| |
As they climbed back into the Jeep for their return trip, Nigel mused, "There is someone else who knew about the wreck. That's your mother."
Arryo frowned. "She knows the story, si, but I don't think she knows more. That's only from the years she listens, collecting the stories."
"That's not the only thing in her possession, Arryo. There's also the coin. Do you know of any others taken from the wreck?"
While Arryo chewed that over, Nigel clicked the camera into its dashboard mount and turned to Devi. "Let's make sure to stop by Malarimmo and pick up the tripod."
"Will do."
"I don't think of other coins, but maybe. We ask and see what she says."
"This isn't gonna be some One-Eyed Willie thing, is it?" Devi flicked him a glance.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know, from 'Goonies?'"
He shook his head. In fact, he did not know. "What, pray tell, is a goony?"
Her eyes flared, then she laughed. "Gooney was my old Unit commander, before he got the boot. 'Goonies' is a movie, cult classic from the eighties about this group of kids who go hunting for a pirate treasure in Oregon. The whole thing is kinda ridiculous, but they have a coin that's one of the clues. The hole bored through it is the shape of the island where the treasure is."
"Not so ridiculous. There was, in fact, a galleon wreck found in that area. No doubt that inspired the film's creators." Nigel made a note of the film. In the event of illness and injury, he had a store of ideas for videos he could make without stepping foot outside, and a watch party of such a film might be a delightful add-on for his superfans.
"No kidding. My dad made me watch it. As if it were 'The Godfather' or something."
"I'm not at all certain American cinematic tastes should've been allowed to govern world theater to the extent that they have."
"You must be an Indiana Jones fan, though? Same director."
With a shake of his head, Nigel pointed out, "From what I hear, he's a terrible archaeologist, and a worse professor." He offered a wry smile. "As if I should speak. No doubt others say the same of me and anthropology."
"Oh, no, you can lecture like nobody's business."
And here he'd thought they were getting on so well.
"Nigel."
He glanced over, eyebrow raised to find her focused on him.
"I'm serious. Lot of my instructors could've learned from you."
The words warmed him, and not in a desert heat, death may follow sort of way. "Thank you."
As the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, Nigel used the long drive, now somewhat familiar, to get some extra sleep, bestirring himself when they stopped on the verge above the bonfire ground. Buggy tracks circled all over the slopes as well as down the narrower track they'd taken last night. Burnt scraps of wood and a ring of ash marked the fire circle—along with dozens of empty bottles strewn about as they had been tugged by what little tide reached so high on the shingle. Disgusting. It had never occurred to him the men might simply leave their trash.
Nigel shot a look back at the Jeep ready to summon help, only to find Arryo already climbing out, scowling down at the party's remains. "Devi, we've got some trash bags tucked in the side pocket. Just because they can't tidy up after themselves doesn't mean we shouldn't."
She blinked at him, then glanced down the beach, already strewn with the leavings of the storm and detritus from every passing cruise ship or whale watch. Down on the beach, Arryo was already pulling bottles from the sand.
Devi ducked for a moment, then emerged with a trash bag, swooping it open as she walked. "They were drunk," she said as she sailed by him. "Given a place like this, they probably didn't even think about it."
Right. Lucky they hadn't decided on shooting the bottles to nasty shards before departing.
While Devi and Arryo started cleaning up, Nigel walked along the top of the cove to the thicket where he'd left his camera. Seeing it still in place, the light glowing to indicate its activity, Nigel hopped down to the strand and followed the ridge of rocks back up toward the lens, trying to keep steady and straight. The coming and going of the tide had swept away most traces of humanity here, and his own footsteps tracked a lonely course out behind.
He'd clip the section from the end of the video and do a separate time lapse upload in which his hair would bounce, his hands flail, and his audience laugh out loud at the result.
Stopping the camera, he turned it off and stowed the legs of the tripod, then met up with the others, taking the crew's litter along with them.
"Or maybe they thought it would wash out to sea. That it wouldn't still be here," Devi said as she started the vehicle.
"How is that better?"
She sighed and pushed the Jeep into gear. "I know, it's not."
He paused to reframe the moment from her perspective. "You like them, and you want to think the best of them. Litter is hardly the most egregious crime."
From the back seat, Arryo made a gruff sound of dismissal. Not the most egregious, but also not the act of a trustworthy steward of the land.
Arriving in Guerrero Negro, they parked in their customary spot near the shop, reserved by Arryo's reputation if nothing else: so far as Nigel knew, Arryo carried his little bow and arrows everywhere he went, even when he wasn't defending his mother's storytelling earnings. Today, the long, hinged cover over the front window had been raised on its props, serving as an awning from the sunshine when open, as well as a defense against storms when closed. Clever.
Inside the narrow space, ranks of carvings filled shelves from waist-level on upward. Mostly whales, but some sea turtles, fishing boats, sharks and dolphins supplemented the bay's most famous denizens.
"May we film?" Nigel indicated the space, and Arryo nodded. "Your work, are they? They're magnificent." Pity that Nigel's peripatetic lifestyle prohibited taking many souvenirs, but he could have a few sent back to his assistant to be offered to his fans.
Displaying a few choice examples, Nigel spoke of the legacy of Seri native wood-working, and the value of seeking out the real thing rather than to be taken in by imitations mass-produced elsewhere. He finished his panning shot on Hortensia, seated behind the counter, and Arryo, standing now beside her.
"Mama. Señor Nigel agrees to help us seek the wreck."
Hortensia turned her blind face in Nigel's direction, smiling and holding out her hand. "Viene. And thank you. The grandfathers say it is time. This is why Mama Tortuga has come home from the sand."
Devi squeezed herself and the monopod into the corner by the door to take in the moment. Voices outside caught her attention and she frowned, tipping her head in that direction. "Some kind of excitement down the harbor."
Nigel nodded, pausing for a moment until the voices died down, then he went to the old woman and accepted her hand, strong bones beneath warm, leathery skin. "Hortensia. We must know, are there other stories? Or other coins? We have seen Madre Tortuga, but where does she tell us to begin? Perhaps the grandfathers can say."
She reached and slipped the chain over her head, depositing the coin into his hand and letting the chain pile on top. "There is no other coin but this. May it be a help to you, señor."
"I can't take it from you. We'll just—"
Closing his fist around it, she clasped his hand in both of hers. "You'll bring it back. And many more." Those milky-blue eyes appeared to focus directly on him, as if she laid a geas upon him, a fairy's charge that must be fulfilled or dire consequence would follow. How had he, of all people, come to accept this burden of trust?
"I'll do my best," he told her. And perhaps that, right there, was his answer.
Voices again, from outside, this time approaching and growing louder. Something about a net and a stranger, then the shop door opened, and a grim-faced man looked them over. "Viene," he said. "Viene a ver."
Come to see...what? Nigel's stomach clenched and they stepped outside.