Keepers of the Lost City

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Lewis and his son, Gary, labored for hours to clear the thick brush from the obscured route that led up to the peculiar entrance of the rock.

“Hurry, boy!” Lewis cried, clenching his jaw while the spear-thistles cut through his calloused hands. With great toil, the big farmer held fast to a handful of stems and thorns, waiting for his son to catch up. They were halfway up the steep hill, working their way up through the dense shrubbery that grew from arid soil and loose rocks. “Gary, move!”

“I’m trying, dad! For God’s sake, my boots are slipping with every step, man! Why do we have to do this now?” he bitched, gasping for air as his unfit lungs screamed under the labor of climbing the incline. “Maybe if we wait for a cooler day…”

“Crikey, boy, you want to wait for a cooler day round Moana? It is not the temperature that makes you suffer like this and you know it. Maybe if you had less than three plates of food and got of your lazy ass once in a while, this kind of stuff would be easier.”

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