by C. W. Trisef
“Wait!” Ret protested. “What about my friends?”
The man looked back at the shore. Lionel and Ishmael were standing with Mr. Coy, who had his hand extended with the thumb raised like a hitchhiker. Expressionless, the man obliged. Warily, the three new riders boarded the boat, partly leery of the intentions of its oarsman but mostly of the integrity of its construction. The canoe-shaped vessel was entirely made of reeds—long, bendable reeds, yellow in color, that had been stitched and tied together tightly and thickly enough to keep out water. It was like floating in a buoyant basket.
Their ferryman made no attempts at conversation. Standing at the helm, he kept his back to his foreign passengers, although he rather frequently turned his head just enough to keep a suspicious eye on them. Initially, Lionel rattled off salutations in multiple languages and dialects, hoping to stimulate dialogue. After about a dozen tries, the man made a sharp, convulsive sound.
“Hmm,” Lionel thought, “I’m not sure what that translates to.”
“That’s because it was a sneeze,” Mr. Coy informed him.
The lake was remarkably placid. Except for the occasional flip of a fish or flit of a fowl, there was nothing but the gentle wake of their boat that disturbed the dark, deep water. As they ventured farther from shore, the vastness of the lake became more apparent with every stroke of the paddle. Much longer than it was wide, its entire circumference was dominated by great hills and mountains. Ret was accustomed to seeing such isolated and attractive locales thronged by carefree recreators and lined with busy marinas.
But not this place. A solemn fear enshrouded every breath, as if a piercing eye monitored every move. One felt to curse the sun for revealing hideouts and distrust the wind for carrying whispers. It was a palpable veil that thickened like fog as they floated deeper into the heart of the lake, enough to cause a visitor to wonder if a more appropriate name might be Eerie and if its gondoliers had interned at Styx.
Eventually, Ret began to see large deposits of floating debris in the waters ahead. From far away, they looked like random heaps of accumulated rubbish, but as they drew nearer, Ret recognized them for what they really were: floating, inhabited islands. Totaling more than three dozen, each island measured about the size of a cul-de-sac in a modern subdivision. Everything, from the thick foundation to the crude but comely huts, was made of the straw-like reeds that were so prevalent throughout the lake. Maintenance seemed a constant battle, as residents were transporting harvested reeds and laying them down in low spots. All in all, it seemed a very primitive and precarious place to live, where the greatest threat was likely either rough and turbulent weather or the huffing and puffing of a Big Bad Wolf.
The man rowing the boat took them a good distance into the colony, passing several islands along the way. Ret and his associates studied the island dwellers as intently as they did their intruders. The natives were short and stout. The women sported bright-colored skirts and long-sleeved blouses, their dark hair worn in long braids. The men were also fully clothed, and everyone seemed to don a hat. Their skin was dark, either from sun exposure or heredity. Children clung to parents as all eyes fell upon the strangers. Ret wondered if any of them knew how to smile.
At last, their boat came to a stop alongside one of the islands, and the man leapt onto its thatched floor. Extending his hand, he helped his four riders in their climb out of the craft and onto the raised island. With each step, Ret sank a few inches, and it felt as though he was walking on a waterbed. In very little time, a group of armed men emerged from among the huts and advanced towards the newcomers. One individual, who by far was the most decorated, stepped forward and addressed them.
“What business do you have with my people?” the chief bellowed, in a most unfriendly manner.
Lionel, surprised to hear a familiar tongue, answered respectfully, “No business, sir, but to learn and be on our way.”
Just then, the oarsman appeared at the chief’s side and whispered in his ear.
“My spy tells me you carry the cleats that belong to the man with flaming hair,” the chief accused.
“Cleats?” Ret asked, turning to Lionel.
“He must mean the shoes,” Lionel assumed.
“Man with flaming hair?” Ishmael wondered of Mr. Coy.
“Poor guy,” said Coy. “Must’ve sat too long under the dryer at the salon.”
“Are you referring to these, sir?” said Lionel, lifting one of the shoes out of Ishmael’s pack. The entire crowd let out a frightful gasp at the unveiling of the footwear. “We found these at Machu Picchu.”
“You mean the city in the mountains?” the chief asked earnestly. “Tell me, are the people safe?”
“People?” Lionel said with consternation. “Sir, no one has lived there for centuries.”
Sorrow engulfed the chief’s countenance. He rested his large arm on the man next to him for support as he digested the news.
“Good chief,” Lionel crooned, “who is the man with flaming hair?”
“The enemy of our peace!” roared the chief, his fists clenched. “Our ancestors came from a volcano-island, far beyond where sea and sky meet—a place they called the Navel of the World. They lived in harmony until they were discovered by a man with flaming hair who believed there was a great treasure hidden within the island’s mighty volcano—a treasure that he would share with our ancestors if they helped him uncover it. He flattered them into joining his cause. As the generations passed, each aging man with flaming hair passed his power to a younger man with flaming hair, each more ruthless than his predecessor. Their dark reigns saw the exploitation of the island’s limited resources, the starvation of its people, their shipment as slaves to foreign lands, the spread of strange diseases, sacrilege, and deadly skirmishes.”
“That sounds terrible,” Ret grieved.
“But the volcano fought back,” the chief continued. “It came alive to defend itself. The man with flaming hair claimed only one of pure blood could subdue the volcano, survive its heat, and locate the prize. He tricked them into believing that all who tried to tame the beast were heroes—that any attempt was worthy of honor. Using the very rock and ash they excavated from the volcano, our people built great statues as a tribute to their martyred relatives and positioned them facing inland so as to watch over and protect the living.”
“But they were deceived: it was really an act of suicide. When our dwindling ancestry finally realized the trickery, the man with flaming hair began to sacrifice our people without restraint—men, women, and children.”
Lionel cringed with disgust.
“Knowing the man’s insatiable passion would spell their extinction,” said the chief, “our people gradually began to escape, secretly fleeing the island in small groups in boats of reed.” He pointed to the canoe they had arrived in. “Many died at sea, but those who reached land began new lives. Some settled in the tops of the mountains. Our parents found refuge at this lakeside. I suspect more are scattered in every part of the land.”
The chief’s tone seemed to soften until he added, “But the man with flaming hair continued to haunt us, thirsty for our blood. One day, he appeared on our shores, drunk with revenge and still in search of human sacrifices. He and his men pillaged our homes; burned our crops; and kidnapped our people, who were never to be seen again. We never know where along the beach he and his forces will surface, but they always depart at the Sacred Rocks on the island in the belly of the lake.” He motioned to a distant island, far from them on the other side of the lake. “In our extremity, we have built these floating islands, which make it difficult for our enemies to reach us. We have enjoyed relative peace but know we must be vigilant if our race is to survive.”
The chief’s sobering narrative cast a pall on the already sullen surroundings. In a sweeping yet searching stare, Ret surveyed the island community and its hosts of vulnerable vagabonds. They were a suppressed people, acquainted with injustice, not unlike the destitute hordes of Sunken Earth: la
rgely unlearned, clearly unmoneyed, and with no apparent beauty. They wore homespun fabrics, ignorant of current fashion trends. They ate reeds and tubers on crude cookery. Their shanties were but overturned wicker baskets, free of modern conveniences. No cars. No restaurants. Not even a toilet.
Ret knew something of despoiled societies: the exploited and extradited, the oppressed and ostracized, the war torn and wiped out. He had read about enslaved races, genocidal purges, tyrannical takeovers. He had heard of rioters, criminals, anarchists. But such atrocities hardly seemed real to him—as intangible as headlines, never anything that related to his here-and-now. They were tales from history books—accounts of a different time. They were stories for news anchors—reports from distant places. In hindsight, even the tragedy of Sunken Earth seemed otherworldly. In fact, all of these exotic destinations—with their inflated histories and deplorable societies—differed so radically from the norms of Ret’s day-to-day life that he was beginning to think that maybe he was the one who lived outside the real world, ignorantly encapsulated in the isolated bubble of his disconnected life back in detached Tybee.
Ret felt something vibrating in his pocket. His phone showed an incoming call from Ana. Although he wondered why she would be calling him during their respective trips, especially when their relationship was still on the rocks, Ret ignored the call, since answering it would certainly be a rude gesture in his present situation. A few seconds later, his voicemail chimed to inform him that Ana had left him a message, which she almost never did.
“Would you excuse me, please?” Ret petitioned, stepping away from the group to listen to the message privately.
He was surprised to hear Paige’s voice, trembling and urgent: “Ret!” she throbbed. “The volleyball tournament was a setup; Miss Carmen’s a fake. She and Bubba captured us and took us to an island where they’re going to throw us into a volcano if you don’t come.” She was clearly in great distress. “Don’t come, Ret! It’s a trap—”
“Alright, alright,” Miss Carmen’s villainous voice was heard. Taking command of the phone call, she snarled, “Come to Easter Island now or your next call will be the screams of your dying friends. Bye-bye!”
Stunned, Ret stood in shock for several seconds, in disbelief of what he had just heard.
“Are you still there?” his phone asked in its female, computer-generated voice. “Press 1 for…”
Ret saved the message and then returned to the group.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you excuse us?” Ret requested of the chief with a broad smile, grabbing his three cohorts and pulling them aside in a huddle.
“Listen to this,” Ret whispered soberly. He played the message for all to hear. When it concluded, he waited, eager to listen to their observations.
Mr. Coy was the first to speak up. “Wow,” he said with wonder, still staring at Ret’s phone. “Who’s your service provider?”
“Who is Bubba?” Ishmael wondered, disregarding Mr. Coy’s immaturity with a more appropriate question.
“It’s a long story,” Ret sighed, “but let’s just say he’s a man with flaming hair.” A light bulb went on in Ishmael’s head.
“What do you think we should do, Ret?” Lionel asked.
“I’ve been thinking,” Ret said, overjoyed that someone was asking for his opinion. “When we found the lines in the Nazca Desert, where was the outline of Machu Picchu?” Lionel and Ishmael waited for him to answer his own question while Mr. Coy was, once again, wildly waving his phone. “It was in the figure’s belly—or his navel.” Now a light bulb was flickering within Lionel. “And where does Bubba go to leave this lake?”
“To the belly,” answered Lionel slowly, catching Ret’s drift, “or the navel.”
“Right,” Ret agreed with growing anxiousness. “And what did the chief call the volcano-island?”
“The Navel of the World!” Lionel declared with joy.
“Right!” Ret rejoiced.
“Of course!” Lionel exulted. “Why didn’t I see it before? The original Polynesian colonists named the island Te Pito O Te Henua, which literally means ‘The Navel of the World.’”
Although all were stunned by Lionel’s vast knowledge, it was Mr. Coy who asked, “Have you ever thought about going on Jeopardy?”
Puzzled, Ishmael questioned, “Then why did that lady tell you to come to Easter Island?”
“I can answer that!” Mr. Coy blurted out. He held out his phone for all to see. “Because Easter Island is the navel of the world.” His screen showed a map with a tiny speck in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, thousands of miles west of the South American continent.
“That’s where we need to go,” Ret instructed. Everyone glared with awe at the idea of traveling to such a remote place.
“I hope those shoes of yours are waterproof,” Lionel grinned.
Returning to the group of natives, Ret proclaimed, “Can you to take us to the Sacred Rocks on the island in the belly of the lake.”
The chief gasped with fear, with his men belatedly following his example.
“It is forbidden!” the chief refused. “We never set foot on that island.”
Frustrated, Ret noticed a dying fire in a pit outside one of the nearby huts. He stretched forth his hand and called its waning flames into his palm. Then, holding the fire before the chief, Ret repeated, this time a bit more sternly, “Take us to the belly of the lake.”
The chief gladly obliged.
With swiftness, he and his men boarded a boat and escorted their insistent guests toward their requested destination. Although it was quite a distance from the floating community to the lake’s navel island, the voyage was quite brief, for not only were there several more rowers but they paddled hastily as if trying to get the job done as quickly as possible. As soon as they were close enough to the island, they dropped off their one-way riders and returned from whence they came. Void of farewell salutes but full of dismayed grunts, the natives promptly disappeared in the increasing fog.
Unlike its reed-made counterparts, this island was neither artificial nor floating. In fact, comparatively it was quite large and hilly, though very rocky and inhospitable. Except for sparse brush, there were no signs of life.
“So we’re looking for Sacred Rocks, huh?” Mr. Coy said glumly as his eyes fell upon the innumerable rocks that littered the island. “This should be easy.” Then, kicking a pile of pebbles directly in front of him, he said, “Found some.”
The group split up, with Mr. Coy announcing every few seconds that he had “found some.” Given the land’s bareness, it didn’t take long for the search party to stumble upon a curious formation of unusually large rocks situated in a small plain in the upper portion of the island. Its foremost feature was a great, rectangular slab, raised off the ground with the support of a square rock at each of its four corners. Strewn around the altar-like centerpiece was a handful of other large, square rocks, almost like tree stumps or places to sit. In many ways, the arrangement mimicked the Intihuatana Stone.
As their one and only lead, Ret leapt onto the slab and stared at the others with a look that beckoned them to do likewise.
“How do you know this is the site of the Sacred Rocks?” Lionel asked as he climbed aboard.
“I’m open to suggestions,” said Ret sarcastically, knowing there were no other immediate options.
“If it’s not,” remarked Ishmael, helping his boss onto the rock and handing Ret the shoes, “we’ll certainly be quite an odd sight.”
“Rub a dub dab,” Mr. Coy rhymed, “four men on a slab.” The others looked at him a bit awkwardly. Then, nestling himself into the snug group, he announced, “The Navel of the World or bust!”
As soon as both of Ret’s shoes made contact with the stone, it immediately became clear that they were at the right place. Once again, the scene around them rolled into an unidentifiable smear as the earth sped up its motion. Unlike the former occasion, this time the landscape skyrocketed in the opposite d
irection. Like viewing video while rewinding, they crossed the continents and sailed the oceans amid sunshine and moonlight. Its duration but a few seconds, their supersonic journey concluded only when the earth had returned to the point in time and the place in space when Easter Island had been where Lake Titicaca would be.
Given the optical chaos of their trip and the luster of their new setting, Ret was having a hard time getting his vision to refocus. As his eyes realigned, they zeroed in on a sharp, shiny object, positioned directly in front of his face. It was the tip of a spear, poised and steady.
“Well,” Mr. Coy said woozily as the lag of their ride wore off, “now I can check off ‘walk on water’ from my list of things to do before I—” He stopped abruptly, also finding a blade between his eyes.
“—die,” his voice quivered.
“And just in time, Coy,” Lionel muttered, the four of them retreating until back-to-back, surrounded by an armed and angry battalion of advancing foes, each wielding an unyielding weapon.
Chapter 12
The Navel of the World
A grunt escaped from the austere lips of the guard in front of Ret. At the signal, a crew of footmen emerged from within the squadron and bound their captives’ hands. Instead of rope or chains, they employed a sort of clamp made of rustic rock, a light and sponge-like stone that Ret had seen before. An acute sensation throbbed in his hands as the clamp closed tightly over them.
“Ret!” Ishmael whispered to get his attention. The four were still standing with their backs to one another, forming a sort of inverted huddle. Peripherally, Ret noticed how Ishmael had slipped off his pack and stealthily placed it on the ground directly behind Ret.
“Shoes,” Ishmael instructed like a ventriloquist, motioning for Ret to include the footwear with his effects. Imperceptibly, Ret quietly drew back each foot and easily flopped the shoes into Ishmael’s bag, the entire bundle now concealed from view by the tall grass.