Boiling, shiny liquid flowed down the face of the root-strewn passage, filling its cavity, then rushing away as it was swallowed by the embankment. Over and over, the process continued, mercilessly cackling as puffs of smoke and heat clouds became visible from the horizon to the west. It was as analogous as before; the mines had come alive. Few survived the last holocaust, and many others only knew of the tales portrayed by elders of the wrath the God mines expended when disturbed.
The men opted to run through the thickets laced with frond bearing ferns, risking side impalement to return to camp to rescue and warn others of the impending doom. It was without reason to position themselves by the mine hole and await their brethren. No man could survive such an explosion.
The tidal basin, which was their settled territory sustaining life to the village and the sea from which the great Viracocha had risen to recreate the world commanding the sun and the moon and the stars to rise, taunted them as if it knew it would soon be their tomb. The Gods mighty flow, sparkling as shale in the sunlight, was unforgiving to all in its path. To the beach it proceeded. To the water it planned to lay to rest.
Grappling with the terrain, the Silver Gods appeared to traverse a course in retaliation to evil, ironically causing iniquity with each outburst. The carnage would again be buried beneath hardened silver blankets, eventually enjoining these Aymara with those of their ancestors deep within the strip-mined mountains that held the valley in their palms.
From the orange-bake of the sunlight, a young Francisco shaded his eyes with burnt hands, flesh that had been seared many times in his young life, the product of tribal life. The glaze over his cornea helped deflect many of the rays, another condition brought on by his lifestyle, nonetheless, one that helped him brave the conditions.
“De Prisa! De Prisa!” He ran past the first row of mud huts, warning the hamlet of the Gods’ awakening. “Vive, revive! Huari de nuevo exhala.” Women emerged from the darkness of the cave-like structures, many carrying their children in aguwas, some on their backs, others chest-mounted. Aymara, who were at best a simple people, were Sun worshipers. But it was the worship of the Sun, and his first-born daughter Nusta, that would eventually take this community out of the fields and into mines and then back again all the while enduring plague after plague after plague.