Forbidden Island

by Jeremy Robinson

  The fools would be lucky to leave with their lives, and that meant the Mashco-Piro’s days were numbered. If a white man and a corporate woman were slain in the jungles, the Peruvian government would have no choice but to investigate, which would no doubt lead to a confrontation and the systematic dismantling of the tribe.

  The Mashco-Piro’s only hope was that they had been paying attention to everything she had taught them over the past year. If they kept their distance, showing themselves to be both willing to dialogue and avoiding overtly threatening gestures, the transition would be smooth. In the long run, the tribe would lose their identity, their ability to thrive, perhaps even to survive in the jungle, but they would survive. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the reality faced by tribes on the jungle’s shrinking fringe—and it was preferable to extermination.

  She slipped behind the sweeping curl of a tall Ceiba tree’s buttress root, just ten feet away from the worn path followed by the strangers. The five-foot-tall fan of wood snaked along the ground like a serpent, its coils protective rather than crushing. The spot was a favorite hiding place for Mashco-Piro children when they played ‘hide and seek,’ a game she had taught them, but it was large enough to accommodate a five foot five woman. It allowed her to watch the couple’s approach, listen to the woman marvel at the tribe’s manicured orchard of mango trees, and observe their intrusion on the Mashco-Piro village, just thirty feet beyond her hideaway.

  The man entered the village with his rifle raised, eyes peering over the sights. He scanned back and forth, pausing at each of the fifteen huts, at the tapirs and monkeys abandoned mid-slaughter, and at the baskets of fruit and vat of poisonous curare, ready to coat the tribe’s arrow heads. She had no doubt that those same arrows were already aimed at the man and woman, as warriors lurked in the shadows, while the women and children put their hide and seek skills to real world use.

  The tribe’s hunters were remarkable marksmen, but they weren’t infallible, especially from a distance. If the first shot missed, she suspected the man’s ability with that rifle would outclass the greatest Mashco-Piro warrior.

  If the pair walked through the village and continued on their way, conflict might be avoided, but if they touched any of the tribe’s limited resources, the warriors would protect their belongings. And rightfully so. In the outside world, lethal defense of one’s material goods or property was legal. In America, it was celebrated. But if the Mashco-Piro acted in the same way, they would be branded rabid savages and hunted down.

  Show them you’re better than that, she willed the tribe. Show restraint. Wait for them to leave.

  But they didn’t.

  The man and woman entered the center of the village, and after a quick inspection, they headed for one of the huts.

  Talia’s hut.

  Her backpack was in plain sight, its red canvas easy to spot.

  Shit.

  The woman pointed to the backpack. “She’s here.”

  Fuck.

  The man and woman weren’t here for the Mashco-Piro, they were here for her. But there was no way the tribe would know that, and since she had been accepted by them, her belongings were now theirs. If the man touched her backpack…

  Talia moved through the forest with a silence taught to her by the Mashco-Piro women, who were just as at home in the jungle as the warriors were. She snuck through the village in a crouch, snatched an arrow from the vat of curare and closed in on her target.

  The man crouched by the backpack, reached his hand out.

  She couldn’t hear the warriors drawing back their bows, but she felt certain they were. Her instinct was to shout, but in the Mashco-Piro culture, a shout of any kind meant distress. They didn’t believe in battle cries or warnings. If she shouted at the man, he would die. If he touched the bag, he would die. So she did the only thing should could think of. She slipped up behind the woman, wrapped a hand around her mouth and placed the arrow tip an inch from her skin.

  “Stand up and turn around,” she growled. “Do it slowly, or you’re going to die.”

  The man regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “Doctor Talia Mayer?”

  “Put the rifle down,” she said.

  “Do you want me to stand up and turn around first, or put the—”

  “Rifle first,” Talia said. She was pleased when the man obliged her request, moving slowly. Hands raised, he turned to face her.

  Talia stood behind the woman, but quickly noticed the man leaning to the side, looking her up and down. For the first time in nearly eight months, she felt naked. The Mashco-Piro wore no clothes. In the steaming jungles, clothing of any kind aside from a supply belt or sling was impractical, and things like insects were plucked away by communal grooming, usually before a meal.

  “Talia Mayer?” the man asked again. “I heard you were unorthodox, but I didn’t know you went native.”

  “What do you want?”

  He pointed at the woman, still silenced by Talia’s firm grip. “You’re going to have to talk to the boss about that.”

  Talia slipped her hand from the woman’s mouth to her throat.

  “Rowan, behind you!” the woman said.

  The man named Rowan started to turn, but stopped when he saw the dozen warriors who had silently snuck from the jungle. They had arrows and spears trained on him. His hands shifted downward. Talia wasn’t sure how quick a draw the man was, but unless he was super-human, he’d be dead before he could squeeze off more than a few rounds.

  “Don’t,” Talia said, pushing the arrow against the woman’s throat.

  “In my experience,” Rowan said. “Anyone can threaten to take a life, but very few can actually follow through. Do you know which you are?”

  “Move, and she dies,” Talia said.

  Rowan frowned. “I believe you.”

  “Talk fast,” Talia said into the woman’s ear.

  “I—I’m here to hire you.”

  Talia had to fight not to laugh. It would just confuse the warriors. “I don’t work for anyone, especially corporate—”

  “We’re not interested in the rain forest. Our interests lay on the far side of the planet.”

  Talia watched the encroaching warriors, who looked angry and confused. “Who do you work for? Talk fast.”

  “My name is Sashi Batta. Indian Department of Cultural Services.”

  “What the hell does the Indian government want with me?” Talia asked.

  Rowan smiled. “That was my first question, too.”

  “I believe the clue to that question lies in who you are and what you do,” the woman named Sashi said.

  It wasn’t a time for riddles, and Talia was about to explain as much when the answer came to her. “Sentinel Island.”

  Sashi nodded.

  “Bullshit. The Sentinelese are protected.”

  Sashi shrugged. “Governments change, as do their priorities. Contact will be made, with or without your help. I would prefer the former.”

  Talia withdrew the arrow, relaxed her stance, and spoke to the warriors in their native Yine, explaining that the man and woman were part of a research team, that they meant no harm, and that she would escort them out of the jungle.

  The warriors were reluctant, but trusted her. And that trust had been hard to come by. If Sashi turned out to be a fraud, she would witness savagery that would shock even the most violent Amazonian tribe, but still fall short of Sentinel Island’s residents.

  3

  “I thought we weren’t visiting the nice parts of the world,” Rowan said.

  “Have you looked at the menu?” Sashi replied, eyes turned toward the English pub’s front window.

  “You’re operating under the assumption that I’m averse to eating every part of an animal, fried, baked, or boiled.” He waved a waiter over.

  “W’can I get for you?” the surly Brit asked.

  “Pint of—”

  “Hey,” Sashi growled.

  “Shit,” Rowan whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Gla
ss of water.”

  “Ain’t a lounge,” the waiter said. “Buy something or get out.”

  “I’m beginning to see your point,” Rowan said to Sashi, and then to the waiter, “How about some blood sausage?”

  “You want chips with that?”

  “You have French fries?”

  “That’s what chips are.” The man shook his head as though he’d just learned the Queen was marrying Donald Trump. “Bloody yanks.”

  Rowan was tempted to slap the stink off the man’s eyes, but he exerted the kind of self-control he was capable of while sober. “Then, yes.”

  The waiter turned and left.

  Rowan leaned his elbows on the worn oak tabletop, still coated in a thin crust of peanut shells from whoever had imbibed there last. “If you bring me to a pub, a bar, or a packy again, I’m done.”

  She gave a sincere nod and said, “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. If it helps, I’m a vegetarian.”

  Rowan grinned. “Why do you think I ordered the sausage?”

  Sashi half-smiled and turned her attention back to the front window, which provided a view of a single building that represented a moral code in stark contrast to the pub, known for its beer and sausage. “What’s a packy?”

  “Liquor store, if you’re from New England.” Rowan tried to relax, but the smells inside the pub had awakened his hunger, and worse, his thirst. It had been just a month since Sashi had found him. A month since his last drink atop Cathedral Ledge. He knew from experience that there would come a time, when each new day eased the craving a little bit more, but until that shift… “If he doesn’t show soon, I’m going to have to wait outside.”

  Sashi said nothing. Just kept her eyes on the mosque across the street.

  “So why this guy? If he’s in hiding, I don’t think he’ll want to be found.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “Better yet, why Dr. Mayer? I get that she’s gifted, and unusual, but she’s also a little off, don’t you think? I did some research. Her peers think she’s a quack. Journals won’t publish her.”

  Sashi glanced back. “Are you trying to make a point?”

  “Just an observation,” he said. “You’re hiring broken people.”

  Again with the silent treatment.

  “Have you even considered that Dr. Mayer, born and raised in Israel before heading to the States, might take exception to you hiring a Palestinian? Or vice versa?”

  “You’ve been busy,” she said. “Trying on diligence?”

  “Would you prefer I put my drinker’s pants back on? Because they’re an easy fit.”

  She turned to face him, a sad sort of smile on her face. “Apologies. Diligence suits you.”

  “I won’t be able to do my job if the people I’m trying to protect from external threats are a threat to each other.”

  “Understood, Mr. Baer.”

  “Rowan.”

  “Rowan, I think you underestimate the professionalism of the people we’re hiring. Unlike you and me, they are classically trained and educated. They are accustomed to having their ideals, beliefs, and intellects challenged.”

  “Dr. Mayer held a poison arrow to your throat just two days ago.”

  “I wouldn’t have used it.”

  Rowan tensed, but hid his surprise. Dr. Mayer might be a classically trained anthropologist, but she had also picked up some skills from the tribal people she’d spent a quarter of her life living among. Stealth was one of them.

  He turned to look at her. The white blouse, blue silk scarf, and jeans she wore were a stark contrast to her choice of Amazonian garb—or lack thereof—but she somehow looked even more stunning. Her tan skin, almost black-brown eyes, and her dark hair hinted at the exotic, as though she had been raised in the jungle herself, which wasn’t far from the truth.

  “If we’re going by first names now,” Talia said, “I’m okay with that.”

  “How long have you been sitting there?” Sashi asked.

  “Long enough to know Rowan thinks I’m broken.” She stood from her booth and motioned for him to move over. Then she slid onto the cushionless bench beside him. “And that the man we’re here to meet is actually over there.” She pointed to the mosque. “And like with me, he has no idea we’re coming.”

  The waiter returned with a glass of water and a plate of steaming ruddy sausage and rectangular fries. Talia’s eyes lit up. “Is this—”

  “Blood sausage,” Rowan said.

  Talia picked up a fork and knife. “Can I?”

  “I ordered it to bother her.” Rowan hitched his thumb toward Sashi, who cringed and looked back to the window. “Help yourself.”

  Talia cut a large piece off the end and popped it in her mouth. She appeared to melt as she chewed. “Oh. This, this is good.”

  It smelled good, too, but blood was not on Rowan’s menu, cooked or not. His carnivorous instincts only went so far.

  “After a year in the Amazon, you’d be willing to eat a lot worse, and it wouldn’t taste nearly as good.” She took another bite, oblivious to the grease running down her chin.

  You can take the girl out of the jungle, but not the jungle out of the girl, Rowan thought, and he forgot to hide his smile.

  “What?” she asked, carving into the heated up, intestine sealed, congealed blood.

  He pointed to the sausage, made from pig’s blood. “You’re not a practicing…”

  “Jew,” Talia said. “It’s not a derogatory word. And no. I was raised in a traditional Jewish home, but that’s all it was, tradition.”

  “Like the song,” Rowan said, getting a laugh out of Talia.

  “Without the dancing.” She finished off the first of two sausages.

  Watching her eat had made Rowan hungry, despite how he felt about the meal, so he helped himself to the French fries while mentally flipping the waiter the bird.

  “And what about our guy across the street?” Rowan asked. When Sashi didn’t turn around or reply, he said, “Sashi, is he going to take exception to a Jew eating pork, or is he kosher?”

  “Okay,” Talia said, wiping her chin. “That is probably offensive. Don’t say that again.”

  “There he is,” Sashi said, pointing to a well-dressed man of Middle-Eastern descent, sporting a well-trimmed beard.

  “What’s his name?” Talia asked.

  “Mahdi Barakat,” Sashi said.

  “Well, he doesn’t dress the stereotype,” Rowan said, reaching for another fry, when Sashi stood up and made for the door.

  Rowan and Talia both froze, mid-bite.

  “Is she?” Talia said.

  “I think she is.” Rowan dropped the fry and hurried after Sashi, who had already exited the pub and headed across the street. He heard Talia behind him, taking another hurried bite and then giving chase. The waiter was just starting to complain about their hasty departure when Rowan stepped into the street. He shouted for Sashi, but his voice was drowned out by a honking car stopped just a few feet short of his legs.

  While the world pictured the British people as being polite, drivers in London had yet to support the view. He didn’t give the vehicle or the driver a second look as he hurried across the street. By the time he reached the far sidewalk, Sashi was already inside the mosque. The building’s façade looked pleasant enough, constructed from a mix of gold and red bricks. Twin minarets rose above the building, flanking a dome that rose above it all. He hurried up the steps, but paused when he heard voices behind him. Three men, also Middle-Eastern, approached him from behind.

  Rowan had only ever seen men like this—wearing white robes and head scarfs—entering a mosque, through the scope of a sniper rifle. He’d seen them as potential enemies for so long that smiling and opening the door for them was a challenge. Given the looks on the men’s faces as they entered, his discomfort wasn’t hidden. He smiled and nodded to each, following them in and ignoring Talia’s shouts as she pursued him across the street.

  While the mosque’s exterior was pleasant to look at
, the interior was stunning. Columns, ornate tile work, and row upon row of carpets. Rowan felt like he’d been transported through time and space. And then he saw Sashi speaking to a petrified looking Mahdi Barakat, glancing nervously at the three men now walking past. Rowan looked at his watch. 11:50 am. Many more Muslim men would soon be coming through the doors to take part in the Dhuhr prayer time.

  “You need to leave,” he heard the man saying, and he approached with as kind a smile as he could muster. The smile didn’t help. As soon as Rowan was spotted, the man began looking back and forth.

  He’s looking for exits, Rowan realized, and he raised his hands. “You’re not in any kind of trouble.”

  The door opened. A handful of men entered, some dressed traditionally, some wearing suits, all looking at Rowan with distrust, at Sashi with confusion, and then at Mahdi with something like disappointment. Rowan hadn’t been to church since he was a teenager, but he remembered the old Baptist congregation looking at him similarly when he’d attended services wearing ripped jeans and heavy metal band T-shirts.

  “Hey!” It was Talia, looking irate. Her blue scarf was now wrapped over her head. She took Rowan by the arm and all but dragged him to Sashi and Mahdi. “Are you two stupid?”

  Talia took Sashi’s long, flowing scarf—white today—and wrapped it over her head. Then she pointed at Rowan, speaking in angry, but hushed tones. “You’re an American with a buzzcut and the bug-up-your-ass posture of a soldier.” She reeled around on Sashi. “And you are from India. Some of the men worshiping here could be from Pakistan…” She licked her thumb and scrubbed the black bindi from Sashi’s forehead, “…and might take exception to your outward and disrespectful display of Hinduism.”

  “And you are a Jew,” Mahdi said.

  Talia eyes widened slightly. She pointed at Mahdi. “Okay, it sounds derogatory when he says it.”

  “We should go outside,” Rowan said. Talia had made her point. Nothing good was going to come out of staying in the mosque. Not for them, and certainly not for Mahdi.