[2006, summer] When I started to walk down to the car, the Huancayo sun was shinning brightly, and the air was full of happiness of mid-winter in this mountainous country just beyond the Andes. I was about to depart, Enrique Herrera’s wife, Mini (my future brother-in-law’s house where I was staying) came down tucking in her blouse, to his automobile and, after giving me a bear hug and wishing me well on my journey back to Lima, said to her husband, Enrique, still holding the steering wheel—tightly gripped— as she held the door open, said to her husband:
“Remember you got to pick up the little one at noon. It doesn’t look like it will rain, no clouding in the sky.” Here he smiled, and added to her comment, “It will only be a quick ride to the bus stop, don’t worry, perhaps twenty minutes each way, but maybe I got time to show Jack an archeological site outside of town, it’s only 9:30 AM, the bus doesn’t leave till noon.” (There I’d catch the bus back to Lima, the funeral was over for all my friends: Manuel, Mary and Florencia: now Gloxinia’s was over also; my intentions were now to go back to Lima, and perhaps to the United States, where I had visited some in the past, and had some friends, Brynna Storm, was a friend of a friend, I had met her once at the Chicago Metropolitan Museum, she had studied much in the area of Sumer, as much as to be called a sumerologist I would think.)
“You will not be late,” asked Mini again; Enrique just smiled as I got into the car. I waved my hat out the window, as we drove off, Enrique’s daughter was standing by Mini, Ximena.
Enrique, shouted with an absolute, “Lets Go!” and hitting the accelerator of the car, we quickly drove out of town to San Jeronimo de Tunan, about twenty-five miles outside of town. After clearing the city of Huancayo, I took a good look at him, and asked him to stop:
“Tell me Enrique, what is the hurry and big secret?”
He traversed himself, as he answered with lack a of seriousness:
“San Jeronimo Creek!” Then he looked at his watch on his wrist, his eyebrows going upward a little, looked at me with his gleeful eyes, and a shrug of his shoulders, “We got plenty of time.”
I sat back in the car seat, merely motioning to him to go ahead. He started off quickly, as if he needed all the time in the world. Suspiciously, the car started to spit and sputter, the hood seemed like it was about to open, but it didn’t; I looked around in alarm somewhat, I knew I had to get back to the bus station, at least by 11:30 AM, it was now 10:00 O’clock. I had told only Enrique the truth about the murders, and myself, whom almost died in the quest of the Manticore; I mean, who else would believe me that a live Manticore was unfastened in the city of Lima, Peru, and could transform itself through the reflection of a mirror, especially by calling it by way of a magical chant. They’d have me undergo a long, very long-term of psychological examinations.
The area in this local was mostly mountainous, in a valley called: the Mantaro Valley, somewhat of a plateau in this particular spot. As we drove, I saw the road that looked familiar, the one that went into the creek vicinity; it had a sharp turnoff from the valley. I always liked this area, it looked so inviting, I didn’t’ want to offend Enrique, but I needed to know what the whole thing was about.
“I got to drive down this road, and we’ll be at the Creek and I’ll tell you what (finally I thought),” this somewhat freed my curiosity, but I knew not to ask any questions, he would tell me soon.
We got out of the car, and he asked me, implored me not to go to Lima. He seemed as if he wanted to tell me something else but couldn’t get it out, that in itself frightened me; but each time he talked, it seemed like he was talking to himself, as he paced by the creek; I tried to get more information out of him, what was the issue, but his mind shifted here and there.
The lead definitely rested with him, for although he had to speak, when he did, he mentioned in passing of a crude nightmare he had, and as he spoke he looked at his watch, hoping I suppose time would fly and he’d keep me here, where he felt I would be safe.
He looked at me with a pale face, frightened in a way, he was jumpy, nervous, he walked up along side of the creek, where his father-in-law used to own some land for making mud bricks for the locals. I followed and kept asking him why he felt I was in danger in Lima, and not here. He pointed to his head, as if to indicate he saw something, and then he said, “I now know what killed my Gloxinia!”
As we walked farther I noticed the Llamas in the field were restless, some by the mountainside, others lying about. Then I heard a cry of some kind, not sure if it was a child’s cry, a yelp or screech, or a cat’s, I couldn’t tell the difference.
I sat there by the creek, while Enrique went back to check on the car. I could hear him trying to start it, it was sputtering, the carburettor or something.
The screeching came louder, but I knew it was far away, I heard Enrique yell he was perhaps a few hundred feet from me now, a little distance for sure, “It sounds like a wild cat,” he yelled to me.
“No?” I said, questioning him; “I’ve never heard of a wild cat in these areas,” thinking going up to ‘White Mountain,’ perhaps, but not here in the valley, and so near the city of San Jeronimo, and Huancayo.
“Cat, Cat!” he yelled. I got thinking again, perhaps winter cats do come down near the city in winter. The animals were not quiet either, so something was in the makings, the sky was getting cloudy also, the sun had gone away, and I could now see my cold breath as the wind shifted it.
When I got back to the car, it was still not running, and Enrique said with shaking hands, “Tell me,” he asked, “about the animal called the Manticore, where did it come from…” he was looking up towards the hills. “It is unholy, is it not?”
“What is unholy, the animal, or the being it is under its shape?”
“The being?” he enquired. As I looked about the valley and up in the hills where there were a few old mines, where he had been looking. The mine no one had worked them anymore, but I got a sense something was up there.
“No, not sure if she was unholy or not, I tend to think she was, the Queen of Ur, that is who is in the shape of the Manticore, her second soul.
Whereupon he burst out into a long yell in Spanish, a little mixed with English, “I see you in the hills lady lion, show your teeth!” He quickly grabbed my gun as if it would help.
I rapidly put my hand over his mouth, “It’s vital you do not call her, lest we all end up dead like before. I died, or at least I felt somehow I died, but came back to life, or I should have died. Likewise, the lady lion had died, but somehow her soul did not. Most dead remain dead, but this one does not. Enrique was evidently afraid to speak–whited-faced, out of fear, perspiring, trembling, and looking all around ready to shoot wildly, shoot at anything.
“Maybe you should give me the gun back,” I asked.
The llamas were now excitedly running everywhichway; out of the vicinity of he creek area. In Enrique’s anxiety he had dropped the keys to the car in the dirt and couldn’t find them now. Jabbering away in his native Quechua.
I figured there was more to this phenomenon in this valley and as soon as I told Enrique to go home, I’d stay another week or two in Huancayo, but wanted to remain by the creek for the afternoon, he could come back and pick me up in the evening, the car started right up, after he had calmed down and found the keys; and then began his tedious ride back to Huancayo, as I went the other direction, I turned to go up the creek area that cross the valley to the hills beyond. (I reflected a bit on Enrique’s despairing gesture when he left, Enrique had waved bye as he turned beyond the entrance into this creek area. He didn’t want to leave me, but I knew I needed time alone, and so did the cat, the Manticore, so it could find its way to me, if indeed the cat was about.)
See Dennis′ web site: dennissiluk.tripod.com dennissiluk.tripod.com