“What about the language issue?” Leonid pressed. “I thought you said that none of the villagers spoke English or even pidgin.”
“That was our impression, but my suspicion is that some of the older villagers must,” Remi reasoned. “Even if they don’t have a lot of contact with the outside world, they have to have some, and if they want to do business, they have to speak something in common. Probably pidgin. In which case, we can wing it. Plus, we have the mighty Lazlo with us—master of a thousand dialects.”
Remi pointed at the opening to the trail that led to the bay as they passed it. “There’s the bay road. The village is about three miles down the coast. According to the survivor, it took them a full day to haul the treasure to the cave.”
Leonid did a quick calculation. “What, exactly, are the directions that Lazlo found hidden in the diary?”
Sam glanced at Lazlo in the rearview mirror. “Care to demonstrate your photographic memory?”
“Ahem. It said ‘Toward the rising sun from the last hut, to the goat’s head, then into enemy territory to the small waterfall. The way lies beyond the falls.’”
Leonid shook his head. “Seriously? That’s what we’re going on?”
“He obviously intended it to be a reminder to himself, not a series of directions to be followed. But it should be enough,” Remi said. “We’ve worked from more obscure clues than this.”
“Right,” Leonid snorted. “So we have to find a village that’s no longer there, which may or may not be the only one in the area, then locate whatever a goat’s head is, then find a waterfall. Assuming it’s still there. Somewhere beyond that, which could be ten meters or ten kilometers, there’s a cave. Which may or may not be visible and could well be crawling with murderous rebels. Did I get this right?”
A deafening roar of thunder exploded overhead and moments later the road darkened with gray rain, reducing visibility to no more than twenty feet.
“You left out where we’re going to probably have to camp out at least one night, and possibly several nights,” Sam said. “But don’t worry. We got a couple of tents and some supplies.”
“And plenty of bug spray,” Remi added.
“In this soup?” Lazlo asked. “I say, nobody said anything about camping. I’d rather hoped to try the blackened ahi for dinner tonight. Looked smashing on the menu.”
“Then there’s an incentive to work fast,” Sam said. He glanced off to his left and slowed. “I think this is the trail to the village. Remi?”
She peered through the rain at an unmarked gap in the jungle. “Could be. It’s hard to tell.”
“Well, we’ve got nothing but time. Might as well give it a go,” Sam said, slowing further as golf-ball-sized raindrops hammered the Nissan. He engaged the four-wheel drive and they lurched off the pavement, the tires slipping in the mud before gripping sufficiently to propel them forward.
The rain stopped just as they arrived at the stream that had proved such a challenge to Rubo on their last trip. Sam slowed and gazed at it. “Now, was it across the stream or up the hill?”
“Are you kidding?” Leonid muttered.
“I think it was across the stream,” Sam said, goosing the gas. The overloaded vehicle splashed through the stream. The jungle closed in around them as they climbed the bank.
When they rounded the bend and the village appeared, Remi exhaled a silent breath of relief—they’d taken the right trail from the road. The SUV coasted to a stop in the clearing at the base of the first cluster of huts, and several curious villagers stared at them as they disembarked. Sam led them up the hill to the group, where he recognized the shaman from the prior trip. The man nodded to them and pointed to the hut far up the hill where they’d interviewed Nauru and shook his head. Sam nodded and fished in his pocket and then extracted a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to the man.
“Rubo,” he said, then shook his head as well. The old man’s eyes widened in understanding and he hesitantly took the bill. “You speak English?” Sam asked.
The man shrugged in denial and then pointed at one of the youths sitting nearby. The young man rose and approached. Sam repeated his question and the youth nodded.
“Little speak,” he said.
“We’re looking for an old village. Abandoned,” Sam said. The youth’s eyes were confused. Sam tried again. “A village. Where Nauru used to live. We need to find it.”
This time, it appeared that the message got through because the youth turned to the elder villager and a short discussion ensued. After some back-and-forth, the youth squared his shoulders and addressed Sam.
“Nothing there. Bad.”
“We know. But we need to go,” Remi said, stepping forward.
More discussion between the youth and the old shaman and then the same impassive stare from the young man.
“No road.”
“Right. We can walk.” Remi paused. “Can you show us where it is?”