Steven Carter's father, Don, is dying in New York, and they've barely spoken in two years. He rushes home at his mother's behest and is informed of a memoir written by his father. Although Steven has thought his father was a bit crazy sometimes, his mother, Diane, tells him a different story-one that takes place in Peru, in 1985, when Don discovers a golden cylinder following a mountain-shattering earthquake. The cylinder is approximately twelve inches long and six inches in diameter-so small for something that would change the lives of Don and his wife and destroy so many others. Even in 1985, Don knows the cylinder is important and may hold powerful secrets; yet the secrets remained locked inside. The find quickly becomes something hunted by a variety of crooks and government officials, the subject of a bidding war between the United States and the Soviet Union, the two superpowers of 1985. Although thwarted by thugs, the CIA, the KGB, and the Peruvian government, Don and his mentor, Dr. Anton Steinert, manage to retrieve the cylinder-which is when Steven's mother gets involved. In the present day, the truth is revealed in the words of a dying man-but whatever became of mysterious golden cylinder?
the Rosetta Cylinder
By Neil PollackiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Neil Pollack
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-5913-0Chapter One
The Mountains of Peru: 1985
The elderly priest and the twelve-year-old boy sat next to each other in the front pew of the weathered wooden church, the largest structure in their tiny, rural mountain village. They were alone, save for the mahogany, life-sized statue of Christ on the cross that gaped sadly down at them in the dimly lit, postconquistador house of God. The scent of paraffin permeating the air served as a reminder that here, in this poverty-ridden, spiritually rich region of Inca descendants, death was as much an accepted part of life as was birth.
The normally self-confident Indian boy fidgeted, ill at ease, as he anxiously wondered what he'd done to deserve a private audience with the most revered man in the village.
The priest, sensing the boy's discomfort, didn't delay his task. His speech had the ability to admonish while educating, the result of decades of accumulated worldly wisdom. "Your mother has asked me to speak with you, Paco, regarding your wandering alone, far from the village."
"I know it's dangerous," replied the bronze-skinned Paco Rivera with his usual self-assurance, "but I know these mountains as well as anyone. Nothing will happen."
Ah, invincibility, the priest thought. A proper but often deadly characteristic of the young. "You must understand that your mother worries about you. Why do you insist on exploring the highest of our slopes?"
Paco momentarily contemplated lying but chose otherwise, knowing better than to lie to a priest, especially here, under the gaze of those sad, mahogany eyes.
But Paco's hesitation was telltale to the wise old priest, and he spoke with a kind yet firm voice. "Come now, Paco, tell me your answer. And remember, I expect the truth and nothing less."
Paco looked into the priest's gray eyes, eyes that Paco knew could tell if he were lying, and instead attempted withholding the truth. "I've done nothing wrong, really. I like to go find things, that's all."
"What things?"
"You know, stuff. I'm curious. I like to explore." Paco nervously tapped his foot, hoping he'd successfully avoided having to divulge his ambition. The priest shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't yet satisfied with Paco's answers and continued to probe. "And exactly what `stuff' are you looking for? Certainly not rocks."
Paco's head tilted downward as he diverted his eyes away from the priest's and noticed the golden crucifix that hung by a long gold chain from around the priest's neck. Staring at the crucifix as though it were both a warning and a suggestive cue to be truthful, he answered softly, "Gold. I ... I look for gold."
The priest smiled knowingly and tried not to sound condescending as he replied, "Gold? In Ochoa? I didn't know we've discovered gold here."
Embarrassed, Paco answered, "We haven't. At least not yet."
"And you are going to be the one who finds it, I suppose?"
"Yes!" Paco replied with conviction.
"And what will you do with it if you do find it?"
The question surprised Paco. Everyone knows what you do with gold, he thought. He answered the priest with youthful exuberance. "It will make us rich! We can buy anything we want. I would surprise my family with presents. Dozens of them."
The priest brought the palms of his bony hands together as though chanting a prayer. "Paco, Paco. Gold is not as important as you believe it is."
More confused than impressed by the priest's words, Paco asked, "Don't you want to be rich?"
"I am rich, only in other ways."
"I don't understand," Paco said, shaking his head.
The priest placed his hand over his heart. "I am rich here, in spirit. I need no gold. My son, one day you'll discover that all the gold in the world cannot change your soul's ultimate destiny."
Paco sat silently, as the priest's statement was beyond his capacity to fully comprehend. He knew there could be no winning a battle of wits with the priest, for the priest's answers to any and all questions had been thoroughly practiced for some two thousand years by countless priests before him.
Paco also knew the priest to be very wise. But if he was right, why did so many people hunger for the precious metal? He had to ask. "Father, doesn't gold mean money, and doesn't money mean buying things? Doesn't that make people happy?"
The priest recognized that he was once again grappling with the age-old dilemma of delicately balancing the nourishment requirements of the spirit and the flesh, and knew he must choose his words carefully. "I agree that the average person would say yes to your questions, but I tell you here and now, the thirst for gold can never be quenched. It is like being an alcoholic; the more you have, the more you thirst. Man's search for gold has brought him far more anguish and pain than contentment."
The priest saw confusion in Paco's eyes. Time, he thought. It will take the seasoning of time for young Paco to grasp the full meaning of this conversation. "Paco, your mother worries about you, and now I am worried. But my worry is twofold, as I worry for both your body and your soul. Promise me you'll forget about wandering off in search of gold."
Paco paused. A priest, he thought. Why did I have to be asked this by a priest? "I ... I'll try, Father." Paco sincerely believed he had thus far avoided lying.
The priest had hoped for a more definitive response, but he readily accepted what was offered. "I hope so, Paco. You'll be far better off. Now go home. Your mother is expecting you."
Paco crossed himself, genuflected in the direction of the son of God, and hurried out of the church with a sigh of relief. He vowed to honor his promise to the priest and would try his best to avoid the golden lure, although something told him that he might be unsuccessful in his effort.
Paco Rivera was always adventuresome, although for a boy of twelve this wasn't unusual. A thin, athletic-looking boy with dark, Indian features, he had lived his entire life in the small village of Ochoa, sixty miles outside of Lima, Peru, and loved to roam the beautiful, mountainous area surrounding his village. His mother, Rosa, a squat, rotund woman, knew that Paco was the most likely of her seven children to be missing at mealtime when she took her usual head count. More than likely her first-born would be off again exploring the area where the ancient legends had told of the Mochica, ancestors of the Incas from whom the people of Ochoa believed they were descended. The Mochica had flourished for several hundred years, from approximately 200 AD to 600 AD, and Paco, having visited museums in Lima on class trips with his school, had seen for himself the artistry of the Mochica in pottery adorned with beautiful hand-painted figures, in textiles woven by careful and patient hands using every stitch that is known today, and in metal objects of beautifully sculpted bronze. More than anything else Paco ever had experienced, the golden figures he'd seen at the museum ignited his imagination.
The legends told of old gold mines in the mountains not far from his home, and the existence of these golden museum pieces was proof enough that his ancestors had indeed mined for gold in his mountains. Exploring the countryside was great fun for Paco, but the thought of discovering gold added a pleasant touch of excitement and mystery.
In school, Paco had learned that it was the lust for gold that motivated the Spanish conquistadors in their conquest of Peru. Led by Francisco Pizarro, they captured the Inca ruler Atahualpa and mercilessly slaughtered thousands of the Incas even though the Spanish troops numbered only 180. Superior armor, guns, cannons, and especially those frightening horses, which didn't exist anywhere in the New World, tilted the scales of war in the conquistadors' favor. A ransom was paid for the life of Atahualpa amounting to some twenty million dollars in gold and eight million dollars in silver, but the Spaniards, fearing the power of Atahualpa, brought him to trial on prefabricated charges and condemned him to death by burning at the stake.
Atahualpa was obsessed with the desire that his body be preserved like the mummified bodies of his ancestors and therefore pleaded that he not be burned alive. Atahualpa had seen terrible forms of torture and death, such as skinning alive, pulling out eyes, or breaking heads with stones, but nothing was as repulsive to him as was burning at the stake. His spiritual self had to be forever preserved. If he didn't disappear physically from this world, he would still reign on, even in death.
Pizarro therefore offered to proclaim death by strangulation for Atahualpa if Atahualpa would agree to become baptized as a Christian. Agreeing to this antithesis of values, Atahualpa was then baptized Jean de Atahualpa and was immediately pushed down onto a crude wooden chair. A Spaniard then threw a leather thong garrote around his neck. Into the loop he placed a stick, which he twisted tighter and tighter until the last of the Inca rulers was strangled to death. This ignoble event of 1533 marked the beginning of the end of the Inca empire, the People of the Sun.
The gold that the conquistadors so ruthlessly sought brought little happiness to them. Many were killed, including the chaplain, Valverde, who had baptized Atahualpa. Valverde was caught by the Incas, who killed him by pouring molten gold into his eyes. Pizarro had one of his Spanish rivals, Almagro, beheaded, but in 1541, vengeful supporters of Almagro assassinated Pizarro by stabbing him, and it was rumored that much of the gold was still stashed in the surrounding hillsides of Lima. Legend said that when news came of the murder of Atahualpa, gold that was being shipped by llama was hidden by the Incas, and although many were tortured by the Spaniards, the gold was never recovered. Young Paco Rivera often dreamt of finding that lost treasure.
The following day began like most other mornings, with Paco attending the local school near the center of the village with four of his brothers and sisters. The village, like most of earthquake-prone Peru, rests on huge faults in the earth's crust. Occasionally, a fault slips, enormous areas of land vibrate, and an earthquake is born, lives but for seconds, and dies slowly, fading into aftershocks. During one of the lessons, while Paco was writing a small composition, he noticed his normally neat handwriting becoming sloppy. He looked up at the startled teacher, who had ceased speaking in midsentence. She instantly sensed that an earthquake was about to strike, a relatively common occurrence in this part of South America, and ordered the children out of the school and into the safety of an open area. As with most other earthquakes, the epicenter of this one was either far enough away or would have too little energy to do more than shake and rattle the school and village. This earthquake was a bit more powerful than most, registering 5.0 on the Richter scale, but would it do no more damage than creating small cracks in building and roads and causing rockslides in the higher elevations of the surrounding mountainsides.
Once home, the children were warned by Rosa not to wander far from the village too soon after the earthquake. Aftershocks could cause a loose rock to come crashing down a hillside. The village, lying in a valley between the mountains, would be safe. But the adventurous Paco would obey his mother only until the following day.
The next afternoon, ignoring the prior warnings of his mother and the priest, Paco decided to explore his ancestral mountains. After a walk of about one mile on the dirt road leading out of the village, Paco turned off the road and headed for higher ground, passing tons of newly fallen rock debris. He climbed higher and higher while thoughts of golden treasure pirouetted through his mind. The gilded sun was slowly sinking behind him when a burst of reflected light caught the corner of his eye, thirty feet overhead. Paco believed that this was merely the reflection of a shiny piece of rock, but his imagination got the better of him. He pushed still higher to find some hidden treasure, perhaps even the golden treasure of Pizarro!
As he climbed higher, the mountain became steeper and the footing became increasingly treacherous, even for someone as surefooted as Paco. He could no longer see the shiny spot because a ledge of rock was jutting out directly below it. Finally, after deftly scaling the almost-vertical wall, Paco carefully pulled himself up to a point above the ledge from which he was able to see the place where the light had reflected.
To Paco's amazement, this was no rock at all! What he saw embedded in the rock was a cylindrical metal object that was golden in color. His heart began beating faster. This must be some golden piece left by Pizarro's conquistadors. He would make his family rich! His father, Herme, would be so proud of him. This would more than make up for the time he had borrowed and lost his father's only watch.
The excitement in him swelled as he began to try to remove the metallic object. First he attempted to wobble it loose by placing his hands on the sides of the cylinder and tugging with all his strength, but it wouldn't budge. He realized that it was solidly embedded in the rock, so he picked up a piece of granite the size of a grapefruit and with both hands brought it smashing down onto the encasing rock, trying not to hit the cylinder. After several attempts at loosening the rock, his arms became tired, and some of the blows glanced off the cylinder. Don't hit the cylinder, he exhorted himself. He knew that damaging it might lessen its value.
Paco soon tired. His arms ached from the weight of his makeshift hammer of granite, and he felt uncomfortably warm, unusually warm. He was sweating profusely and couldn't remember being as hot as this. He felt on fire, far more than when he had his worst fever, and began to feel light-headed. I'd better get down from here, he thought, feeling faint. He tried to move his feet but couldn't. It was as though they were planted in cement. He was burning up and losing consciousness. The pain from the heat was so great that his numbed mind grappled with only two choices: hold on and incinerate, or let go and fall.
The intense heat engulfed him to such an excruciating extent that there remained no choice. Paco let go. As he fell backward, he thought how interesting it was that the cylinder appeared to glow.
The ghostly glow was the last thing on earth that the glinting eyes of Paco Rivera would ever see. Lost among the jagged rocks far below, his shattered body wouldn't be found for two days.
Chapter Two
The coroner's office in Lima served many outlying towns and villages, including the village of Ochoa. An unusual case had been brought to the attention of the chief coroner, Dr. Alberto Lopez, by an assistant, Carlos Garcia. A young boy had been found by the municipal police after a two-day search, and it seemed to assistant Garcia that it would be an open-and-shut case of an accidental fall upon the rocks by an overly adventuresome boy. His skull had been split open by a jagged rock from a fall of perhaps thirty feet or so, and the body bore multiple contusions, several broken bones, and much internal hemorrhaging. But something else about this case puzzled Garcia, and he felt compelled to bring it to the attention of Dr. Lopez, even though he knew Lopez didn't like being bothered by his assistants.
Lopez was sitting at his desk in his office, poring over what seemed to be a mountain of paperwork, when he heard a knock at his office door.
"Come in." He looked up and saw a reticent Garcia enter.
Garcia walked over to the desk. "Dr. Lopez. I'd like to discuss case 3190 with you, if you have a few moments."
Lopez glanced down at the papers on his desk and, with a sigh of resignation, responded, "Sit down, Carlos. What seems to be the problem?" Garcia sat down in a chair facing Lopez's desk. "I'm not quite certain. A young boy, Paco Rivera, was brought to us by the municipal police. At first, no foul play was suspected—"
"And now you suspect something?" Lopez interrupted.
"Well," Garcia replied, "I'm not sure. The head was severely lacerated, and I'm sure that the immediate cause of death was from a blow to the head caused by a fall. But the body was found face down among the rocks about forty-eight hours after the fall, and yet certain burn marks appear on the ventral part of the body, especially on the face, neck, and upper chest."
"Perhaps," Lopez speculated, "the boy didn't die immediately and lay for a few hours on his back?"
"Possibly, but the boy was fully clothed when they found him. Also, and this is very strange, the palms of his hands, especially the fingers, received the worst burns of all." He held out his hands to emphasize the point.
Lopez thought for a moment. "Perhaps, and I'm just groping now, a hot spring or hot rock exposed by the earthquake could have burned him, and he then fell to his death?"
"That might make some sense, except for the clothes. They were perfect and untouched." He hoped Lopez would deem this information important enough to warrant disturbing him.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from the Rosetta Cylinderby Neil Pollack Copyright © 2012 by Neil Pollack. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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