Inca Land

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Four stones extended from an ancient terrace wall. Together, they formed a staircase between chacras (corn fields). I sat on the middle stone, my back to the wall, my feet dangling over a murmuring brook. I poured through a history on the Inca. The sun shimmered through the fruit tree above, speckling the pages of my book with the shadows of leaves dancing in the wind. The book captivated my imagination and I felt my self slip away.

Men punched at the ground with crude stone shovels. Women dressed in brilliant red ponchos followed them, sowing the carefully aligned pits. There were no farm animals, or large establishments, just endless fields of corn. A dull roar echoed through the valley as a tremendous stone slid from a rock scree above. The sizeable stones seemed like pebbles from where I sat. The men that carried them were too small to be seen, like ants delivering grain of sand. In a very orderly fashion, the rocks seemed to pluck themselves from the rubble, take a block like form, and float down the slope of the mountain. Men waited by the river with rafts. I watched as they delivered their bounty to the construction sites in Ollanta. All was lively and productive. Ant like.

Suddenly an explosion of gun powder cracked through the air. Everything stopped. Rocks ceased to float. Men dropped their tools and rushed for the town. Women gathered their children from the river and rushed them into their small stone abodes. Another gun shot, then the sound of a small stampeed. Dozens of horses charged the fortress wall and hundreds of men rallied to meet them. The sound of hooves and clinking armor met the war cries of those who refused to fall.

The light rain woke me from my daze. It came at an angle and caught the light of the sun, creating a golden mist above the corn. I chewed on the sweet cane of a corn stalk and heard my stomach growl. Dinner was only an hour away. I picked my book up from my lap and dove back into Inca land.

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