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Nigel switched out with Devi, letting her finish the drive—impressed all over again with her instinct for direction. Night creatures flitted through their lights, and his nerves transitioned from the horror and fury of his discovery, through the fear of being again on the wrong end of an ambush, to anticipation of the night ahead, a night in the desert, mostly on his own, with the owls, bats and moths—perhaps to catch a glimpse of a kit fox.
She pulled the Jeep in and left the engine running. "Grab your bag."
"I'll want some of the cases as well." He climbed out and started by pulling on a headlamp from the ready pocket of his rucksack.
"Want to protect them, too? I can hardly drive any worse than you did."
Nigel chuckled. "Indeed not, but this presents a fine opportunity for some night footage." His most recent time lapse had certainly featured predators, a thought he shied away from. He sorted through the disorganized cases, pulling the tripod and a few other things, staring at the equipment. "Your phone's charged, yes?"
"Stop trying. And yes."
Apparently, even in the dark, when he hardly spoke at all, she could tell precisely what he was thinking. He swung his carryall over one shoulder and pulled a sleeping bundle from the back, shutting the doors. At last, he stepped away from the vehicle.
Devi leaned across to the window. "You know the rules."
"Don't eat anything I didn't prepare. Don't talk to strangers. Don't drive with them. Don't save lives. Don't jump in. Have I missed anything?" He rattled off the list with a casual air. "Given the complete lack of strangers out here, I think I may—even by your standards—be safe from most of the list."
"I won't be here to watch your back."
"Understood. I shall endeavor to survive without you until your return." He closed a fist against his heart in salute as she reversed course and drove away, his circle of vision shrinking to the area of his own small beam. His heart still thundered, if not quite so heavily as before. The Yu'pik knife and gold coin pressed between his hand and his heart, a metaphor for something, no doubt, that he wore a blade and a coin, though honestly, the symbols felt like someone else's.
She left him alone in the wilderness, utterly alone, while she drove into danger. His situation clearly suited his skills, and he had little training of the sort that she did, but still...who'd watch her back?
Nothing for it now but to make camp. Hauling his things to the open sleeping area, he placed his personal things on the high shelves, mindful of the creeping things likely to find them of interest. A few hand-woven baskets rested on the shelf as well, filled with a store of grains and matches, and making him feel as if he'd truly stepped back in time. The cameras and gear he stashed against the walls. Lantern on a hook on the wall, lit with a single match. Gracias, Arryo. Hope the man didn't mind Nigel squatting here for the night.
Deploying the lantern revealed a heavy curtain bundled to one side of the door, ready to prevent the incursion of night creatures, and to keep in the warmth of the occupants against the temperature drop of the desert night. Nigel unfurled the canvas across the entrance casting more blessings on Arryo's name, and on his ancestors who founded the camp.
For a time, he busied himself setting up a night camera, keeping the tripod low, suitable to the creatures most likely to be seen. This he placed over the rise near the stream and far from his own intermittent light.
He ought to be climbing in bed. Ought to have done some time ago, save for the mounting anguish of the night. Joe hadn't been killed by strangers, but by people he trusted, people he thought were his friends. So it was for the average target of violent crime: those most likely to hurt you were those you felt closest to. In this way, at least, Nigel was exceptional, though really the price on his head merely placed whoever offered that price at arm's length and gave them plausible deniability in his upcoming demise. The act would be performed by a stranger, and likely funded by family.
Returning to his temporary home, Nigel considered the flame of the lantern, and the tale of the wreck, its burnt timbers providing the platform for the natives' own campfire. One of those people had brought away a coin, a curiosity and perhaps a key, to his family, passed down through generations to Hortensia.
Taking a seat on the wooden bench beneath the lantern, Nigel drew the coin from around his neck to have a closer look. As he released it, it spun, dangling from his grasp. Golden gleams danced around his little refuge. He'd yet to see the painted panels Arryo mentioned near the trail to this spot. He'd meant to ask about them, but so much had happened since then.
Still, the idea of the pictographs together with the light brought to mind another place and time. Small painted panels left by the people who decorated Lascaux and other Stone Age galleries grew animated by the flicker of firelight, the artists' skill combining with the moving light to make the eye see things, likely creating a feeling of awe in the viewer. Those paintings had the same effect on him, even now, and the glow of the lantern brought him back to a more primitive era.
As he watched the coin spin on its chain, the cross on one side overlaid the other side in his vision. He'd thought the coin scratched by its long exposure to the vagaries of life. Now, he was less certain. He caught the coin, stilling its movement and brought it close, then dug into his pocket for that most ubiquitous of explorers' accessories, a Swiss Army knife. This one featured a minuscule magnifying glass.
Under close examination, some of the markings might be dismissed as random while others resolved to a tiny inscribed turtle with a long scratch off to one side. Lucky the turtle hadn't been damaged. Nigel focused on it, staring intently as he let the coin spin once more. The turtle flashed in his vision, superimposed over the Spanish cross blazoned on the back. The tiny turtle appeared to sit in the lower left quadrant. Could the cross be standing in for a compass? In which case, the turtle rested in the southwest. It could simply be a memento, capturing the image of the turtle they had apparently met near the wreck, a turtle they had also marked. If he'd been a graduate student again, he'd declare something about the ritual significance of turtles to the southern Seri nation and see if he couldn't get a grant to travel to Baja.
Back in the day when he couldn't imagine the sort of commercial fame and fortune which had actually bankrolled the trip. Would his younger self be proud and fulfilled to know that he now counted his time in little blue "likes" and large green dollars? Or would he shrivel in disgust at his future self having turned his back so utterly on his ideals?
Perhaps both, Nigel mused as the coin spun. Perhaps he'd be dismayed at his own adaptability, his cunning at having taken the foul path that seemed his lot, and turned it round again in support of those very ideals, albeit in a role quite different from what he once imagined.
That long curving scratch, though, looked familiar. Again, he stopped the coin, his thumb tracing over the mark. Not random, not at all. It captured, in miniature, the coastline south of the point beneath Malarrimo. Nigel's throat went dry. He knew, now, where Mama Tortuga began her quest.
Across the darkness, the coin flashed gold like a beacon for greed and he wondered who else would be summoned by its light.