They’d all tried to warn him. His colleagues, his friends… even his well-meaning father who was by all accounts as up-to-date on current events as a year-old newspaper. “You should reconsider, Bartie,” they’d said. “That Meriwether Speck is insane.”
He’d listened. Really, he had. Hell, he’d even tried to consider things from their perspective, but nothing he’d seen, heard, or read had changed his mind about the brilliance of his former professor. The man had made contributions to every conceivable field of science, from botany to physics. A mind that adept was bound to be a bit eccentric, but insane? No, the word didn’t apply to Doctor Speck.
At least, it hadn’t seemed to. Unfortunately for Bartholomew MacDuff, certain things only become apparent when one is already ankle-deep in an Amazonian marsh, cataloging yet another example of “Speck’s Off-Brown Twig.” He could see the alleged genius trying in vain to cram a feather duster-like shock of bristly white hair under an antique pith helmet, muttering as he did about the fickleness of an ancient compass. Or perhaps he was irritated by the state of his vest. It was difficult to be sure. Bartie did his best to ignore the quiet rumblings, instead hoping to finish jotting his notes into the worn leather journal he’d been provided. If he didn’t finish in time, he could look forward to yet another rambling lecture on the importance of balancing detail and haste, punctuated by anecdotes that may or may not have been invented on the spot.
Eccentric, indeed…
It was only two days into the expedition, the purpose of which was supposedly to locate a long-lost temple, but it had been more than enough time for Bartie to liken the experience to hunting mosquitoes with a shotgun. It seemed that every rock, plant, animal, or atmospheric phenomenon was unique enough to catch Speck’s attention, bringing a grin to his bespectacled face and a triumphant laugh to his lips. Never mind that the specimens were entirely mundane or already classified; Speck was certain that each was a new discovery, leading Bartie to wonder if the man’s previous success had been purely the result of chance. Still, even the incessant cataloging and aimless wandering could have been written off as a particularly idiosyncratic method of exploration if it hadn’t been for the presence of the Birthday Clown.
That was the man’s official title: Birthday Clown. Bartie had assumed it was some kind of arcane explorer’s jargon, but no… the most notable member of the group was clad in gargantuan red pants (and matching suspenders), ridiculously large shoes, and a bright orange wig. He had started the day with full face makeup, as well, but the South American heat had long since caused it to streak and drip onto the man’s oversized polka-dot bow tie. Bartie had asked the others – a group of graduate students and native porters – if they’d had any idea about the reason for the Birthday Clown’s presence, but each of them had hastily changed the subject or (in the case of the porters) feigned a lack of English fluency.
Bartie’s first encounter with the Birthday Clown had been only a few hours prior, while packing away the last of the campsite. At first, he’d been convinced that his eyes were playing tricks on him, or that the locally-grown tea he’d had with breakfast was providing an hallucinogenic effect. It was only after receiving an official introduction and strict instructions to never speak to the Clown that Bartie came to realize that his former mentor was clearly and certifiably off the deep end.
With very little satisfaction, Bartie finished documenting Speck’s latest “find” and stowed the journal in his satchel. The rest of the team was slogging aimlessly through the marsh, trading whispered conversation and the occasional cigarette. There was probably some law against leaving spent Camels in the jungle, which may have been reason for the ample supply of rolling papers and tobacco. Bartie sipped from his canteen, wondering yet again if he’d unwittingly become the butt of an incredibly elaborate practical joke, then trudged to where Speck had stopped to admire an unremarkable section of sodden plant life.
“The notes are done,” Bartie said. Ideally, this report would prompt the grizzled professor to continue the expedition towards dry land, but there was little point in hoping for such luck. Indeed, rather than offering a coherent response, Speck simply pointed towards his boots.
“Leeches!” he declared.
“What? Where?” Bartie lifted his feet in a frenzied dance, checking himself for any sign of aquatic vampires.
“Precisely!” replied Speck, a touch too eagerly. “This region should be positively swarming with leeches, yet we have found none. Even our friend Othello has failed to secure us one.”
With a wince, Bartie glanced at the graduate student in question. Unlike his namesake, the poor fellow was as fair-skinned as anyone Bartie had ever met, a fact which led him to apply copious amounts of sunscreen to himself whenever possible. He was currently standing in a deeper section of the marsh, trailing his bare arms through the murky water. While that was already more than any sane man would likely risk in what was reputedly a leech-infested quagmire, the unfortunate Othello had also been required to tie the remains of several decapitated fish to his wrists.
“If it’s okay to ask,” began Bartie, “why are we looking for leeches, exactly? I thought the plan was to reach the temple by the end of the week.”
Speck turned to face him with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. In the classroom, it had been a sign that a particularly amusing lecture was forthcoming (or, particularly on Mondays, that Speck had discovered yet another walrus-themed viral video). Now, Bartie took it as a sign of an impending revelation of dubious integrity. “For the ritual, son! The ritual! Can’t get into the temple without the ritual, what?”
Bartie held his tongue, curious though he was about what this ritual might require or how it might relate to their search for a rumored temple in the jungle. His silence was rewarded, since Speck took that moment to begin trudging towards the shallows, hopefully with a new destination in mind.
“Onward!” he shouted. The rest of the group quickly assembled, pausing only while Othello stowed his guillotined bait in a plastic bag. Then it was brisk march from the shore to the jungle’s edge, with Speck leading the way through the verdant undergrowth. As had been known to happen, the man began cheerfully whistling as he hacked a path with a blackened machete. The group moved in single-file, with Bartie near the back, feeling silently grateful that he hadn’t been required to document the capture of “Speck’s Leech” or “Speck’s Other Leech.”
“What’s the deal with this temple, then?” asked a gravelly voice, jarring Bartie from his thoughts. He turned to see a whitewashed face with blackened eyes staring at him, and felt his own eyes begin to water at the sight of sweat trails leading down from the Clown’s obscenely bright wig.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Bartie mumbled.
“No way he can hear us back here, yeah?” said the Clown. “Anyway, I’m curious.”
Bartie swallowed and glanced to the head of the party. Speck seemed oblivious to the exchange, preoccupied as he was with leading his assault on the surrounding vegetation. “Alright, well, are you familiar with any of the tribes in the area?”
“Nope.”
“Ah. Right.” Bartie swallowed again. “So, in 2004, a previously unknown tribe of people was discovered near the Peruvian border. They’d never had any contact with the outside world.” He paused for dramatic effect, but it seemed lost on the Clown. “There were some communication problems at first – I mean, they weren’t all that keen on the idea of having visitors – but eventually, two anthropologists managed to speak with them directly.”
“With who?” asked the Birthday Clown.
“With the tribesman.”
“Yeah, but who?” the Clown asked again. “Like, what were their names?” Bartie gave him a skeptical look, unsure of whether the gravity of his story was getting through.
“I don’t know. I doubt if we’d be able to pronounce them, anyway.”
The Clown scratched his face, leaving still more streaks in his white makeup. “Let’s call them Bob. Yeah, Bob.”
“What, both of them?” asked Bartie. He mentally kicked himself for getting drawn still further into absurdity, and resolved to continue his story. “Look, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this tribe had an incredibly detailed oral history. According to one of their elders –”
“Bob.”
“– they used to live in one of the most inaccessible parts of the Amazon Basin. This is hundreds if not thousands of years ago, you understand. Apparently, they used to be part of a much larger tribe, all living around an immense stone temple. There have been several expeditions to find it, but nobody has had any luck yet. Then, eight months ago, the same anthropologists who first contacted the tribe made an incredible discovery.” He paused again, but the Clown stayed silent. “Apparently, the tribe has a legend about a path their ancestors used to take to get to and from the temple. If the details are accurate, we should be following it now.” Assuming, Bartie thought to himself, that Speck isn’t taking us on a wild goose chase.
“So what’s inside?” the Clown asked.
“No one really knows. Hopefully some artifacts and preserved artwork. Someone started a rumor about a talking idol, but that’s just folklore.”
The Birthday Clown nodded as though some inner suspicion had been confirmed. “I bet, yeah. Folklore. Yeah. What’s it say?”
“What?”
“That talking idol thing. What’s it say?”
Bartie furrowed his brow. “I don’t know. Maybe it predicts the weather or something. Look, even if there is an idol in the temple, it doesn’t talk. The story was probably dreamed up by some excitable conspiracy theorist. I mean, take at all that garbage about the Mayan calendar and the end of the world. It’s a crock.” Both Bartie and the Clown ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, narrowly missing the nest of what Bartie mentally labeled “Speck’s Needlessly Large Spider.” They marched in silence after that, with Bartie furtively checking himself for arachnid stowaways.
“It’s a funny thing,” the Clown said at last.
“Which?”
“My uncle’s name was Bob. Hell of a guy. Blew himself up trying to build a propane tractor.”
“You don’t say…” Bartie regarded the Clown out of the corner of his eye. “I really have to ask, why aren’t we supposed to talk to you?”
“Can’t say.”
“You mean you don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”
The Clown looked down at Bartie. Perhaps it was his imagination, but those black-lined eyes seemed to hold a trace of wild terror. “You know why you had to bring a clown along?” Bartie shook his head, unable to force his lips to move. The Birthday Clown leaned closer, until Bartie could feel hot breath on his cheek. “Because you needed one.”
