“You got it. And Cowboy, be careful.”
I hang up the phone, thinking about being careful, and I decide against it. Whoever brought me here — unless they have a very good and noble reason — is going to find themselves in a world of hurt, courtesy of my fists, or this coffee carafe.
2
During the hour-long taxi ride from Palikir to the outskirts of Nan Madol, I learned a few things about the ruins, the first of which was that Bug had taken his short breakdown of the historic site straight from Wikipedia. The actual history was much more colorful. The city was built upon one hundred man-made islets at a time before the invention of modern landscaping machinery. The massive stones used to build walls, floors, sculptures, and steps are said to have been flown in via black magic. Given the ruins’ mysterious origins and otherworldly feel, it’s not surprising that the city of R’lyeh, in H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, was inspired by Nan Madol.
The city once housed one thousand ruling elite and local chieftains who were forced to live on the islets, where they could be watched and, if deemed untrustworthy, slain. The megalithic site’s centerpiece, as with many ancient cities around the world, is its walled mortuary. I wonder how many people met their end inside the city, which had no fresh water and was incapable of growing food. Nan Madol was completely dependent on outside support. It’s no wonder it was found abandoned in the early nineteenth century, by Europeans, some of whom believed they had found the lost islands of Lemuria.
Now it’s a tourist trap that isn’t quite a trap, because it really is stunning, though I may never confirm that with my own eyes. It’s been two hours since I hung up with Bug. After visiting a hardware store, waiting twenty minutes for the taxi, and then the drive around the south end of the island, the sun is far below the horizon.
The taxi’s worn brakes squeal as we roll to a stop. The driver, a man with a perpetual smile, swivels around with his elbow on the seat back. He’s shirtless and slick with sweat from a day in the car without air-conditioning. Yet somehow, he doesn’t smell. “Should I wait?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, handing him two $20 bills — U.S., which oddly enough is Pohnpei’s official currency. I point to the dirt path beside the old mustard-yellow vehicle. “Your friend knows I’m coming?”
“Yes. Yes. I called him. He is not happy about the nighttime rental — there are sharks, you know — but for the right amount of money…” He shrugs and smiles.
For the right amount of money, just about anything, good or evil, can be bought. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
I step out into the humid night, offer the driver a wave and a smile, and start down the narrow, muddy path. At the end of it better be a kayak rental joint, or Mr. Smiley cabdriver is going to be short a few teeth when I catch up with him. I click on the flashlight I picked up at the hardware store. I also picked up a machete, a utility knife with a three-inch blade, and a hammer. All excellent weapons in a pinch. And if I’m lucky, I won’t need a single one of them.
Problem is, I’m lucky only when it comes to finding trouble.
After ten minutes of slogging through damp earth, I part with another $200 and park my ass inside a kayak. It’s a two-seater… just in case it’s Laura’s husband who’s constipated.
There’s not a lot that creeps me out. I’ve seen shit that can’t be unseen, forgotten, or tamped down into the subconscious through hypnosis. It’s hard to get me spooked. But something about being on the water, at night, in a snack-sized boat, unnerves me. Each slap of water against the plastic hull conjures images of sharks. I turn the light on the water, but I only manage to see a few feet down. Anything could be lurking below, and I would never know. The mesmerizing number of stars above tugs my eyes upward and help me forget about the dark possibilities swirling beneath me.
As I leave civilization behind and plunge deeper into the mangroves of an ancient coastline, I do my best to put on my game face. People lured me here. Not sharks. People with unknown but likely malicious intentions. People who probably have guns. And that, I can deal with.
I put my shoulders into the paddle and surge along the coast, guided by the feeble illumination provided by my $20 flashlight. When I spot the first of a hundred islets covered in the blocky ruins of a time long forgotten, I turn off the light and coast through the darkness.
In the silence that follows, insects sing out a tinnitus-like buzz. I close my eyes and focus beyond them, listening for anything out of place, anything unnatural. A chirping, like some kind of homunculus-bird hybrid, echoes through the night. Voices, I think, and then I refine the realization to a singular speaker. Despite the high pitch, I can identify the speaker as a single, incredulous man.
My instinct is to leave the kayak behind and wade through the water, but I’m faster and quieter in the small vessel. I dip the paddle in the water and push closer to the voice, letting the stars and moon light my path through the maze of lush trees and the walls of gray stone. When the voice is loud enough to clearly hear, I dig the paddle into the water and let it drag me to a stop, just a few feet short of a staircase ascending out of the calm sea.
Just hours ago, the site would have been full of tourists in kayaks like mine. Whatever is going on here hasn’t been happening very long.
“You will scream,” the homunculus-bird man says. “If I have to fillet you one sinew at a time.”
My first thought is that I’ve stumbled across a violent interrogation, but the man’s words reveal something far more sinister. The silent person on the other end of this one-sided conversation isn’t being questioned. He, or she, is being tortured. There’s no way to know why, or if it has anything to do with Laura, or if it’s Laura being tortured. But the silence in response to the man’s taunts, and who knows what else, speaks of a strong character.
The torturer growls something unintelligible. The muffled sound implies he’s right up next to his victim, speaking into the ear, close, like a lover. He’s frustrated, but he’s still getting off on it.
“You think about that while I’m gone,” the man says. I duck as loud footsteps plod away. A silhouette moves through the ruins beyond the staircase. The footfalls become splashes as the man enters the water. This is followed by the clunk of an oar on the side of a boat, the noise sounding more like a canoe than a kayak — perfect for transporting an unconscious victim.
Guessing the victim is now alone, but not sure, I slide out of my kayak and into the water, letting the liquid cushion absorb my bulk. I slip out of the sea, onto the stone stairs, staying low so the water dripping from my body makes no sound. I slip up to the stone wall and peek around the edge. Ten-foot walls constructed of thousands of flat gray stones surround what looks like a small courtyard, but may have actually been a building’s interior a few hundred years ago. Shrubs and lush vegetation fill the open space to my left. To my right is a tree with coiling roots. And strapped to the tree is a shirtless man.
He hangs limp. Eyes closed. Blood drips from a handful of cuts on his chest and arms. What I first think is blood on his side turns out to be a large, port-wine-stain birthmark. He has the body of a man who’s seen action. Chiseled, but not shaven like a bodybuilder or beach bro. His face sports a healthy dose of stubble, and his black hair hangs loose over his forehead. My guess is ex-military. A mercenary, most likely. Which means he’s probably not up for any good citizenship awards. Whoever he is, I can’t in good conscience let his torture continue.
I creep toward the man, still careful, still quiet. I’ve left all of my fear and apprehension behind. But when the man speaks, I nearly stumble and fall.