The water becomes extremely clear the closer you get to shore, like a window onto the ocean floor. However, your focus is the island ahead of you, which appears dark even in broad daylight. There is a long beach in front of you, with a ridgeline rising behind it to the right. None of it looks familiar to you, as this is not the part of the island you spent the last few days memorizing with the maps. For all you know, you are heading straight toward a Woban village.


You and Berringer never did verify your new location, and so even if you still had the maps you would only be able to guess at which part of the island you are now approaching. All you know is that the jewel is said to reside in a ruined temple on the highest peak, which sits in a mountainous region on the south side of the island. You do indeed see a peak that matches the description: flat-topped with near-vertical slopes, somewhat like Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Getting to the top of such a mountain should be an adventure in itself, but you can only assume that there is a way up to the temple ruins that is not obvious from afar.


It is a long and anxious boat ride to shore, since you have no idea who (or what) else might be listening to the sound of your outboard motor. Nevertheless, you see no sign of movement on the beach ahead of you. Nor do you see the other runabout that Meredith stole.


You run the small inflatable boat onto shore, and then hop out and pull it the rest of the way out of the water. With no satellite phone to call for assistance should you need it, this white craft will probably be your only ticket off the island, when the time comes to return to the Big Papi. Looking around, you see quite a few footprints in the sand other than your own, telling you this beach is indeed a well-traveled thoroughfare. This motivates you to pull the runabout all the way into the bushes at the edge of the jungle, where you do your best to hide it. You note that the location of this hiding spot is just to the left of a large palm tree, which leans low over the beach before making a distinctive upwards curve; hopefully this natural landmark will help you find your boat when you return.


Then you look around at your surroundings. You intentionally landed close to that ridgeline you saw from the water, with the hope that this would put some distance between you and the nearest Woban village. You also noticed at the time that there seemed to be a pass straight ahead through the hills, which you theorized might be the most direct route to the base of the largest mountain. To get there, you'd have to follow the foot of the ridge up into the foothills for at least three miles, probably longer. The problem is that you have no idea whether any trails lead in that direction; if they do, none start here on the beach, at least. This means there is a good chance you'll have to bushwhack through thick brush to get where you want to go, and that is always a slow and arduous process.


The closest thing to a clear trail that you find begins to the right of where you stowed your boat. It leads up a steep and rocky slope, and you can only assume it goes all the way up to the top of the ridgeline. If it happens to follow that ridgeline once it gets there, then it too will lead you toward the foot of the big mountain, where your future wealth awaits. You'd make better time on a trail than you would bushwhacking through the jungle, even if the trail along the ridgeline would be longer.


But here's another thing you ought to consider: trails exist because they are used frequently by people — and on this island, the people who most concern you are the Wobans. If you could manage to avoid them as much as possible, you'll be having a good day.


Decisions, decisions. While you are pondering your options, you look back out at the ocean. The Big Papi is five nautical miles out from shore, holding its position while it awaits your return.   


__________________________________________________

You climb the steep trail.

The idea of moving swiftly appeals to you most, and so if the trail leading up the steep slope is the only one available, then so be it. By keeping to the high ground, you'll probably also have a better view of your surroundings; one way or the other, traveling along the ridge should prove to be beneficial, even if the trail does not turn out to be as good as you would like.


Without any further ado, you strike off. The trail is indeed steep, with scrambles from ledge to ledge at times, and very little vegetation to shade you from the tropical sun. You've seen mountain goat trails that were not unlike this one — although unless goats can fly or build canoes, you doubt there are any on Woban Island. The climb is grueling, and your pack fits you as well as if you were carrying a load of encyclopedias. The heat is oppressive, and all the sweat that is oozing out of your pores makes you feel like a spaghetti strainer. Just fifteen minutes up the hill, you stop and take a long swig out of the first Aquafina bottle. Ten minutes later you are stopping for a second drink. If your day continues like this, you're going to quickly regret not taking all six of the liter bottles that Captain Mark had scrounged up for you.


On the other hand, the pauses allow you to enjoy the setting. Under different circumstances — like, if you weren't on a paid gig, or on an island crawling with three-eyed man-beasts eager to kill you on sight — this might be a pleasant day. (And now that you think of it, it might also help if you had all that top-quality gear you bought in Boston. And if you had better prospects for tonight other than a meal of pepperoni sticks while huddling under a blue plastic tarp shelter.) The island itself is beautiful, with miles of seemingly pristine beach below you, and seabirds squabbling noisily for perching rights on a rocky point about half a mile away. There are no buildings of any kind on land, at least not that you can see; if there is a native village or two somewhere out in that expanse of jungle, you see no such thing. The closest thing to a structure is the Big Papi itself, which sits on the ocean like a distant white seagull floating contentedly on the waves.


The ridge only rises about four hundred feet above the beach, and so despite the effort required to make the climb it is over relatively soon. Just as you theorized, the trail continues along the crest, through pockets of grass and thickets of small trees. Even in the wooded sections there is very little shade, and so you pass the day exposed to the sun. Heat assaults you from above and below, as it reflects off the rocky terrain. You feel as though you are trekking across an endless parking lot on a sunny day in August.


The trail that you are following seems like a long and lonely highway; two hours pass as you follow it toward the foothills, with no signs of any Wobans. But despite all that forward progress, there are reasons to be concerned. You are down to your second Aquafina bottle, meaning you need to start being very careful with your water intake. There are no streams on this arid ridgeline, no places to replenish your supply; the handful of ounces remaining in the clear plastic bottle are all that you possess.


And so when the ridge trail begins to descend into a verdant valley where the sound of running water echoes gently off the surrounding hillsides, you start to get excited.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

The excitement comes to an abrupt halt the moment you hear voices beside that stream. Knowing that you have no reason to trust anybody you might encounter on this island, you go into instant stealth mode. It sounds like there are several men ahead of you, and although you don't recognize any of the words, the voices are calm. The speakers are merely conversing among themselves, unaware of your presence. You creep forward, finding a place behind a large rock where you can observe the speakers unseen.


What you see chills you.


There are three men in colorful grass skirts standing in a small clearing beside the small stream, each casually holding a spear that is as long as they are tall. And these men are certainly tall, nearly seven feet so, with muscular bodies. The fingers that grasp the spear shafts are tipped with elongated black nails; those on the index fingers are curved and pointed, as if these people were descended from velociraptors. And on the forehead of each man, directly above the bridge of the nose, a third eye frowns at the world.


The Wobans seem to be concerned about something, although you are relieved it's not you. "'A'ole hiki ia'u ke mana'o hou i ha'awi hou ke alaka'i ia makou i ke kuleana kia'i," one of them says.


"Ma hope o ka mea a makou i hana ai ia ia, aia anei kekahi kumu e pono ai ia ia ka lokomaika'i ia makou?" says the Woban on the right.


"'A'ole wau ka mea nana i kau i ka nahe i kana 'au'au!" the Woban on the left says defensively.


"'A'ole, aka, 'o 'oe kahi me ka mana'o!" the first one says.


"No ke aha i makemake ai ke ali'i e kia'i i keia ana? 'A'ole e hele kekahi ma ane'i."


"Makemake paha ke ali'i ia makou e hele."


"He naaupo oukou. E hele mai na kanaka ma ane'i. Ke 'imi nei na holoholona haole ia Vul-Kar, a alaka'i ke ana i ka luakini."


"No laila makou e ku kia'i ai a hiki i kahi poina e ke ali'i no ka makou mea i hana ai."


"'Ae, 'o ia ko ka makou ho'opa'i."


You haven't the slightest idea what they're gossiping about, but they seem rather glum about something. Then they go silent, sitting on the ground facing each other. One draws a circle in the dirt with his black talon-like fingernail, and they each take turns idly tossing pebbles into the center, as if they were playing some kind of children's game.


Their presence poses a dilemma for you, though. The trail that you have been following cuts straight through this clearing where the three Wobans appear to be waiting for something (or someone). For you to continue following it toward the mountain, you'd have to carefully circle through the jungle to get around them unseen.


But then you notice something else interesting: the stream that lured you here appears to emanate from a dark cave in the hillside, just five yards from your hiding spot. There is enough small brush around it that you are pretty sure that you can crawl there unseen. You have no idea where that cave goes, or if it even goes anywhere, but if nothing else it looks like it would provide better cover while you wait for the Wobans to leave.


All you know is that you can't stay here. Should the Wobans start moving around, of if another happens to come down the trail, you will be spotted instantly.


__________________________________________________

You circle through the jungle to get around the Wobans.

As cool as it might be to explore that cave, that's not what you're here for. This trail seems to lead right where you want to go, and the sooner you can get to the Stone of Vul-Kar and then get off this island, the happier everyone will be. These three Wobans seem distracted enough with their game that it should be easy to get past them, so the best course of action is probably to just sneak through the woods, put the Wobans in your rearview mirror, and continue on your way.


You venture out from behind your rock and creep into the woods, following the stream down for a hundred feet or so. Refilling your two Aquafina bottles with clear water from the little stream, you watch and listen for indications that the Wobans have heard you. From here you can't see them too well, but you can hear them well enough. As before, they seem completely unaware of your presence, their conversation focused some aspect of their game.


With your water supply replenished, you move on through the woods, using the sounds of the three natives as the center point for your circular route. "'A'ole 'oe ke pa'ani nei e na lula!" one of them shouts, but you quickly figure out that it's not about you. "'A'ole 'oe e 'ike i ka mea au e 'olelo nei. Noho iho 'oe a pani 'ia," another one says, and the crisis seems to be over.


A moment later, your orbital route around the distracted Wobans brings you back to the trail, and you resume your journey.


The problem, though, is that you have apparently picked a rather high-traffic trail to follow into the island interior. Within minutes you come to a prominent junction, with a wide and well-worn path leading left and downhill, and an equally wide and well-worn trail continuing straight ahead and slightly uphill. For the moment you hear no voices, so you continue on the uphill route. But the path is filled with footprints of all sizes — and heading in both directions, as if you've come across a major Woban thoroughfare. Extra caution will be in order.


Ironically, you are paying so much attention to the footprints in the muddy surface of the trail that you don't notice the tattooed warrior sneaking up behind you. It is not until he bellows out a loud whoop! that you turn and see him, but by then it is much too late. Four other tattooed, three-eyed men emerge from the brush beside the trail, each with an enormous spear pointed directly at you.


"Ua loa'a ia makou kekahi mea 'aihue 'e a'e!" the largest of them says. "Hiki mai lakou i ka makou 'aina e like me kahi ma'i ma'i o na pepeke."


"'O keia ka lua a ka makou i hopu ai i keia la!" a fellow behind you says, sounding almost boastful.


"'Ae, e 'olu'olu nui ke ali'i i ka makou hana," the first Woban says.


None of this makes even the slightest sense to you, but you can figure out enough to see that you're about to be taken prisoner. Now that you're seeing them up close, the Wobans are huge; the smallest among them still rises head and shoulders above you, with sharp-tipped spears that are longer than the men are tall. Even without the third eye on their forehead these people would be intimidating; whatever evolutionary purpose else it might serve, the extra eye effectively triples the menace behind their glares.


Physically, you'd be outmatched by just one of these fellows; you have no doubts they could eviscerate you with ease with those "talons" they call hands. All that extra body mass that makes them so much larger must be invested in muscle, bone, and tendon. You are not going to best anybody here in a footrace or pin one down in a half nelson. Maybe trying to reason with them is an option, though, so you give that a shot.


"Look," you say, "I come in peace. All I want is to climb a mountain—"


Someone strikes you from behind, and you slump to the ground unconscious.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

When you come to, you are lying on a dirt floor with a throbbing ache in the back of your head. Getting up seems highly ambitious given your groggy state, so instead you flop over and lie on your back. From what you can gather, you are at the bottom of a pit, with an oblong view of a small patch of sky a good twelve or sixteen feet above you. You have no memory of how you got here, but that's not surprising considering the force of the blow you received. Nor is it a mystery how you got to this place: the Wobans knocked you out and dragged you here. But where is "here"? What do your captors want, and how might you get free?


"I see you're awake," a voice says from the foggy corner of your consciousness. "You're already better off than the last person they dumped in here."


It takes a moment to realize you are not listening to a conversation between other people, but that there is someone else in this pit who is talking to you. You try to lift your head and look around, but that just causes more pain.


"Here, let me help." A man rises from the shadows and steps over toward you. He puts his hands under your arms and lifts you back against the wall, propping you up into a sitting position. It is more than you feel capable of doing yourself at the moment.


"The Wobans seem to be doing some housekeeping, I think, and we're the rubbish. 'Make Woban Island Great Again,' that kind of thing."


"Water?" you say. "Where is my water bottle?"


"Not here, I'm afraid. No food, either. Just you, me, and a dead woman."


It's unfortunate about the water. Sitting helps, though, so you focus on breathing deeply and trying to center your perception on recognizable objects.


Your boots. You see your boots, way out there at the end of your legs. Your legs are muddy, with red marks where you got scraped up on something. You have no recollection of that. Beyond your legs… someone else's legs. The man who helped you. There is not much light in this pit, but you can make out a wiry figure, slender but athletic, like that of a runner or something. Not a runner — scratch that. He is wearing a black harness that encompasses his torso and upper legs. He is a climber.


"Thank you anyway," you say.


"Hey, no problem," the rock climber says. "I could go for a long drink of water myself."


A moment passes while you sit quietly, waiting for your head to clear. The man fidgets, though, like someone not accustomed to silence.


"What's your name?" he says, but you choose not to answer; you're not sure you are in any position to provide an accurate answer yet.


"I'm Gary Gaffney, and right now I'm wishing I never heard of Woban Island. I think maybe I need a better travel agent. How about you? What do you think of the hospitality here? By the looks of the way they roughed you up, I'm guessing your Trip Advisor review will be fun to read. I just hope I get to read it someday."


"How long… have you been here?" you say.


"Not much longer than you. I was here for some epic rock climbing. You see, there was this broad in Boston who hired me to, uh, get some pictures of the island. I'd tell you more about that, but maybe the less you know the better. For your own sake, I mean. But anyway, yeah, I came to climb. There is some awesome rock on this island, I'll say that much. You should see the highest peak — sheer cliffs on every side. It's a thing of beauty. I know some guys who like to free-climb Yosemite who would give their left nut for a shot at this place. The problem is, you know, the Wobans. These guys will take more than just a left nut."


"Stone of Vul-Kar," you utter weakly. "Did you find it?"


"So you know about that? I should've known. It's a small island, after all. I'll bet you anything that Mrs. Adventure here knew all about it, too. She must've thought the Wobans would be so impressed by her pith helmet they would respect her well-dressed professionalism and leave her be."


"Pith helmet?"


"Yeah, you should see this thing. At first I thought the British East India Company was making a comeback. Judging by the way it's split open, though, it didn't do her much good. I think she was still alive when they tossed her down here — barely. But she was in rough shape, and the crash landing didn't do her any favors."


"E ho'ike 'ia ka mea'ai i ke Ali'i!"


Wobans are gathering around the top of the pit, preparing to drop ropes down.


"It looks like our court date has arrived," Gaffney says. "Time to appear before the local magistrate."


__________________________________________________

Next page.

Three Wobans descend into the pit, each taking one of the prisoners: you, Gary, and the dead woman with the pith helmet. The body is hauled away once you reach the top, but your captors seem to have other plans for you and Gary.


The two of you are shoved toward the center of a large Woban village. It is late in the day, and the villagers seem to be preparing for a huge bonfire; there is a great heap of wood stacked near the center of town. Straw huts surround you, occupied by men, women, and children who for the most part wear only grass skirts and a few other simple adornments. Their village is situated beautifully in a valley high in the mountains; you can see forested slopes in three directions, each with its own cascading stream catching the evening light.


Above it all rises the island's highest peak, an impressive tower of rock that looms hundreds of feet above the valley. At the sight of it, your purpose here comes back to you. You remember now that the mountain is your destination; you were hired to find a way to the top and retrieve an item of extreme value. How ironic that the Wobans have helped you complete a portion of that journey.


"Didn't I tell you? I could spend the rest of my life here putting up new routes," Gary says, admiring the view of the mountain.


Your head is starting to clear, and you are coming to realize that your situation is dire. These people are known cannibals; if they are inviting you to a party, it's because you're to be the main entrée. As you are marched through the village, you sense the residents looking you up and down. Those extra eyes are no longer scowling; now they look eager, like they are assessing how well you might taste. The better to see you with, my dear.


The heart of the village is a big open space, with the pile of wood near the center, and a raised platform of earth upon which stands the largest hut of all. A man and a woman are seated before the hut, regally poised in feathered robes and wearing feathered headpieces. You and Gary are brought before the mound and forced to kneel.


"At least they haven't lost our luggage."


Gary nods his head to the left, and there before the mound is a small hut with an open entrance. Inside it you can make out a large backpack adorned with colorful rope and carabiners. You assume your modest book bag is in there, too. The packs seem unmolested, as if the Wobans have no interest in items they can't understand — or perhaps fear things they think are enchanted with dark magic.


The king in his feathered robe stands up and approaches the forward edge of the earthen platform like an actor on a stage. He looks over the two of you, all three eyes moving in unison as if assessing merchandise.


"Ua li'ili'i loa ka wahine," he says, his stentorian voice uttering words you have no way of understanding. "'A'ole lawa kana 'i'o e kako'o ia makou. Pono makou e loa'a hou na 'i'o."


The king gestures to one of the guards, who first forces Gary to his feet, and then you. Your talkative rock-climbing friend senses the gravity of this situation and remains quiet. The guard steps in front of Gary, eyes him up and down, and then does the same to you. When he's done, he grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves you a step closer to the king, who in turn subjects you to the most intense glare of your life. You can see now that in a staring contest with a Woban, you will always be outmatched on a three-to-two basis.


"Nau e koho!" he barks at you. "E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"


You stand there waiting for him to continue; the king stands before you as if waiting for something from you as well.


"I keia la? Apopo?" he says more slowly.


"I think he's asking you a question," Gary says.


"I get that," you say. "I don't understand what, though."


"'A'ole hiki i keia holoholona ke 'olelo!" the king bellows to the gathered villagers, who respond with nervous laughter. Then he settles his eyes back on you. "He ninau ma'alahi ia. E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"


His efforts to slowly enunciate the words aren't helping your ability to comprehend them. The best you can guess is that you are being asked to choose between two options.


"I keia la? Apopo?" the king says again, but this time he is stepping backward to rejoin his wife.


"I keia la or apopo?" you say.


"Ke pihoihoi nei keia," the king says, once more gesturing to the guard.


The warrior grabs you by your shirt. "I keia la! Apopo! E koho i keia manawa!" His words land like spittle on your forehead.


"Just choose one," Gary says. "Before they get mad. It's either 'i keia la' or 'apopo.' Your guess is as good as mine which is the right answer."


It's frustrating being forced to make a choice when you have no way of knowing what the consequences will be.


__________________________________________________

You keia la.

"All right, I'll choose 'i keia la,' although it really makes no difference to me," you say.


"I keia la?" the guard says.


"Yes, i keia la."


The guard turns triumphantly to the king. "Ua koho ka holoholona ke make i keia la!"


"A laila e lawe e luku 'ia," the king says dismissively.


"Well that seems to settle things," Gary says.


But the Woban guard grabs you by both shoulders and roughly marches you back into the cluster of huts. Everybody seemed content with your choice, so you have no idea what you've done wrong.


"Hey, i keia la! I keia la!" you say, but the guard only seems more irritated with you and grabs your shoulders even more tightly. His long claw-like fingernails are piercing your clothing and causing you much pain. You can feel blood dripping down your sides.


The villagers seem even more interested in you now than before, and some step forward as if to inspect you. But your guard acts as if he's on a tight schedule. "Ma waho o ke ala!" he shouts at them, and the people move sheepishly aside.


At the guard's forceful direction, you turn a corner and march directly toward one of the huts. At last you are about to find out what it is you have chosen. But your blood chills when the most massive Woban you've seen yet emerges from the straw shelter. He folds his arms as he watches your approach, and against his left shoulder you can see he is holding a short but sturdy stick. The wood is polished from years of use, and the blunt end is caked with dried blood.


Only then do you start to grasp the significance of "i keia la," as you approach the man with the cudgel: you have chosen to be tonight's dinner, and you are being led like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.


THE END