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couldn't have picked a better spot. Huanacaran was one of the most dangerous places on the continent, a zone controlled by Shining Path guerrillas. The night before our departure my friend came to my hotel room, and, with his eyes fixed on the tile floor, told me he couldn't go. I didn't blame him, though it was too late to find another guide.

I remember that night so clearly. Marcus's mother had made just one request before I left: have faith in her conviction. But I lacked her confidence. The story she told was too far-fetched. That night in Cuzco, however, I knew I had to believe as she did, otherwise it was better not to go. I thought of Marcus, and suddenly I was back in the jungle, where one discovers the darkness in one's heart. How frightening that can be. Marcus, your mother can still hear your heartbeat; she can hear your voice singing. Wherever you are, I am coming to take you home, my brother. You know you'll always live in my heart. Wait for me there, Marcus, I am walking toward you.

There were three of us at the train station: a cook who spoke Quechua, a helper from Lima too broke to say no, and me. The journey was full of surprises. At the first station José Ugarte appeared. He had spent a sleepless night, repenting his decision not to go. Farther down the line, representatives of the military climbed aboard. They briefly checked our documents and destination, then trouble started. The cook was dragged away in handcuffs. At the