Chachapoyas

Franz had his head buried in a basket full of bread rolls.

"Just checking if they're real," he mumbled.

Perusino stood next to him, nodding seriously. "Very important. Some rolls look harmless but are dry inside."

Perusina rolled her eyes. "We're in Chachapoyas, not a bakery inspection office."

The market was bustling. Merchants called out, baskets were carried, clay pots gleamed in the sun, and above the white houses with wooden balconies, the mountains hung like a green wall. Chachapoyas felt friendly. Loud. Alive.

Until the fog came.

It didn't creep down from the mountains. It sprang.

One moment the alley was bright. The next, a white wall rolled between the stalls. Voices grew muffled. A dog barked and suddenly sounded far away. Drops gathered on Franz's whiskers.

"That's not normal fog," said Perusina.

"Maybe it's just very motivated," whispered Perusino.

Franz finally pulled his head out of the bread basket. His red scarf was dripping.

Perusina blinked. "Franz. Stop."

"Why? Do I have crumbs in my fur?"

"There's something on your scarf."

Franz spun around to look at his own chest. That didn't work well. Perusino gently grabbed him by the shoulders.

A wet mark appeared on the red fabric.

Three circles.

Above them, a line like a wall.

The water didn't run off. It stayed on the fabric as if someone had painted invisibly on it.

Franz became very still. "That wasn't there before."

Then the mark moved.

The three circles converged, darkened, and tilted to the left.

"It's showing us a direction," said Perusina.

"My scarf has become a compass," said Franz. "I would like to file an official complaint."

Behind them, a clay pot fell over.

It didn't break. It rolled.

The pot rolled across the market, exactly in the direction Franz's scarf was pointing.

Perusino ran off. "After the pot!"

"Why do you always run first?" cried Perusina.

"Because the pot has a head start!"

The pot weaved between legs, baskets, and stalls as if it had decided to be an adventure today. Franz scurried after it. His backpack strap got caught on a market stall. The stall tipped over. A basket of beans flew up. Perusino jumped under it, slipped on a bean, and landed in a pile of empty sacks.

"I landed softly!" he called. "That's almost a plan!"

Perusina chased along the edge of the alley. She didn't just see the pot. She saw the fog.

It didn't move randomly. It opened narrow paths and closed them again. Like doors.

The pot hit a wall and stopped.

Above it hung an old wooden balcony. A board on it creaked.

"Not under it!" cried Perusina.

Too late.

The board clapped down like a barrier. Franz stopped so hard that his hind paws kept running. Perusino crashed into him. Both rolled into a box of blankets.

Perusina stopped in front of the board. The same three circles gleamed on the wood.

"This is no coincidence," she said.

"Nobody's saying that here anymore," Franz mumbled from the blanket.

The fog grew thicker.

Suddenly, a figure stood between the houses.

Not transparent like glass. Not white like a sheet. More like fog that had learned to stand still. The figure had an outline like a human, but its edges wafted as if made of cloud threads.

Perusino whispered: "Please tell me that's a very wet neighbor."

The figure raised a hand.

The market fell silent.

Only Franz's scarf dripped.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Each drop fell to the ground, leaving a small circle. Three circles. Then a line.

Perusina knelt down. "Those aren't eyes. Not plates. Not coins."

She looked at the mountains.

"Those are round houses behind a wall."

Perusino swallowed. "Kuélap?"

The fog figure tilted its head.

Then it turned and glided through a side alley.

"We're following it," said Perusina.

"Of course we are," said Franz. "Why wouldn't you follow a fog creature with questionable marks on my scarf?"

The alley led uphill. The fog lay between the white house walls like water. At a corner stood a second spirit. It pointed to a stone step. When Perusino stepped beside it, the ground disappeared under the fog. Perusina pulled him back by his backpack.

"Not there."

A stone dislodged and rumbled into the depth.

Perusino stared down. "Thanks, backpack."

"Thanks, Perusina," said Perusina.

"Also."

They continued climbing. Franz's scarf grew colder the higher they went. The mark pulled them through narrow staircases, past balconies, past walls with damp spots, past a fountain whose water briefly spurted upwards.

Then they stood at a viewpoint above Chachapoyas.

The fog opened.

Not completely. Just a slit.

Far in the distance lay the mountains. Green, steep, half swallowed by clouds. And on one of the ridges, for a heartbeat, they saw a dark line.

A wall.

Behind it, round shapes.

Then everything was white again.

Franz's scarf stopped dripping.

Instead, something small fell into his pocket.

Click.

Perusina carefully reached in and pulled out a tiny stone bead. Round. Heavy. Warm.

Three circles were etched on it again.

Perusino leaned closer. "What opens them?"

From the fog came a dull thud.

Stone against stone.

Franz looked at the mountain. "I hope nothing with teeth."

The fog figure stood before them once more. It didn't point back to Chachapoyas.

It pointed to Kuélap.

Then it dissolved.

Perusina closed her fingers around the stone bead. "That wasn't a warning for us to stay away."

Perusino tightened his backpack. "Then what?"

The fog before them parted like a narrow path.

Franz sighed.

"An invitation. And I hate invitations where my scarf knows first."

Then they set off.