Rubo returned his attention to Nauru and spoke softly. Nauru’s chest rose and fell, and he raised a leathery hand to his face, trembling as he rubbed his cheek before dropping it back onto the mat, his energy spent. When he began talking, it sounded to the Fargos almost like a chant, like some primitive death song as old as time itself.
Rubo listened and nodded until Nauru’s voice trailed off like a motor running out of fuel, sputtering to a halt as he wheezed sporadically. Rubo looked at Remi, and then his gaze drifted to the entry as he began to speak.
“The man who came for the male villagers was the commander of this side of Guadalcanal — an officer — colonel — who they call the dragon. He like a devil, an evil man, and he kill islanders for nothing. Most the Japanese leave us alone, but he different.”
Rubo described a monster of a man who dragged children from their beds and tore men from their wives, forcing every able-bodied male to work from first light to nightfall as slaves while their sisters, spouses, and children disappeared. Rumors circulated about experiments in the caves, horrors too dark to imagine, whole families dying in unspeakable agony, their bodies carted away by their relatives at gunpoint and thrown into the ocean for the sharks to feed upon once their usefulness was over.
Toward the end of the occupation, a group of about a hundred of the most able islanders were forced to cart what Nauru described as many dozens of extremely heavy crates, made from crude planks cut from the local trees, into the mountains. The trip took days in the extreme heat with the impossible loads and only survival rations of water.
At the end of their journey they deposited the crates deep in a cave, a forbidden cleft in the earth that was avoided by the locals because it was believed to be one of the entrances to the land of the giants. Once the trove was hidden, the Japanese devil ordered his men to slaughter all the workers, and it was only through stealth and luck that Nauru and his cousin escaped undetected back into the system of caves, where they hid for days before daring to venture out. When they did, they came upon the rotting bodies of their kinsmen, every man murdered where he stood, the corpses bloated in the heat — those that hadn’t already fallen prey to local scavengers.
They stayed in the mountains, hiding from the Japanese, for weeks, afraid to go anywhere near their old village, wandering the jungle and living off the land. When they finally made it back to their home, they found it deserted, the population eradicated down to the last baby. None of the villagers was ever heard from again, and the village was gradually reclaimed by the jungle. Eventually, the Allies controlled the island, and Nauru and his cousin went to work for them, and when the war ended, they settled down with girls in nearby villages — living in simplicity until called to the afterlife, as Nauru was even now.
Sam and Remi tried to keep their expressions calm as Rubo ended his monologue. Remi cleared her throat.
“That’s so sad. He’s lucky to be alive.” She hesitated, trying to figure out how to frame the question delicately. “Does he know what was in the crates?”
Rubo asked Nauru the question in a gentle voice and the ancient islander grunted in a way that required no translation. Sam shifted and fixed Nauru with a steady gaze.
“Where is the cave?”
Another exchange with Nauru produced a few sentences, and then more rasping as he struggled to fill his collapsing lungs.
“He no know. Up in the mountains. Bad place.”
“Can he be any more specific? Anything you can get that would help us locate the cave would be… important. Please. Ask again.”
Rubo did as requested, and this time there was no answer but the wheezing. After a time, Rubo shook his head. “Best leave him find way to his reward. He tell you everything he ever will.”
The swelter in the confined space seemed to intensify as Sam and Remi stood. If Nauru knew anything more, it was clear that he’d be taking that knowledge with him.
Remi moved to the front entrance and Sam trailed her. Rubo stood by the cot, whispering words in his native tongue, perhaps a prayer, possibly a blessing, while Sam and Remi waited by the threshold. After a few contemplative moments, the old islander nodded to himself and followed them into the near-blinding sunlight. The air smelled sweet and pure after the hut, and even Rubo was obviously relieved to be out of it.
Sam felt in his pocket for his wallet and extracted a fifty-dollar bill and handed it to Rubo. “For the holy man.”
Rubo pocketed it. “I see him around,” he said, giving the holy man’s dwelling a sidelong glance, and tottered down the path to the lower huts.
“Rubo is quite the entrepreneur,” Remi commented as Sam took her hand.
“Well, he has been around for a long time. Probably knows a thing or two.”
Remi dragged her feet as they slowly followed Rubo back to the vehicle. “Sam, what if Nauru did tell him where the cave is located and he’s holding out on us?”
“I don’t get the idea that Rubo is at an age where he’s particularly adventurous. Even if he was, he seems genuine in his dislike of the caves. I have a hard time believing that he’d be all that interested in trying to find the mysterious crates on his own, and my bet is there aren’t a ton of locals who don’t share his sentiment about the caves — not to mention that the rebels are roaming the mountains, along with giants and who knows what else.”
“Well, he seems to appreciate the value of a dollar. What if he sells the information?”
“Anything’s possible, but to whom? I mean, look at the island. Who could mount an expedition, or would even want to, based on some third-hand account from a delirious villager?”
They trudged along in silence, and Sam turned to her and whispered conspiratorially, “So we let him live? You sure?”
Remi sighed as they neared the SUV, Rubo off to the side, glancing furtively in the direction of the huts. “Sam Fargo, what in the world am I going to do with you?”
“Are you looking for suggestions?”
Remi ignored the innuendo. “We need to talk about Nauru’s story.”
“Maybe once we’ve dropped Rubo off. It can wait,” Sam cautioned as he neared the vehicle, and then he raised his voice as he called to the islander, “Rubo? Ready to guide us back to civilization?”
Rubo nodded, obviously anxious to get in the car. “We go now.”
Sam grinned. “We do indeed. Hop in.”
The police roadblock a few miles outside Honiara waved them through after a cursory inspection, and by the time they dropped Rubo off at his shack it was midafternoon. Remi had tried to make light conversation with the old islander several times, but his interest was nonexistent, and he seemed to have aged several years since his visit to the village.
They watched him shuffle to his porch as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and Remi sighed. “Looks like a rough day for everyone.”
“That can’t have been pleasant for him.”
“All right. Now that you’ve had some time to think about it, what do you make of the story of the commander and the crates?” she asked.
“Sounds promising, you have to admit. Of course there’s the small problem that the mountains are covered in jungle, the caves are unmapped, the entire area may be crawling with hostiles, the crates might have been moved again after the massacre, it’s possible that the crates have nothing to do with the sunken complex, and we have no idea where to even begin. Other than that, I’d say we have the treasure in our hands.”
“So we’re almost done here?”