here?”
“I’m afraid the last descendent died in the early 1900s. Now, sir, if you please.”
The vicar resumed his walk. He headed across the graveyard toward the entrance to the church and disappeared completely from sight. No sooner had he gone, Ben returned to the other side of the mausoleum, measuring up the size of the crack.
Potentially wide enough for someone to squeeze inside.
He looked at the stone decorations; like those in most places on the island, the majority were sea related, suggesting the families had strong naval traditions. As he slowly walked around the mausoleum, Ben looked closely for anything out of the ordinary. As best he could tell, there was nothing Spanish or Aztec related.
He looked at Chris, resigned.
“Let’s go get something to eat.”
Standing on the other side of the graveyard, the archaeologist watched with a rare sense of intrigue.
The man was no stranger to the mysteries and stories of the island, even the more obscure ones. He’d seen people coming and going from time to time, a casual tourist, an overeager journalist, a student who believed in ghosts and aliens…
But till now he had never seen anyone so observant, particularly for something so seemingly irrelevant.
Shaping the bridge of his hat with his index finger and thumb, he followed the Americans in the direction of the path.
10
7pm, Extremadura, Spain
The Extremadura region of Spain has rarely been regarded as important. According to official statistics, it has a population of over a million, but its remote character and open countryside features give the impression that it could be considerably less.
Mile upon mile of green fields, dotted with isolated farmhouses, stretch virtually uninterrupted all the way to the Portuguese border. Most of the villages and hamlets had grown up as farming communities, characterised by a profusion of white houses with sloping red roofs that provided a colourful reminder and picture of a bygone age. The residents, it appeared, were oblivious to the technological evolution. At night, occasional dim yellow lights could be seen to flicker across the horizon like a series of candles burning on a giant’s table. Over the water, isolated bridges, some ancient some new, stood more like monuments than integral parts of a transport infrastructure. The ancient roads, alive with trade and activity when the market was in town, were a different sight when it was not. Even in the busy periods they were rarely busy and, in the heat of the day, the tarmac surface would reflect sunlight for hours on end, generating enormous heat. At night the effect was one of much greater calm, when the journey for vehicles crossing the bridge would be both cool and lonely.
The region was the epitome of solitude.
Among the small settlements within the wider community, the village of Medellín was both small and forgettable. On its outskirts, the view rarely changed. Flat land surrounded it in every direction: both green and yellow, field and desert. The area was a haven for wildlife. A tourist coming from America or further afield would find more in common with the tale of the roadrunner and the coyote than that of Don Quixote. The area had a residual stillness, as if time existed in a vacuum. From year to year the weather barely changed. Even a passing wind was unusual.
Yet nestled within the flat barren landscape, there was one sight that even the least observant could not miss. Less than five miles from the village, a solitary green hill, flanked by the river and forest, overlooked the village like a mother watching over her children. The lush greenery was like a scene from a Disney film, its shape entirely different from anything else in the region. Unlike the rolling downs of England, this strange natural wonder rose up into the sky like an Aztec pyramid. While the scientists claimed that the development of
“I’m afraid the last descendent died in the early 1900s. Now, sir, if you please.”
The vicar resumed his walk. He headed across the graveyard toward the entrance to the church and disappeared completely from sight. No sooner had he gone, Ben returned to the other side of the mausoleum, measuring up the size of the crack.
Potentially wide enough for someone to squeeze inside.
He looked at the stone decorations; like those in most places on the island, the majority were sea related, suggesting the families had strong naval traditions. As he slowly walked around the mausoleum, Ben looked closely for anything out of the ordinary. As best he could tell, there was nothing Spanish or Aztec related.
He looked at Chris, resigned.
“Let’s go get something to eat.”
Standing on the other side of the graveyard, the archaeologist watched with a rare sense of intrigue.
The man was no stranger to the mysteries and stories of the island, even the more obscure ones. He’d seen people coming and going from time to time, a casual tourist, an overeager journalist, a student who believed in ghosts and aliens…
But till now he had never seen anyone so observant, particularly for something so seemingly irrelevant.
Shaping the bridge of his hat with his index finger and thumb, he followed the Americans in the direction of the path.
10
7pm, Extremadura, Spain
The Extremadura region of Spain has rarely been regarded as important. According to official statistics, it has a population of over a million, but its remote character and open countryside features give the impression that it could be considerably less.
Mile upon mile of green fields, dotted with isolated farmhouses, stretch virtually uninterrupted all the way to the Portuguese border. Most of the villages and hamlets had grown up as farming communities, characterised by a profusion of white houses with sloping red roofs that provided a colourful reminder and picture of a bygone age. The residents, it appeared, were oblivious to the technological evolution. At night, occasional dim yellow lights could be seen to flicker across the horizon like a series of candles burning on a giant’s table. Over the water, isolated bridges, some ancient some new, stood more like monuments than integral parts of a transport infrastructure. The ancient roads, alive with trade and activity when the market was in town, were a different sight when it was not. Even in the busy periods they were rarely busy and, in the heat of the day, the tarmac surface would reflect sunlight for hours on end, generating enormous heat. At night the effect was one of much greater calm, when the journey for vehicles crossing the bridge would be both cool and lonely.
The region was the epitome of solitude.
Among the small settlements within the wider community, the village of Medellín was both small and forgettable. On its outskirts, the view rarely changed. Flat land surrounded it in every direction: both green and yellow, field and desert. The area was a haven for wildlife. A tourist coming from America or further afield would find more in common with the tale of the roadrunner and the coyote than that of Don Quixote. The area had a residual stillness, as if time existed in a vacuum. From year to year the weather barely changed. Even a passing wind was unusual.
Yet nestled within the flat barren landscape, there was one sight that even the least observant could not miss. Less than five miles from the village, a solitary green hill, flanked by the river and forest, overlooked the village like a mother watching over her children. The lush greenery was like a scene from a Disney film, its shape entirely different from anything else in the region. Unlike the rolling downs of England, this strange natural wonder rose up into the sky like an Aztec pyramid. While the scientists claimed that the development of
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