The Lost Island

39

Wait,” whispered Gideon. He smeared his left hand across the trickle of blood welling up on his chest. Then he drew two streaks of blood down his face — one on either side of his temples — and drew a third slash across his forehead.

The effect was immediate — and startling. With a gasp, iPhone drew back, pulling away the spear. A burst of hushed whispering came from the women.

Suddenly the door flap of the nearby hut was flung open and a wizened old man came out: bowlegged, moving painfully, his back bowed into a hump. Unlike the others, he was dressed traditionally, in a loincloth.

The group of arguing men fell silent as the old man stopped before them, eyeing them fiercely. Then he spoke a sharp word at iPhone. Next, he turned to Gideon and launched into a long, incomprehensible speech in his native tongue, accompanied by much histrionic gesturing. The old man did not look happy about them being there, but at least, it seemed to Gideon, he wasn’t going to kill them. Finally the man broke off, indicating that they should sit down on a log near the fire.

“What was that all about?” Amy murmured. “Your smearing blood all over your face?”

“I needed a makeover.”

She frowned and he hastily added, “Actually, I don’t know why they reacted like that. I was just imitating that.” He nodded toward the closest totem pole. “Look at the one-eyed figure on top. I just copied the decoration on his face.”

Amy shook her head. “A gun would’ve been simpler.”

“You take out a gun and things get real complicated, real fast. I go for the social engineering route — like your pal Odysseus.”

Bowls of stew arrived and were placed before them. They smelled heavenly. It was all Gideon could do to keep from burning his mouth as he ate. They ate self-consciously — the only ones eating — while everyone else looked on, crowding around and staring at them — men, women, and children.

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite so delicious,” said Gideon, spooning the thick broth into his mouth.

Amy was slowly stirring her stew and fished out something that looked like a rat’s tail. “I wonder what’s in it.”

“My advice? Eat with your eyes closed.”

They finished the stew. “Now what?” Amy asked. “What do we say to these people?”

“One thing I’ve learned is that people are the same everywhere,” said Gideon. He rose and seized the old man’s hand, giving it a vigorous shake. “Muchas gracias,” he said. “Muchas gracias!” He went through the entire crowd, first the men, then the women, shaking their hands with a grin on his face. While this was received with a certain amount of bewilderment, Gideon could see that the good cheer and friendliness were having a positive effect.

“And now,” he said to Amy, “I’m going to give a speech.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. They won’t understand a word.”

“Amy, don’t you get it? We’ve got to act a certain part. Visitors worthy of respect. And what does a visitor worthy of respect do? Give a speech.”

Amy shook her head.

“And give gifts.” Gideon climbed up on a stump and raised his hands. “My friends!” he cried out.

A hush fell over the group.

“We have come a long way, across the sea, to be with you today…”

He continued grandly, in a big voice, while the crowd listened intently, not understanding a word. Concluding after a long interval, Gideon rummaged in his drysack and pulled out a gift: a flashlight. With great fanfare he walked up to the old man — and presented it to him.

The old man looked exceedingly displeased. He switched it on and off, clearly familiar with its use, totally unimpressed, and then handed it to one of the children.

A tense silence ensued. All the goodwill generated by the speech seemed to dissipate.

“Oops,” murmured Amy. “Looks like the natives aren’t accepting beads anymore.”

Reaching into his bag again, Gideon thought fast. What could he give them better than a flashlight? His hand closed on the grip of the .45. No way. There were some knives…but they already had plenty. Granola bars, briefing book, matches, medical kit…he could feel the sweat trickling down his face.

The old chief was looking restless and irritated. It was obvious he felt condescended to in public by being given a flashlight as if it were a gift from the gods.

Gideon pulled out one of the grenades.

Amy stared at him. “Gideon, are you crazy—?”

With a flourish, Gideon presented it to the chief. A great murmur rose up. The chief received it in both hands, examined it with a professional eye, and then hooked it on his sash by its lever. Clearly, he knew what it was and highly approved. He gave Gideon’s hand a vigorous shake. The other men followed, shaking his hand. All was well.

Now it was the chief’s turn. He gave a long, windy, incomprehensible speech in his native language, with many favorable glances thrown Gideon’s way, which held everyone spellbound. When the speech was over, the chief went into his hut. There was a long, anticipatory silence.

“Here comes the comely daughter,” Gideon muttered to Amy.

Instead, the chief emerged with a small, polished wooden box. He handed it to Gideon. The box was of exquisite workmanship, beautifully hand carved of some dark, exotic wood, with a likeness of the same god or demon who graced the top of the totem pole. Gideon opened it to reveal some dry grass padding. A delicious smell of honey and cinnamon wafted up. Gideon drew aside the grass to reveal, nestled within, a strange-looking object, a dried flower bud perhaps — black, wrinkled, about an inch in diameter. He took it out.

Everyone began talking at once. Clearly it was something of enormous value.

He looked at Amy. “What is this — some kind of drug?”

Amy was staring at the object with great intensity, and then her eyes shifted to Gideon. “I believe these people are the Lotus Eaters. And they’ve just given you a lotus.”