The Lost Island

40

Amy took the thing out, cradling it in her hand, its intense smell rising in the heat. Gideon felt temporarily stunned, staring at the thing, which looked like a dried pod or bud of some kind. Was this really the lotus — the healing remedium? He felt a rush of hope, immediately followed by doubt.

“Gideon?” Amy said, sotto voce. “Hello? Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What? Oh.” He turned to the chief. “We thank you very much for this gift! Muchas gracias!” He gave a low bow.

“Find out where it comes from,” said Amy.

“Yes, absolutely. Ah, donde, donde…My Spanish is no good…” He held up the thing. “Donde?”

The chief’s eyes opened. He pointed toward the invisible ocean. “Isla,” he said. “Isla Tawaia.”

“Isla,” repeated Gideon. It came from an island.

Everyone was now crowding around, pushing and shoving. The chief led them to a smaller hut off to one side, pulled open some hanging palm leaves covering the entrance, and — with much talk and gesturing — indicated that this was where they were to sleep: on woven mats laid on the ground, with tattered supermarket sheets and a polyester child’s blanket decorated with Tweety Bird.

“Thank you,” said Gideon. “Gracias.” He indicated they wanted to go inside and rest. The sun was now setting, casting a golden glow through the jungle foliage.

The chief left and Amy threw herself on one of the mats. “I’m exhausted.”

“I want to reconnoiter,” said Gideon. “I want to see if we can identify this Isla Tawaia where the lotus came from. I’m going down to the ocean. You coming?”

“Of course.” Amy got to her feet.

As soon as they were out of their shack, iPhone came over. He spoke rapidly, making gestures of help.

“I think you have a new friend,” said Amy.

“We’re going to the ocean,” said Gideon. “A la mar. We’re going swimming.” He made a swimming motion. iPhone nodded his understanding. He pointed to a small opening in the brush that indicated a trail.

Gideon began heading down the trail, Amy at his side. He was glad iPhone wasn’t following. As they walked, the sound of the sea grew in intensity, until they passed through a mass of sea grapes and there — through a scattering of palm trees — was the ocean. A golden light lay across the water, and a heavy sea was running.

Amy stopped, staring at a faint blue cluster of mountainous islands in the great distance offshore. She took the binoculars out of her bag and peered through them for a long time. Finally, in silence, she handed them to Gideon.

The distant islands were spectacularly rugged, steep volcanic peaks that thrust almost vertically from the ocean, soaring a thousand or more feet high. Their flanks were black, ripped with landslides, the tops covered in lush green jungle, gilded in the light of the setting sun. A single cloud hovered over the nearer, higher island, glowing vermilion in the dying light. But the thing that caught Gideon’s attention was a lone spire of crooked rock before the island cluster, surrounded by boiling surf. It stuck out of the sea like a black corkscrew.

“The Twisted Place,” said Gideon, staring at it.

“Incredible. Tortuosum locum. And those islands behind are the trans ultra of the clue. ‘Beyond the beyond.’ That’s our final destination.”

Gideon lowered the glasses. “How the hell are we going to get there?”

“Our friends will take us.” She pointed to a row of dugout canoes hauled far up on the beach.

“Cross that sea in a dugout? No thanks. It’s time to call Glinn, take him up on that offer of a fresh boat.”

Amy paused. “Let’s wait on that.”

Gideon looked at her. “I don’t get it. Why are you so opposed to accepting Glinn’s help?”

A long silence. “I don’t like his controlling methods. And I’m not sure bringing a big yacht in here is going to help us win the trust of the locals.”

“We are working for him, after all.”

She lowered the glasses and looked at him. “No. We’re working for the project.”

For a while they looked out at the mysterious islands, and then Gideon said: “I’d like to take a swim, if you don’t mind. I’m sweaty and covered with bug bites.”

“I’ll join you.”

“Well, um, I obviously don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Who cares? Neither do I.”

Gideon shrugged and pulled off his filthy clothes, then ran down the beach and into the ocean. It was wonderfully refreshing. The water was relatively calm, inside where the waves were breaking farther offshore. He swam about, rinsed himself off, and came out. He shook off as much water as he could, spread his shirt on the sand, and sat down. Amy returned a moment later and he found himself admiring her body, which was just about as buff as he’d imagined.

She sat down next to him. “A gentleman does not stare at a naked woman.”

“Sorry.” He colored, turning his back.

A light breeze came off the water, drying them off. They remained awhile in silence.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Amy said at last. “Glinn told me about how you managed to steal that page from the Book of Kells. That was some very, very slick work.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know how I feel, though — having an art thief for a partner.”

“I grow on people,” Gideon said.

“I’ll bet you do. Like a fungus.”

Gideon shook his head, laughed.

“Did you ever get caught?” Amy asked.

“Nope.”

“So you were never in jail?”

“Yes, I was. Once. Mistaken identity. I was arrested for a hit and run. Spent the night in a cell, and they caught the real guy the next day.”

“What was that like? Being behind bars, I mean.”

Gideon shrugged. “I read poetry.”

“Poetry?”

“There was an old, battered anthology of poems in the holding cell. It was either that or The Watchtower.”

They began to dress. “I hate putting these dirty clothes back on,” said Amy.

“Think boat. Think showers. Soap. Fresh linen. Clean sheets. Soft bed. Hot espresso.”

“Espresso…”

“If we want to explore those islands, we’re going to need a boat, we’re going to need maps and a GPS. We won’t need the trust of the natives. Tomorrow, we’ve got to call Glinn.”

Amy was silent a long time, and then she sighed. “All right. Tomorrow morning.” She smiled. “I could really use an espresso…”