I will never forget my many meetings with Mr Hounslow Willemby, one of which led to what would prove to be the start of the biggest adventure of my life.

He was a strange fellow, there is no doubt. A tall man, with a hairline so receded, it seemed to start at the very top of his head, with the long white hair then tumbling in a thick mass down below his shoulders. His thick woollen suits, too—perfectly tailored to his thin frame—only served to exaggerate his already imposing height.

There was an intensity in how he would look at you; in how he would address you, making even the most mundane of subjects seem like the most important thing in the world. A learned man, with anecdotes and opinions on any topic, he was a perfect proprietor for the second hand book shop he owned, and lived above. Yes, he was a giant of a man in both stature and intellect.

It was on one of my regular visits to his shop—as I was idly leafing my way through a rather wordy manuscript concerning the fabled Maggazatti tribe of Central Africa—that we struck up a wonderful conversation about the disappearance of ancient civilisations. Neither of us, as I recall, was anything of an accredited expert—in truth we were nothing more than hobbyists—but Mr Willemby certainly had an amazing plethora of tomes, magazines, journals, encyclopaedias and the likes regarding the Ancient Egyptians, Incas, Aztecs, and even some lesser-known African peoples.

“I have an old diary somewhere,” he said, scratching his rather exposed crown as he climbed the shelf-ladder to the top shelf. He continued mumbling away to himself as he rummaged among some scrolls, papers, and who knows what else was up there, going by the thick dust clouds being thrown out. “Aha!” he declared, almost falling off the ladder. “Here it is.”

He stepped back down, dusting off the dark red cover, further fuelling the pollution circling the small shop. “I have no idea how this book got here,” he regaled, “nor who donated it. But it has been here for many, many years, just gathering dust as you can clearly see.”

As he walked back toward me he explained that the book had been in the shop for as long as he could remember. He was clueless as to its origins; the structure of the book, and the writings inside, nothing like anything he had ever seen.

He laid it on the table, wiping it with a cloth, revealing the most intricate gold leaf lettering. It was impossible to tell how old the book was, but it had certainly been in existence for hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years. The lettering was a mystery; not because of what it said, but more in the way it looked so fresh and recent, as opposed to the cracked and veined covers and bindings of the book itself.

“The Testimony of Supay!” I read out.

Mr Willemby just stared at me, his sagging jowls and jaw testament to his complete and utter disbelief. “You can understand this?” he asked, his eyes wide in amazement.

“Why, yes,” I replied, a little confused. “Can’t you?” The writing was a little ornate, certainly, but perfectly legible, particularly with my good reading glasses.

He turned the book around, affording me a much better look. “You can understand the symbols?” he queried.

I laughed a little. “Symbols? They look like normal letters to me. Of course, I don’t…”

“To you they look like letters, but, to all who previously saw this book they are symbols. Much like the hieroglyphics of Ancient Egypt.”

He snapped the cover open to reveal an aged, sepia, papyrus-like fabric, covered from top to bottom in the most beautiful, but tiny, scrawlings. I say ‘scrawlings’, but that in no way reflects the horizontal and vertical precision of these extraordinary characters, written in many coloured—and I presume, natural—inks.

“Read the first line… please,” he beseeched me.

My curiosity was more than aroused now. The writing was clear, albeit small, and I could not fathom Mr Willemby’s difficulty. I leaned forward, raising my spectacles to my eyes once more.

“Herein lies a warning for the foolhardy,” I began. I looked up to my friend. “Well, that’s not the friendliest of beginnings, is it?”

“Please continue,” he said, overlooking my causality at what was of more than just passing interest to the man.

I cleared my throat, leaning in once again. “The doorway to El Dorado is shut. The pathway lost. Seek ye the fortunes of the damned, then forsake the protections of your gods.”

Mr Willemby clapped his hands together, placing his fingertips to his lips. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “Please read on,” he asserted.

He at last seemed to have some inkling as to what we had before us, but I was still none the wiser. “The bountiful wastes, to the west of the great forest, by the division of Peruvia and Brasilia, shall play eternal home to the filched treasures and paraphernalia, the grasped loot of Conquistadore.”

I jumped as Mr Willemby clapped his hands once more. “I don’t believe it,” he gushed. “I don’t believe it. Do you realise what this is, Mr Morecombe?”

I admit, I was rather amused by his newfound enthusiasm and childlike manner, but I was still none the wiser. “I…”

“Supay was the mythical Incan god of the dead,” he said. “It was long rumoured that he was, in fact, a once-powerful Incan chief, who fled the invasion of the Conquistadors.” He turned the book back around, flipping the pages over, then looked up to me with the widest smile. “This, I believe, may be the key to discovering the location of El Dorado… and, with it, untold fortune and fame.”

“Mr Morecombe,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “I think we should take a little journey.”