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Dune buggy tracks spiraled around in the salt flats as Nigel's Jeep reached the plains. At a convenient pull-out, they took a pause to film the great expanse of pinkish-pale encrustation. Nigel dramatically crumbled a handful of the dry stuff through his fingers, and looked up at the camera. "The particular glow of the salt that accumulates here is called saline efflorescence. Like the sand in the desert, it can work together with the beating sun to create impressions in the mind—cities that never were, oases you cannot reach...ships that appear to sail on dry land. What will we see? If all goes well, in just a little while, we'll meet our guide, Arryo Ulibarri."
Dusting off his hands, Nigel rose, and Devi almost managed the transition. She picked up the work quickly, but her other work involved constantly looking away, around, under rock and tree for any sign of danger—which somewhat complicated the task of keeping the camera aimed properly. Perhaps, with the Walsh clan gone away, he could hire additional hands.
"My dedicated viewers may recall meeting Soledad, the barkeep of the Rancho Buen Descanso, who first suggested she might introduce us to this elusive character. Arryo, we're told, is rather shy and reticent, especially regarding his remarkable turtle. As a person of Seri native ancestry, his reticence is fully justified. The Seri live principally on the eastern coast of Baja and on Mexico's facing shore. Between lies the infamous Tiburon Island, said for centuries to be the home of cannibals, a legend found to have little basis in fact, despite gruesome tales involving severed hands bound by a camera strap. These fiercely independent desert dwellers refused to bend the knee to the Spanish during their conquest. Lucky for them—perhaps—their land had little to offer worth exploiting, and the Spanish largely left them alone."
He donned an intense expression signaling for Devi to zoom in for the close-up. "Will this particular Seri native offer a warm welcome to a foreign traveler, or will it be my hands found on a distant shore? Join me, Nigel Rowe, for another rogue adventure!" He displayed his hands for a moment. His shirt cuffs slipped a little—always a trick finding sleeves long enough—but thankfully the redness of his prior binding had nearly faded, and he hoped it would escape scrutiny, though he did have a few fans dedicated enough to his own person to minutely scan him for injury with each new episode, and they'd be particularly vigilant given the footage Tesanee was about to release.
Lowering the camera, Devi gazed past him into the salt field behind. "Looks like a grave."
"I beg your pardon?"
She gestured away and Nigel followed her line of sight. To the right, not far from where the hills petered out, a large hole had been dug in the salt, with more salt scraped away around it. Given the lack of weathering on the edges of the hole and the soil contained within, the work must be recent. A series of regular depressions suggested footsteps to and from the hollow.
Devi's smile flickered to life. "Don't worry. It's empty."
"How is that not more worrisome?" He thought of Jerry Walsh, Jr., the treasure-hunter they'd been forced to kill not long ago when he and his brother held a family hostage in exchange for Nigel's own life and a clue to the lost Mission Santa Isabel. Devi's jest about the grave being empty made him imagine zombie Walsh, still searching, still blaming him for the death of their kin and the loss of their fortunes. With Mama Walsh in need of medical care, the other siblings hurried off to a hospital, and Nigel fervently hoped he'd never see them again.
Still smirking to herself, Devi turned away, stowing the camera, and he moved promptly to join her and finish the drive. They passed through another half-hour of salt with the rusting processing facility looming in the distance like the remnant of an apocalypse. If the area had much more development, it would become an apocalypse in truth for the fragile ecosystems dependent on the shallow lagoon and peaceful shore. Given the involvement of a turtle, and their guide's affiliation with the local conservation alliance, Nigel thought the angle for this particular episode's filming had taken care of itself.
The little port town held a look of prosperity rare on other parts of the peninsula, thanks to the tourist dollars traveling through en route to the lagoon. Restaurants and a few hotels lined the streets, with recently painted facades and perimeter fencing to keep out the riffraff. The conservation alliance, after raising funds to prevent a vast expansion of the salt field operation, had collaborated on a whale museum, complete with a replica of a diving gray whale in front.
Nigel filmed a little segment there, to introduce the town and lagoon—and the fact the town had been named for a wrecked whaler, then he and Devi packed along to the harborside, bringing a drybag loaded with rain gear for themselves and the cameras. A small bus loaded up a few dozen tourists from a hotel, likely decreasing the population of the area in a single transfer. Rows of RIBs and other small boats lined a few docks and lay out on the shore, with a few captains lingering, waiting for customers, perhaps, and speaking of the oncoming storm in low voices.
Eying the water warily, Nigel considered the many happy hours he'd spent submerged or at least soggy, from joining pearl divers in Okinawa to swimming a sacred cenote with a Maya priest who offered to show him an entrance to Xibalba, the Underworld. Last time he'd entered a swimming pool, he'd gone as the plus-one to an assassin bent on drowning him, and only Devi's quick reaction saved him from entering the Underworld in truth. His fingers worried at the little knife he wore as a pendant beneath his shirt.
"You all right with this?" Devi's voice, close at his ear. "You had a pretty close call with the water not long ago."
With a breath of laughter, Nigel said, "Of course. I've gone swimming daily since I was eight—"she needn't know he'd only started then because his brother chucked him in a lake and challenged him to ever come home, and so he did, determined never to fear that particular threat—"and we shan't even be swimming, merely bobbing in the teeth of an oncoming storm."
Her eyes—deep brown with flecks of gold—regarded him without judgment. "Just tell me where you want the camera."
A taco vendor called out to Nigel, beckoning him closer. With a glance at Devi, he declined. Not like him, to refuse the local cuisine, but then, they'd come to meet someone. They could partake of tacos later, hopefully.
Not far away, a woman in a broad sunhat and brilliantly embroidered dress sat on a folding chair, her back to the blue-gray water. "Historia, legenda!" she called out, then took a sip from an old glass bottle and replaced it on the ground beside her. "Historia, legenda! History and stories!"
If their guide were here, he had yet to show himself, which meant, Nigel was free to indulge, at least a little bit. "Bring the camera, but don't start until we have permission."
"Right." Devi followed along as Nigel approached the storyteller, and squatted down nearby.
"Hola, Abuela." From here, he could see thick, kinky hair the shade of antique pewter knotted at the back of her neck, and the milky blue-white of her eyes as her face turned toward him. She broke into a smile, missing a few teeth.
"Hola, señor. You would like a story?"
"I should adore one, Abuela, but before you begin, I should tell you my name is Nigel Rowe, and I have a video program watched by people around the world. Would it be all right if we film you telling the tale and share it with my audience? They love to hear from local voices."
"Si, si, como no?" She gestured toward a deeply carved wooden box at her feet, the lid open to reveal a handful of coins and bills, both pesos and dollars.
"We'll certainly pay," he assured her, depositing a few bills into the box to make it look good. In a lower voice, he added, "May I hand you the rest? In case there are bad people who'd take advantage."
She gave a throaty laugh. "Mi hijo, my son, he keeps an eye out for me, pero you are kind to consider." She reached out toward him, palm down, and he offered his hand to be clasped in both of hers, a few larger bills in between.
With the monopod propped a little way off, and collapsed to better capture the scene, Devi had already begun. Excellent.
The old woman slipped her hand away into a pocket of her apron, then waved him to be comfortable. "I am Hortensia Osei, and I have a thousand stories. Now I will give one to you."