by Sandy Wilson
The exotically dressed people below waved almost as enthusiastically as the palm fronds that flapped in the turbulence of the helicopter as it rose thudding into the cloudless blue sky. The pale, almost albino, leader had made a speech while his acolytes poured drinks for a farewell toast. Jacob had signalled with his hands his gratitude for the hospitality and that he would return.
“That was absolutely fantastic guys, ” shouted Professor Jacob Rubin as he looked down and waved back. This was the high point of his career. Discovering this hitherto undiscovered race would place him in the pantheon of international anthropologists. He would be up there with Malinowski, Morgan and Margaret Mead. The city, concealed in the chasm, a massive split in the plateau, had astonished him. That such an advanced culture had remained isolated from the modern world was beyond belief. He felt lightheaded with sheer excitement.
Equally excited in the seat next to him sat Eleanor Stanford. A young reporter with the New York Times, she had persuaded her editor to allow her to accompany the expedition. Even now, as the helicopter banked away from the forest cloaked plateau her finger tips were deftly dancing across her laptop keyboard. “I can’t imagine my Editor’s face when this ‘scoop of the century ‘ arrives on his computer.” Said Eleanor. “When will we be in range so I can send emails?”
“It’ll be at least two hours or more, ” said the pilot metallically over the intercom.
“Eleanor, don’t forget our agreement. I must read and approve your report,” said Jacob.
“Just to make sure his name appears numerous times!” said his assistant Sam grinning.
“Quite,” said Jacob. “Quiet now, please, I’m going to try and translate the words spoken by his eminence at the farewell ceremony.” He inserted the earphone buds and listened to the recording on his iPhone while writing on a notepad on his knee.
They had been flying for almost an hour when Jacob had made a crude translation. “The leader guy said ….it seems to be a curse, Eleanor… it ends…’Our secret will stay with you always” His uncertain voice trailed away . But the reporter wasn’t listening. She lay against him, her lifeless head lolling on his shoulder. Jacob looked across at Sam who was slumped forwards in his harness. He wanted to tell the pilot but his tongue felt paralysed. His unseeing eyes stared out of the window as the helicopter fluttered down to land softly on the still surface of the lake and sank.
Later the editor of the Times wrote: It is now six months since the expedition, led by Professor Jacob Ruben, last made contact with their support team. Extensive searches have found no trace of the personnel or the helicopter and we must now accept that the intrepid explorers, including our own brave reporter Eleanor Stanford, have bee lost. It is not the first expedition to search for the mythical civilisation. Two previous attempts were made on 1935 and 1957. Both vanished without trace.
About the Author
Sandy Wilson writes fiction and memoirs, and sometimes poetry. He is a member of Otley Writers and has contributed to the group’s anthologies ‘The Pulse of Everything ‘ and ‘The Darkening Season’. His childhood in Scotland during the 1950s and 60s is remembered in his memoir ‘Memory Spill’. His poetry has been published in the international poetry anthology ‘Indra’s Net’.
Sandy blogs as - sandyscribbler.com