The Solomon Curse (9 page)

“I'll stick with water. The heat dehydrates me.”

Manchester called the waiter over to relay Remi's request and then settled back in his chair. “So cannibal giants are running amok in the hills. I've heard that old wives' tale since I was a boy and the funny thing is how enduring the story is. Coming in the dead of night and snatching the unwary. I always wondered how the legend started. There's variations of it on most of the surrounding islands as well.”

When the waiter arrived with the drinks, Manchester ordered a seafood feast for them all that could feed ten people. They took their time eating as Manchester plowed through helping after helping with the commitment of a bulldog. When they finished, Sam turned the conversation to the gold mine.

“You mentioned the mine last night. How long has it been in operation?”

“On and off for a dozen years. Up until recently, it hasn't done anything—ever since what we call the social unrest happened.”

“I never associated Guadalcanal with gold, for some reason.”

“Most Americans don't. The only reason they've heard of the island is because of the big offensive against the Japanese in World War Two. But gold has been one of our defining characteristics—it's how the Solomon Islands got their name.”

“Really?” Sam said.

“Yes. When the Spanish arrived in the sixteenth century, they found
gold at the mouth of the Mataniko River. Their leader, an explorer named Álvaro de Mendaña de Neira, came to the unusual conclusion that this was one of the areas that the biblical King Solomon must have gotten some of his legendary gold from and named us after him. Let's just say for an explorer, his sense of geography might have been a little off.”

“That's funny,” Remi said. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

Sam leaned forward. “Just to put our questions to rest, what do you make of Tom's stories?”

“Well, people do go missing, and it seems like such incidents have been increasing, but I'm not sure what that means. It's probably that the usual culprits are getting them—accidents, drownings, crocodiles—and that our reporting has gotten better so we're tracking the disappearances more accurately. But it's hardly an epidemic. We're talking maybe twenty people a year. Hard to survive as a cannibal on that calorie count, I'd think.”

“I take it you're not in the ‘giants are everywhere' camp?” Remi asked.

“Tom's a very nice bloke, but I prefer to stick to the physically possible, or at least probable. I'll leave the unicorns and leprechauns to others.”

“What about his contention that certain areas of the island are cursed?”

“What does that mean? Because there's more crocodiles in certain bays and near rivers there's a curse? Or that because some of the inland cave systems are so treacherous that people disappear near them, never to be heard from again? For every curse, I can come up with a plausible explanation, and I don't require flights of fancy to do it.”

“We were thinking about heading up to the gold mine tomorrow after we meet with Rubo.”

“Assuming he's still alive and hasn't washed away. As for the mine, there's not a lot to see. It was closed down recently due to flooding and hasn't reopened.”

“We're running out of things to do in our off time. Where are these caves with all the giants located?”

“Up in the mountains,” Manchester said vaguely. “But there are no roads near them. And it's treacherous terrain. I'm not sure I'd ever get bored enough to try to explore the caves. Too much other stimulation available. Diving, fishing . . .”

When they'd said their good-nights and were driving back to the hotel, Sam turned to Remi as they passed the waterfront.

“He didn't seem impressed by Tom's yarn, did he?”

“No. But there's something off about him. Don't ask me what.”

“You got that, too? I thought it was only me.”

A utility truck rolled along the coastal road, and its engine labored to climb a grade on the dogleg leading away from the shore toward the mountains. The driver hummed along with the radio while his companion dozed in the passenger seat, khaki shirt soiled from a long workday.

The two Australians had been on Guadalcanal for six months, part of the ongoing aid effort since the 2006 riots. Now a much smaller group than during the upheaval, their duty was almost boring, with none of the danger of the previous years. The island had settled into a peaceful truce after much of Honiara had been destroyed during the unrest, and the focus was now on building a better future rather than fostering the cultural differences that had led to so much dissention.

The driver made his way around the curves with caution, alert to the possibility of coming head-on with a slow-moving vehicle without lights in the evening gloom. On the road, automobiles with
questionable brakes and nonexistent safety equipment were only one of the many hazards. Domestic animals, fallen trees, broken-down cars—any and all could appear out of nowhere, and the driver was taking no chances.

“Crap. What's this all about, then?” he muttered to himself as he came around a particularly sharp curve. A van was stopped in the middle of the road, its emergency lights flashing. “Alfred. Wake up.”

The passenger sat up straight and rubbed a hand over his face as they slowed. The road was blocked, so they couldn't go around the vehicle.

“Bloody great, Simon. So much for getting back at a reasonable hour.”

The truck coasted to a stop and Simon peered at the rear of the van. “I hope the driver's here. If he went walkabout to get help, we're screwed.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Both men opened their doors and stepped out of the truck, leaving the engine running and their headlights illuminating the rusting van's rear end. Simon walked to the driver's door and peered inside and was turning to tell Alfred that it was empty when four dark forms ran from the bush at the side of the road, machete blades flashing in the dim light.

Simon held his arms up instinctively to block the blows, but his flesh and bone were no match for steel honed to a razor's edge. Alfred went down in a heap as a blade severed his carotid artery, and the attackers continued to hack at him even when it was obvious he was dead.

Simon fell soundlessly from a sharp blow to his skull and crumpled lifelessly to the ground as his killer stood over him with a demented grin twisting his face. A voice called from the brush and the men stopped in their tracks.

“Enough. Get the truck off the road and drag the bodies into the bush so they aren't discovered. The animals will take care of the rest.”

The men exchanged glances, their tattered clothes sprayed with blood that was already congealing in the warm night air. They sprang into action and within five minutes had cleared the scene, leaving no evidence of the massacre other than glistening black stains on the road.

“Go on, now. Get out of here. Stop at the shore and clean yourselves off, and take care to get all the blood off your weapons. And remember—not a word to anyone. I hear anything, I'll cut your tongues out and have you staked over an anthill.”

The men shuddered. Nobody doubted the speaker's sincerity. They nodded and climbed into the van, which started with a sputtering puff of blue exhaust, and were out of sight before the motor's roar faded. The speaker walked to the bloody smudges on the road, considered them, and smiled. Everything was going according to plan, and the only thing that remained was to contact the papers and plant a statement saying that the rebel militia had kidnapped two aid workers and were demanding all foreign companies invested in the island relinquish their claims and leave—before lives were lost.

The surrounding jungle was quiet, the only sound the scurrying of nocturnal creatures moving toward the easy meal that awaited them. A black SUV pulled out from behind a thicket twenty yards down the road and headed for Honiara, leaving the Australians' truck and their mutilated corpses at the bottom of a nameless ravine, two more casualties on an island whose soil ran red from battles fought for its control.

The next morning, Sam and Remi headed for the hospital. Dr. Vanya was there and this time allowed them into the depths of the building to see Benji, who thanked them profusely for their help in barely understandable English. It quickly became obvious that there wasn't anything further to talk about, and after a few minutes of assurances that Leonid would help out with the hospital bills they moved back to the patient lounge with Vanya.

“What do you have planned for today?” she asked.

“We're going to interview some locals about Guadalcanal legends and then maybe go see the mine,” Remi said.

“Oh, well, be careful. Once you get outside the city, the roads can be treacherous. And you've already seen what the jungle can hold. The crocodiles are only one of the dangers.”

“Yes, Manchester told us all about the giants,” Sam said.

Vanya slowed and smiled, but her expression seemed brittle. “There are some colorful beliefs here, that's for sure.”

“As we'd expect in any isolated rural society,” Sam acknowledged. “We're respectful of the traditions that fostered them, but still . . .”

“I've heard about giants ever since I was a toddler. I don't even pay any attention to the stories anymore. I treat it sort of like religion—people are entitled to think what they think,” Vanya said.

“But he did say there's been an increase in unexplained disappearances,” Remi reminded her.

“I've heard rumors that there are still pockets of militia in the mountains who are hiding out. I find that far more likely than the giant explanation.”

“Militia?”

“Ever since the social upheaval, when the Australians sent in an armed task force to keep the peace, there have been those who have agitated for a change in regime—who view foreign intervention as a disguised occupation of the country in order to control its natural resources. While the majority seems ambivalent about it, there are still groups of people who are angry, and some of them are militant. There have been clashes.”

“Then it actually
is
risky to go explore the caves?” said Sam.

She nodded. “Not because of giants. But does it matter what gets you if you're never heard from again?”

Remi eyed Sam. “She has a point.”

“Thanks for taking the time to escort us to see Benji,” Sam said to Vanya. “What happened to the poor man is a tragedy.”

“My pleasure. Just take care that the same doesn't happen to you. The island's still largely wild, and, like I said, the crocs aren't the only predators.”

“We'll bear that in mind. Thanks again.”

Heat radiated off the parking lot as they walked to the Nissan, the equatorial sun already brutal in the late morning. This time, their drive
east on the only paved road was fast and relatively easy until they passed the tiny village of Komunimboko and the road they'd had to quit the prior day. It wasn't waist-deep in water any longer, but it was badly rutted and still mostly mud.

Sam dropped the drive train into four-wheel drive and they edged along, the car swaying and bouncing like an amusement park ride. The passage through the jungle narrowed until it more resembled a tunnel than a road. The canopy overhead blocked much of the sun, and the foliage framing the muddy track was dense and foreboding, brushing against the sides of the SUV as it rocked inland.

“And we don't even know if this Rubo is still alive or living here?” Remi asked.

“There are no guarantees in life. Where's your sense of adventure?”

“I think I left it back a mile ago, along with my sacroiliac and a few fillings.”

“We've been through worse.”

“I just hope I can keep breakfast down.”

Half an hour later, they rounded a particularly ugly switchback curve and entered a clearing by the river. A traditional thatch-roofed hut rested in the shade of a tall banyan tree, no evidence of power or phone lines to be found. They rolled to a stop in front, and Remi glanced at Sam.

“Nice. And you have me staying at that crappy hotel?”

“Every day brings new surprises, doesn't it?”

“I think your quarry is peering out the doorway.”

“Let's hope so.”

“Maybe I'll stay in the car. That way, if you take a blowgun dart to the neck, I'll be able to get help.”

“Always thinking of me, aren't you? It has nothing to do with the AC . . .”

“If you can even call it AC. To me, it feels like it's just blowing the hot air around.”

“Stay, if you want. I'm going to talk to our new friend. You sure you saw someone there?” Sam asked, squinting at the hut.

“I think so. Movement. Could have been a crocodile or a skink, though, so be careful.”

“That makes me feel . . . really good.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

Sam opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle and then slowly made his way toward the dwelling, which looked uninhabited. When he was a few yards away, a tremulous voice called out from inside in pidgin. Even though Sam didn't understand it, from the tone it was clearly a warning, so he stopped.

“I'm looking for Rubo,” he said slowly. “Rubo,” he repeated for emphasis. “Do you speak English?”

All Sam could hear was the soft rumbling of the Nissan's poorly muffled exhaust and the buzz of inquisitive insects that had taken an interest in him. He resisted the urge to swat at the air like an enraged bear and instead waited for a response.

A figure appeared in the doorway. It was an ancient man, stooped and thin, with sagging skin, and clad only in a pair of tattered shorts. The skeletal face studied Sam, the eyes dull in the shadows, and then the figure spoke.

“I speak some English. What you want?”

“I'm a friend of Orwen Manchester. I'm looking for Rubo.”

“I heard you fine. Why?”

“I need to ask some questions. About local legends.”

The old man emerged from the dark interior and regarded Sam with suspicion. “You come long way for questions.”

“They're important.”

The old man grunted. “I'm Rubo.”

“I'm Sam. Sam Fargo.” Sam extended his hand, and Rubo stared at it like it was smeared with filth. Sam hesitated, wondering if he'd crossed some social line, and the old man grinned, exposing toothless gums.

“Don't worry. Me don't like shaking hands. Not taboo. Just don't like.” Rubo asked, “You sit?” motioning to a log that ran along one of the thatched walls, thankfully in the shade.

“Thank you.”

They took seats, the old man's watchful gaze roving from Sam's shoes to his hair.

“What you want?” Rubo asked again, his voice quiet.

“I want to talk about the old days. Old stories. Orwen said you know more than anyone.”

Rubo nodded. “Could be. Lot of stories.”

“I'm interested in any about a curse. Or a lost city.”

The old man's eyes narrowed. “Lost city? Curse?”

Sam nodded. “About a bay on the other side of the island that's cursed. Bad luck.”

“Why you ask 'bout city?”

“I heard from someone who's exploring the island that there are ruins underwater.”

Rubo looked off into the distance, watching the river's brown water surge past. When he returned his attention to Sam, his face was stony.

“There is story. Old. King who tempt gods. No good, tempt gods. He build temples in bay. But big wave destroy. Curse bay. No good go there.”

“When did this happen?”

The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Long time back. Before white man come.”

Sam waited for him to continue, but for a storyteller Rubo was short on details. After a half minute of silence, Sam tried a smile. “That's it?”

Rubo nodded, then held out a gnarled finger, pointing at the car. “Who that?”

“Oh, sorry. My wife.” Sam waved to Remi and motioned for her to come over. She stepped down from the vehicle and approached.

Rubo's vision seemed to improve and his eyes stayed locked on Remi as she neared before looking away at the last second.

“Remi? This is Rubo. He was just telling me about a legend. A king who built temples in a bay that the sea then reclaimed. Angry gods.”

“Nice to meet you,” Remi said, beaming a smile at the old man. He stood unsteadily and took her proffered hand and shook it. Sam didn't say anything. Apparently, there were exceptions to every rule.

“Sit,” Rubo invited, and she offered him another smile. She took a seat next to Sam and waited expectantly. Sam cleared his throat.

“Sounds like our ruins, doesn't it?”

“Yes. It's amazing that Rubo knows the story.”

The corners of Rubo's lips tugged upward. “I know many. Stories.”

“I'm sure you do. And your English is very good. How did you learn to speak so well?”

“Big war. I help Uncle Sam.”

“Did you really? Those must have been rough days,” Remi said.

Rubo nodded. “Bad days. Many die. Hate Japanese.”

“They were bad to the islanders?”

“Some. One very bad. Colonel.”

“What did he do?” Sam asked.

“Bad things. Kill many of us. And do tests. Secret.”

Remi edged closer. “What? What kind of tests?”

Rubo looked away. “Med.”

“Med? You mean ‘medical'?”

He nodded. “Yes. With white man. But not American.”

Sam stared at Remi. “Japanese experimenting on locals with white men. Want to take two guesses what nationality they were?”

They turned their attention back to Rubo. “Why haven't we heard anything about this before?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe nobody care?”

“Japanese engaging in war crimes here? I can't believe that would be swept under the rug.”

Rubo gave her a blank look. “Rug?”

“Sorry. An expression.”

“Back to the king and his temples. Can you tell us the whole story?” encouraged Sam.

Rubo shrugged. “Old. Not much to tell. King build temples and palace. Gods angry, destroy it. Place cursed. Everyone forget about him.”

“That's it?”

“Pretty much.”

Sam sighed. “What about giants? What are the legends about them?”

Rubo's eyes widened. “They real. Use to be lots. Now not same. But real.”

“How do you know? Have you seen them?”

“No. But many I know have.”

“Isn't it a little strange to believe in something you've never seen? I mean, it's like ghosts. Lots of people believe in them, but . . .” Sam stopped talking when he saw Rubo's face.

“Ghosts real.”

Remi took over. “So you think there are really giants in the caves?”

“I don't go there.” The old man shifted on the log. “Bad spirits in caves. Jap officer do things there. Many ghosts. Angry. And giants. No good in caves.”

Sam exchanged a glance with Remi. Rubo was clearly not a fan of the Japanese or the caves. And he seemed to have exhausted his limited repertoire of stories about the king.

Remi cocked her head and leaned toward Sam. “Did you hear that?”

“No. What?”

Rubo was lost in his thoughts, staring into space.

“I thought I heard an engine. Down the track.”

Sam shook his head. “Not me.” He returned his attention to Rubo. “How well known is the story about the king?”

The old islander shook his head. “Nobody talk about the old days. Just as well.”

A crack of branches sounded from the river, and Remi started. She and Sam peered into the brush but saw nothing. They listened, ears straining for any further sound, but the area was quiet other than the sound of the river rushing past and the occasional flutter of birds overhead. Rubo didn't seem to notice, and after several minutes they relaxed.

Remi took the lead in asking more questions about the legend of the lost city, but the old man's responses became even more terse. When Remi took Sam's hand and stood, he didn't resist.

“Rubo, thanks so much for taking the time to tell us about the island's history. We really appreciate it,” she said, her smile lighting up her face.

Rubo studied his feet with a shy expression. “Good to see people. Talk. Long time.”

They retraced their steps to the Xterra and were greeted by a blast of cool air when they opened the doors. The little motor was still chugging along and the AC with it. Remi strapped in and turned to Sam. “What did you make of that?”

“It's another piece of the puzzle. Makes sense, though. Sounds like a natural disaster destroyed the king's work and that that was interpreted by the locals as angry gods swatting him like a fly. Also explains the curse. Even if the specifics have been forgotten, legends like that have a way of lingering.”

“Leonid will be pleased to have more to go on than a question mark.”

“In case you haven't noticed, Leonid's hard to please. Ever.”

“Leonid is a grumpy guy.”

“It goes with being Russian. All the snow. Or the cold soup.”

Remi eyed the shack. “He really did look like he was a hundred.”

“He'd have to be close to that if he was around during the war and old enough to help the Allies.”

“The bit about the Japanese colonel conducting experiments was
more than a little creepy. I can't believe something like that could happen and wouldn't be recorded by history.”

“It's a small island. History tends to miss a lot of the minor events. We more than anyone should know that.”

“Kind of our edge, isn't it?”

“That and your charm. Judging by Rubo's reaction, that can't be underestimated.” Sam smiled and slid the transmission into gear. “So? What next? Gold mine sightseeing or back to town?”

“I say let's look at the hole in the ground. Not that I'm complaining, but it's easy to go stir-crazy sitting in a hotel room all day.”