by Sandy Wilson
Ricin cocktail
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
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