Pachil.
I’ll have to investigate the matter more, but after observing the weary heads around the fire, I decide to do so in the morning. As reluctant as I am to leave after imposing with such a sensitive subject, I can see by the exhausted faces that I wouldn’t get much further if I pressed on. I start to question if I should’ve instigated tonight in the first place, but the damage, much like that done to the temple, is done and left to assess tomorrow. I wish everyone a goodnight, and walk in the cold of the night air, looking up to see the stars litter the sky.
Returning to the cart, Upachu looks entirely undisturbed, head tilted all the way back as if he’s snoring to the stars and heavens above. The serenity on his face is calming, and I can’t help but chuckle at his current state. It’s a much-needed sight after the razed temple, not to mention the embarrassing display I just left at the campfire. I spot an unused robe nearby, likely gathered from the rubble based on its slightly tattered appearance, and grab it to place on Upachu to provide him with added warmth. It’s then that I suddenly consider the robe I’ve just grabbed: It’s the one Upachu had used in an effort to covertly hide the chest we examined earlier in the day.
Panicked, I begin searching our belongings, frantically tossing aside articles of clothing and sacks of rations. I unearth nothing, and my haste in rummaging around startles Upachu awake.
“It’s gone!” I shout at Upachu. He rubs his eyes and looks around, squinting as he tries to regain awareness of his surroundings.
“What’s gone?” he says, still coming to out of his sleepy haze.
“The chest! It’s not here!”
By the time the llama and I arrive to the clearing, Upachu is on his knees, staring at the smoldering ruins of a structure resting among the rolling hills. The smoke stings my eyes, and the acrid smell of the burning embers forces a cringe upon my face. The plume reaches up into the evening sky, tainting the colorful scene with clouds of black. Several men draped in white robes form a line leading to a nearby creek, passing buckets between them. The last man at the end of this line looks younger than the others, but that’s not saying much, as he is likely much closer to Upachu’s age than mine. He is tossing water onto the heap of black and brown ashes, steam and smoke rising from what was once a mighty building, now reduced to rubble.
I jump in to carry buckets from the tiny creek and douse the fires as best I can manage, running back and forth, back and forth. The weight of the water, combined with the long journey we were just on, causes my muscles to ache, but I tell myself to keep going, keep helping. After some time, however, it’s clear we’ve done everything we can to contain the damage, and exasperated men cease their efforts to begin assessing the destruction.
If the Titans are considered nearly three times the height and size of man, this building would have been regarded as gigantic even to them. Even destroyed, the few walls that remain are still taller than a person. I was only a child when I last spent time here, and because I was so young—when everything can be deemed “large” by comparison, at that age—it’s difficult for me to accurately gauge how big and remarkable everything was. For it to be demolished to ruins is devastating, as clearly noted by everyone’s somber expressions.
Spotting Upachu away from the rest gathered around, I walk over to console him. He acts as if he’s lost someone of considerable worth, his head and folded arms resting on the knees pressed against his chest, and a distant stare fixed on his face. Although no one holds the rope to maintain possession, the llama remains nearby to feed on grass.
“All this way, and for what?” Upachu laments. “This was supposed to be a joyful occasion.”
“Perhaps something can be salvaged from the rubble,” I say, half-convincingly, as I’m not certain I believe that myself. “It appears there are some areas that haven’t been as affected by the flames.”
“Who would do this?” he says. “Why would someone want to destroy a temple with Qantua people inside?”
“It could have something to do with it being called the ‘Temple of the Titans’.” I say. “Maybe someone has a still-lingering grudge against the Timuaq?”
“The war has been over for many seasons now,” he chides me, as if I’m responsible for the wreckage. “There is no excuse for burning down history and all the knowledge contained in that building.”
I understand his point, and this will certainly be investigated soon, but the energy invested in his frustrations and anger seems useless and unhelpful. I also recall that he might have consumed some of the coca he packed for the journey, and coming down from its effects could be contributing to the moodiness.
I survey the scene and notice some of the men walking to the rubble, each with a weathered expression on their face, and their white robes now soiled with soot and ash. They have an exchange with one another and collectively begin moving some of the heavy wooden support beams and crumbled stones. Upachu doesn’t seem as though he’s ready to be consoled, and I quickly grow tired of his moping. So seeing the others struggle to lift the debris, I let Upachu know I’ll be close by and head over to assist them, making the physical labor a welcomed excuse to end this conversation. I have brief exchanges with the men to help pass the time as we work, and I discover that, amazingly, nobody has been killed in the fire. They sing the praises of the gods for protecting us, though I’m a bit reluctant to give credit to deities that are considered to have protected the people while also destroying a prominent building.
I’ve been so focused on the task at hand that I am caught off guard when I notice the sun has already set behind the hills and the minimal tree line. The men have managed to remove a relatively small number of items from the temple: Metallic trinkets and statues shaped to resemble the titans, torn and soiled cloths and robes once used for ceremonies, sacks of a variety of root vegetables in moderately good condition, a mix of now-dimly-colored and dirtied quipus, jewelry warped by the heat of the flames, tattered tapestries collected from all the lands in Pachil, and pieces of damaged wooden furniture. With sunlight at a premium, there won’t be much time left today to continue searching the remains. Some have begun assembling tents to house those who have lost the building they also considered a home. Upachu eventually made himself useful and has been working on transforming our cart into an improvised hut to give us some cover.
While some of the men have returned from hunting game for tonight’s meal, I convince myself to make one last effort in clearing a pile of the collapsed building before turning in for the evening and assisting them with dinner preparations. I’ve made progress on one section that a temple worker determined was their resident quarters, so I’m intent on clearing the wreckage from this area and possibly finding more of the men’s possessions.
There’s a large support beam that pins down much of the area, and I know that removing it will grant us access to the quarters for a search. These men need a victory, and the more of their belongings I can retrieve, the less painful this experience will be. I get into a crouch and place the beam on my shoulder, and with my hands gripping the rough-hewn edges, I brace myself for the tremendous weight. Every muscle tenses and flexes, but initially I yield to the weight of the dense beam. After a couple of tries, I drive the beam upward, hoisting it up and away from the space, just barely clearing the area. Hearing the thud as it crashes to the ground fills me with pride, knowing we can begin to recover more items from this space in the morning.
I begin walking away, but catch my foot on some loose stones. I can hear Upachu’s cackling from here as I trip, the pain shooting from my toe through my foot. I would normally be put off by his laughter and the embarrassment, but it’s the first time since we’ve arrived that he’s expressed something other than despair. So I ignore his heckling and get to my knees, dusting off the soot and dirt. While wiping my tunic, I look down and notice a chest made from the nearby lumuli trees—the rusted pink color of its petrified wood is a giveaway to what material was used to craft it. I’m keenly aware of the highly regarded stone-like quality to the wood, but for it to have withstood a fire and a collapsed building upon it is a true testament to its durability.
The chest is the width of a broad-shouldered man, and half as deep, with oxidized copper making up the joints and bindings. There once was a thin lock at the front, but it’s been knocked loose and dangles off the side. I chuckle at the irony; if only the lock had been comprised of lumuli wood, it likely would’ve survived, I joke with myself. There are markings chiseled into the top—an assortment of lines, dots, and shapes—but I’m not certain what they’re supposed to signify. Given the toughness of this chest, I recognize the amount of work that must’ve gone into its construction, and my mind begins pondering what else it has endured.
“What do you have there?” I hear Upachu shout with partially chewed food muffling some of his inquiry.
“It’s… a chest,” I say, somewhat stupefied at my discovery.
“Well, let’s crack it open and take a look,” he says with child-like enthusiasm. It could be my exhaustion or hunger—or a combination of the two—but Upachu’s encouragement is infectious, and I hurry to his location at our makeshift camp. I might not have been skipping over to him, but it certainly felt that way, though I’m too tired to care about appearances.
I clap and swipe my hands to remove some of the dirt and green rust from them, so as not to silly the contents. Subconsciously, I slowly crack open the lid to preserve some of the mystery and build up suspense. While I hold my breath in anticipation, the smacking of Upachu’s mouth as he masticates his meal briefly takes me out of relishing in the moment.
“Hopefully, it’s more food,” he says. I frown at him and quickly open the chest. We both look inside, perplexed at what’s contained within.
I can’t quite describe it: There appears to be multiple rolled-up sheets of lightly browned cloth stored within. Except it’s not exactly cotton or linen—rubbing the sheet between my fingers, there’s a slight roughness to its texture, and it crinkles as I grip it. It’s as if someone tore cloth into tiny bits and stuck them together to form strips, then wove or stuck those strips together, perhaps with some kind of adhesive. But they’re more fibrous, as though the strips were formed by mashing them all together. Each sheet of cloth contains more of the symbols, painted on in black, similar to the ones carved into the top of the chest, arranged in rows throughout.
“Do you have any idea what these are?” I ask Upachu, puzzled by the revealed treasure stored in this chest.
“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Upachu says, mystified. He expresses a look of awe and wonderment as he studies the mechanism, and we both stare intently as if it will reveal its secrets if we look at it long enough.
“It must be valuable if it’s being stored in a chest made of lumuli,” I deduce. “Are these symbols runes of some kind?”
“I can’t be certain,” he says, “and it’s difficult to determine if these sheets were here at the time of the Timuaq, or even older than the time of their rule.”
“I have so many questions,” Upachu breathlessly says after a long pause. “Who created these? Where did they come from? And are these why the temple was set on fire? To destroy these?”
That last thought had crossed my mind almost immediately upon seeing the cloth strips. This fire suddenly feels less accidental and more intentional. We haven’t even begun questioning the men at the temple—we saw that they were desperately attempting to extinguish the flames and in great need of assistance, so we helped unquestionably.
Our pondering is interrupted by one of the men of the temple, offering me the leg of a rabbit that was cooked on the spit. I almost missed what he said entirely, and it takes me a moment to piece everything together through context and a bit of assuming. I respond with a few incoherent mutterings, looking around feverishly for the chest’s location. I’m soon put at ease when I see Upachu discreetly sliding the chest under a lumpy bedroll while barely inconspicuously shielding it with his torso. His expression of guilt is not subtle in the slightest, but the temple worker doesn’t appear to notice. We both sigh in relief when he returns to the fire to carry on cooking.
“We need to protect this chest until we can get somewhere safe and inspect it,” Upachu says through bites of food.
“Why not ask one of these men what this is?” I ask, confused as to why he would be so possessive over something that existed at the temple in the first place.
“Because,” he says, suddenly in a hushed tone, as if to not raise any suspicions, “I don’t believe it belongs here.”
“Wait, what is that to mean?”
“All that’s supposed to be stored here are quipus,” he says. “More ledgers about the Timuaq rule. So whatever this is...” His voice trails off and he looks hintingly at me, as though we’ve uncovered a grand plot amidst the presence of the conspirators. This seems a bit childish, and I’m far too exhausted to argue with him at this point, so I concede and determine that I will simply inquire with the temple workers at a later time.
“Do you know of anyone who could decipher the meaning of the symbols?” I ask. I’m too distracted by what’s developed, and I take a bite of the well-cooked rabbit as if I’ve never chewed food before, struggling to tear off a piece small enough to consume in a normal mouthful and drop the leg onto the ground.
“There is someone, but he works here at the temple—or, at least, I thought he did,” Upachu says. “During all the commotion and clearing of rubble, I have yet to see my friend, Qaschiqe. Did I mention he might be at the temple?”
“More than a dozen times during the trip,” I say, returning the jabs that he has relentlessly unleashed on me since the beginning of our journey. However, Upachu doesn’t seem to notice my barb, concern growing on his face. His eating slows down while his mind reviews all the information and possibilities.
“Do you think… no, he wouldn’t” Upachu debates with himself.
“Do I think he’s the owner of the chest? Or that he’s responsible for setting the fire to perhaps get to the chest?” I finish Upachu’s inquiry. His face displays a genuine look of concern, and his eyes grow wide like two large moons as he works through the idea that his friend might be a culprit.
“Listen,” I say, attempting to calm the weathered man down, “I don’t know anything about your friend, but I also think it’s too soon to make any conclusions just yet. Perhaps he traveled someplace and isn’t in the area. And perhaps it could be someone else. We’ll find the answers.” I say this during my futile effort to brush dirt and grass from the rabbit leg.
“For now, let’s guard the chest and think of anyone else who can tell us who it belongs to or where it’s from, what’s inside, and may be able to determine what those symbols mean. Perhaps you know of someone back in Hilaqta who can help. Or we may have to travel to the capital city and meet a contact you have in Qapauma. We’ll figure this out, along with all the other questions about this temple and the fire.”
Upachu looks only slightly relieved, and I see the wheels turning in his head about his friend and their possible connection to this chest and the temple’s destruction. By now, he’s ceased conversing, and I leave him alone with his thoughts as I finish what remains of my meal. The evening is growing darker with deep shades of blue consuming the land and sky. I assemble a fire of our own and track down the llama, which reluctantly returns to the cart after enjoying the freedom to roam the nearby countryside during all the activity. As I practically drag the stubborn animal back to our camp, I think about how it could have escaped, and yet it refused to wander further than a couple lengths from where everyone has been all evening.
Because of how late in the day it is, Upachu and I decide we’ll start our investigation in the morning, when everyone will resume clearing the debris and later rebuilding what they can. During the short amount of time we’ve been here, our exchanges with the residents of the temple have been brief and surface-level, at best, while removing the rubble. I hope that our acts of service will garner some good will—well, my acts, since Upachu mostly stayed by the cart the whole time.
It doesn’t take long for Upachu to fall asleep, snoring loudly and irritating the llama enough to cause it to get as far away from him as the restraints allow. Tiredness has yet to reach me, so I decide to expedite the inquiry into the chest and what took place sooner than anticipated. Though several of the men have turned in for the evening, there is still a group of half a dozen or so gathered by a small campfire. I carry a few more pieces of the shattered wood from the destroyed building to repurpose as kindling. I’m met with wary eyes initially, but once I tend to the fire and rejuvenate the flames, the men begin loosening their grips on the robes they’ve clutched tightly around themselves to keep warm. One of them, the tall man from earlier at the end of the line attempting to douse the flames, looks at me and nods to an open place by the fire.
“We are grateful for your help,” an elderly man to my left says. The fire illuminates part of his sunken eyes and angular face that’s covered in stubble. “It would have taken us some time to make any progress on clearing the destruction.”
“Though it wasn’t what I anticipated upon our arrival, I’m certainly glad we could assist,” I say. The chill of the night air occasionally sneaks through the fire’s warmth, and the smell of the burning timber brings to mind flashes of the calm between battles, sharing exchanges of relief among the fellow warriors.
“What has brought you to the Temple of the Titans, good sir?” inquires another seated opposite of me. Short, black hair atop a youthful, round face juts out wildly from the hood of his robe, matching much of his disheveled appearance. He’s not someone I immediately recall helping to combat the fire, and I determine he must be an apprentice or something of the kind, being far too young to be one of the keepers of the temple. Then again, times have changed since the War of Liberation, and perhaps the stringent rules for being an elder at a temple are different now.
I decide I should be careful with my reply, attempting to gauge their position while I’m still uncertain about their stance on the Arbiter’s rule, or what they know about the chest. This can inform me on how I can best obtain the information we’re after.
“Upachu over there,” I say, pointing my thumb at the slumbering old man by our cart, “was eager to finally leave Hilaqta to reunite with an old friend of his, Qaschiqe. Is he here?”
The men look at each other as if speaking to one another through glances. A few appear angry and shake their heads. Something about the mixture of concern and irritation expressed on their dimly lit faces seems ominous, as though there’s something that they’ve determined should be kept hidden from me.
“Unfortunately for your traveling companion,” the elder man says with a jarringly intense voice, finally breaking the silence, “Qaschiqe has departed for Iaqutaq. I’m afraid he isn’t expected to return for several moon cycles.”
After stating this, the young apprentice stands and leaves the campfire, walking toward the group already lying on bedrolls nearby. The other men resume staring at the glowing embers and refrain from looking at one another.
“I see,” I say, realizing I may be touching on a sensitive matter and save this matter to discuss with Upachu later.
I have no way to determine if Qaschiqe is present—only Upachu would know what he looks like—so I make a mental note of the people and faces I’ve encountered to discuss with him in the morning. If Qaschiqe is actually here, there must be a reason why they would protect him from outsiders. Is he wanted by the Arbiter for something? Has he been up to something sinister? Is he responsible for the temple’s destruction? Or was he the target?
There is a lengthy pause in conversation and a feeling of restless unease around the fire. Everyone present is content to watch it die slowly, the glow gradually fading, causing all of our silhouettes to blend more and more into the surrounding darkness of the night. If bringing up Qaschiqe is a sensitive subject, I imagine the chest would be even more so. Eventually, I test the men one last time before turning in for the evening.
“It’s a shame,” I begin to say, my voice jarring after such a long silence, “to see a magnificent and important structure in Pachil become destroyed. Does anyone know what caused such a tragic event?” Perhaps it isn’t the most tactful way to inquire, but social engagements were never one of my strong suits—something I completely regret in this moment. But I’ve already decided that this Qaschiqe is the person who will have the answers I seek anyway. Even so, I wince after asking in such an obtusely direct manner these poor souls who have lost not only their homes, but a cause to which they’ve dedicated their life.
The men’s appearances grow somber, occasionally looking at one another with consoling glances. I begin apologizing, but the elderly man raises a hand to me and bows his head.
“We will have to inspect the damage to see how it was caused,” he says. “However, I anticipate we will find that this was caused by someone with ill intent.”
“Do you know who would do such a thing?” I ask, attempting to sound more empathetic, but most likely failing.
“There are many who want to remove all symbols and artifacts relating to the Timuaq,” he says with a sigh, like this is a battle the men here have fought long before the War of Liberation was ever conceived.
“Have there been threats made to you all, declaring someone would do such an act?”
“All the time,” he says, “which, I suppose, led us to a false state of security, since the threats are so frequent, but nothing has ever come of it.”
“Until now,” another man around the fire says disgruntled.”
“Some,” this first man continues, “wish to cast the titans’ oppressive rule into the annals of history, never to be discussed again. This would be foolish, of course. Ignoring the tribulations of the people, and the errors made by leaders of the Pachil factions, will prevent us from learning from our mistakes, as well as what brought the Timuaq to power. We would be hard pressed to prevent such an event from happening again if we don’t educate ourselves.”
I nod in agreement, as this is something to which I can personally attest. It’s like my own internal struggles, which I know I must confront, no matter how much I would prefer to pretend they don’t exist. Of course, I could probably not avoid them anyway, seeing how vivid the dreams of my sister have recently become. However, I can’t fault those who wish to move on from the most turbulent and trying times to ever exist on Pachil.
I’ll have to investigate the matter more, but after observing the weary heads around the fire, I decide to do so in the morning. As reluctant as I am to leave after imposing with such a sensitive subject, I can see by the exhausted faces that I wouldn’t get much further if I pressed on. I start to question if I should’ve instigated tonight in the first place, but the damage, much like that done to the temple, is done and left to assess tomorrow. I wish everyone a goodnight, and walk in the cold of the night air, looking up to see the stars litter the sky.
Returning to the cart, Upachu looks entirely undisturbed, head tilted all the way back as if he’s snoring to the stars and heavens above. The serenity on his face is calming, and I can’t help but chuckle at his current state. It’s a much-needed sight after the razed temple, not to mention the embarrassing display I just left at the campfire. I spot an unused robe nearby, likely gathered from the rubble based on its slightly tattered appearance, and grab it to place on Upachu to provide him with added warmth. It’s then that I suddenly consider the robe I’ve just grabbed: It’s the one Upachu had used in an effort to covertly hide the chest we examined earlier in the day.
Panicked, I begin searching our belongings, frantically tossing aside articles of clothing and sacks of rations. I unearth nothing, and my haste in rummaging around startles Upachu awake.
“It’s gone!” I shout at Upachu. He rubs his eyes and looks around, squinting as he tries to regain awareness of his surroundings.
“What’s gone?” he says, still coming to out of his sleepy haze.
“The chest! It’s not here!”
