Huaca Rajada was another bright gouge in the earth, like a white valley hidden under a lip of the brilliant greenery of the tall grass and the life lurking below it. This one, revered as it was, contained the temple, or, more precisely, the tomb of the Lord of Sipán, erroded by storms but majestically intact, as if the mystical huaca had protected it for all these years from looters and molesters. The archaeologists, though, couldn't be discounted in its continued prosperity. Not many were there that day, toiling in the unrelenting and breezeless heat as it was, but a few dedicated individuals were about. At the closed door of the tomb, in the shade of its arch, one approached the flying witch cautiously.
With a hesitant but hopeful humour, he said, "Este es mi dia mas suerte," and gave a nervous laugh. It wasn't every day that the beautiful women fell from the sky. Down the temple steps, where there were less closed passages, there were tents and trailers where the gold of ancient and restored masks glinted and the strange, squat and elaborately crafted pots sat with judgmental faces, inviting admiration and any questions to be directed to the three young students who were their keepers. Though they didn't lurk in closed doors, those three didn't seem so ready to approach anyone who swept in without wings. They might have seen enough strange happenings in this holy place.