‘‘We’ve come a very long way looking for Pieter Boegart. I’m not just going to walk away from him now.’’
‘‘He may very well be dead.’’
‘‘Then we’ll know. And there could be others in there.’’
‘‘We don’t know that!’’
‘‘Then maybe we should find out.’’
‘‘How do we get in?’’ Billy asked, scanning the palisade.
‘‘You said there are two ways in?’’ Finn said, turning to Winchester.
‘‘By the river and on the far side of the compound,’’ said the professor, sulking. ‘‘But you’ll never get through that way.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Because they have bloody guards, and they have gates that they close.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘It’s not as though we can just walk in and take a look around.’’
‘‘We can’t climb the fence,’’ mused Billy. ‘‘Even from here they look wickedly sharp. And they could be poisoned, like the arrows, even though it’s unlikely.’’
‘‘So?’’ Finn asked. ‘‘Where does that leave us?’’
‘‘We could cut through the fence easily enough,’’ said Billy. He hefted the big bolo machete he’d removed from Fu Sheng’s body.
‘‘They’d hear you,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘It’s impossible.’’
‘‘Not if we had a distraction,’’ offered Finn.
‘‘Such as?’’
‘‘A lot of noise. Firing the gun into the air or something.’’
‘‘How about a fire?’’ Billy grinned.
‘‘I have a burning glass,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘But there’s not enough sun to make it work. Sorry.’’
‘‘And I didn’t bring my handy-dandy blowtorch with me,’’ said Finn.
‘‘But I did,’’ said Billy. He reached into the button pocket of his faded shirt and brought out a bright blue, very ordinary Bic lighter.
‘‘Where on earth did you get that?’’ Finn asked.
‘‘It was just about the last thing I remember before the wreck. The pilot light on the stove in the galley went out and Toshi asked me to relight it. After I lit the pilot light again I must have put the lighter in my pocket and buttoned the flap. Then we went aground and it was lights-out, so to speak.’’
‘‘Does it work?’’
Billy clicked the Bic. It sparked and flared into life. Finn took the lighter from him and tried it herself. Flame jumped in the gathering darkness. Thirty-nine cents at the Kwiki-Mart, right beside the beef jerky. The huge difference such a small thing could make. The difference between civilization and the Stone Age. The cooked and the raw. She put anthropology out of her mind and handed Billy back the lighter.
‘‘This is the plan,’’ said Finn.
25
The torch whirled through the gloom, trailing sparks, and did a twisting somersault above the sharpened teeth of the palisade. Then the second bundle of bound, dry branches flew over the fence followed by two more in quick succession. The last two let out clouds of oily, foul-smelling black smoke.
The two final bundles had been soaked in the thin white gum flayed with the machete from the woody trunk of a tall upas tree just outside the cleared perimeter of the village. If the rubberlike substance was as poisonous as Winchester thought, there was a chance that the smoke would provide an even more powerful distraction than the flames.
A hundred yards away, close to the river, Finn and Billy waited in the looming shadows for the alarm to be raised. A few moments after they’d seen the whirling flames of the torches, they heard the first frightened cries.
‘‘Look!’’ Finn said breathlessly. Even from this distance, they could see the rising flames. A torch had landed on the thatched roof of one of the buildings, burned through the damp top layer, then ignited the dry straw beneath. Within seconds the whole building was ablaze. ‘‘That should keep them busy for a while.’’
‘‘Come on!’’ said Billy. Together they raced across the clearing, ghosts in the dusky light and protective shadows of the jungle sunset.
They reached the base of the palisade and paused there, listening to the rising commotion and the crackling of the distant flames. To the left, out of the corner of her eye, Finn could see the flat black surface of the river and the shapes of the dugouts drawn up on the shore, long carved paddles neatly left across the thwarts. Nobody was guarding the boats.
‘‘Now,’’ she whispered to Billy. Her friend raised the heavy, half-curved blade of the lethal-looking machete and began to hack at the bamboo, chopping a rough hole through the fence. It didn’t take long.
Billy leaned down and squinted through the newly fashioned opening. He turned back to Finn. ‘‘There’s a big square building on bamboo stilts about two feet off the ground. More buildings to the left and right, smaller ones.’’
Finn closed her eyes, trying to remember the layouts of the ancient village sites she’d roamed through as a kid with her mother and father in the Yucatan, wondering if they had any relevance here. Those villages were usually built around a central plaza or ceremonial altar, the buildings— residential and otherwise—laid out in closely built concentric circles. Where would they keep prisoners if they had them?
‘‘Buildings with people in them will have god windows,’’ she said finally, remembering the old tales her mother used to tell her. ‘‘Look for any building with its doors and windows shuttered and closed.’’
‘‘God windows?’’ Billy asked.
It was common to most cultures in one form or another—the Ainu natives in Japan had small windows in each of their simple houses to give spirits free access and, just as important, an easy escape route. Ancient Europeans called them ‘‘ley lines’’ or lines of force.
The Nazca had them in Peru. Romans built their roads according to them and hundreds of thousands of pilgrims followed one particular ‘‘spirit path’’ called the Way of St. James through the mountains of Spain. The Chinese had them as well—the pseudoscience of feng shui, the ‘‘resting dragon,’’ was based on making sure the spirits had free passage through any structure. To close the doors and windows would mean that something was imprisoned within.
‘‘Look for any building with its doors and windows closed,’’ she said.
‘‘That’s it?’’
‘‘That’s all I can think of unless they’re tied to a stake in the village square.’’
‘‘Ever the optimist,’’ grunted Billy.
‘‘I’ll go first. Stick together. If we get separated you know what to do.’’
‘‘Never argue with a woman who has a very large gun stuck down her pants,’’ said Billy solemnly.
Finn gave him a look, drew the pistol out of her jeans, then bent down and scuttled through the hole in the palisade.
The village within the bamboo wall was remarkably neat and tidy. There were about twenty small buildings, all raised on three-foot lengths of thick bamboo, and several larger buildings that looked as though they might have some sort of communal purpose. All of them had plaited rattan walls and heavily thatched roofs, the roofs pitched very steeply. As Finn had guessed all the buildings had small open windows on one side and open doorways.
Thanks to Winchester’s efforts, the three buildings farthest from Finn and Billy were in flames, as was a whole section of that end of the palisade. They could see the silhouettes of people crowding around the burning structures, trying to beat out the fires with big bamboo mats. They weren’t having much success.
‘‘There!’’ Billy said, pointing. Twenty feet away, close to the palisade wall, was a large hut on stilts with its side window covered and its entrance firmly shut. There was an awkward-looking set of steps leading up to a porchlike affair that ran around three sides. At the top of the steps was a stocky figure dressed in an ornately designed woven tunic and carrying an astounding-looking battle-ax with a brightly gleaming blade that flickered nastily in the rising glow of the flames.
The ax head was fitted onto a heavy length of bamboo as high as the man’s head. He looked like a wrestler with long jet-black hair and a straggly black beard that covered most of the lower part of his face. A face out of the past, the features those of an ancient Chinese warrior. As they watched a voice called out of the darkness. The guard stepped forward, called out again, and then ran down the steps and headed for the blaze at the far end of the compound.
‘‘We just got lucky,’’ whispered Finn. They waited until the man rushed by, then scuttled toward the hut. They went up the steps and threw open the door.
The room was ten by ten, the floor covered with thin woven mats. A lamp flickered on a small table. Four men were bound hand and foot on benches at the far end of the room, their arms pinioned and trussed with bamboo poles threaded behind their elbows.
‘‘Well, I’ll be a sheep-shagging bum pot! Pogue Mahon and God save me for a braw Tumshie heid! It’s our Miss Ryan!’’ Run-Run McSeveney shook his head, beaming up at her from the bench. ‘‘Almost gave me the skitters comin’ in like that!’’
‘‘What’s going on out there?’’ Briney Hanson asked.
‘‘A diversion. Cut them loose,’’ Finn said to Billy. The third man on the bench was Eli Santoro, first mate on the Batavia Queen. He gave Billy a huge grin as he was cut loose from the chafing rattan ropes. The fourth man, dressed in ragged camouflage fatigues and with a native Dyak haircut, was silent.
‘‘Is this everyone?’’ Finn said.
‘‘I’m afraid so,’’ said Hanson, climbing to his feet, wincing as he rubbed his wrists.
‘‘We don’t have much time,’’ said Finn. She hefted the automatic in her hand. ‘‘We have a friend outside waiting for us and a hole in the palisade wall. Head for the river. We’re going to steal one of their canoes.’’
‘‘They’ll come after us,’’ warned Hanson.
‘‘Not if our friend has done his job,’’ answered Finn. ‘‘He should have pushed all but one of the boats into the river by now.’’
‘‘Miss Ryan,’’ began Hanson, ‘‘there’s something you should know . . .’’
‘‘Save it till later,’’ said Finn. ‘‘Come on!’’ Billy slashed through the last of the ropes with the machete. With Eli’s help he pushed aside the bench and started hacking a hole in the woven matting of the rear wall. The hut would provide a little cover as they made their way back to the breach in the palisade. There was the sudden sound of footsteps and Finn whirled, lifting the pistol in her hands.
Standing in the doorway was a tall figure in padded leather armor, a long, leather-wrapped bow over his shoulder, and a huge flat sword in his right hand. Like the guard at the door, he resembled something out of the distant past. In the center of his chest was a huge twisting dragon on a medallion the size of a dinner platter.
The huge medallion glowed in the small light from the sputtering lamp on the table. He lifted the sword in his hand and took a step forward. His eyes locked with Finn’s. She stared. The face, the hair, and the Viking beard were unmistakable.
‘‘Pieter Boegart!’’ she whispered.
‘‘I know you,’’ said the warrior, stopping in his tracks. He stared at Finn, a strange expression on his face.
‘‘No, you knew my mother,’’ said Finn. ‘‘Maggie Ryan. Lyman Ryan’s wife.’’
‘‘Maggie,’’ said the man. ‘‘You’re Maggie’s little girl. We met once, a long, long time ago. You’d just learned how to walk. Maggie was very proud of you.’’ There was a terrible ache of memory in the man’s voice. ‘‘I didn’t really think you’d come.’’
‘‘They didn’t take you prisoner,’’ said Billy.
The red-haired man looked confused. ‘‘Prisoner? Why would they take me prisoner?’’
‘‘The plane—Winchester saw it. They captured you.’’
‘‘They rescued me. The float caught a deadhead when I landed.’’ The man frowned. ‘‘Who’s Winchester?’’
‘‘Never mind,’’ said Finn urgently. ‘‘We’re getting out of here.’’
The red-haired man looked over his shoulder. ‘‘They’re coming. Go now. They won’t understand why I let you escape. Hurry, before it’s too late.’’
‘‘Come with us!’’ Finn said urgently.
‘‘I came back here to stay. This is my place, my home. These are my people.’’
‘‘That’s insane!’’ Billy said.
‘‘Then I’m mad,’’ said Boegart. ‘‘If I don’t protect them the world will reach out and destroy them. That’s why I came back.’’
‘‘Then why did you want us to come looking for you?’’
‘‘I thought that if you were the kind of people who could find me, you might be the kind of people who could understand what I’m endeavoring to do here. To save at least one small part of the past, keep it safe from your so-called civilization.’’ He turned and looked over his shoulder again, then turned back to Finn. ‘‘You must go now!’’ he pleaded. ‘‘Get off the island.’’
‘‘And just how are we supposed to manage that?’’ Billy said.
‘‘The same way I did,’’ said Pieter Boegart. ‘‘The same way Willem Van Boegart did four hundred years ago. Fugio ab insula opes usus venti carmeni,’’ he quoted.
‘‘The motto above the door of the cabinet of curiosities,’’ said Finn.
‘‘Good girl!’’ said Boegart. ‘‘Now go!’’
Billy had chopped a big enough hole in the rear wall of the hut and everyone was dropping through it and disappearing into the darkness. Billy was the last out. He paused and turned to Finn.
‘‘It’s time to leave,’’ he said.
‘‘All right,’’ she answered. ‘‘I’ll meet you at the river.’’ She turned back to the doorway.
Pieter Boegart smiled, raising the huge sword in a final valedictory salute. ‘‘I will see you again. I promise,’’ he said. He paused, the smile quickly turning into something else. ‘‘You look just like your mother,’’ he whispered finally, and then he was gone, into the night, back in time. Something tugged at Finn’s heart for an instant, and then she followed Billy through the hole in the wall and disappeared.
She went after the others, their figures nothing but shifting shadows against the flickering palisade. With her way lit by the roaring bonfire of the burning huts, she made her way behind the line of buildings to the opening and ducked through. There was no sign of pursuit; the villagers’ attention was securely fixed on the fire.
At the river she saw that Winchester had done his job perfectly. A half dozen canoes were floating away on the gathering current and were swiftly being taken downstream. The others were already scrambling into the remaining dugout, while Eli held the narrow craft steady, looking anxiously for Finn as she ran toward him.
Silently she scurried aboard, then felt the sudden shift as Eli pushed them off and threw himself into the stern of the canoe. Someone in the darkness pushed a paddle into her hands. She cut the long, beautifully crafted blade into the dark water and felt it dig in. Tears finally coming freely, the memory of the tall, bearded man in the ancient padded armor clear in her mind, she helped maneuver the dugout into the center of the hurrying river, heading toward the distant sea. They’d done it. For the moment at least, they were free.
26
The river current, swollen by the recent rain, carried them swiftly down to the sea. On their left, foam bright and phosphorescent in the darkness, the never-ending breakers pounded at the distant reefs. On their right, two hundred yards inshore from where they paddled, was the looming jungle, no more than a darker shadow in the perfect blackness of the total tropical night. There was no sound except for the line of glowing breakers and the pounding of the surf on the nearby beach. Three hours had passed and still there was no sign of anyone following them.
By midnight they were exhausted and the tempo of the paddling slowed. The tide was running against them now and it was all they could do to keep from being swept
out onto the reefs. Finally, with the sky brightening to a golden smear that turned the black expanse of jungle to a sharp-edged silhouette, they reached the keyhole cleft that marked the entrance route to the Punchbowl deep in the center of the island.
‘‘There,’’ said Winchester from the rounded prow of the dugout, pointing toward the shore.
Finn stared, bleary-eyed, into the rising dawn. At first she couldn’t see anything except the beach and the dense jungle beyond, but then her eyes adjusted and she could make out a narrow slice of weak daylight between the steep hills.
‘‘The tide is turning again,’’ said Billy quietly from his position midway up the narrow canoe. ‘‘If we just keep to the path of the current, it should carry us into the Punchbowl without any trouble.’’
Finn and the silent man with the native haircut put the blades of their paddles into the water on either side of the canoe, steering into the tidal sweep that steadily carried them toward the shore. In minutes they were slipping easily between the high walls of the gap and into the steep, hidden canyon that lay beyond. The water burbled along the sides of the dugout, and beyond, in the jungle growth that shrouded the ancient volcanic walls, the first chattering, screeching sounds of morning could be heard.
‘‘He said something in Latin,’’ murmured the man with the strange haircut, speaking for the first time since they’d escaped from the village.
‘‘That’s right,’’ answered Finn.
‘‘He seemed to think it answered your question about leaving this place.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Finn. She’d been thinking about it herself for most of the night as they paddled along the perimeter of the island.
‘‘What did he say?’’ asked the man. The tidal rush was pulling at them even more rapidly now, swirling around them, carrying them dangerously close to the near rock wall. There was no beach here, only jagged rock, the fringe of jungle hanging precipitously in the thin soil. The man dug in hard with his paddle and the others did the same, carrying them back into the center of the passage to the interior.
‘‘Fugio ab insula opes usus venti carmeni,’’ said Billy, irritation in his voice. ‘‘Escape to my hidden island of treasure on winds of music,’’ he explained.
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