“Which way?” Sam asked.
Rubo appeared to consider the question, tilting his head. “Need to get out and look.”
Sam and Rubo opened their doors and Sam helped the old man out of the vehicle. They trudged together to the water and Rubo closed his eyes and did the odd head tilting again. Sam waited patiently, resisting the urge to prod him into a decision. After several moments, Rubo straightened and nodded.
“Stream wasn’t here last time.”
Sam blinked. “And?”
“I think village is that way,” Rubo said, pointing to the left.
“How do you know?”
“Didn’t say I know. Said I think,” Rubo corrected.
“Then you’re not sure…” Sam said, glad Remi wasn’t there to hear Rubo’s admission.
“We on island. If not that way, we come back, and then I’m sure it the other way.”
“Very practical. But I thought you knew where the village was?”
“I do.”
“But not well enough to get us there on the first try.”
“You wanted translator, not guide.” Rubo peered up the hill, and then at the other fork, before nodding sagely. “It either that way or this.”
Sam exhaled, seeing the wisdom of the practical old man’s approach. They had a full tank of gas and all day. It was probably to the left. Or maybe to the right. At least they didn’t have to worry about it being straight ahead.
They moved back to the mud-splattered Toyota and got in.
“Well?” Remi asked.
“We’ve never been closer,” Sam assured her. “Rubo thinks it’s to the left.”
Sam put the transmission in gear and, with a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror, gave the big vehicle gas. Water splashed high into the air as they crossed the stream, and then they were climbing again, the thick canopy nearly blocking the sunlight as they crawled up the slope.
They stopped again five minutes later when the trail became barely wide enough for a bicycle. Sam regarded Rubo in the rearview mirror, keeping his voice even and his face impassive.
“Still think it’s up ahead?”
“Keep going. Should be over this hill.”
They continued on. Branches and vines rustled and scraped along the exterior of the SUV. Remi jerked when a particularly aggressive branch swatted her side window, and she gritted her teeth as she whispered to Sam, “How is this a good idea again?”
Sam was preparing to answer when they broke through into a clearing, where a scattering of huts was arranged around a central fire pit. Rubo smacked his gums in satisfaction as they coasted to a stop on the grass.
“See? Rubo right,” he said. Sam and Remi exchanged a relieved glance and then peered through the windshield at the humble thatched structures climbing the rise into the rain forest on the other side of the clearing.
“Should we stop here?” Sam asked the old man.
Rubo nodded, his expression as peaceful as an angel. “We walk now.”
The muggy heat enveloped them once they were out of the air-conditioning. Sam waited with Remi by the hood as Rubo hobbled to them, and they walked as a group toward the nearest huts, where curious eyes peered from the interiors.
A man in his sixties, wearing ancient shorts and a T-shirt faded by the elements to an indeterminate color, stepped from one of the huts and smiled when he saw Rubo. They exchanged a greeting that neither Sam or Remi understood, and the man gestured to one of the far huts. After another few words, Rubo turned to Sam and Remi.
“He very sick. Up there,” Rubo said, waving a limp hand at the hill.
“Sick? Can we talk to him?”
Rubo shrugged. “We try.”
Rubo shambled up the faint path to the next cluster of dwellings and hesitated at the entry of the one farthest up the hill. The villagers in the lower tier watched Sam and Remi with curiosity. The adults lingered by their huts, joined by their children, as the village turned out for the unexpected excitement.
Sam said to Remi, “Everyone seems friendly enough. If the rebels are hoping to recruit from rural villages like this one, they’re not going to do very well. I’m not getting a lot of anger and resentment, are you?”
“Let’s hope our luck holds, at least until we’re back in Honiara.”
“So far, so good.”
An elderly man with skin the color of tobacco stepped down from the nearest entryway and eyed Sam and Remi distrustfully from his position on the raised wooden porch. Rubo stepped forward and nodded to the man, who descended to the path.
A quiet discussion ensued. Rubo pointed at the Toyota parked at the clearing’s edge and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The man appeared to consider whatever Rubo had said and then shook his head. More back-and-forth finally elicited a cautious nod, and Rubo gave Remi a sly smile that was all gums.
“He the holy man. Says Nauru very sick for a while. Will be in spirit world soon. Not sure he able to talk much,” Rubo explained.
“But it’s okay if we ask him some questions?”
“I had to promise holy man some American dollars.”
“How many?” Remi asked.
“Twenty.”
Sam eyed Rubo skeptically. “Fine.”
“But we only have little time. Nauru close now.”
Neither Sam nor Remi needed to ask what he was close to.
Rubo took a long look at the hut’s porch and then stepped aside. “You go inside and sit. I follow and talk to him.”
Remi nodded and cautiously stepped up the wooden stairs to the small porch. She peered into the dark interior of the hut, Sam by her side, and then they entered the small room.
CHAPTER 28
Dust motes hovered in the beam of sunlight shining from a slit in the roof as they made their way past a crude rustic table crafted from rough-hewn tree trunks to a cot near the far window, which was nothing more than a rectangular opening in the woven-leaf wall, a thinner woven shade hanging over it.
The interior smelled of death. It was all they could do to breathe without gagging as they neared the makeshift bed upon which lay a small man. He was naked, except for a pair of ratty shorts, and withered like a prune, the years having sucked the juice of life from him, leaving only a barely animated husk.
A pair of eyes squinted at them through the darkness, and the man’s labored breathing rasped ominously as they approached. Sam looked at Rubo, who took tentative steps until he was by the bedside.
Rubo bent toward the dying man and murmured for a few moments. He then straightened, awaiting a response. The air was still, heavy with humidity, the sunbeam on the far side like a dagger of light through the gloom around them. The only sound was the rattle of the sick man’s lungs as he struggled for breath. Rubo stood motionless, and after a few minutes the man muttered a few words.
Rubo nodded and indicated a bench along one wall. Sam and Remi sat while Rubo moved closer to the cot.
“This is Nauru. He said he would try to talk.” Rubo paused. “What you want to know?”
Sam sat forward. “Ask him about the Japanese colonel. The slave labor. Ask him to tell you everything he remembers about it — and the massacre.”
Rubo stared at Nauru, seeming to contemplate the best way to frame his questions, and then began speaking, the words alien to Sam and Remi’s ears. When he was done, Nauru grunted and mumbled for half a minute. Rubo sat back once Nauru finished and turned to Sam.
“He say it was long time ago. Nobody care about it for many years. Most people he know from back then die that day. He the only one left. Other man who live die maybe twenty years back. Kotu. A cousin.”
“Yes, but we’re interested in the story. We’re studying that time on the island and this is the first we’ve heard of any forced labor or mass murder by the Japanese on Guadalcanal. Ask him to start at the beginning. What did the Japanese forces have the islanders doing? What was their job?”