Skull of the Zipa PREVIEW CHAPTERS by Chuck Chitwood (english novels for beginners TXT) đ
- Author: Chuck Chitwood
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As soon as my eyes land on Pablo, I feel like Iâm stuck in the time trapped between the car and the deer. A myriad of thoughts dart through my head. Run. Kick him in the crotch. Scream. Whatever I choose, I have to commit to it. But in the split second before I make a decision as to what to do, I think of my father.
Heâs all I have left. And Iâm all he has left. Heâs just an archaeologist. Iâm just an eighteen year old high school senior. Heâs supposed to be investigating a lead thatâll take him to some artifact. And Iâm supposed to be deciding what to do with my crazy hair so I can go to prom with Chance Baker and not look totally stupid. But my father was kidnapped while looking for the artifact. And Iâve been kidnapped while looking for him.
Dad wouldnât be missing if he werenât looking for that artifact. The artifact must be valuable. Very valuable if itâs led to two people being kidnapped and ... possibly even killed for. For the life of me, I canât remember what it is heâs looking for. Iâm pretty sure he told me. Think Haddie, think. What is it that heâs looking for?
Itâs three days before prom. Iâm standing in the kitchenâŠ
***
I came home after a six mile run. I had just a little bit of time to get inside, shower and change before I was supposed to meet Stacey and Morgan downtown to get our hair âdoneâ at the salon so we can see if itâs how we want it for prom on Saturday. After my run I did what I typically do. I walked around outside cooling down while drying my tears. I wondered how long I would cry on these morning runs by myself. Two years had elapsed but it felt like my mom died just yesterday. I doubt that the hole in my heart made after she died can ever be filled. I think dad knows I sometimes cry on these runs, but he never says anything and he wonât unless I bring it up. Thatâs just how he is.
I opened the backdoor expecting to see Dad sitting at the breakfast table sipping on his coffee reading over his books and papers. But this morning was different. Dadâs little brown notebook lay open surrounded by other ancient books. Only he wasnât around. I picked up his cup of coffee. Cold. Thatâs weird.
I heard a rustling sound come from dadâs study. When I found him he was surrounded by papers strewn about the floor and he was on his knees peering at yellowed maps. I saw him furiously scribbling notes on a legal pad while mumbling.
âUh, Dad. Everything alright?â
He looked up at me. âWhat? Oh, this? Yes, everything is fine. I feel like Iâm really on to something!â
âGreat. Well, I have to go shower now. Iâm supposed to go get my hair done. You know. Itâs like a practice run for the prom.â
âI canât believe it. How could I be so stupid?â He looked up at me. âThatâs this Saturday, right? Wow! Where did the years go? It doesnât seem that long ago that you standing on my toes in the living room and we were dancing. You remember dancing to Keb Mo?â
I sat down carefully, not sure which papers were vital. âYeah. Mom videotaped us while you spun me around. I forgot about that. That seems like forever ago.â
âMaybe to you. It was just a blink to me. One day, we bring you home from the hospital and then youâre crawling. You go from riding a bike to a car and soon youâll be gone.â
âDad, why are you being so sappy?â
âWell, the prom is kind of a milestone. Soon youâll be off on you own. And, well, I just wish I could be here to talk to this boy when he picks you up. I hate that I have fly out to Colombia tonight. ButâŠâ He pushed his glasses into place. âI have a few rules. You can stay out until 1 AM. You may not bring him back to this empty house. And remember, Haddie, it takes a lifetime to build a reputation and only minutes to lose it.â
âDad, Iâm eighteen. You have to stop worrying. But I promise, nothing will happen. You just have to trust me. And besides, Iâll be five hundred miles away at Harvard in a few months. What if I bring a boy back to my room while Iâm there?
âWell, until youâre there, youâre under my roof andâŠâ
âYeah, yeah, yeah, your house âyour rules. I know.â I picked up one of the pictures scattered on the floor. It was a bunch of little gold men rowing a raft that was carrying a taller golden man, who looked like a king. âWhat is all this stuff? I thought you specialized in finding Middle Eastern treasures stolen by the Nazis during World War II?â
Dadâs latest book was called Godâs Gold, and traced the Nazisâ hunt for temple treasures when the Romans destroyed Jerusalem in 70AD. His stories captivated me even if our dinners sometimes felt a little bit like a history lecture. âI donât remember you ever talking about looking for a little gold king and his men in boats.â
Dad smiled. âTrue. This is not Middle Eastern. What it is, kid, is the Golden Man, or El Dorado.â
âEl Dorado? I thought that was a legend about a city made of gold that nobody could ever find. At least thatâs what they told us in World History. I remember watching an animated movie about it after the unit and everything.â
He bounced up and pulled a book from his shelf, âThatâs the mistake most people make. Itâs a good story. But the truth is El Dorado was a person not a place. The Tairona Indians in Colombia had a king or Zipa that they called El Dorado, the Golden Man. Once a year, the priests would take off the kingâs clothes and then they covered his whole body with finely ground gold dust.â
âEw, gross. TMI, Dad, TMI.â
âCome now, Haddie. This is their history. Thereâs nothing gross or TMI about it. They would sail out into the middle of a lake and he would jump in the water. While the water washed off all the gold, the tribe members would throw precious gold jewels and masks into the lake to gain the goodwill of their gods. When the king climbed back on the raft with all the gold washed off, it was believed that the gods had accepted their offerings and they would live in peace for another year.â He closed the book and smiled.
âOkay, thatâs a neat story. But, seriously, arenât you mainly a Nazi treasure hunter or something?â
He walked around his study. âI donât actually hunt for treasure. I simply try to locate where the Nazis hid the treasures they stole. You know, Haddie, the biggest victims of Nazi thefts were the Jews who had thousands of precious works of art confiscated or flat out stolen when they were herded to the concentration camps. Gold, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, Renoirs, Van Goghs, You name it. If it was valuable, the Nazis took it. But just like today, anything that valuable leaves a paper trail like on a shipâs manifest, tax rolls, and personal letters or diaries.â
âDad, Iâm pretty sure the El Dorado story, no matter if itâs about a city or a naked, gold coated king, is a lot older than the Nazis.â I looked at the golden man on the raft in the picture again. âAnd El Dorado is a long way from Europe. Is El Dorado why weâre not going to Israel this summer?â
âYes, Haddie, it is. But just like you and I know of El Dorado the city or the man, so did the Nazis. Wait here a secondâŠâ
Dad ran to the kitchen, grabbed his little brown notebook, and returned to his office. âI guess, in a way, I am doing some Nazi treasure hunting because I think the Nazis were also looking for El Dorado. They never found it but I think I might know where it is. However, in order to know for sure, I have to go look for myself. I hate that Iâll miss your prom but honestly, this should be a short little trip. Easy-peasyâŠâ He snapped his fingers three times like he was trying to be cool and sassy.
âDad, I hate to say it but you and âcoolâ donât go together so well.â
He gave me a little punch to my shoulder. âAnyway, all Iâm going to do is fly down and meet with one of my old students, Dr. Javier Quesada. Heâs a professor at Los Andes University now. And heâs the one who found the lead for me. Iâm just going to check it out then come back home and weâll get to spend most of the summer back in Israel.â
âWhatever. So what exactly are you looking for?â
He opened his little brown notebook. The well-worn leather cover was scratched and had coffee stains on it. He pointed at a sketch he drew. âWell, El Dorado and his tribe had so much gold, they used it for everything. One of the things they used it for was to coat the skulls of sacrificial victims.â
âGross! Human sacrifice?â
âYes, usually conquered enemies or rival chiefs. But during the time when the conquistadors invaded South America, three tribes formed an alliance to fight back against the conquistadors. They not only pushed them out, but they also captured three of their leaders. In their minds, the victory was a sign from the gods. And whenever they felt that the gods showed them mercy, the natives would offer tribute to them for their actions.â
âWhat sort of tribute are you talking about?â
His voice switched from excitement and storyteller in boring lecture mode. It didnât take much to do it. âEvery culture thinks that their gods have created them special, unique on the earth. It isnât reasonable that all these tribes, all these cultures, and all of these myths are unique and true. They are all so similar that they must be describing the same god or the gods are just a construct people on earth make up to prove they are special. The way I see it, thereâs too much death and sadness for it to be true. Look at what the Tairona gods made their own people do, if they were real.â
My dad is a man of science and tended to avoid anything this spiritual. âSo the gods asked for human sacrifices? Didnât all religions have sacrifices of some sort?â
âYes, but some religions have painless, humane methods of sacrifice.
âHumane methods of sacrifice? Right. So, youâre saying killed the three guys humanely?â
âYes and no. They didnât just kill them. It was brutal. And when they were done, they chopped off their heads, cut off the tops, dug out their brains and then poured molten gold in them so they could use them as ceremonial drinking cups.â
âGross! Gross! Gross!â I shook my head. âI think Iâm going to barf.â
âI know. Itâs disturbing to think that the human heart is capable of such unimaginable evil. I canât understand how any god can look down on this and let it happen.â My dad
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