About Us

We are “The Inca Roads.” Because we created “The Inca Roads.” Because we had to.

We had to build them because we knew we would have to make an emergency landing there—in the Andes—with our spaceship.

In the future—or in the past… I’m not sure anymore.

I’m not sure about time anymore. After so many years of time travel, after we figured out how to open this tunnel through space and time, no one would be sure anymore.

We could be in the same place at any given time, or we could be right now, but anywhere. It’s confusing.

I’m not sure about anything anymore. I’ve lost track of when we were where.
But I do know that we traveled back in time to build The Inca Roads in the Andes for our spaceship to land.

Of course…

But this strange time-travel thing is really just the secondary plot, the supplementary story…

First and foremost, we were a band. Just a band that wrote songs. We filled stadiums, we were famous once. Or we will be.

I don’t know if it has happened yet… You know, the thing with time travel, you never know if something has already happened or is yet to happen.

The band consisted of five members: Frank was the singer, me, Mike, the guitarist. Pixie—that’s not her real name, of course—played bass.

We called her Pixie because that’s what she was like: like a mythical creature straight out of Irish mythology, a being from the world of fables, the kind you encounter when you sit on a mossy stone by a stream, pondering the world, and are suddenly intently scrutinized by a female mythical creature with almost black eyes and a crazy haircut. That’s what she was like.

Pixie talked to animals. And they answered her. Not as you would talk to your pet, she spoke to the animals as her own kind. She simply understood their language.

Mr. Jones played the drums. He never talked much, neither to animals nor to people. To this day, we don’t know exactly how he joined the band, who invited him—he was just suddenly there. Sitting behind his drums, silent. Or he was drumming. But when he wasn’t drumming, he was silent. Actually, he was mostly silent even when he was drumming.

And then there was the girl who played the piano. Not just any piano: a grand piano. She came from a rich family, really rich, INCREDIBLY rich!

She had absolutely everything. Her grand piano was a Fazioli, the most expensive grand piano ever made. And she had everything else too. If it had keys and it existed, she had it. A Hammond B3, a Fender Rhodes, synthesizers in abundance, Roland, Moog, you name it. She had a studio in her parents’ castle. There was even a working Mellotron there. If she liked something, she bought it.

We also rehearsed and recorded our music in the castle’s studio. She had converted an entire floor of the west wing into a recording studio with various rooms, and one of them, the one we used for our rehearsals, was as big as a small ballroom.

I have no idea where the money came from, and I never met her parents. Liv seemed to live alone in this enormous castle and its sprawling park, which was the size of a small village.

We—The Inca Roads—were famous; things were going well for us. As I said, we filled stadiums and headlined all the major festivals worldwide, all around the globe.

And on the stage of one of these festivals, all the strange things began. It started with the disappearance of Liv Berg, who—among the band members—was affectionately called Bellibutton, or simply: Belli.

But excuse me, I’m tired, so incredibly tired, as if I haven’t slept in ages. I need to close my eyes for a moment and rest. We will continue this later.