The Temple in the Sky, Fernando Herrera Jr [the rosie project .txt] 📗

on its backside instead, with tiny words he couldn’t read; but for a hitch such as this he was readily equipped: From his vogue leather-backpack, he swiftly pulled out sleek magnifying glass and took a gnarl peek: “TO OPEN THEE: YOU MUST SEEK THE RED BLOCKS: WITHIN THE PARTICULAR STOCK: YOU MAY FIND A GOLDEN KEY: THE SMOKING PINNACLES ECHO THE UTMOST DECREE: AND BESIDE THE BIG CLOCK: WHICH ECHOES A KNOCK: YOU SHOULD SEEK OUT THREE”
“Oooh—what do you know? A riddle,” he said in gaily fashion, whilst applauding queerly in delight; but only because he presumed that there wasn’t anybody near those premises who would be able to catch a glimpse of his flamboyant reaction. I’m quite good a solving these, actually, he thought, lying to himself. “Let’s see: red decree, smoking pinnacles, golden key, in the stock… Oh bother, this gibberish makes no sense at all!”
“Hey Jaspy, whatcha got there?” A girl spoke from a few feet away, peeking out of some tall, colorful shrubbery. She appeared to be about his age. Jasper dropped the chest in startle but quickly realized who she was.
Daisy was pretty and he appreciated it. He was quite the appreciator. He appreciated and loved the way her goldilocks always coiled upon her tender shoulders, the way her large eyes bore such a pretty chartreuse—a shade of green that was speckled with bright gold—the way her nose was so knavishly refined, and the way her opaque freckles wonderfully contrasted against her ever-flush cheeks: freckles he described as “cinnamon sprinkles” because he loved cinnamon; he hated his own though, because in his own terms they were more like “paprika sprinkles” and he didn’t like paprika; but he did like the girl’s beautiful scent: It was sophisticated, like that of his mother’s sophisticated friends. There was a reason for that: the perfume she wore was not her own. Although Daisy stole her mother’s expensive perfume, her unique scent did not confine to that, her own sarcoid perspiration fused with the artificial scent of the toiletry to bare a unique redolence that Jasper knew too well: something in the midst of angel sweat and spring’s efflorescence. Jasper’s great puzzle: Did she wear it for him? He did not know. Lastly, Jasper’s favorite mandibulofacial aspect of his lovely, were the cute, very light, yet very pink lips; even though they were always chapped, and even though he was much too young to kiss them; and that he always wanted to do. He was quite the little deviant, in fact. The only thing left impeding such glorious course of action was his mother, Meredith, for she would surely spank him if just he ever tired anything so. In fact, she did so very often, sometimes at dinner parties she would host when he would crawl under the table with his spy-kit—the magnifying glass, more specifically—and sooth his perverse, prepubescent curiosities by a game he had ingeniously titled: “The Inspection of Mother’s Friend’s Dresses.” They did always tend to wear nice dresses. “Such nice dresses,” he would say in a fleer (see if you can decipher that on your own, since I would rather not go into detail for the posh style I wish to wield). And so his mother would then expose his little buns right there and then, whilst the company’s perception, in bare exhibition to the amused guests, upon the table, even. How dare she? The iniquity! But in her defense, she wouldn’t do so too hard, so it hardly hurt, if that. But those gossip women would always laugh at the risible scene. Meredith had a very constricted sense of privacy, see, and it showed with this type of dissipated actions; but Jasper did not, for he was quite the opposite, actually: an abashed-overly-self-conscious-imp; so he was left humiliated much too often. For that, he scorned her. It wasn’t that he felt she was overreacting with her punishments, he new he deserved it, but mostly that he didn’t understand why she wouldn’t wait for the company to leave—why she wouldn’t perform the castigations in private. In her defense: as self-conscious as Jasper was, he was also extremely docile, such scolding was necessary to keep such a brat in check. But no matter how hard Jasper tried not to get into trouble, his depraved curiosities often took the best of him; therefore, he frequently ended up as a chagrined brat with rosy bottoms. All of which has been noted to suggest the inevitability of a game which he had ingeniously titled but had yet to play: “The Kiss of Daisy.” Today is the day.
He glared at the girl and asked, “Daisy! When did you get here, how long have you been there, and why are you so sneaky all the time!?” The boy’s flush was as obvious as the girl’s golden ringlets, which coiled below the rim of her extravagant, pink Edwardian-Hat. That pretty hat happened to match a pretty, pink, polka-dotted summer-dress. The poor boy couldn’t have been more mortified because alas for that moment, as suggested previously, he had antecedently developed a little crush on the pretty colleen-preteen; and that bombastic clapping of his sprouted by his reaction would have definitely been revoltingly sissy for even the most severe of merrily boys—whom he was definitely not, he figured.
“Well, I have to be sneaky because I’m playing Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes was most definitely… sneeeky,” she spoke swiftly and astutely (which she was), and with the utmost preteen of girly tones—the type that almost squeals.
“You can’t be Sherlock Holmes—Sherlock Holmes is a boy. Don’t be silly, little girl.”
“Silly? I’m not silly… and I’m almost as tall as you… and I am certainly not a little girl.”
“Well, you’re certainly not a little boy, either. And what, you also play the violin now?”
“Well, as a matter of fact… I do. Hey! Do you want to play detectives? You can be Professor Moriarty—easily—and I shall most naturally portray the cunning character of Sherlock Holmes.” She spoke very properly and debonairly for such tender age.
“No way! You can be Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be Sherlock!”
“Forget it,” she said in dissonance with her arms crossed. There was a short pause until Daisy’s attention set on the chest once again. “That thing, what is it?” she asked while pointing her little finger towards the metal chest—arm all the way stretched.
“It’s a treasure chest I’ve just un-buried, but it’s locked. Look: my name’s on it, and there’s a riddle on the back of the lock. You see?” he said while flipping it to the back.
“Wow, it really does look like a treasure chest—a very small treasure chest—but looks real. Oh boy, real treasure!What does it say? Let me see!” She grabbed the magnifying glass and took a look for herself. “Hmm…let’s see here… red blocks… within the stock… smoky pinnacles, the decree, big clock…” she muttered in examination. “Hey, aren’t treasure chests usually made of wood?”
“Not this one.”
“Well, that’s mighty weird. Do you really think there’s booty in here?” she said while taking the chest to her ear and shaking it swiftly. “It doesn’t sound like it, really. Why, it sounds more as if there may not be anything inside of this at all.”
“Well, whatever’s inside, if anything at all, we won’t be able to know—we need the key to open it first.”
“Let’s go get it!”
They walked over to a fancy white bench that was set against a tall brick wall, mostly draped by hanging vines. Much of the grass was shaded by neat little trees. The birds chirped at the clouds and the bees serenaded the flowers while the squirrels scattered through the grass and up the trees. The children sat down to concentrate on the lock’s little riddle.
“I think I know where it is.” Daisy spoke as cunningly as Sherlock Holmes.
“What!?”
“The key, I think I know where to find it.”
“What? No-way.”
“I said: I think I know… and Sherlock would’ve deciphered that so called riddle by know.”
“Okay, so where is it then… Mrs. Sherlock?”
“Well… you’re grandfather left behind a big clock. Didn’t he?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Ok, look dummy.” She hooked her right arm around his neck and pulled him towards her, as she pointed to the riddle while holding the magnifying glass with her left hand. “Beside the big clock, which echoes a knock? What does that sound like to you?” He just stared at her clueless. “It’s somewhere near you’re grandfather’s clock. It knocks when it hits the hour, right? And what is a red block?”
“You mean, the “Red Block” puzzle game from France?”
“Serious, Jasper? That’s the best you can do? Bricks, Jasper! Red bricks! What is made of red bricks?”
“The walls from this garden? It’s in the garden!”
“Ugh, you really are hopeless. Smoking pinnacles, Jasp! What has smoking pinnacles? C’mon Jasper, you can do it. Think, boy.”
“Uh…” He looked up at the mansion and answered, “Chimneys!”
“Yes! Hurray-hurrah! You got it! Haha.” She applauded merrily in delight.
“It’s in one of the chimneys? There are at least five chimneys in my house. Let’s start from the biggest one. It’s in the first living room. C’mon, let’s go.”
“No, Jasper. We start with the one by the clock.”
“Oh yeah. In that case, do you think it’s in the chimney or in the clock?” Though this was more play than actual effort for the children, the reality was that indeed they had deciphered the riddle, thus, the whereabouts of the secret key to the lock (or the girl had, anyway).

1
Nazca

To better understand the contents of the mysterious chest, we must travel back in time, and thousands and thousands of miles away, to an ancient city that was well alive four thousand years ago, and perhaps even longer so.
It had been understood amongst this city that a boy’s old uncle, The Great King Ayar-Cachi, would soon brand him as the novel heir of the throne. Apaec [a-peck] (the boy) however, wasn’t particularly pleased by this news because he did not want to be king. I am too good for that burden, he thought, and far too young. The underlying principle for the pessimistic feelings towards such omnipotent of positions was caused by Ayar-Cachi himself, the current king, who just as Apaec had been chosen by his predecessor due to his talents at an early age. He was a fine young man with much potential to do well, and was more than willing to begin his era of reign over the grand city. Unfortunately, however, like many kings before him, his desires to do well quickly withered away. He became ruthless, lazy, selfish, and did not care about anything outside his temple. Most of the government was executed by his royal council. He led a dull life as ruler, sitting on the throne for years and years, which eventually triggered his profuse aging. He ate more than he could metabolize and slept more than he could ever dream. He became fragile, fat, ugly, and grotesque in appearance. Long gray hairs erected from his big ears and broad nostrils, and a long silver beard covered most of his wrinkled, haggard face. This was nothing close to what the young Apaec had in mind, though he too had much potential to do well. Apaec was an “echt-perfect-anatomy.” I suppose this brings up the question of whether beauty is relative or not, because it is ordinarily understood that people have different concepts for beauty. However, this should not suggest that nature does not apply laws. Allow a mo pause please, if you may, and consider this pompous concept: two types of Hominidae beauty pertaining exclusively to the physical: one when the inevitable laws of nature evoke your senses and order them by unimpeachable control to become uncontrollably aroused