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bring him back. Can you manage the climb?’ The Priestess looked at Gaia’s feet.
    Gaia nodded, quickly braiding her hair and pulling her cowl over her head, leaving only her dark eyes and dimpled chin visible.
    ‘If this fallen man is the prophesied one,’ said the Priestess, ‘then he must be sacrificed to the mountain as has been foretold, but, Gaia, if he is not…’
    The Priestess did not finish voicing her doubts, fearing what it would do to Gaia if this man was not the one from the prophesy. Gaia’s quick mind had no space for uncertainty in this matter, no crevices for doubt. This was her destiny. Her reason for existing. The Priestess sighed. Gaia may have been born an ancient star guide, but in the old woman’s eyes she was still a child.
    ‘Remember what you’ve learned. He must be examined on the mountain, Gaia, and if he is not the one, you must do what you have been trained to do. He must not return here with you. We must not be discovered until the prophecy can be fulfilled.’
    The Priestess lifted down a long wooden case from a stone shelf. Her knees popping as she bent to lift a sword that rested inside on red satin, its silver hilt carved in the image of the puma with jade for its eyes and a collar of pure gold.
    The Priestess eased the heavy sword into a leather sash fastened across Gaia’s chest. ‘If he is not the one, his head must return to the mountain.’
    Gaia nodded. ‘But if it is him?’
    ‘Then as it has been foretold, you will assist his return to the stars.’
    ‘And mine?’ she asked, lifting her head, her eyes blazing, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword.
    ‘You will be his guide,’ the old woman replied.

9
    A COPPER BELL forged at Chavin de Huantar had once hung over the entrance to the temple. Its chime would have brought everyone immediately, its particular pitch heard by a Cuari no matter where she was on the mountain. But when it had last been rung, a decade earlier, its chimes had sent Gaia into a madness that it had taken her months to recover from, and her sensitivity to the world was increasing the further she crossed into womanhood.
    Instead, the Priestess sent two girls scurrying to call the rest of the Cuari from the mountain above the village. The pair dashed up into the mountainside. The women set down their tools, hitched up their llamas and all of them processed down the lush green slopes, their chatter like birdsong in the wind.
    The Cuari gathered quickly and quietly in front of the Priestess. Propped at the old woman’s feet was a lavishly embroidered pouch, concealing something that was the shape and size of a head.
    ‘
Mujeres de la montaña
,’ said the Priestess, raising her arms to the sky, speaking in the language of their Cuari ancestors. ‘As the oracle has foretold, the deity has made his escape from the heavens. We must prepare him for his return to Uku Pacha so that time may be free.’
    The Cuari glanced at each other, excitement in their eyes. A few whispered among themselves, one or two nodded and looked to the heavens in silent prayer. No one chanted or shouted or praised the heavens aloud. They were far too close to the temple and to Gaia for any vocal demonstrations of their faith.
    ‘Gaia will lead you to him,’ said the Priestess, addressing four of the strongest Cuari kneeling before. They were dressed in colourful tunics, with the tribal symbol, three interlocking circles, raised to a point tattooed on the backs of their necks. Their feet were bare, their hair neatly braided, their brown faces mapped with sun and suffering. ‘Remember that if he is indeed the one from the stars, he must be returned here before nightfall, before the heavens discover that he has gone.’
    The Priestess lifted the heavy screen from the temple entrance and Gaia stepped out into the sunlight, her cowl protecting her eyes from the dazzling light. The entire village prostrated themselves in front of Gaia and the Priestess. A few of the younger