"I still don't think I get it - so your Cistercian monks said, 'let's build the new church into the city walls?'" says Gus.
"No," says Art Guy. "Well, possibly. Wait, let me explain."
Today we find the assiduous scholars bushwacking their way through the Peruvian rain forest in search of Machu Picchu. They could have taken a tour bus, but I prefer to have them bushwacking.
"These Cistercian monks came to Siena because they were called there by the government," says Art Guy.
"Right," says Gus, "And then they started building the new churches?"
"Yes, exactly. And that's my main point, done."
"But so what?" says Gus.
"So what!? - So that means the reputation of these Cistercians as builders of monastic complexes, not just as architects, but also as institutional-founders, got the monks established inside cities," says Art Guy, karate-chopping a large palm out of his way.
"It all seems kind of foggy to me," says Gus.
They enter a clearing and hold still at what they see. A mother ocelot is nursing two cubs.
"There's a myth," Art Guy whispers, "that Siena was founded by Sinus, son of Remus, and therefore traces its roots to Roman times. One of their civic symbols is the mother wolf nursing Romulus and Remus."
"What does that have to do with your essay?" says Gus.
"It doesn't. I just brought it up because of the ocelot."
"Stay focused."
---
"What is that for?" says a Velazco Estete Airport, Peru customs agent to F. B. Irish, motioning towards the shape of a flamethrower under her decorated silk poncho.
"For killing beasties," says Irish.
The agent raises her eyebrows.
"Only dangerous ones," says Irish.
"Did you bring any food with you?" the agent says as if not hearing her.
Irish briefly considers mentioning a brownie she bought at Starbucks, then thinks better of it and shakes her head.
"Welcome," says the agent, stamping her passport.
Settling into a taxi, Irish says, "Machu Picchu."
"That's a long way," says the driver.
"The less time I have to spend outdoors the better."
"Why's that?" says the driver.
"I'm from a place where the most dangerous thing you'd ever see in the wild is a rat."
The driver laughs. "That's not the case here. Some things here will eat you alive. Crocodiles, caymen, pirahna, jaguars."
"La la la I'm not listening," says our scholar.
"But you don't have to worry about seeing a jaguar: they're very rare. And don't worry about the tarantulas. The tarantulas aren't harmful."
"You tried in vain to save the lives of a few tarantulas by telling me that," says Irish, patting her flamethrower.
"The only thing I think you'd need to worry about is Icchu Pako," says the driver.
Irish laughs. "Just put on the radio will you?"
"It's real."
"Believe me, I've heard of Icchu Pako, and it's not real."
---
"Now I'm really confused," says Gus.
"I can't make it any simpler," says Art Guy. "The crossing piers were built as a particularly Cistercian innovation, something that could not have been invented by the government of Siena. In fact they even write in the city council deliberations, ed invitando di fatto frate Melano a completare l'opera intrapresa. Fra Melano, that's my guy!"
"No, I'm confused about where we are," says Gus.
The two have emerged from the jungle and stand before a sizeable Andes vista with not one Incan ruin in sight.
"Why didn't we just take the tour bus?" says Art Guy, unaware of the fiction of his existence.
"Hey, there's a road," says Gus.
They bushwack their way down to a little dirt road.
"Which way?" says Gus.
"I don't know," says Art Guy. "There's a spider on you."
Gus notices a tarantula on his shoulder.
"Ah, they're harmless. Look at him, he's cute."
"Suit yourself, Custeau."
They hang out by the side of the road hoping for a vehicle to come along, drinking some water and some whiskey.
"Right, I know they were responsible for vaulting the dome," says Art Guy.
"That doesn't sound like a very Cistercian thing to do at all," says Gus.
"That's what's bothering me," says our hero.
"Hey, I know something that'll take your mind off it," says Gus. "You ever heard of Icchu Pako?"
"No."
"Well," says Gus. "Legend has it around these parts that there's an ape man, like Sasquatch."
"Oh did you attend that cryptozoology conference?" says Art Guy. "I meant to catch that, but Peter Cherry and Roger Stalley were giving some talk about theoretical contributions of their 2009 undergraduates."
"Oooh, you missed out in a big way, my friend," says Gus. "While you were off in la-la undergraduate land I was learning about Nessie 2 and Icchu Pako."
"Convince me of Nessie 1 first and then you'll get somewhere with me," says Art Guy.
"Reports of Nessie 1 are more substantiated than Kenneth Conant's pointed arches in the reconstruction of Cluny 3," says Gus.
"Granted."
"I'm not going to go into Nessie 2, but get a load of Icchu Pako."
"So he's an ape man, like Bigfoot?" says Art Guy.
"Yes, but more intelligent," says Gus. "I'm surprised you didn't come across this when you went to those icon symposiums."
"Sorry?" says Art Guy.
"Oh my God, look!" says Gus pointing beyond our hero.
Art Guy whips his head around and scuffles in the direction of the underbrush before he sees that Gus is referring to a cab and not Icchu Pako.
After hailing it they pile in and are surprised to encounter Foxy Byzwiz Irish.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," says Irish.
---
"I wasn't going to come, but my Last Judgment project requires that I be here on site," says Irish as they ramble down the road, the driver grinning while he takes every bend at far too many kilometers per hour.
"I think the real question is, do we still get our money?" says Gus.
"Gus, I bet a hundred qualified scholars would gratefully do this as an unpaid internship," says Art Guy.
"You'll get your money," says Irish. "I need you guys to take photographs and carry out the chore of describing the images. I don't have time to be bothered with anything besides interpretation."
"I bet that's what Ghirlandaio said to Michelangelo," says Art Guy.
"Sorry?" says Irish. "I didn't catch that."
"Oh look, Machu Picchu," says our hero.
The glorious ruin comes into view. I'm not going to waste your time with a romantic description. Read Hiram Bingham's.
"I think I'll let you out a little further up," says the driver. "Dangerous out there." He looks in the mirror and winks at Irish. She grins sarcastically back.
"Hey, speaking of dangerous, you didn't happen to go to the cryptozoology conference last May, did you?" says Gus to Irish.
Irish turns to Gus and suddenly goes wide-eyed. She slowly reaches into her poncho, draws the flamethrower, and points it at Gus. She flicks a switch and a small flame begins dancing at the nozzle.
Gus's eyes follow the destination of her gaze and the direction of the nozzle of the flamethrower: it is a slowly moving target on his right tricep.
"Don't move," says Irish.
(to be continued...)
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