Masalai

Prologue

With wide, strained eyes the boy’s squirming momentarily ceased. Aseif recognized the look on his pre-adolescent face. His past had left him familiar with the expression.

Desperation.

The boy’s arms began to flail, groping for something to hold. His legs dangled, teased by gravity.

Please... the boy gasped, turning to the rocks below.

Mi bai painim em!, I will find it. Tears seeped down his dark, flushed cheeks.

With these feeble words Aseif’s aggravation re-ignited. Not only was he exhausted from false promises, but his irritation with their corrupted pseudo-English infuriated him.

It had been too long.

He was sick of this place, these people. Underused muscles jerked in his forearm, his hand clenched around the boy’s slender neck.

You have nothing for me.

But, I will find it… I can do it… the boy whimpered.

Aseif put a finger to his lips in a slow, sympathetic shush. There is still good news for you, Timothy.

The boy’s eyes widened, hope replacing fear.

"You always wanted to see a puk-puk."

Timothy looked to the bottom of the gorge where two crocodiles thrashed over the sandal that had hung from his foot moments before. A third, relaxing in the cool waters, met the boy’s stare. Its deep hiss resonated through the heavy, humid air. Tears slipped from the boy’s eyes, lost at the union of terror and sadness.

Don’t worry, Aseif maintained his paternal tone, I won’t let them hurt you.

He set Timothy down, spun his young chin past the shoulder and released his corpse over the edge.

He paused, slightly remorseful, but content.

The moment of reflection was brief, but ample to allow a second terrified pair of eyes to disappear back into the forest.

I

February 29, 1944

Happy leap year! Finally arrived this afternoon on the shores of the Admiralties. Much work to do, many already suffering. The Japanese are well fortified and it looks as though things may be more difficult here than MacArthur predicted. There’s plenty to busy me for the next several months, I’m sure, but enough of tragedy and brutality. As I’ve sworn in other times, I shalln’t harp on violence. How else do I intend to survive? Tis the beauty here that shall be my savior if I give it the attention it deserves. There is peace here, one can feel it in the air, or there had at least been so before.

The people react kindly to our advances. Even upon arrival, they speak in pleas of hope. It is as if word has spread that we are here without interest but to save them from the Japanese, though I know this not to be true. For their sake, tis for the better all the same, since it is said that the Japanese are heartlessly cruel to these people, enslaving and killing most they find. I have only seen a few in my brief attention here, but they are an interesting kind. Much unlike our Hawaiian brothers. Here they look to be from Africa. The bronzed ochre skin of Polynesia has been lost to a deep, heavy brown, almost black, like walking amongst shadows themselves. Their faces, noses and feet are broader than ours, even more so than our Negro soldiers. Smiles are wide, and they look upon us with hope in their round coffee eyes. Even after the Japanese invasion, they greet us humbly, a welcome change from the brief I read of the aggressive nature of New Guineans. I met the gaze of a young man this late afternoon and felt the passion behind his eyes. They spoke of longing for their world to be returned, as if I personally had the responsibility.

It is a fine find though, this island, this home to those in need.

While we border the open ocean, we are surrounded by a misty, sleepy forest that hangs in its own heavy shadow. One can feel an energy emitting from its leafy gloom, a whisper of life, more potent than I have felt before. I wonder if in the darkness it glows!

I know little of what meets us here beyond this twinkling watery sunset, but I hope that it finds us safely.

-JJH

Chapter 1

Between coconut palms, the lilac of twilight filled the sky. Niandros dashed under the sago hut where her mother was boiling cassava in coconut milk for dinner. Her miniature lungs burned from having run so far, so fast.

The Masalai tryin’ to get you, ‘Dros? Her mother joked as she threw another log on the fire, fueling her primitive kitchen.

She ran to one of her mother’s  legs, oblivious to the comment, and wrapped her body around it, as if it could protect her from the entire world. Finally feeling safe, her body decomposed into a storm of sobs and tears.

Jesus, child, I’m just teasin’, what’s gotten into you?  Her cocoa eyes found her daughter at her left ankle, coiled and crying. With a sigh, she pried her daughter off of her leg and into her protective arms.

Em i orait. Yu wantaim mi nau, she whispered. It’s alright. You’re with me now.

The world was spinning. Niandros had known Timothy through her sister and brother’s class. Of course, she knew everyone. It was hard not to when you lived in a village of only 400 people.

How could he do it? He just pushed him right over the edge!

She had almost yelled to the man about being careful, but caught herself when she realized they weren’t playing. She didn’t know what they were doing, but people were always doing things she didn’t understand, that was how it was being only seven years old. Now she didn’t want to do anything except hug her momma, and cry. Her body shook in shivers of fear, and she clenched her eyes tightly in hopes that she could wake from the terrible dream.

From a larger sago hut, an old man emerged. His skin glistened with the last bits of sunlight over the horizon. He was easily over 70, but even he didn’t know exactly. Despite his late age, toned muscles lined the forearm that held him up against the doorway in a pensive hiatus.

It sounds like someone had a run in with a Masalai! The old man kidded with a sense of humor he had obviously passed on, and that someone needs her bubu!

He walked down the short ladder of branches that stood in for stairs with perfect balance. Ignoring the pain in his arthritic knees, he glided to where his daughter held his tiny granddaughter. His arrival was met by a little arm wrapping around his neck. Niandros squeezed in between her mother and grandfather.

Maybe it was a Masalai? Both her mom and grandpa had mentioned it, the little girl thought, ignoring the sarcasm. Yes, that could explain it. An evil spirit that looked like the man that killed Timothy. The man had always seemed so nice. Maybe he wasn’t who killed Timothy! Maybe it was a Masalai. It finally made sense.

Her crying stopped for a moment with her conclusion.

Yes, a Masalai, an evil Masalai, she said, returning to her shelter between family members.

Her mother and grandfather exchanged looks of fearful confusion and sat down on neighboring stumps of wood. As her mother pulled Niandros away from her body she examined her daughter’s exhausted face and attempted a deep relaxing breath, now fearing any number of things that moms can when their child has a look of terror.

Niandros, what happened? She said, cautiously trying to meet eyes with her daughter. Tell us what happened.

Between sniffles and aftershocks of a powerful sob, the girl carefully began.

Mama Kanawi and Niandros’ grandfather listened as Niandros made her way through the story. Their only interruptions were to tell her to speak more softly. It was hard to prevent eavesdropping when other families lived so close and walls consisted of leaves and branches.

When ‘Dros mentioned that the boy had needed to find something for the man, a memory deep inside the old man flinched, a spark in a cavern of darkness. When she mentioned who the man was, her grandfather coiled away as if instantly dizzy.

It couldn’t be true, he thought, not after so many years. Could he know? How was it possible?

He had been warned that someday someone may come searching, but it had been half a century.

Enough, the old man spoke as he grabbed both of the Niandros’ upper arms powerfully enough to jolt her into attention.

Niandros, listen to me very carefully. You must never tell anyone about this. Never. It will be a secret between you, your momma and me. It is very important. Do you understand?

The girl nodded silently, too young to indulge in curiosity of why her grandfather had reacted so strongly.

The girl’s mother, however, looked at the old man, questioning him, but fell silent as well. It was apparent the conversation was over.

Their village on Los Negros Island had many old customs. That a woman obeyed a man, especially her father, was one that continued to survive.

Chapter 2

The sounds of the world silenced with a deep plunge under the surf. A quick glance was sufficient to find the dozens of feet quickly gathering around, stalking their prey. Time was almost up.

Can I escape? Or should I try to take them all…

With a burst of energy, water exploded in all directions as the hunted attempted to become the hunter, standing up in the shallow water and letting out a monstrous growl. Her mini-predators, stunned in surprise, hesitated but a fraction of a second before a mass of screams, howls and yells were released into the air from their nimble pouncing bodies.

Ok, ok, the tall foreigner shouted, her soft feminine voice laced with playful laughter. Her body crashed backwards into the water under the weight of the horde of attacking munchkins. Soon, she was back underwater, this time joined by 5 or 6 other little faces.

The frantic onslaught was short-lived, however, as a quiet moan escalated into a full cry. During the ambush, one of the little girls had been stepped on by a boy overly eager to strike again.

Alright, everyone, settle down, the woman spoke, pacifying the frenzy to an attentive calm.

Come here, Nikah, she said, swooping the girl into her arms. She led the caravan of dark bronzed boys and girls back to the little girl’s hut and handed her over to her mother. The girl’s crying tapered as she wiped her tears with the back of her wrist, satisfied with her moment of the fun foreigner’s full attention.

I’m sorry, Mamma, the stranger said to the little girl’s mother, showing respect by referring to her as family, as was custom in their village. Some of these boys play a little too rough. She raised an eyebrow and gave the boys a playful sneer.

Oh, little Nikah, jus tryin’ to get yo’ attention, Kylie, she not hurt the girl’s mom answered, embarrassing the little girl enough that she threw her face into her mom’s shoulder with refuting humph. Kylie gave the girl’s head a rub and headed back towards the center of the village. Her crowd of village children had temporarily dissipated. Kylie was only a fraction of the novelty she had been back when she first arrived.

As Kylie walked back towards her hut on the far side of the village, she couldn’t help but admire her life.

How can it already have been 8 months? She thought.

Time had flown by so quickly that she would still wake up some mornings with the surprise that she wasn’t in her condo in Manhattan. On those mornings, Kylie couldn’t help but be reminded of the emptiness that life had existed for her before. She reminisced on the silly difficulty she had in packing her bags for a year of fieldwork.

What do you pack for a year?

She wasn’t really moving to Papua New Guinea, but she sure wasn’t just visiting. And being that it was on the other side of the world, her thoughts were to keep the packing list as minimal as possible. On a personal level, that was a big part of this little adventure anyway: learning to live without. Kylie had never had a problem with surrounding herself with whatever she wanted. The caretakers, as she referred to her parents, had been wealthy for generations. She had been a happy spoiled kid, and for most of her life she embraced and indulged in it, but the last decade had left her with an emptiness that accompanied such reliance on wealth and material things. In college, her course load had gone from business (to keep the wealth) to art (because she had the wealth) to anthropology (to ignore the wealth). She had stuck with anthropology, inspired by learning of the indigenous populations of developing countries. Philanthropy was one thing, active participation was another. What she found so inspiring about some of these indigenous groups, especially those farthest removed from her fancy homes and cars, was that they seemed content. At first she wrote it off as ignorance-is-bliss, but slowly recognized that it wasn’t accurate. A deeper, simpler, almost enlightened, contentedness could be found in many of the communities. It really shouldn’t have taken Kylie as long to recognize the insufficiencies in her own happiness. After all, she couldn’t even remember Mom and Dad, there was only Kay and George, the caretakers.

By the time she graduated, Kylie had traveled to several developing countries, from South America to the South Pacific, and often admired the peace that could be found amongst these communities. There was a purity of life that couldn’t be bought. Of course, by the time she noticed this subtle element of peace, she didn’t have the time to admire it, as her schedule was always dictated by the original intentions of her trips – hang gliding, scuba diving, bungee jumping, kite boarding, sky diving, and the like. It was the first thing in her life that she wanted, but couldn’t immediately have.

Finally, there was a goal in her life. A real goal. Not empty frivolous adventures and pursuits of adrenaline that had led her in the past, but a true passion dwelled inside her. She had the taste for travel beyond her bubble, for learning about different cultures and languages, and it proved to be a powerful addiction. She enrolled in a graduate program at the University of Pennsylvania for a doctorate in linguistics immediately following her college graduation.

Before graduate school her intent had been to just take off and find a little tribe somewhere, far removed and live amongst them for a while with the typical soul-searching passion many young adults crave. Her mother, or Kay rather, had been the voice of compromise, suggesting that she at least pursue a degree while doing it. It would have been an unusually, altruistic and even maternal piece of advice, if it hadn’t been laden with guilt and self-serving desires to save herself from more awkward inquiries at the country club. Kylie had since made it clear that she had no intentions doing something more contributory to the family agenda, like forging relationships with rising senator wannabes or helping to plan the next most important charity event of the year. Kylie had developed a reputation for her volatile lifestyle. Kay never really expected her to finish grad school, but for once she wouldn’t have to lie.

Luckily, the graduate school suggestion complemented the advice of a college professor who had explained that it was often very difficult for a person that is not affiliated with some type of institution to join these societies.

"Since almost all indigenous groups have at one point or another been abused by other societies, namely our collective society, most native cultures have justifiably developed an apprehension towards visitors, Dr. Hathawent lectured one day. The excuse of research often changes the opinions of many indigenous groups from viewing you as an invading outsider, to an interested apprentice of their lifestyle. Students are welcomed because their harmless intentions are more apparent. A random person attempting to live amongst a native community has no obvious motives and, therefore, may be suspicious."

The decision to go to graduate school had been an excellent choice, since within a week she had met more people who had contacts in the developing world than she could have met in a year on her own. A lecture given by a professor of cultural anthropology taught her that a key element in anthropological fieldwork is that whenever possible use the ‘chain of trust’. The idea was that the secret to being accepted within a community was to know someone, who knew someone, who knew someone, who was in one of these communities. It reminded Kylie of getting into exclusive nightclubs in New York City. And for obscure indigenous nightclubs scattered around the world, an Ivy League’s anthropology and linguistics departments were the trendiest places to meet the big shots.

It didn’t take long for Kylie to target Papua New Guinea for her research. The small island nation, roughly the size of California, was not only physically isolated from most of the western world, but has been nearly ignored by the US for most of its existence. Additionally exciting for Kylie, was the fact that very few people in the US even knew it was a real country. She loved having to correct countless friends and acquaintances that would nod their heads, faking knowledge of the country, when she could see plainly that they had no idea what she was talking about. All it took was a gentle, inquiring glance into their eyes, and a simple Do you know where that is? and she would have them in her little trap. People were bound to guess that it was in Africa or South America, since they seemed to be the most common continents Americans associated with obscure developing nations with strange indigenous populations.

There was arrogance present, she wouldn’t deny it. People frustrated her because they reminded her of how ignorant she had once been. Experiences had changed her, opened her eyes, and replaced ignorance with an arrogant pity for those that hadn’t shared her awakening. Kylie remembered the first time she had been to Peru. She had done everything wrong. Her lack of efficiency in Spanish led her to slowly speaking in English while raising her voice with every repetition. She would point to her English guidebook and read aloud while tracing the line with her finger to whomever she was trying to communicate with, as if apparently, when they didn’t understand her they must be either deaf or blind. She paid in US currency, which actually worked fine since she wasn’t worried about being highly overcharged. And finally, she introduced herself to the receptionist as the American that had a reservation. The distinct frown on the Peruvian receptionist’s face should have given Kylie ample warning that she was getting the dirtiest room in the hotel. Luckily, a young Canadian guy, who had witnessed the second half of her dismal arrival, approached her and gave her a quick rundown on traveler’s etiquette, especially when traveling in the Americas. It turned out, he was actually from Seattle. She donned the term USer instead of going around for the next two weeks claiming to be a Canuck. That was 8 years ago.

Now, Kylie sat amongst the coconut palms outside her thatched hut in her nylon hammock, one of the few luxuries that she had deemed worthy, since she had learned on an earlier trip that the Manus didn’t make hammocks. For the first time in her life she felt at home, which was odd seeing as she should have been suffering from severe culture shock. She felt endless weight lifted from her body. Her previous life with its upbringing saturated in the dependence on money, possessions and status had drifted away like a dream in the morning sun. To fill the void of thought and attention left from her decontaminated mind were the beautiful people of Manus Province. Their smiling faces and compassioned culture were penetrating, and Kylie soaked it up with the breath of a new life. For the first time ever she felt what family was, felt that it spread beyond the walls of your home, beyond the blood in your veins, and beyond the sad limitations in which her previous life had mutilated it. The Manus had welcomed her like a daughter to their villages, as if she was returning instead of arriving. Kylie loved it, indulged in it, and was grateful for it.

The sun had begun to set and the purple on the horizon swirled amongst patches of orange puffy clouds. Her hammock swayed with the slightest push from her leg. Sure there was work to be done, and soon she’d have to figure out what to do for dinner, which was often easier said than done, but these were little hassles that she enjoyed. Her thin, shapely body grew heavy in the hammock revealing just how relaxed she was. She had come a long way since the days when she needed her 600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets in order to get any sleep. She began to drift away with the gentle rocking, unaware that her peace teetered as tenuously as the hammock in which she laid.

As the dreams began to take her, a dark figure approached the side of the hammock. His right hand held a large object and his left reached out towards her serene body. As the hand blocked the light from the dwindling sun, Kylie eyes flinched open with a start. It was hard to see the figure’s face, as it was silhouetted by the sun, but it looked slightly familiar.

"Mi sori, poromeri, yu mas kam nau wantaim mi. Em i longwe na liklik taim, a deep unfamiliar voice spoke. I’m sorry Miss, but you must come with me immediately. It is a long way and there is little time."

Kylie struggled to focus in the glare of the sun. She didn’t know who he was or where he wanted to go, but it didn’t look like she had a choice.

Chapter 3

Back in the comfort of his room, a man sat in jeans and a sweaty t-shirt staring at the TV. His thoughts were of anything but the cheap graphics that complemented the sports segment of the local news program. Fiji had lost their second match in a row, while the Australian Wallabies had upset the New Zealand All Blacks 20 to 14. Any feelings of guilt or remorse from the earlier events of the afternoon had slipped off as easily as the dirty clothes that sat in a heap across the room.

Ugh he groaned as his eyes focused back into the 13-inch screen. Rugby again. He would have changed the channel but EmTV was the only network in Papua New Guinea. Instead he checked his watch. 5:57. Two minutes. His caller had insisted on 5:59 as the exact time he would call, stressing the difference between 5:59 and 6 o’clock. The man remembered feeling like a child when the caller had given him the brief lecture about the importance of the punctuality of his phone calls. Some of those feelings still lingered as he looked around his paltry temporary home. He couldn’t help but feel like a youth that had been sent to his room after misbehaving. It was different though. He had a purpose and he had chosen to be there. God, I hate this place...

His thoughts were interrupted with the quiet ring of his phone. He grabbed the receiver and sat in silence for 4 seconds as had been agreed on to ensure both parties were correct. The man wasn’t used to these silly games to maintain secrecy. He was used to advanced technology that had long eliminated insecure phone communications, but his caller insisted that it wasn’t necessary where they were.

Well… the familiar voice asked.

It’s done.

Further complications? the voice fired back condescendingly.

Negative.

Good. I hope you pursue things more sensibly from now on. We can’t risk your operation becoming known.

The frustration of being cooped up in his stuffy room and being treated like a child began to boil over.

"That was my assignment. My actions were in strict adherence to your information, your recommendations. What do you expect me to do, sit around here and rot?"

The voice on the other end of the line paused in silence, patronizingly waiting for the childish rant to end.

I expect you to pursue things with more caution and precision than you’ve shown so far, Aseif. The boy was a suggestion based on certain information that was uncovered. He was not a confirmed lead. Now he is dead because you were sloppy. The voice paused, this time with a deep breath, to stress the change in tone. I had confidence in you when I first contacted you, and I am confident in you now. I fear that you have lost sight of the big picture. Never forget that your work here will change the world. Patience. The caller had once again shown his charismatic tact in soothing the man’s anger and focusing his energies.

I’m sorry, the man soberly spoke into the phone, but the caller was already gone.

Chapter 4

As soon as she stood out of the hammock, Kylie recognized the older man, though she couldn’t believe he was asking her to go somewhere with him. The urgency puzzled her even more. Lapun Spiabotl was one of the oldest men in the village and Kylie had tried several times to meet with him for her research, but he had never been interested. Being one of the oldest members of the village, he was a perfect person to learn about the cultural and linguistic changes that had occurred over the years.

I not sure you talk Tok Pisin, but me think you do now, as the man spoke he shot her a quick smile.

And I didn’t know you spoke English, she commented, nearly jogging to stay parallel with him. While many of the villagers spoke English, they were almost all middle aged or younger. The village elders usually stuck to their local languages called Tok Ples, Talk Place, and when talking to people with other tok pleses, they used Tok Pisin. Tok Pisin was the most common conversational language of the people of Papua New Guinea. It was an unusual conglomeration of various languages, but most similarly resembling English. It was so phonetic, that one could nearly understand it based on English. Kylie, who had always had a knack for languages, picked it up rather quickly. Villagers were amazed when she was competent with the language in only a couple of weeks. It helped to establish herself amongst the people as it set her apart from Australians that would come over to PNG for business reasons and have no interest in learning Tok Pisin. English was the official language of government and commerce and most Australians held the opinion that if PNG wanted to be taken seriously they needed to drop Tok Pisin and only use English. Most Australians didn’t even recognize it as a real language. Since Tok Pisin literally means talk of the bird, most people just referred to it as Pidgin English.

What’s going on? she asked the man as they approached the dirt road.

No time. We must go. he replied opening the passenger door of an old rusted Toyota Land Cruiser that sat waiting for them. Behind the wheel sat a short heavy-set man that Kylie immediately recognized as the old man’s nephew.

Hey Ben, Kylie spoke looking into the truck. Ben replied with only a look and a nod as if to say, Sorry, no time to chat, get in.

Kylie now understood that this was about something serious. Ben, or Liklik Ben, Little Ben, as many people called him, was always in the mood to gossip and chat away the afternoon. She stood firm and looked at the old man. Where are we going?

No time. Get in. he replied, this time getting agitated. He turned away from her and began climbing into the bed of the pick-up. Kylie threw the door shut and hurled herself up, over, and into the bed of the pickup truck next to the old man. His eyes widened in surprise.

Well if I sit back here, you have time to tell me about it.

The old man quickly wiped the surprise off his face, and made no reply except to bang on the side of the truck and shout out to Little Ben to get going.

The truck jumped as Ben popped it into gear, tossing its two unprepared passengers as it sped off. When Kylie and Lapun Spiabotl sat back up from the abrupt start, the truck was already leaving the tiny village.

Kylie had no idea what Lapun Spiabotl’s real name was. For a while, she had assumed Lapun Spiabotl was his real name, but with her fluency in Tok Pisin, she learned that Lapun was the term for an old man. It was a title of distinction amongst the community. At some unofficial point in late age, since no one knew their actual ages, village elders would take on the title of Lapun, followed by a distinguishing characteristic they possessed. From that point on, their birth name was ignored and they would answer to their Lapun name. Spiabotl, or spear-bottle, was the Pidgin term for shards of obsidian that were used to make spear tips. The smooth, hardness of the volcanic rock reminded explorers of glass, and therefore commented that it looked like the natives were putting parts from broken glass bottles on the tips of their spears. The name Lapun Spiabotl was an obvious choice since the man could never be found without his carved wooden walking stick tipped with a large teardrop-shaped shard of jet-black obsidian. It gave him an ethereal quality, resembling a Papua New Guinean Gandalf. Now the old wizard sat staring off the back of the truck, either avoiding a discussion or contemplating where to start.

It not far, but I tell you what I know. The old man began slowly as if settling into an epic tale. His rudimentary English made the story hard to follow, but he knew that Tok Pisin didn’t have the words to explain things. This afternoon a man kill dead a small boy. He no think another man see him, but great daughter of me see it. Words man talk make me think of secret finish long time now.

Kylie listened intently trying to translate his broken English into something that made sense. Your granddaughter saw a man kill a little boy this afternoon? Kylie interrupted in confused skepticism that she was hearing correctly. Is that what you mean?

Yes

Who? Kylie asked anticipating the response.

Timothy Drurien, the man replied.

Kylie sat back in shock. She remembered two days earlier when she had seen him last. His deep round smile stuck in her mind. He had tried to teach her how to climb coconut trees using a lap-lap that he had made to helped her hold her feet together.

And Niandros saw this? She asked, snapping back into reality as she registered what the old man had said.

Yes, and you no listen. It not important now. Important is you listen. This more important than boy’s life, more important than all our village lives! The man said clearly, insisting on telling more of the story. This man teacher at school. Him wantok of you and him know. Now you must find it before him, to stop him. I not know what else to do. Liklik Ben says you good person and others talk same. I no have choice, must trust you. The old man’s rambling seemed to make less and less sense as he continued.

Wait, Kylie interrupted, overwhelmed, the man that murdered Timothy is a teacher?

The man nodded. Kylie knew that wantok or one-talk was a word used in general to mean someone with something in common with you. In a country with so many languages, the languages you spoke defined who you were, and where you came from. Kylie understood that the old man’s use of the word was to explain that this man was either white or American or both. This was highly possible, since it was common that foreigners came to teach at the Catholic School not far from the village. The second half of the man’s tirade, however, was still completely unclear.

And what is this great secret? Kylie asked

I don’t know. He replied. The man took a deep sigh and looked into Kylie’s eyes. True Masalai.

Before Kylie could respond, Ben yelled out to his father in-law. Em enap? "Far enough? "

Good, the man replied.

The truck pulled over and stopped. Ben sat in the driver’s seat with the engine idling. The old man began to climb out of the pick-up.

Kylie looked around. They were stopped in the middle of a tiny dirt road, lined with dense tropical forest for as far as Kylie could see in either direction. They could have been anywhere on the island. Kylie couldn’t find the tiniest hint of uniqueness to where they stopped, but it was common when the forest was involved that the locals could notice things Kylie would never see. She looked to the sky and noted that it was getting dark quickly. Only a thin rim of the sun sat at the horizon, and Kylie’s view was