“The chest must be around here somewhere,” Upachu says, unhelpfully. “It’s not as though it developed legs and walked away.
“It was under your protection,” I remind him. “You fell asleep and let it out of your sight!”
“How was I supposed to know I should’ve used it as my pillow to safeguard it?” he says. Both of us exhale in exasperation and grumble something inaudible to ourselves, allowing the silence to cool our tempers.
“Bickering isn’t going to help,” I say with a sigh, trying to calm myself down. “Who would know about the chest and want to steal it?”
“We had our suspicions before,” Upachu ponders aloud, “and this seems way too conveniently timed, only making Qaschiqe a greater suspect. I’m starting to think he never left the area and was waiting for his opportunity to retrieve the chest.”
“If he is responsible, perhaps he hasn’t gone far,” I say. “It’s dark, but perhaps I can find some clues with torchlight.”
The moon barely casts any light onto the night landscape, so already I begin to despair over the lost chest. Not expecting any significant breakthrough, I grab a long branch and wrap it in some strips of torn cloth from a tattered robe, much to Upachu’s objection regarding me using part of his makeshift blanket. I light it with the dying embers of our small campfire and wave it around to see if I can pick up anything in the darkness.
To my surprise, a single, muddy footstep is imprinted on the ground next to where the chest was stashed. It’s fairly large, almost equal in size to my foot, and is set pretty deep into the mud. I deduce the person who took the chest is a large man, whether that’s from bulk of muscle or fat. I hope to the gods it’s the latter, giving us a chance to catch up to them.
I scan for any more footprints and, after making many large swoops with the torch around the campsite, I finally see one more footprint, similar in size, with the imprint heavier at the front of the foot. It’s likely the thief was sneaking about, trying not to wake Upachu, and was walking on their toes as they escaped. I can only wish their propensity to sneak around, plus the weight of the long chest, means they took their time leaving the area.
Unfortunately, besides one more footprint away from our setup, those three footprints are the only ones I can see, especially before reaching the edge of the clearing and entering a patch of the forest that is nearly pitch black, save the dim light from the torch. I don’t have much hope in catching the culprit tonight, but I fear any time spent not searching is more of an opportunity for them to gain distance between us. I yell to Upachu to stay put while I head into the dense woods. He shouts something I can’t quite understand, but I carry on, using the two footprints outside our immediate campsite to calculate the direction I should begin to walk, as I hope I’m going in the same as the suspect.
The torch barely illuminates anything, and I frequently trip over shrubs and fallen branches as I drift about the forest. The smoke from the campfires and smoldered temple starts clearing up the further away I get, and the fresh, earthy, herbal aromas of the various vegetation is a much needed relief. I travel a ways in, walking among the familiar hills I have traveled numerous times since I was a child, and after what feels like walking all night, I contemplate how much I should advance in this maze of trees before turning back, hoping I haven’t wandered too far from our camp and the temple to make my return difficult.
As I consider when to head back, I hear a loud snap of a twig a short distance away. It sounded like the branch was pretty thick, and I grow nervous that it might be a large, opportunistic predator stalking me, its future meal. I stop in place and look around feverishly, swiveling my head to and fro to watch for any silhouettes rushing toward me to pounce. The forest is still, with only insects’ rapid, pulsating chirping filling the air. Is the creature waiting for me to make the next move?
Torchlight catches a cracked branch of a young tree, bent away from me and pointing in the direction I’m already walking, as well as a scuff mark on another nearby tree. Was this the source of what I just heard? I look around, but don’t see anything, not helped by the relatively dim light. I look around for more indicators of what I’m chasing—fur or cloth torn onto the broken branch, drops of blood from a cut, or more footprints—but nothing appears as I scan the area. I may have wandered all this distance from the temple only to be tracking a wild animal.
I wait patiently, steadying my breath, slowly drawing it in and out, and hoping the beast will signal its location for me to track. My restraint and composure are rewarded, and I swing my torch in the direction of another branch snapping to my left. Squinting, I don’t see anything immediately, but the rhythmic crunch, crunch of dried leaves starts to pick up its pace. It might be a deer or tapir hurrying to escape a predator, but I take no chances, unsheathing my dagger and clinching it in my right fist, blade down. I quicken my steps and look for any sign of what’s causing the noise, keeping my eyes looking low to the ground so I don’t stumble while in pursuit.
A loud, surprised yelp is a few strides ahead of me, followed by a thud and some clamorous tumbling and a series of branches breaking. More whimpers begin fading as the creature falls away from me, and as I slowly draw closer, my torch casts light upon a steep drop-off of a hill once shrouded by thick vegetation.
At the bottom, the distance of approximately a few men’s standing height, lies a heavy set man in a once-white robe, now torn and entirely soiled with dirt and streaks of blood. The crumpled up body of the man on the wrong side of being in his midlife is almost perfectly round, and the person has only one sandal remaining between both feet. He cries in anguish, clutching at his right ankle and writhing in pain. A few paces away from him is a long chest with the rusted pink color—the near-petrified wood of the lumulitree. As anticipated, the durability of the wood withstood most of the impact from the fall, and I can only see a few light scratches on its surface. How he was able to carry the chest this far is a mystery, though it does explain why he wasn’t able to travel too far while carrying it by himself.
“You’re quite a long way from the temple,” I shout down to him. “I’d say it’s quite fortunate I found you out here. What brings you to wander alone in the dark forest like this?”
The man can only respond with wails of pain. The child-like, high-pitched moans make me cringe, and I barely stifle a laugh at how absurd he sounds. However, I consider myself rather lucky I was able to discover the thief so quickly, assisted further by his clumsiness.
I walk along the edge of the drop-off to see if there’s an easier way to get down to his location. It takes me a while, but my traversing eventually leads me lower and lower, until I only need to make a small jump down to reach what I figure is the relative bottom. I follow the ledge back toward the scene of the incident, deciphering which direction to go by the man’s continued panicked cries.
I find the man still clutching his ankle, now looking at me with large, sad eyes that glisten from all the sobbing, easily seen in the light of my torch. Despite being dimly lit, I notice he’s acquired a serious injury, a sheen covering his left leg from a significant gash, one that will be long to heal and will make it very difficult to return back to the temple while carrying the chest.
“H-h-help me, please,” he begs through staggered breaths. It appears he’s about to succumb to shock from his wound, his eyes beginning to roll back in his head. I lightly slap his cheeks to keep his alertness, then, tearing part of my tunic, I create a splint with nearby sticks and the cloth. It’s not the most attractive contraption, but it will have to do until we can return to the temple.
I hear shouting off in the distance up the hill, but the torchlight can only reach so far, not allowing me to see who is calling to us. Does this man have an accomplice? Should I be worried about getting ambushed?
Just as I’m about to question the wounded thief to determine if I’m safe, the shouting and rustling of vegetation gets closer, and I recognize the voice, much to my relief.
“Teqosa!” Upachu exclaims. “I’m glad to find you’re– hold on. Who is that next to– is that… Qaschiqe? What are you doing down there?”
With Upachu carrying a hobbling Qaschiqe, and me pulling double duty, awkwardly cradling the chest in one arm while hoisting Qaschiqe with my other, it takes us a long while to return to our campsite. None of us say anything as we walk through the forest, concentrating our efforts on not tripping and stumbling. By the time we make it back, several of the men from the temple await us, having gathered close to the edge of the clearing. Many are furious with the development; some yell and point accusatorially at the thief, threatening severe punishment, while others attempt to calm them down and tell them to not give in to their inner demons.
“That man is responsible for bringing this evil unto our temple!” one robed man shouts, and others shout in agreement. Upachu manages to quell the rambunctious crowd, convincing them that we will handle the matter and deliver him to Hilaqta to face consequences. Content with this, the men ultimately disperse and go to their bedrolls by the large fire.
“You’re going to have the council at Hilaqta sentence me?” a panicked Qaschiqe says.
“Of course not,” Upachu says. “As of yet, I’m not sure what crime we could even say you committed. Although I have to admit, unrelatedly, running off with the chest doesn’t appear good.”
“You will explain the meaning of this,” I say, lowering him to the ground and resting his back against the cart. The llama is unamused by the latest addition to our group, forcefully snorting and stomping about, though I suspect the creature feels that way about everything. Upachu makes some soothing noises in an effort to appease the animal, but the llama couldn’t be bothered.
“The men here say you’ve brought evil to their temple,” I continue. “Does this mean you’re responsible from bringing the chest here?” Qaschiqe solemnly nods, making very little eye contact.
“What are these items in the chest that you find valuable enough to cause all this calamity?” I say. I open up the chest to reveal the woven cloth-like items with the glyphs. “What do these symbols mean?”
Qaschiqe is reluctant to answer, looking off to the side and away from me. Like the llama, I, too, am unamused, and decide to expedite the interrogation. I crouch down by his ankle and grab ahold of his foot.
“What are you doing?” Qaschiqe nervously asks.
“It’s been a long day,” I say, “and I really don’t have time for this.”
There’s a growing concern on Upachu’s face, but I ignore it for now, ready to apologize later for what I’m about to do to his friend. I plant my knee down on his left leg and put all my weight onto it, then I gradually twist Qaschiqe’s right ankle. He yelps in agony, but I persist with my questioning.
“What is in the chest?” I forcefully ask again through Upachu’s protests.
“It’s papyrus!” Qaschiqe exclaims through the pain. I don’t know what that means and demand that he explains, believing this might mean the items are cursed.
“It’s made from trees,” he says. “Those glyphs are writings from the past.”
I begin letting go of his ankle amidst my confusion. Papyrus? Glyphs from the past? To my knowledge, nothing like this has ever existed, and I look to Upachu for confirmation. He appears just as bewildered as I am, giving this papyrus a hard look in the dim campfire light.
“Who created these?” I ask.
“I haven’t been able to discern that,” he replies. “My best guess was that it comes from the Timuaq, though I have yet to confirm this.”
“What makes you say that? Because they come from the temple?”
“They weren’t originally at the temple,” he says. “I found them at the ruins, to the south. The ruins on the way from Hilaqta to the trading post at Maiu Qasapaq.”
This surprises me and Upachu even more. There is nothing but ruble at that site, although apparently that’s not true.
“Why were you at the ruins?” Upachu asks, awed and leaning in closer. Qaschiqe pauses for a moment and looks to the ground. Sensing he’s going to be coy, I put my hands around his ankle again. Before I have a chance to twist, he pats the air with his hands.
“Okay! Okay!” Qaschiqe pleads. He sighs heavily when I let go of his ankle, then takes a deep breath in preparation for what he’s about to inform us with.
“Each of us at the Great Library are given an area of study to maintain. Upachu, for instance, is a political scholar, so he maintains records of council votes and decisions. My area is documenting the military—the number of weapons, personnel, that sort of thing. Since the battles were over, I determined we should account for the numbers of Qantua who fought and died in the War of Liberation. I wanted to examine the military force necessary to protect our lands from such atrocities in the future.”
“Yes, military numbers and figures,” Upachu says, speaking as if his thoughts are quite a distance away as Qaschiqe talks.
“Being from Iaqutaq,” Qaschiqe continues, “I decided I would return to my home village and start there—not only to conduct my research, but also check on family living in the village. The road leading to there from Hilaqta winds through the hills, reaches the trading post at Maiu Qasapaq, then follows the river.
“Yes, we’re all well aware of where the roads lead in Qantua,” I say, annoyed and eager for him to get to his point, spurred on by my exhaustion and just wanting to get to sleep.
“Right, well,” he says, a bit embarrassed and fidgeting with his torn garment, “then on top of being a military leader, you should also recall that along the road between Hilaqta and the trading post was a military outpost.”
“The one that was destroyed by the Timuaq,” I say. Oddly, Upachu shifts uneasily where he’s seated, looks hesitant to chime in, and I assume it’s from the discomfort of recounting what occurred there.
My mind begins recounting the events that occurred there as Qaschiqe explains himself. Although I was not a part of this battle, the Qantua had an outpost there, but it was completely annihilated by the Timuaq. Everyone’s understanding as to why the Timuaq targeted that outpost, and not the countless others around the continent, was that it was a strategic decision, to sever the route from the trading post to Hilaqta. It made logical sense, so the explanation has never been questioned. I’m starting to believe there is more behind the attack than what’s perceived.
“So rather than starting from Iaqutaq and working my way north, I decided to start there and work my way south. Due to the severity of the destruction, I wasn’t certain how many deceased I would find, or any remaining weapons or equipment or records, but I started rummaging through the rubble and unspooling my thread to generate the quipu.”
“Some of the stonework held up surprisingly well, and I discovered a room built underground. Well, that’s not typical of Qantua engineering! Curious, and a little bit suspicious, I methodically removed the stones as best I could, taking many, many days just to clear enough for me to enter and explore. Eventually, I revealed a well-preserved chamber! It’s nothing like what a Qantua would construct: There were cut trees that extended along the top of the room, supporting the ceiling, and possibly the floor above it, and stones lined the room that must have been purposely dug underground, which must have taken a moon cycle or two to complete!”
“It was there that I found the chest, buried beneath some of the fallen ceiling that caved in. But that lumuli wood is some tough material! I was expecting to find some quipus kept by the generals, which would make my accounting much easier, so I was elated at the possible rewards for all my hard work! Except instead I found these… items.”
“The papyrus,” I conclude.
“Yes, the papyrus,” he says. “Quipus, I can understand, but these? I had no idea what they meant, or what they even were!”
“Right, how did you discover what they were?” Upachu asks.
“Well,” Qaschiqe says a bit more excitedly, clasping his hands together with a loud clapand seemingly determining he’s no longer under any added harm at the moment, “I had to pause my military documentation and seek out that answer! I had heard stories of the unmatched technology the Timuaq created and possessed, guarded from us ‘inferior subjects’. I concluded that someone working at either the Great Library or the Temple of the Titans may have an inclination, and I would request any assistance if anyone might know something about possible Timuaq technology, although nobody took me up on my offer initially.
“When I arrived here at the temple, I began asking around. This angered a few of the temple workers, saying that people were already upset with them maintaining something that could be declared a symbol of our oppression. Thus, bringing an item such as this chest could bring harm to the temple, they declared. But I had to know what this was!”
I huffed in agreement with the temple workers’ sentiment. It’s exactly the first thought that came to my mind. This fool exclaimed, out loud, that he possessed relics from the Timuaq to people in Hilaqta who want nothing further to do with that part of our history. Not only that, but I also question his true intentions for being at these ruins—saying he was there to conduct research, only to stumble upon such a discovery is highly suspect.
“It’s no wonder the temple got burned down!” I remark. “Someone must have heard you at the Great Library and wanted to punish you for unearthing such a controversial relic!”
“How else was I going to learn what this was?” Qaschiqe exclaims defensively. “Besides, I was able to learn what this papyrus is from one of the people here,” Qaschiqe says.
“At the cost of the temple and risking the lives of its workers!” I shout. Looking over to the larger campfire, I see some of the men stirring, likely awoken by my yelling.
“Which of the men knew what this was?” Upachu asks, hoping to alleviate the mater.
“He was one of the older gentlemen,” Qaschiqe says. “A face with some stubble, kind of gaunt. I believe his name is Iquna. When I showed everyone the contents of the chest, he was the only one who could identify what it is. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him since the fire.”
I make a note of the missing Iquna, curious where he went. No deceased have been reported, and I have yet to ask the workers of the temple if there are any others missing, although no one seemed concerned initially.
“So what are these markings on this papyrus?” I ask, trying to calm myself down and not alarm any of the men resting at the campfire.
“Well,” Qaschiqe says with great disappointment, “I haven’t been able to learn that yet. No one here seems to know what the symbols mean. I’ve kind of reached a road’s end.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” Upachu cuts in, resting a hand on Qaschiqe’s shoulder. “We’ll find the truth behind these markings.”
As if learning about his injury for the first time, Qaschiqe looks down to his legs with panic and is overcome by searing pain at the realization. He sucks in air through his teeth and starts picking himself up.
“The chest,” he says, suddenly sounding anguished from pain. “If someone is trying to destroy it, we can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“We certainly won’t allow that to happen,” Upachu says reassuringly and tenderly pats Qaschiqe. “You just focus on getting rest and recovering. We’ll return to Hilaqta to find someone who can help heal your wounds.”
“Oh, I just have one question,” Upachu suddenly says as if the thought just crossed his mind, turning around after having gotten up to walk over to our makeshift camp. Qaschiqe’s interest is piqued, looking somewhat pleased with himself. “You stated you were designated the task of tracking military records in quipus, which is certainly the area of your expertise. However, I don’t ever recall that research being assigned nor conducted, Qaschiqe. None of the council ever sanctioned such a thing, and I would know, being a member of the Great Library’s council. Nobody had sought out those answers, and we would never allow someone to conduct their own research in such a manner without council approval. As much as I enjoyed the story you crafted, you should’ve known that I would be aware of this before you told your lie. So how about you tell us exactly how you learned of this chest and the papyrus contained within.”
Qaschiqe is about to protest, looking gravely concerned, but Upachu lets out a lets out a tsk tsk tsk as he gestures to calm down. Qaschiqe glances at me for support, then quickly realizes I won’t be providing any. He closes his eyes and bows his head, releasing a sigh as he prepares an answer.
“She will kill my family if I don’t return with that chest,” Qaschiqe concedes almost inaudibly.
“Who?” I ask, fighting the urge to be overly forceful and sounding insensitive, though it’s been a long day and I’m desperate for immediate answers.
“Anqatil,” he says with a tinge of dourness.
“Why did she select you for this quest?” Upachu says, mystified.
“Well, I’m well-studied in Timuaq military records and practices. My assumption is that these glyphs must pertain to that, but that’s all I can ascertain.”
“Why is she–“
“I don’t know!” Qaschiqe interrupts with severity. “I was ordered to seek a rare artifact that was hidden somewhere to the west in some ruins. I haven’t deciphered their importance, and
“How did you know they’d be in the ruins of the outpost?” I ask.
“I didn’t! I began with the ruins in Atima, since those were the only ones I knew, but there’s nothing there. When I traveled to Iaqutaq to check on the safety of my family—that’s where they’re being held—I was told about the destroyed outpost, so I went there, desperate to find something to bring back to Qapauma. That’s all I know, I swear!”
I start to regret the torture I’ve put him through, seeing as he is so nervous and cowers like an abused animal. Upachu pats Qaschiqe on the shoulder, comforting his friend reassuringly while uttering something I can’t quite hear. He helps Qaschiqe get to a point of minimal discomfort, propping the wounded leg up and improvising a bed. Once Upachu calms Qaschiqe and confirms he is resting, he signals for me to follow him away from the cart, pointing to the chest, then to his eyes, then back again to the chest. I pick up the chest and bring it with me.
When we get to a place where Upachu is comfortable enough with our proximity to Qaschiqe, I speak to him in a hushed tone.
“We can’t let him keep that chest,” I say. “If an advisor to the Arbiter is seeking this, it’s likely to contain something far more dangerous. Besides, I don’t trust that man for one instant. And with Iquna missing, there is clearly a lot more going on here than his explanation lets on.”
Upachu nods and puts a hand on my shoulder, sighing and looking at the ground.
“Teqosa,” he says, sounding resigned, “I believe I know what that papyrus is.”
The breathe immediately escapes from my chest. He knows of this ancient Timuaq technology? Has he not told anyone out of fear of retaliation? If that’s the case, he was right to do so, considering what we’ve just witnessed at the Temple of the Titans.
“However,” he says with hesitance, “to say what I know also means I have to tell you about your sister and what took place the last time she was in Hilaqta.”
“The chest must be around here somewhere,” Upachu says, unhelpfully. “It’s not as though it developed legs and walked away.
“It was under your protection,” I remind him. “You fell asleep and let it out of your sight!”
“How was I supposed to know I should’ve used it as my pillow to safeguard it?” he says. Both of us exhale in exasperation and grumble something inaudible to ourselves, allowing the silence to cool our tempers.
“Bickering isn’t going to help,” I say with a sigh, trying to calm myself down. “Who would know about the chest and want to steal it?”
“We had our suspicions before,” Upachu ponders aloud, “and this seems way too conveniently timed, only making Qaschiqe a greater suspect. I’m starting to think he never left the area and was waiting for his opportunity to retrieve the chest.”
“If he is responsible, perhaps he hasn’t gone far,” I say. “It’s dark, but perhaps I can find some clues with torchlight.”
The moon barely casts any light onto the night landscape, so already I begin to despair over the lost chest. Not expecting any significant breakthrough, I grab a long branch and wrap it in some strips of torn cloth from a tattered robe, much to Upachu’s objection regarding me using part of his makeshift blanket. I light it with the dying embers of our small campfire and wave it around to see if I can pick up anything in the darkness.
To my surprise, a single, muddy footstep is imprinted on the ground next to where the chest was stashed. It’s fairly large, almost equal in size to my foot, and is set pretty deep into the mud. I deduce the person who took the chest is a large man, whether that’s from bulk of muscle or fat. I hope to the gods it’s the latter, giving us a chance to catch up to them.
I scan for any more footprints and, after making many large swoops with the torch around the campsite, I finally see one more footprint, similar in size, with the imprint heavier at the front of the foot. It’s likely the thief was sneaking about, trying not to wake Upachu, and was walking on their toes as they escaped. I can only wish their propensity to sneak around, plus the weight of the long chest, means they took their time leaving the area.
Unfortunately, besides one more footprint away from our setup, those three footprints are the only ones I can see, especially before reaching the edge of the clearing and entering a patch of the forest that is nearly pitch black, save the dim light from the torch. I don’t have much hope in catching the culprit tonight, but I fear any time spent not searching is more of an opportunity for them to gain distance between us. I yell to Upachu to stay put while I head into the dense woods. He shouts something I can’t quite understand, but I carry on, using the two footprints outside our immediate campsite to calculate the direction I should begin to walk, as I hope I’m going in the same as the suspect.
The torch barely illuminates anything, and I frequently trip over shrubs and fallen branches as I drift about the forest. The smoke from the campfires and smoldered temple starts clearing up the further away I get, and the fresh, earthy, herbal aromas of the various vegetation is a much needed relief. I travel a ways in, walking among the familiar hills I have traveled numerous times since I was a child, and after what feels like walking all night, I contemplate how much I should advance in this maze of trees before turning back, hoping I haven’t wandered too far from our camp and the temple to make my return difficult.
As I consider when to head back, I hear a loud snap of a twig a short distance away. It sounded like the branch was pretty thick, and I grow nervous that it might be a large, opportunistic predator stalking me, its future meal. I stop in place and look around feverishly, swiveling my head to and fro to watch for any silhouettes rushing toward me to pounce. The forest is still, with only insects’ rapid, pulsating chirping filling the air. Is the creature waiting for me to make the next move?
Torchlight catches a cracked branch of a young tree, bent away from me and pointing in the direction I’m already walking, as well as a scuff mark on another nearby tree. Was this the source of what I just heard? I look around, but don’t see anything, not helped by the relatively dim light. I look around for more indicators of what I’m chasing—fur or cloth torn onto the broken branch, drops of blood from a cut, or more footprints—but nothing appears as I scan the area. I may have wandered all this distance from the temple only to be tracking a wild animal.
I wait patiently, steadying my breath, slowly drawing it in and out, and hoping the beast will signal its location for me to track. My restraint and composure are rewarded, and I swing my torch in the direction of another branch snapping to my left. Squinting, I don’t see anything immediately, but the rhythmic crunch, crunch of dried leaves starts to pick up its pace. It might be a deer or tapir hurrying to escape a predator, but I take no chances, unsheathing my dagger and clinching it in my right fist, blade down. I quicken my steps and look for any sign of what’s causing the noise, keeping my eyes looking low to the ground so I don’t stumble while in pursuit.
A loud, surprised yelp is a few strides ahead of me, followed by a thud and some clamorous tumbling and a series of branches breaking. More whimpers begin fading as the creature falls away from me, and as I slowly draw closer, my torch casts light upon a steep drop-off of a hill once shrouded by thick vegetation.
At the bottom, the distance of approximately a few men’s standing height, lies a heavy set man in a once-white robe, now torn and entirely soiled with dirt and streaks of blood. The crumpled up body of the man on the wrong side of being in his midlife is almost perfectly round, and the person has only one sandal remaining between both feet. He cries in anguish, clutching at his right ankle and writhing in pain. A few paces away from him is a long chest with the rusted pink color—the near-petrified wood of the lumulitree. As anticipated, the durability of the wood withstood most of the impact from the fall, and I can only see a few light scratches on its surface. How he was able to carry the chest this far is a mystery, though it does explain why he wasn’t able to travel too far while carrying it by himself.
“You’re quite a long way from the temple,” I shout down to him. “I’d say it’s quite fortunate I found you out here. What brings you to wander alone in the dark forest like this?”
The man can only respond with wails of pain. The child-like, high-pitched moans make me cringe, and I barely stifle a laugh at how absurd he sounds. However, I consider myself rather lucky I was able to discover the thief so quickly, assisted further by his clumsiness.
I walk along the edge of the drop-off to see if there’s an easier way to get down to his location. It takes me a while, but my traversing eventually leads me lower and lower, until I only need to make a small jump down to reach what I figure is the relative bottom. I follow the ledge back toward the scene of the incident, deciphering which direction to go by the man’s continued panicked cries.
I find the man still clutching his ankle, now looking at me with large, sad eyes that glisten from all the sobbing, easily seen in the light of my torch. Despite being dimly lit, I notice he’s acquired a serious injury, a sheen covering his left leg from a significant gash, one that will be long to heal and will make it very difficult to return back to the temple while carrying the chest.
“H-h-help me, please,” he begs through staggered breaths. It appears he’s about to succumb to shock from his wound, his eyes beginning to roll back in his head. I lightly slap his cheeks to keep his alertness, then, tearing part of my tunic, I create a splint with nearby sticks and the cloth. It’s not the most attractive contraption, but it will have to do until we can return to the temple.
I hear shouting off in the distance up the hill, but the torchlight can only reach so far, not allowing me to see who is calling to us. Does this man have an accomplice? Should I be worried about getting ambushed?
Just as I’m about to question the wounded thief to determine if I’m safe, the shouting and rustling of vegetation gets closer, and I recognize the voice, much to my relief.
“Teqosa!” Upachu exclaims. “I’m glad to find you’re– hold on. Who is that next to– is that… Qaschiqe? What are you doing down there?”
With Upachu carrying a hobbling Qaschiqe, and me pulling double duty, awkwardly cradling the chest in one arm while hoisting Qaschiqe with my other, it takes us a long while to return to our campsite. None of us say anything as we walk through the forest, concentrating our efforts on not tripping and stumbling. By the time we make it back, several of the men from the temple await us, having gathered close to the edge of the clearing. Many are furious with the development; some yell and point accusatorially at the thief, threatening severe punishment, while others attempt to calm them down and tell them to not give in to their inner demons.
“That man is responsible for bringing this evil unto our temple!” one robed man shouts, and others shout in agreement. Upachu manages to quell the rambunctious crowd, convincing them that we will handle the matter and deliver him to Hilaqta to face consequences. Content with this, the men ultimately disperse and go to their bedrolls by the large fire.
“You’re going to have the council at Hilaqta sentence me?” a panicked Qaschiqe says.
“Of course not,” Upachu says. “As of yet, I’m not sure what crime we could even say you committed. Although I have to admit, unrelatedly, running off with the chest doesn’t appear good.”
“You will explain the meaning of this,” I say, lowering him to the ground and resting his back against the cart. The llama is unamused by the latest addition to our group, forcefully snorting and stomping about, though I suspect the creature feels that way about everything. Upachu makes some soothing noises in an effort to appease the animal, but the llama couldn’t be bothered.
“The men here say you’ve brought evil to their temple,” I continue. “Does this mean you’re responsible from bringing the chest here?” Qaschiqe solemnly nods, making very little eye contact.
“What are these items in the chest that you find valuable enough to cause all this calamity?” I say. I open up the chest to reveal the woven cloth-like items with the glyphs. “What do these symbols mean?”
Qaschiqe is reluctant to answer, looking off to the side and away from me. Like the llama, I, too, am unamused, and decide to expedite the interrogation. I crouch down by his ankle and grab ahold of his foot.
“What are you doing?” Qaschiqe nervously asks.
“It’s been a long day,” I say, “and I really don’t have time for this.”
There’s a growing concern on Upachu’s face, but I ignore it for now, ready to apologize later for what I’m about to do to his friend. I plant my knee down on his left leg and put all my weight onto it, then I gradually twist Qaschiqe’s right ankle. He yelps in agony, but I persist with my questioning.
“What is in the chest?” I forcefully ask again through Upachu’s protests.
“It’s papyrus!” Qaschiqe exclaims through the pain. I don’t know what that means and demand that he explains, believing this might mean the items are cursed.
“It’s made from trees,” he says. “Those glyphs are writings from the past.”
I begin letting go of his ankle amidst my confusion. Papyrus? Glyphs from the past? To my knowledge, nothing like this has ever existed, and I look to Upachu for confirmation. He appears just as bewildered as I am, giving this papyrus a hard look in the dim campfire light.
“Who created these?” I ask.
“I haven’t been able to discern that,” he replies. “My best guess was that it comes from the Timuaq, though I have yet to confirm this.”
“What makes you say that? Because they come from the temple?”
“They weren’t originally at the temple,” he says. “I found them at the ruins, to the south. The ruins on the way from Hilaqta to the trading post at Maiu Qasapaq.”
This surprises me and Upachu even more. There is nothing but ruble at that site, although apparently that’s not true.
“Why were you at the ruins?” Upachu asks, awed and leaning in closer. Qaschiqe pauses for a moment and looks to the ground. Sensing he’s going to be coy, I put my hands around his ankle again. Before I have a chance to twist, he pats the air with his hands.
“Okay! Okay!” Qaschiqe pleads. He sighs heavily when I let go of his ankle, then takes a deep breath in preparation for what he’s about to inform us with.
“Each of us at the Great Library are given an area of study to maintain. Upachu, for instance, is a political scholar, so he maintains records of council votes and decisions. My area is documenting the military—the number of weapons, personnel, that sort of thing. Since the battles were over, I determined we should account for the numbers of Qantua who fought and died in the War of Liberation. I wanted to examine the military force necessary to protect our lands from such atrocities in the future.”
“Yes, military numbers and figures,” Upachu says, speaking as if his thoughts are quite a distance away as Qaschiqe talks.
“Being from Iaqutaq,” Qaschiqe continues, “I decided I would return to my home village and start there—not only to conduct my research, but also check on family living in the village. The road leading to there from Hilaqta winds through the hills, reaches the trading post at Maiu Qasapaq, then follows the river.
“Yes, we’re all well aware of where the roads lead in Qantua,” I say, annoyed and eager for him to get to his point, spurred on by my exhaustion and just wanting to get to sleep.
“Right, well,” he says, a bit embarrassed and fidgeting with his torn garment, “then on top of being a military leader, you should also recall that along the road between Hilaqta and the trading post was a military outpost.”
“The one that was destroyed by the Timuaq,” I say. Oddly, Upachu shifts uneasily where he’s seated, looks hesitant to chime in, and I assume it’s from the discomfort of recounting what occurred there.
My mind begins recounting the events that occurred there as Qaschiqe explains himself. Although I was not a part of this battle, the Qantua had an outpost there, but it was completely annihilated by the Timuaq. Everyone’s understanding as to why the Timuaq targeted that outpost, and not the countless others around the continent, was that it was a strategic decision, to sever the route from the trading post to Hilaqta. It made logical sense, so the explanation has never been questioned. I’m starting to believe there is more behind the attack than what’s perceived.
“So rather than starting from Iaqutaq and working my way north, I decided to start there and work my way south. Due to the severity of the destruction, I wasn’t certain how many deceased I would find, or any remaining weapons or equipment or records, but I started rummaging through the rubble and unspooling my thread to generate the quipu.”
“Some of the stonework held up surprisingly well, and I discovered a room built underground. Well, that’s not typical of Qantua engineering! Curious, and a little bit suspicious, I methodically removed the stones as best I could, taking many, many days just to clear enough for me to enter and explore. Eventually, I revealed a well-preserved chamber! It’s nothing like what a Qantua would construct: There were cut trees that extended along the top of the room, supporting the ceiling, and possibly the floor above it, and stones lined the room that must have been purposely dug underground, which must have taken a moon cycle or two to complete!”
“It was there that I found the chest, buried beneath some of the fallen ceiling that caved in. But that lumuli wood is some tough material! I was expecting to find some quipus kept by the generals, which would make my accounting much easier, so I was elated at the possible rewards for all my hard work! Except instead I found these… items.”
“The papyrus,” I conclude.
“Yes, the papyrus,” he says. “Quipus, I can understand, but these? I had no idea what they meant, or what they even were!”
“Right, how did you discover what they were?” Upachu asks.
“Well,” Qaschiqe says a bit more excitedly, clasping his hands together with a loud clapand seemingly determining he’s no longer under any added harm at the moment, “I had to pause my military documentation and seek out that answer! I had heard stories of the unmatched technology the Timuaq created and possessed, guarded from us ‘inferior subjects’. I concluded that someone working at either the Great Library or the Temple of the Titans may have an inclination, and I would request any assistance if anyone might know something about possible Timuaq technology, although nobody took me up on my offer initially.
“When I arrived here at the temple, I began asking around. This angered a few of the temple workers, saying that people were already upset with them maintaining something that could be declared a symbol of our oppression. Thus, bringing an item such as this chest could bring harm to the temple, they declared. But I had to know what this was!”
I huffed in agreement with the temple workers’ sentiment. It’s exactly the first thought that came to my mind. This fool exclaimed, out loud, that he possessed relics from the Timuaq to people in Hilaqta who want nothing further to do with that part of our history. Not only that, but I also question his true intentions for being at these ruins—saying he was there to conduct research, only to stumble upon such a discovery is highly suspect.
“It’s no wonder the temple got burned down!” I remark. “Someone must have heard you at the Great Library and wanted to punish you for unearthing such a controversial relic!”
“How else was I going to learn what this was?” Qaschiqe exclaims defensively. “Besides, I was able to learn what this papyrus is from one of the people here,” Qaschiqe says.
“At the cost of the temple and risking the lives of its workers!” I shout. Looking over to the larger campfire, I see some of the men stirring, likely awoken by my yelling.
“Which of the men knew what this was?” Upachu asks, hoping to alleviate the mater.
“He was one of the older gentlemen,” Qaschiqe says. “A face with some stubble, kind of gaunt. I believe his name is Iquna. When I showed everyone the contents of the chest, he was the only one who could identify what it is. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him since the fire.”
I make a note of the missing Iquna, curious where he went. No deceased have been reported, and I have yet to ask the workers of the temple if there are any others missing, although no one seemed concerned initially.
“So what are these markings on this papyrus?” I ask, trying to calm myself down and not alarm any of the men resting at the campfire.
“Well,” Qaschiqe says with great disappointment, “I haven’t been able to learn that yet. No one here seems to know what the symbols mean. I’ve kind of reached a road’s end.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” Upachu cuts in, resting a hand on Qaschiqe’s shoulder. “We’ll find the truth behind these markings.”
As if learning about his injury for the first time, Qaschiqe looks down to his legs with panic and is overcome by searing pain at the realization. He sucks in air through his teeth and starts picking himself up.
“The chest,” he says, suddenly sounding anguished from pain. “If someone is trying to destroy it, we can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“We certainly won’t allow that to happen,” Upachu says reassuringly and tenderly pats Qaschiqe. “You just focus on getting rest and recovering. We’ll return to Hilaqta to find someone who can help heal your wounds.”
“Oh, I just have one question,” Upachu suddenly says as if the thought just crossed his mind, turning around after having gotten up to walk over to our makeshift camp. Qaschiqe’s interest is piqued, looking somewhat pleased with himself. “You stated you were designated the task of tracking military records in quipus, which is certainly the area of your expertise. However, I don’t ever recall that research being assigned nor conducted, Qaschiqe. None of the council ever sanctioned such a thing, and I would know, being a member of the Great Library’s council. Nobody had sought out those answers, and we would never allow someone to conduct their own research in such a manner without council approval. As much as I enjoyed the story you crafted, you should’ve known that I would be aware of this before you told your lie. So how about you tell us exactly how you learned of this chest and the papyrus contained within.”
Qaschiqe is about to protest, looking gravely concerned, but Upachu lets out a lets out a tsk tsk tsk as he gestures to calm down. Qaschiqe glances at me for support, then quickly realizes I won’t be providing any. He closes his eyes and bows his head, releasing a sigh as he prepares an answer.
“She will kill my family if I don’t return with that chest,” Qaschiqe concedes almost inaudibly.
“Who?” I ask, fighting the urge to be overly forceful and sounding insensitive, though it’s been a long day and I’m desperate for immediate answers.
“Anqatil,” he says with a tinge of dourness.
“Why did she select you for this quest?” Upachu says, mystified.
“Well, I’m well-studied in Timuaq military records and practices. My assumption is that these glyphs must pertain to that, but that’s all I can ascertain.”
“Why is she–“
“I don’t know!” Qaschiqe interrupts with severity. “I was ordered to seek a rare artifact that was hidden somewhere to the west in some ruins. I haven’t deciphered their importance, and
“How did you know they’d be in the ruins of the outpost?” I ask.
“I didn’t! I began with the ruins in Atima, since those were the only ones I knew, but there’s nothing there. When I traveled to Iaqutaq to check on the safety of my family—that’s where they’re being held—I was told about the destroyed outpost, so I went there, desperate to find something to bring back to Qapauma. That’s all I know, I swear!”
I start to regret the torture I’ve put him through, seeing as he is so nervous and cowers like an abused animal. Upachu pats Qaschiqe on the shoulder, comforting his friend reassuringly while uttering something I can’t quite hear. He helps Qaschiqe get to a point of minimal discomfort, propping the wounded leg up and improvising a bed. Once Upachu calms Qaschiqe and confirms he is resting, he signals for me to follow him away from the cart, pointing to the chest, then to his eyes, then back again to the chest. I pick up the chest and bring it with me.
When we get to a place where Upachu is comfortable enough with our proximity to Qaschiqe, I speak to him in a hushed tone.
“We can’t let him keep that chest,” I say. “If an advisor to the Arbiter is seeking this, it’s likely to contain something far more dangerous. Besides, I don’t trust that man for one instant. And with Iquna missing, there is clearly a lot more going on here than his explanation lets on.”
Upachu nods and puts a hand on my shoulder, sighing and looking at the ground.
“Teqosa,” he says, sounding resigned, “I believe I know what that papyrus is.”
The breathe immediately escapes from my chest. He knows of this ancient Timuaq technology? Has he not told anyone out of fear of retaliation? If that’s the case, he was right to do so, considering what we’ve just witnessed at the Temple of the Titans.
“However,” he says with hesitance, “to say what I know also means I have to tell you about your sister and what took place the last time she was in Hilaqta.”
