by Nikki Steele
Part of my job as a librarian back home had been story time sessions with younger children. I’d enjoyed it there, but this… this was something else entirely. Before my arrival, the village had owned just three books—a battered copy of something in French that nobody could read, a car manual that looked to be from the 1920s, and the village’s most prized possession, an alphabet picture book that had such riveting lines as A is for Apple, and B is for Bear.
It was Leena who had taught the young ones to speak, but her lessons had been all discipline and purpose—a means through which she could communicate with the elders. She’d had no time for the joy of stories, only for practical commands.
I’d taken it upon myself to teach them the joy that words could create, the magic in a story. The shared world that a book could bring.
Each book I pulled from my bag was an object of treasure. Not just a story, but a window into a faraway land; an education about the world beyond this small, green island. Today, we were reading Oh, the Places You'll Go! By Dr. Seuss.
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go.
It was a magical book, and by the time I had finished even the adults were standing around, one of the children translating me word for word as I read. It was met with a round of applause when I finished. The children called for me to read it again.
I laughed, about to acquiesce, when soft words quieted the village. I paused, searching for the voice that had spoken.
More soft words, and the crowd parted. An elder was walking forward, his steps measured by the tap of a cane in his right hand. He had the long earlobes of the very old and ribs showed across his bare chest, but his stride was firm. He said something in the local dialect to Ford.
The child listened, then with a nod turned to me. “He says it is time.”
I looked from him to the old man. “Time for what?”
The elder said something else to the child.
“To read the words,” the young boy translated. He pulled me to my feet. “He says you have to come.”
* * *
We walked through the village—the elder, Ford and I, the path lined on either side by villagers. Mothers stood with their children, the youngest still suckling at the breast. Warriors stood by their sides. It felt like we were walking with an honor guard as we passed through them and into the jungle beyond.
It was the first time I’d truly left the safety of the beach since that initial frightening foray. The first time I had truly lost sight of civilization.
“Ford, can you ask the elder where we are going?”
The elder seemed to understand the tone of my enquiry. He shook his head, talking briefly to the young boy.
“He says it is important for you to see this, Wordkeeper.”
“Wordkeeper?”
“Person who keeps words,” he said simply. Then he gestured toward the elder, as if that would help. “Like him.”
I didn’t understand. Was the old man a librarian? Did he keep the village’s three books?
Then it clicked. Many tribes passed their knowledge by word of mouth; the shaman or lore master of the village bearing the heavy responsibility of remembering that community’s history and laws. He thought I was something similar.
I opened my mouth to refute him but then stopped. What were librarians, if not word keepers for a different medium?
Ford talked briefly to the elder, as if questioning something. The elder nodded once, sharply.
“What did you ask him?”
The boy took my hand. “You must be special. You’re the first outsider to ever see this place.”
A shiver ran up my spine, and I looked anew around me. My time in the village had taught me to love this island. I no longer feared the jungle. Instead… maybe it was the elder’s words, but there was something magical about this place. Primordial. Beautiful.
My heart grew heavy. And it was all going to be destroyed. “Ford…”
“Yes?”
I shook my head. How could I tell a young boy something like that? How could I tell an old man that had lived here all his life that this was going to change? Because it wouldn’t just be the animals that suffered. If Booker’s wife was anything like what I imagined, this village would be the first to go—they would be the only opposition left on the island, the only witnesses to her crimes.
There must be a way. There must be something I could do. Something more than just giving Booker my encouragement and staying out of Leena’s way.
We followed a clear brook that babbled beneath the trees and birdcalls for 20 minutes, picking our way slowly down a track beside the water. It was pleasant work, the pace slow to account for the elder. But then we turned suddenly at a place marked only by an ancient tree.
“Ford, why are we leaving the track?”
“This place is protected by our people. We leave no tracks so that it might be preserved.”
“Ford, where are we going?”
The young boy shook his head with a motion too old for such a youthful body. “Patience, Wordkeeper.”
The forest began to slope uphill; we walked at a leisurely pace, the old man surprisingly agile with his cane, simply slow. He had muscles like string across his arms and legs, but they were taught and wiry, and it occurred to me to wonder why someone so fit should move at a pace just measured enough to be comfortable for myself. I turned to him, but he caught my eye and winked.
“We have time,” the young boy translated.
I laughed. I was being concerned for him when, all this time, he’d been looking after me! These people really were the sweetest—like instant family. Family that was going to be broken-
The old man lifted his cane to point ahead, interrupting my train of thought. A huge tumble of boulders, some twice as big as me, lay before a sheer wall that rose above the trees. The forest stopped where the rocks began, opening the area to surprising but welcome sunlight.
I scrambled to the top of a smaller pile of scree, panting slightly. We’d been going comfortably, but we’d still climbed a fair way. I could see the village over the top of the jungle below us and the Leaf two bays beyond. This must be the start of the peak I had been able to see from the boat; the one that dominated most of the island.
“Where now?” I asked. “Up?”
Please don’t let it be up. We were high enough already thank-you-very-much.
The elder laughed as my face blanched. Then he skipped around a huge boulder ahead and disappeared.
I followed, cautiously.
Oh wow. A cave opened into the side of the cliff, so deep that I couldn’t see where it ended. The old man beckoned, a toothy smile on his face, and Ford took my hand. “Come. This is what you need to see.”
This close, a small track was visible leading inside, and we followed it, stopping at the edge of darkness where the sunlight failed.
“It’s lovely. But… why? What do you need me to do?” I asked, confused. I was no cave specialist capable of exploring its dark depths. I was no photographer capable of capturing its beauty.
The old man said something to Ford, and the child removed a cheap, battered plastic torch from his pocket. He handed it to the old man.
The elder began to speak to me. I looked to Ford.
“We show you this, Keeper of Words, so that you may record these too,” he said, face screwed up in concentration. “The first words.”
The elder switched on the torch. I looked to the wall.
And I gasped. Around me, the yellowed limestone sprang into sight, stretching away into the distance. And upon it, images. Reds, browns and blacks—artificial to walls but somehow still a part of them—cave paintings that looked so old their meaning should be forgotten. I moved closer. There was a hand. And there… the outline of a pers
on. A hunting scene, the conclusion to which disappeared into the shadows.
“This… what is this?”
The old man spoke.
“He says it is the history of our people,” said Ford. “From the time of our ancestors until today, our magic men have come to this cave to read the walls, learn of our past and record our knowledge.”
The old man tapped on his cane, and spoke again.
“When he was young, he says he came here too,” said Ford. “He says he is embarrassed to say the thing he was fascinated with wasn’t as traditional as most.”
I walked to where the old man was gesturing to the opposite wall. I’d missed it on the way in, but there was a drawing here too, about the size of a small dog, it’s colors richer than those deeper in the cave. It was vaguely recognizable; a black box-like top with visored hood, sitting upon round, spoked wheels.
“Is that… a car?” It looked as if the artist had seen a picture of a Model –T Ford and then tried to recreate it from memory.
The old man nodded when Ford translated, and then spoke rapidly.
“A missionary came here once. He had a picture in a book. I thought it was the most wonderful thing.”
I looked from the car back into the caves. Modern conveniences that gave way to things more ancient. Animals. Hunts. Gods.
“How far back does this go?” I asked in wonder.
Ford struggled to provide an answer. “I am sorry; I do not know the word in your language. Very big distance. Almost through mountain. The elder tells the story that our people first arrived by foot, not boat.”
How old must this cave be? How long had this village—this tribe—been here in unbroken settlement? They arrived when this island was still a part of the mainland. Before it broke off.
The old man spoke again.
“He asks you to witness our history,” the young boy said. “He said that the times are changing too fast, that the guardians of the island may not be able to preserve it for much longer.”
Was he talking about Booker and Leena?
“As a keeper of words, you must ensure we are not forgotten.” The young boy hesitated, then added something of his own. “It is important, the past,” he said, eyes too serious for such a small face. “For without it, we have nothing to guide our future.”
CHAPTER NINE
Nothing to guide our future….
The words haunted me, playing over and over in my mind after I returned to the boat that evening. Booker had left a Jet Ski on the beach for me, he must be still working.
There was something about that child’s words—the germ of an idea that might help the village. But what?
It was a cave, yes? So maybe they could hide the animals there? I dismissed the idea as stupid. Maybe the village could hide there, or Booker and Leena, to launch their…
Booker and Leena—I’d almost forgotten!
I ducked into the galley and five minutes later was walking with three mugs of steaming hot coffee up to the bridge. “How go the preparations?”
Booker rolled up the map that he and Leena had been hunched over, then strode over to kiss me deeply—it was the first time we’d seen each other since that morning. “Fine,” he said, eyes avoiding mine. “Just… you know, looking at our options.”
I rolled my eyes, handing out the mugs. “Seriously Booker, it’s very sweet that you’re trying to keep me out of this, but I know tomorrow’s the big day.”
Leena almost choked on her coffee. “Told you she’d figure it out.”
Booker’s eyebrows had risen, but I could see a little crinkle of pride there too. “Why do you say that?”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t know—something about the five crates of explosives I found in the hold this morning labelled ‘sugar’ was my first clue. You’re lucky I’m not a baker!”
Booker grinned, then took a huge gulp from his mug. “The coffee is great, by the way.”
“Thank you. Second,” I said, refusing to be thrown off topic. “No-one tells their partner a day in advance that they’ll be going for a jog before daylight the following morning. You really should have thought of a better excuse about why you’re waking up early tomorrow.”
He had the decency to look ashamed even as Leena chuckled. His hand went to the back of his head. “Would you believe I’ve had a sudden urge to get fit?”
“I believe you’re about to do something very dangerous tomorrow, and it isn’t exercise.” I began to tap my foot. “Out with it, buster.”
He winced, then kissed me again. “I do love you, you know that right?”
“Yes. Now spill it.”
He sighed, then rolled his map back out. “Look, I’m serious about not getting you involved in this, but I guess you do have a right to know what we’re going to do, in case things escalate.”
“Escalate?”
Booker looked to Leena. “We think my wife might have worked out what’s been going on here—the fact that guerilla activity only ever started after she wanted to set up a hunting lodge. The fact that she most likely knows I’m here now.” He sighed. “Leena’s last scout of the camp has come back… worrying.”
I looked to the tattooed woman before me.
“Armed guards at every entrance,” she said. “And they’ve begun constructing floodlight towers. Once they’re up, we won’t have a chance. It’s now or never.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Nothing fancy. We sneak in under cover of darkness, rig their stores with explosive, get out, and blow it.”
“What about the guards?”
“That’s why there are two of us. While Lenz rigs the stuff to blow, I’ll create a distraction.” He patted the handgun on his hip. “I’ll make myself seen; fire a couple of shots and then head for the beach, leading them away.”
“But isn’t that dangerous?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It is—any one of a number of things could go wrong. I could trip, the Jet Skis might not start… I could get shot. But I’d rather risk my life than become a murderer.” His brows furrowed. “Those guards are locals, Clara. They’re not the bad guys, just people trying to put food on the table for their families.”
He moved to me. “If anything happens, I’ve made provisions to get you back to America. There’s a helicopter on standby not far from here, and then a plane waiting to take you home.”
He paused. “And if local authorities are an issue, there’s also $50,000 in unmarked bills in the safe within the master bedroom.” He gave me a wink. “Type your name into the keypad on your phone, and the number that comes up will be the code.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. This had all just become so real. Booker could get hurt… or killed.
“Booker…”
He kissed me again. “I know. But it has to be done. If you can think of anything better, I’m happy to hear it—otherwise, we leave before dawn.”
CHAPTER TEN
It was so frustrating!
I paced the boat, unable to sleep without Booker in the bed, unable to do anything except worry about what would happen just a few short hours from now. It was 11:30pm, Booker might not survive the next day, and there was not one thing I could do about it.
I was a librarian for heaven’s sake! I wasn’t a fighter, or a doctor, or anything at all that could be of any help. I was going crazy with worry.
I could speed read, when I wanted to. And I was one heck of a researcher—give me a university assignment, and I could give the student the four books she would need to ace it in under five minutes. But none of that felt very helpful right now. I’d never felt so inadequate in my whole life. There was literally nothing I could do.
A sudden thought hit me. Or was there?
I turned on a hunch, and ran toward the library.
* * *
There was something I could do. I wasn’t sure quite what it was yet, but it had been niggling around the edges of my brain all day, demanding attention but then hiding each time I got close.
It had something to do with that cave. Something my thoughts about research had sparked again.
Booker’s last minute request for a library had turned out to be a blessing. It was horribly short on romance, but what it didn’t have in unrequited love, it made up for in esoteric books about everything and anything.
I pulled book after book from the shelf—anything I thought might be helpful. There were books on prehistoric man, and even one on cave art—I put that on the top of the pile. Beside it I created another pile on endangered species. I built pile after pile on the library floor, cataloguing it as I went. By the time I was done, more than a quarter of the library lay at my feet. A big ask for any normal reader, but I was a librarian. Reading wasn’t just a skill. For me, it was an art form.
I began at the obvious choice first—a 2005 second hand copy of Jean Clottes’ Cave Art—one of the world’s leading tomes on cave paintings. I flicked through the pages quickly. Paintings ranged from 11,000 to 35,000 years old, mostly European. I suspected that the paintings in the island’s cave might be somewhere between those ages, if what Ford had said was correct. But how would that stop hunters?
I moved to a 1937 book titled The Negritos of Malaya. It was of interest because an anthropologist had visited Malaysia in the early 1920s, where he had found a tribe that still used cave paintings just like the Dayak did, to tell their history. The book was a dry read, but it gave me hope—there was something here, if I could just tie it all together!
I looked at my watch, and then picked up the next book in the pile, a short hardcover on the geological history of the area. It was 12am. I didn’t have much time left.
* * *
I threw another book to the side in frustration, for once not caring about the state it landed in. It was 5am, I’d been up all night, I’d read almost every book in this useless library, and I’d still come up with nothing!
Words were beginning to swim across the pages I was reading. Maybe I should just go to bed. Not that I would be able to sleep—Booker would be leaving shortly.