The Lost Island

38

They spent the night under the protection of a group of palms. The next morning, a broiling sun rose over the glossy sea, bringing with it a suffocating blanket of heat and swarms of sandflies. Gideon went for an early-morning swim in the ocean, trying to escape the biting insects. When he returned to camp, Amy had built a smoky fire to try to drive them back.

They ate leftover armadillo meat in silence, shooing the flies away from it. They were running low on water and had begun to ration it. As the heat continued to rise, Gideon felt his thirst returning.

“We’d better get going,” Amy said, repacking their meager supplies in her drysack.

“Aren’t we supposed to call Glinn with a sit-rep?”

“Remember, the sat-phone battery is almost dead. I think we better leave it off in case we have a real emergency.”

“Okay, but Glinn will go nuts if we don’t call in soon.”

Amy shook her head, considering this with a half smile. “Too bad for him.”

“You don’t like Glinn, do you?”

“How’d you guess?”

Gideon watched Amy carefully roll up the Odyssey printout and store it in her drysack. In the light of day, her theory felt more outlandish than it had the night before, as she told the story by firelight with conviction and enthusiasm. He felt a twinge of irritation at her excessive care with the printout, mingled, perhaps, with a sense of embarrassment at his impulsive gesture and the rejection that followed. And why was she so eager to refuse Glinn’s help?

They trudged down the beach until they came to another lagoon inlet. This one presented a nasty surprise. It was wider than the earlier ones — three hundred yards at least — and a swift tidal current of brown water was flowing out to sea. Looking inland, Gideon could see that the lagoon was enormous, almost like an inland sea.

“I was afraid of this,” said Amy, setting down her drysack. “This must be the Laguna de los Micos, a big lagoon I recall from the charts.”

“If we try to swim across, we’ll be swept out to sea,” Gideon said. “And we can’t circle around — it’s too vast.”

Amy was silent.

“Why not take Glinn up on that offer of a new boat? This lagoon would be a good rendezvous point.”

Amy shook her head. “We’re almost there.” She rummaged in her drysack and brought out the binoculars. Wading into the inlet, she glassed the shores of the lagoon, which swept away from them in a long crescent into the hazy distance. Bugs swarmed about and one buried itself into Gideon’s ear canal, buzzing frantically. He used his finger to pry it out. As they remained motionless the cloud of noxious insects thickened, swarming into his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. Swatting at them was like trying to push back the tide.

Amy lowered the binoculars. “I think we should wade along the shore. Where the lagoon widens, the current drops and we might swim it.”

“Whatever we do, let’s keep going. I’m being eaten alive.”

They waded along the muddy shores of the lagoon, on the edge of an impenetrable tangle of mangrove roots and trees. The water was about three feet deep, with a bottom of muck that sucked them down with every step. It was slow, exhausting work, and the vast insect population of the swamp followed along with them, with more arriving every minute.

As the inlet broadened, the current lessened until they were wading through dead, smelly water the temperature of a warm bath. The heat, humidity, and insects enveloped them like a steam blanket.

“We could try swimming,” said Gideon, eyeing the far shore of the lagoon, which now looked to be about a mile away.

Amy squinted. Again, she took out the binoculars and scanned the shore ahead of them. Suddenly she stopped, drawing in her breath.

“What is it?”

She handed him the binoculars. “About half a mile farther. Take a look at that white thing.”

Gideon took the binoculars and peered at it. “I think it’s a boat.”

Wading faster now, they slogged along the verge of the mangroves until the boat came into better view. It was a battered wooden canoe, half filled with water, which had drifted into a tangle of mangrove roots. At least ten coats of brightly colored paint were flaking off its side, giving it a psychedelic air.

“Let’s bail it out, see if it floats,” said Gideon.

They began bailing with cupped hands, flinging the water out. In ten minutes the boat was floating, with only a trickle seeping back in through cracks in the bottom. They put their bags in the boat, sorted through the driftwood piled up against the mangrove roots, and found a couple of pieces that could serve as paddles. They climbed in and, kneeling in the bottom, began paddling. As the canoe moved away from the mangroves, Gideon could feel, with relief, a faint movement of air that began to push away the cloud of insects.

“My God, I thought I was going to go crazy back there,” he said, waving away the last of the swarm. “Just think, we could be relaxing in the cabin of a five-million-dollar yacht right now. All we have to do is call Glinn.”

Amy grunted. “Be quiet and keep paddling.”

“Whatever you say, Captain Bligh.”

Slowly the far shore drew closer, another mass of mangrove swamp. As they approached, Gideon examined it with the binoculars and noted a channel in the mangroves leading to what looked like a sandy beach.

Less than half an hour later, they had landed and pulled the boat up on a muddy beach at the far edge of the swamp. As Amy was hauling out the drysacks, Gideon saw a movement in his peripheral vision.

“Um, Amy? We have company.”

She straightened and turned. Six men had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and were standing in a semicircle about twenty feet away, spears in hand.

“Uh-oh,” Gideon murmured.

For a moment the two groups just stared at each other.

“Let me handle this,” said Gideon. He rose with a big smile. “Friends,” he said. “Amigos.” Forcing a smile, he held out his hands, palms open. “Somos amigos.”

A man, apparently the leader, hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat on the ground. The stillness seemed to grow. Gideon took the moment to observe them. The men were all dressed in similar fashion: dirty shorts, T-shirts, tattered flip-flops. Many wore necklaces of odd bits of trash from civilization — bottle caps, plastic costume jewelry, tin spoons, and broken pieces of electronics and circuit boards. The leader wore an old iPhone around his neck on a leather thong, with a hole punched through it. The glass front of the phone had an image scratched on it of what looked like a monkey’s grimacing face.

“Somos amigos,” Gideon tried again.

The iPhone man stepped forward and spoke angrily in an unknown language, gesturing at the dugout canoe with his spear. He went on for some time, shaking the spear and pointing at them, at the canoe, and then across the water from where they had taken it.

“I think iPhone is accusing us of stealing,” said Amy. “Tell them we’re sorry.”

Gideon racked his brains. His Spanish was limited to what he’d picked up from living in New Mexico. He turned to Amy. “I thought you were the linguist.”

“Yeah, in classical languages. Too bad they don’t speak ancient Greek.”

More angry gesturing. The man with the iPhone finally said, “Ven. Ven.” He gestured at what looked like a trail through the mangroves.

“Ven…I think that’s Spanish. He’s telling us to come with him,” said Gideon.

To emphasize the point, iPhone leveled his spear and gestured again. “Ven!”

They followed iPhone along a sandy trail that wound among the mangroves, finally leading into thick jungle. It grew brutally hot and humid, and once again clouds of insects flowed out of the verdure to surround them. Even iPhone, Gideon noted with a certain satisfaction, was slapping and grumbling as he strode at a fast pace along the trail, the rest of his men bringing up the rear.

After about five miles, Gideon heard the faint sound of surf. Palm trees began to appear, the vegetation thinned, and he caught a whiff of salt air. A moment later they emerged at a tiny settlement: a few shacks made of driftwood and corrugated tin set about haphazardly in a grassy area, shaded by palms. They could hear but not see the ocean through a thick screen of jungle.

In the center of the settlement was an open area with a fire, where a group of old women stirred something in an enormous, dented enamel pot sitting on the coals. Two posts stood at either end of the hamlet, carved like totem poles with grinning monkey faces not unlike the one on the iPhone. To one side stood what looked like a kind of shrine, a miniature house built of finely shaped driftwood with a grass roof. Inside, Gideon could make out some old human skulls, brown with age, carefully arranged along with other bones.

The leader let forth another burst of talk, indicating that they should sit on a log to one side. The women continued to cook as if nothing was happening. A group of children materialized out of the surrounding forest to stand and gape at the strangers in silence.

“Do you have any idea who these people are?” Gideon murmured.

“Since this is the Mosquito Coast, I’d assume they are Miskito Indians.”

The group of tribal elders huddled, speaking animatedly, iPhone taking the lead. It was all too obvious they were discussing what to do about the intruders, with iPhone leading the group of naysayers. Finally, he detached himself from the group and went up to Gideon, reaching out for his drysack. “Dar!”

“No,” said Gideon, pulling it back.

The man leveled his spear and made a jabbing motion while holding out his hand. “Dar!”

“Keep in mind,” Amy murmured, “you’ve got a loaded .45 in that bag if you need it.”

“Mi,” said Gideon, stepping back.

The man lunged for it, at the same time swiping at Gideon with his spear.

“Son of a bitch!” cried Gideon.

More angry words and gesturing with the spear tip.

“If you take out the gun,” said Amy, “maybe that’ll shut him up.”

“Not a good idea,” said Gideon. “At least, not yet.”

The man yelled at him again, shaking the spear.

Gideon stepped forward, almost walking up to the spear point, and began to yell. “Put that spear down! Baja! We are visitors!” He racked his brains, trying to dredge up what little Spanish he had. “Somos amigos! Visitantes!”

The Indian paused, taken aback by Gideon’s vehemence.

“Lo siento! I am sorry about the boat. Muchas gracias. But we were shipwrecked on this shore. Nuestro barco, baja en agua.” He gestured, showing how their boat had sunk and pantomiming how they swam to shore. With exaggerated and comical gestures he communicated how they were forced to wander about, looking for food and water, how they were starving and thirsty.

The group of men had stopped arguing and were now listening.

“We need help. You understand? Socorro. Comprende? Ayuda. Alimento y agua.” He made eating and drinking gestures.

iPhone shook his spear again. Gideon slapped it away, then stepped forward and bared his chest. “You want to stab me, go ahead! If that’s how you treat visitors, get it over with!”

This occasioned some murmuring among the older women, who were watching now with beady black eyes.

iPhone, enraged, placed the tip of the spear roughly against Gideon’s chest, drawing blood.

“I’m not so sure your strategy is working,” said Amy, reaching into his bag for the .45. “I think it’s time to show these people we mean business.”