I hold my breath for the first step—it wobbles beneath my weight, and I fling out my arms to grip the ropes on either side to help my balance. They’re rough under my palms. I walk forward as the bridge swings wildly. Through the cracks of the wooden boards, I catch sight of something long and black peeking through. When I’m halfway across, I look down at the water below. The caimánes have gathered underneath my feet. I freeze, noticing for the first time how old the wood looks. Nearly rotted through, some planks. The next one might give under my weight.
“Keep going,” Manuel says at my heels. “Slowly.”
Shuddering, I force myself to move forward, skipping the next board, and as I do, the monsters follow my movement.
“We’re almost there,” he says. “If you fall, I’m coming after you.”
I take another step. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Well, at least you won’t be lonely down there.”
His tone is almost teasing. Manuelneverteases. I look at him in shock. “You’re in a good mood for someone mere feet away from a black caimán.”
He stares uneasily at the creatures in the dark water. “Or maybe I’m trying to distract you from the danger.”
One of the monsters leaps, jaws snapping loudly, and then falls under the surface with a loud splash. My fingers tighten on the rope. “Your plan isn’t working.”
“Just keep moving, Catalina.” He points to something over my shoulder. I spin around, surprised to find that we’re only a few steps away from the end. I walk forward, bending my knees to keep myself in rhythm with the swaying bridge. It’s a mercurial dance partner.
Five more steps.
Below us, the caimánes snap their teeth. A soft whimper escapes my mouth and drifts down. The next wooden slat looks as if it might disintegrate with a gust of wind. I step over it and bring my other foot forward, breathing a sigh of relief, but then—
The slat beneath my feet shudders and cracks and disappears.
I fall through, barely snatching onto the next plank. My fingers dig into the wood, my feet swinging frantically beneath me. I let out a sharp scream as the rope snaps and the wood strains against my weight. The caimán leaps, clearing the water and aiming for my feet. Its jaws slam together, just missing the toe of my boot. The creature smacks the water with a roar. Another leaps and I jerk my legs up just in time.
Manuel darts forward, using the rope to keep balance as he leans forward, his palm extended toward me. “Calm, Catalina. Reach for my hand.”
The wooden plank beneath my hands shudders, and there’s a loud tearing noise.
“Ahora,” he says firmly.
I reach with my right hand as the plank cracks and splits. Manuel grasps my hand as the slat drops and I sway forward, my legs careening against the underside of the other wooden slats with a loud thud.
“Other hand,” Manuel says.
I do as he says and he yanks me up and over to the other side, closer to where we need to be. He hauls us both onto our feet and swivels me around. I’m shaking as I continue walking, but this time Manuel keeps ahold of my hand. Every move costs me an hour of my life. At one point I don’t think I can move another inch; I’m so terrified of falling through again. He bumps me from behind. I take another step and then another. When I reach solid ground, I let out a ragged sigh of relief.
But there’s a sudden shift in the air. A dangerous quality that sinks into my bones. The hair on my arms stands on end.
“Catalina,” Manuel whispers in a hoarse tone. “Ven aquí.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of movement on the opposite side of the moat where we left the tracker. I turn around and as I do, Manuel slowly pitches toward me, as if wanting to shield me from what’s coming.
We are surrounded by people wielding bows and arrows. There must be about fifty of them of various ages, all dressed in black-and-white tunics. Standing on the other end of the bridge is our traitorous guide. Her arrow is aimed at the level of Manuel’s heart. I clutch his arm.
“Go to the foot of the statue,” she calls coldly. “You’ll know what to do.”
“If we don’t?” Manuel asks.
All of them shift and aim for him. In a second he’ll have fifty arrows embedded in his body.
“We’ll go,” I say, tugging at his wrist. He backs away from the bridge, each step careful and measured. I lead us toward the immense vulture. The base is a triangle-shaped platform with Quechuan words carved into the stone. Beautiful etchings depict hearts—some appear dark, others are painted white. With a soft hand, I trace one of the patterns and study the massive outstretched wings made of the same stone. The wings curve and dip in the middle, a deliberate design, but I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do.
“What do you think?” Manuel asks.
“There are a few words here.” I lean forward, squinting in the dying light. “‘Be weighed, but once, so the jungle may know if you’re true.’” I glance back up. “I think we’re meant to sit on the wings.”
