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2 – Lipstick Smudge

“Can I get a hand here?” Jay emerges from the ferns behind his hammock holding the hiking pole. A giant dark brown crab hangs from the far end by a pincer, its other claw waving and snapping wildly at the young man. He cackles and brings it across the sand. “What are the defining characteristics here? Prad? Amy? Anyone?Hey, where is everybody?”

Only Alonso and Flavia watch from their platforms. Everyone else is busy hauling the final load from the Zodiac up the beach. Alonso reads a webpage from his laptop screen: “‘…a weight up to 4.1 kg, and a leg span more than 0.91 m, with males generally being larger than females.’ Is that one of the large ones?”

“I have no clue. It’s dark in there. Close in-fighting and the fog of war and all that. I think coconut crabs are considered a delicacy.”

Alonso consults the page. “And an aphrodisiac.”

The pole cracks, fracturing along its length. “Ah fuck! You son of a bitch! These were a hundred dollars!” The end of the pole twists and breaks off, the crab scuttling away waving its prize.

“‘Also known as the robber crab or palm thief for stealing anything left unattended.’” Alonso shakes his head and sighs. “Yes, it looks like everything must be done on these platforms. But they may figure out ways to climb the legs. Wikipedia says they are drawn by sense of smell…”

As Jay scampers after the retreating crab into the ferns, Flavia whips her head around and gasps at Alonso. “Wait! How are you reading a Wikipedia page? You said no internet!”

Alonso holds up a metal brick connected to his laptop. “60TB solid state drive. I had my data team put together a snapshot of the most important current digital resources. Don’t look at me like that, Flavia. You know you can download Wikipedia, right?”

“Why would you even bring me here if I can’t access my most important networks and resources? It is like—like getting the best sprinter in the world for your race but then telling her to leave her track shoes at home. Perché? perché dovresti farlo?”

“I know you’re making sacrifices, Flavia. And we all appreciate them.” Alonso sits back in his chair, depleted by the events of the day and the emotion of his reunion. His voice is a minor key rumble in his chest. “But as you can see we brought enough resources for the project. We did what we could to anticipate your needs in the time we had. I’m just very glad to have you here and I’m hoping you find the challenge of building a new custom database from scratch is more than enough stimulation.”

“Don’t you worry about my stimulation!”

Katrina pops her head out of her small ice blue tent. “Again, the rule is you have to buy a girl a drink first.” Her hair is in pigtails. She crawls out and weaves a sparkly taffeta scarf around one of the tent’s struts, like she’s at an outdoor rave.

Flavia shakes her head, sulking. “What system? What kind?”

“A new classification system. From the ground up. We can use this untouched island as a template. A proof-of-concept.”

“Classify what?”

“Life. All the life on the island.”

Flavia is unimpressed. “I haven’t taken biology since undergrad, Alonso, but hasn’t that already been solved? Something like ‘Kingdom, Phylum, Order…?’”

“Yes, yes, that is the old way. But it has many problems, as I’m sure you’re aware. Data science has come a long way in 240 years. And our understanding of what life is. Species are not single bodies who live alone without any connection to each other. Katrina, this is what I meant in my letters. The interconnectedness of Plexity. That is my name for the system. I have already filed the trademark. See, I’ve been working toward… no, not a single grand unified theory of everything for bioinformatics and genetics, but more like a Rosetta Stone. Plexity will be a powerful tool that lets us see the world more clearly and describe in far better detail not only each genus and species but how they are related to the wider ecosystem web of life around them. For none of us live in isolation, my dear.”

“I know that.” Flavia finally answers, “It is why, I need a shower every morning, even if it is so cold. Basta, Alonso. I always knew you were a visionary, but basta, basta. You cannot do this in eight weeks. That is the work of a generation, of a whole—”

His passion for the subject animates him. “Yes it is. And I have. I’ve spent a whole generation working on Plexity. And then five years with nothing in my head except this idea. It is all in here, Flavia.” He presses his index finger against his temple so hard it bends back. Then he pats the 60TB brick. “And here. This opportunity is heaven sent. It’s karma for all my suffering. It’s, well, whatever it is it’s what I’ve been waiting my whole life for and I’ve walked through fire and despair to get here. Now I’ve already coded most of the important analytics and procedures. But it’s still a bare skeleton. I have faith in you, Flavia. I’ve seen what you can do with a good design document and an endless supply of coffee.”

“Espresso. Not coffee. Gah. Do it properly or not at all. Don’t tell me you brought an espresso machine!”

“I asked Miriam to get as many Italian delicacies as possible for you but it’s true that might be too much. I know you can do this, Flavia. The system architecture is all finished, down to the last detail. This is all I worked on in my rehabilitation. It’s only a thousand lines of Perl. Now I just need your genius to implement Plexity in a real-world setting.”

“Wait.” Jay re-emerges from the ferns with his pole, which is now even shorter. “They’re called coconut crabs because they’re usually only found on islands with coconuts. Where’s the coconuts? We’re too far north and temperate here.”

Alonso reads, “‘Adult coconut crabs feed primarily on fleshy fruits, nuts, seeds, and the pith of fallen trees, but they will eat carrion and other organic matter opportunistically.’”

“Oh, great. We’re organic matter. Can they climb? They can, can’t they?” Jay shakes his head. “They shouldn’t even be here—hey, what the hell is that?”

Beneath the high fog, the only sign that the afternoon is getting on is a slight dimming of the gray vault. Across the dark sand the others are unloading a massive container wrapped in a blue tarp onto the sand, then rolling it like a barrel. It is hard work and they only make it halfway up the beach before they need to take a break. Jay jogs down to join them and with his fresh legs they all manage to deposit the barrel directly before Alonso.

He frowns at Miriam in suspicion. She is flushed from the exertion, her pale cheeks red, her eyes snapping with excitement. “What is this? I didn’t order anything like this.”

They all look at him in silence with expectant smiles.

“Oh, you all know what is in here? Everyone but me?”

“It was the only way I could get them to push it all the way up the bloody beach.” Miriam claps her hands.

“Yes? What is it? Triquet, please do me the honor of unwrapping it.” Alonso hands them a clasp knife. “Please, quickly, so you can all stop grinning at me like idiots. It’s unnerving.”

Triquet slices through the packing tape around the blue tarp. Mandy says, “Any guesses, Doctor Alonso?”

“It looks like a barrel.”

Triquet pulls the last of the tarp away, announcing, “It is… a barrel!” Several of the others help Triquet tilt the barrel forward, to reveal the lid. “A barrel of… oh, what does it say there, Alonso?”

Alonso peers through his reading glasses. “Château Ausone, 2018 Bordeaux. Ah, Mirrie, what have you done?” He claps his hands over his mouth as tears spring again from his eyes.

“Oh, Zo. I made a mad purchase. We had some spare cash lying around after a fundraiser from a couple years ago. News came out that you died and…” Miriam shrugs, shaking her head. “It was a dark time. Somebody at your department put together a gofundme and by the time it hit $20,000 word reached us that you were actually still alive. Most people wouldn’t take their money back. It was quite a fine moment in the end.”

“This is the best gift I have ever received.”

Amy turns to Triquet. “I told you he loved wine.”

“Love, heh. I used to say wine was the only thing that kept me sane. And I haven’t tasted a drop in five years. Nothing but dirty water in captivity. Then they wouldn’t let me have wine at the hospital. And it’s a Bordeaux. Miriam, you are unbelievable.”

“Your third favorite Bordeaux. Sorry, Zo. I couldn’t afford the top two.” She gestures at all the piles of gear. “In one of these bags is a set of stemware. Also instructions for how to broach the cask. And just like that, you will be sane.”

Alonso wants to protest but he is too happy. He laughs through his tears and does a quick search. “A cask is 60 gallons, which is enough for 25 cases or 300 bottles. 300 bottles! Oh, good. Eso es suficiente. I was afraid it wouldn’t last eight weeks.”

Everyone laughs as they return down the beach for the last piles of gear. As they walk, Jay makes a face at Katrina. “300 bottles? Damn I thought I was a fiend for bringing five ounces of weed.”

Katrina strikes a pose like a J-pop star. “And I thought I was a fiend for carrying a hundred pills of molly and a sheet of acid.”

Ξ

Triquet and Pradeep spread out a giant nylon parachute of forest camouflage. They attach its center to a rope they’ve already flung over a high branch in the bay trees. Pradeep ties down its edges at various points while Triquet hoists the rope hand over hand and sings, “Oh my god… I put my pants on inside out…I couldn’t tell because the lights were out… I beat the sunrise again, oh yes.”

Just in time too. A light rain starts to fall as the suspended parachute covers the center of the camp. Pradeep adjusts the tie downs until it stops flapping in the wind. He beams in pride and high-fives Triquet.

“Eh,” Flavia importunes them as Triquet collects the remaining ropes and stakes. “I have a question about your name, Doctor Triquet, if I could.”

“What’s that?” Triquet doesn’t want to be defensive about such an opening question but finds it hard. These rarely go well.

“Are you named after a triquetra? I love knots.”

This is far from what Triquet expected and they shake their head, bemused. “Uh, named after Triquet Island in Canada, love. But I have heard of a triquetra. Like a Celtic knot?”

“The topologically simplest knot. A fundamental shape.”

“That’s me! Fundamental and the very simplest.” Triquet curtsies with a giggle and puts the gear away.

Their little village begins to take shape. Ten platforms are scattered throughout the understory in a wide crescent about eighty meters in length, where the sand gives way to tumulus and duff. Jay in his hammock is a satellite to the crescent, like Venus to the moon. The bunker is on the far side, at a fair distance. They are still worried about what might emerge from it.

The platform for Alonso and Miriam has been built from all the remaining logs and is three times the size of the others, with a tent so large it has a screened-in patio. Miriam is busy within, trying to make a home of it. They won’t move Alonso in until he is done for the night. But that hour seems to be far in the future. He is radiant, sitting in his camp chair in the center of it all, watching his long-held vision finally take shape.

Amy brings Maahjabeen a mug of tea. She has dragged one kayak halfway under her platform and is staring, exhausted, at the second one. She gives a grateful, but guarded, smile to Amy and sighs, sipping it. “My rule is to always have my boats out of the water and under a roof,” her low voice buzzes like a North African reed instrument. “But that may be a problem here.”

“There’s probably room under Miriam and Alonso’s platform. I can help.” Maahjabeen sighs and pushes herself away from the platform and Amy fears she’s now interrupting her deserved rest. “I mean, when you’re ready.”

Maahjabeen smiles again and settles back, to sip more tea. “Thank you. So what is your specialty, Doctor Kubota?”

“Field biologist. Large mammals mostly. But I did work with insects before. And some lab work. I’m actually renowned for my blood samples. Top quality assays and lots of them. Kind of ghoulish, really, but we never know where life will lead us, do we?”

“Inshallah. Okay, I am ready now. If you can just grab the other handle. We will go slow. It is getting dark.”

They haul the slender yellow kayak over to the large platform. “And you are obviously our maritime expert,” Amy ventures.

“Oceanographer. Well. Waiting on my PhD. I’ve finished and sent it off and everything. I just need to hear from the committee one last time. Here. Careful.”

Amy rests the beak of the kayak on the sand. “So I can’t call you doctor quite yet? Help me with your name again?”

“Maahjabeen. It is an old Tunisian name. Hard for outsiders. Step back.” With a grunt, she pushes the kayak fully under the platform. “Thank you for your help.” Her head bobs once.

They turn back to Maahjabeen’s platform. “And how do you know Miriam?” Amy asks.

“Eh? Doctor Truitt? We met last week. She hired me through an online ad. She said they needed someone with my expertise and their previous person backed out at the last second.”

“Oh. You don’t know Miriam or Alonso at all? Oh, dear. You may be the only one who isn’t… I mean, was she able to let you know, like did you understand what you were getting into here?”

“Yes, Doctor Kubota. I am not an imbecile. And I have been on field work for many years now. I just don’t like the secrecy of this one. And all this mystery. I do not mind being the outsider. But when you won’t let the oceanographer set herself up beside the ocean then you know something is strange.”

“Militaries and their satellites, I understand. Some old agreement about who’s allowed here and who isn’t. So we have to hide under the trees. It will be different when we get up to the forest above. Then you’ll have this whole beach to yourself, I imagine.”

“That would be better. Yes, they did tell me and they made me sign all their American legal documents. Well, thank you again for your help. And the tea.” Maahjabeen hands Amy the empty mug, dismissing her.

“Nice to meet you, Maahjadeen.”

“Maahjabeen.” She removes a tarp from a bag and spreads it over her platform.

“Shoot. Sorry. Maahjabeen. Maahjabeen. I try so hard with names.” Amy withdraws in defeat, cursing under her breath.

Ξ

Esquibel and Mandy have set their platforms beside each other. They have been inseparable since Mandy’s arrival, whispering and giggling and catching up. Now they are flying an extra layer of tarps over their platforms on Mandy’s advice. “At this latitude, this early in the season, I’m surprised we haven’t been drenched the whole time we’ve been here. Southern Oregon gets like five centimeters of precipitation every March. I checked.”

“I didn’t even know you were interested in meteorology!” With Mandy, Esquibel is a completely different person, laughing and at ease. Her smile is scintillating.

“I wasn’t! I mean, when we met. But that was, gosh, seven years now? I mean, I was just eighteen. I didn’t have a single clue what I wanted to do.”

“Did you stay at Colgate?”

“No. I transferred to Syracuse. But I didn’t like their program or their weather so I finished my masters at UCLA. I heard you like joined the Navy or something.”

“Yes, the Kenyan Navy. I’m a Lieutenant Commander now. I’ve been attached to a couple American bases lately. Overseeing medical improvements. Sanitation and infection control.”

“Oh my god Skeebee is a Lieutenant Commander? I mean, what do I even call you now? Lieutenant Commander Doctor Daine? Doctor Lieutenant Commander Skeebee?”

“Skeebee!” Esquibel’s laugh is so loud it makes everyone in the camp turn and smile in response to such joy. “I haven’t heard that name in so long. Oh, Mandy girl. I can’t believe you’re here.”

Mandy kisses her old friend with simple affection. “I’m hungry. Let’s get that kitchen set up.” Mandy leads Esquibel by the hand to the long tables.

As they begin to unpack the containers holding kitchenware and stoves, Katrina emerges again from her tent. She wears an ice blue satin sheath and a wreath of flowers encircle her braided hair. She runs a long string of lights up the center rope hanging from the parachute, illuminating the space. Then she returns to her platform and pulls a small case from her tent. She opens it to reveal a laptop and a KORG loop machine. Panel speakers swing out.

Katrina starts spinning chill beats.

The others stand and look around, realizing how much the space has been transformed in such a short time. Now it has an eldritch quality under the sloping parachute roof in the drizzle and fog. Amy and Jay have joined Mandy and Esquibel at the long tables, opening mylar sacks to resuscitate freeze-dried vegetables.

Miriam finds the paper instructions for broaching the cask. “I’m supposed to have a mallet. Did anyone bring one?” She holds up a complicated chrome unit that will serve as the barrel’s spout.

“I’ve got a hatchet,” Esquibel tells her, departing to fetch it. As she and Miriam work on the barrel, the aromas of a hot meal begin to rise from the stovetops. Jay wields a spatula and tongs, working the burners like a pro. “Imagine we get some of those crabs or a nice halibut or something on here. Then we’ll be living like kings.”

“Ayyy!” Miriam cheers when the spout is installed and the first ruby drops escape. “Maybe we can set it in this little notch here.” The remains of a moss-covered stump are nearby. She directs Triquet and Amy and Pradeep to lower it sideways into its cradle. She crows, “Ha ha! I feel like a pirate queen!”

Miriam retrieves the stemware in its padded case. She removes a crystal glass and fills it. She hands it with a bow to her husband.

Alonso takes it, eyes gleaming, and rolls the liquid around in the glass. Then he smells it.

“Drink it, Alonso!” Miriam urges him.

Amy chuckles. “We’re all waiting!”

He holds up a hand. “First I want everyone to have a glass—”

But before he can finish he is shouted down. Triquet appears at Alonso’s side and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “I will pour this down your throat myself if you don’t behave.”

With a laugh, Alonso surrenders. He takes a sip. He groans. He draws deeply from the glass. Then he tilts his head up to the sky and sighs.

They all cheer. Amy kisses his cheek. He toasts them. “Salud! Salud! To all your health! Everyone! Sincerely!”

Jay blows a huge stream of smoke over their heads. They look at him in surprise. He proudly holds a joint as big as his ring finger.

Flavia throws her hands up in the air. “What is this? I didn’t drop my career and fly halfway around the world just to go to a party!” But Miriam interrupts her sourness, unwrapping a portable espresso machine in her lap. Flavia cries out in joy and hugs her.

Katrina speaks softly into a mic, her breathy voice amplified and processed over the music: “Party… party… party… We the jet set now.”

Then she drops the bass. It leads into a lush soulful electro track. Purring and cooing into the mic, she loops her inputs and adds effects. Pradeep hands her a plastic cup of wine. Katrina sips and makes a profoundly appreciative face. “So good! so-good—so good…” Her words echo across the beach then skirl upward, rising in tone and dissolving into white noise.

Jay starts dancing. Triquet and Mandy join in. He passes the joint around. Everyone else just watches, stupefied with exhaustion but bemused by the simple loveliness of the scene.

Except Maahjabeen. The growing fixation on alcohol over the last few hours here has really unnerved her. And now one of the grad students is passing out drugs? And this is just what they are doing on the first night? What will come next? Orgies?

Amy registers this one spot of darkness among all the light. She makes herself busy at her platform then returns to Maahjabeen’s platform, holding a delicate lacquer tray. “Another spot of tea?”

“How long will they play that?” Maahjabeen glares at Katrina swaying at her console, eyes closed. “It has been a long day.”

“Yes it has. I can’t imagine they’ll be too long…” Amy holds up a Japanese hard candy to share but she is interrupted by Alonso, who in the first bacchanalian rush of tannins and toxins to his brain stem in far too long, cries out like a bullfighter and waves his cane over his head. Amy laughs. “Ai! Go get them, muchacho!” She returns her attention to Maahjabeen, who now regards Amy as a traitor. Amy withdraws the candy. “I’m sorry. When you turn in I’ll see if I can get them to tone it down. I hear you, Maahjabeen.”

Maahjabeen allows herself a sigh before turning away. What has she gotten herself into this time?

Ξ

In the dead of night, Flavia screams.

Within seconds, Esquibel unzips her tent. This time the scream was much closer than the waterfall, here in the camp. She fumbles with her black satchel. “Flavia?” she calls out. “Where are you?”

“Don’t move! Don’t step onto the sand!” Flavia’s terrified voice comes from the far edge of her own platform.

“What is it?” Jay’s ragged voice calls out from his hammock. He unzips and swings his legs over the edge.

“No! Don’t move, Jay! Ahh!”

Pradeep shines a bright headlamp on the camp.

In its arctic light, hundreds of crabs are visible, crowding the beach. Crabs of all shapes and sizes. Innumerable species. And they surround Flavia, caught a step removed from her platform in the act of relieving her bladder, her pants around her ankles.

Tableau. Then in an instant the crabs clatter away back into the shadows or down the slope into the surf.

Flavia can’t stop screaming.

Jay whoops like Huck Finn, snapping on his own headlamp and chasing the stragglers toward their nests.

“Did anybody lose anything?” Esquibel shines her light on the long tables, but they’d done a good job locking everything up the night before. All the coolers and containers are undisturbed, their lids locked tight.

Flavia finally answers, her voice bitter. “No. Just my dignity.”

“Maybe we leave a light or two on all night,” Pradeep suggests. “Katrina, how’s your batteries?”

“Brought loads. Yeh, we can leave the yellow string lights on no problem. I’ve got briefcase solar panels to set up in the morning.”

Amy helps Flavia back to her platform. “There we go. Let’s all just see if we can get back to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Flavia barks in disbelief. “You think I can ever sleep here again? This—this is like a nightmare!”

“I know, I know it’s disturbing. But think of it this way. If they wanted to attack us they would have already. Most crab species can’t even conceive of attacking large mammals like us. We’re safe. I promise you as a biologist.”

“Wasn’t Amelia Earhart eaten by crabs?” Mandy asks in an innocent voice. “And that’s why we never found any remains?”

“Mandy,” Esquibel laughs. “You’re not helping.”

“Fanculo questo,” Flavia curses, rejecting everything she sees and hears. “I am done. This is impossible. Alonso. Get me off this island. This instant. No more.”

Alonso’s voice emerges from the dark platform. “Oh, Flavia. I can’t. I don’t have the—”

“What do you mean you can’t? What kind of answer is that? Of course you can! Otherwise this is kidnapping and you are a criminal! You can’t keep me here!”

“Flavia, Flavia… Listen. I don’t have a way to reach them. That was the agreement. We have to remain completely dark. They’ll be back in eight weeks.”

“I don’t care. No. I don’t care about your stupid spy games or whatever. I’m done I tell you.”

“I don’t have a way to reach them.”

“Bullshit, Alonso. Bullshit. Your police woman took my satellite phone away. I can call my institute and get a charter out here to me within minutes.”

“Flavia…”

“Give me my phone.”

“Flavia, if you turn that phone on you end the entire project, not just for you but for all of—”

“You think I care about that? You think I care about this—this reality tv show here? No! I am a free woman and citizen of the European Union and I demand that you give me my phone now!”

Her voice echoes in the silence.

After a moment, Esquibel answers drily, “I gave it to the Zodiac pilot. He took it away.”

“Noooooo—!” Flavia howls. “This is—I mean, nobody does this! You don’t just come out to an island in the middle of nowhere with no way to contact anyone!”

“I am sorry, Flavia. The conditions they set were quite strict. But it was worth it. I hope in the morning perhaps you can see that.”

“There, Flavia,” Amy points at the string of lights that Katrina has turned back on. “The lights will keep the crabs away. And we can design more safeguards around the platforms so that we can feel confident we are safe on them.”

Flavia allows herself to be mollified somewhat. “No, I will never feel safe on them.”

“Would you like if I joined you in your tent? It looks big enough for two.” Flavia has a boxy blue Quechua car camping tent that cost twenty-six Euros three years before.

“Si. Per favore.”

After a long interlude, the camp finally settles again. Surf rushes softly against the sand. The wind blows fitfully in the trees.

One person didn’t return to their tent, but now lies on their air mattress at their platform’s edge. It is Pradeep, watching the crabs slowly creep back into the camp now that all motion has stopped. His eyes shine with the bounty of species before him.

Among them all, he is the only one who does not sleep that night.

Ξ

In the hour before dawn, Maahjabeen silently rises and readies herself for the day. She performs her fajr prayer, kneeling and bowing to faraway Mecca on the east-by-southeast horizon. Then she stows her prayer rug and other personal items and slowly slides the kayak out of its spot under the platform.

Once it is free she puts a waterproof duffel filled with gear in the cockpit and points the kayak’s beak at the lagoon’s edge below. She lifts the front handle and begins to drag it.

To her surprise, someone lifts the back end of the kayak, making her stumble from the unexpected lack of resistance. Annoyed, she turns back to find Pradeep watching her, his smile a pressed line of abashed offering. “Sorry. Trying to help.”

Maahjabeen has trouble not saying something rude. After a moment the fire in her eyes dies and she nods. “Please do not surprise me any more.” She lifts the handle and they carry the kayak down to the surf.

At the water’s edge he doesn’t leave. He watches her take out her neon green spray jacket and skirt, wide blue sunhat and criminally expensive sunglasses. Her camera bag is a small black box and her telephoto lenses are in two tubes as long as her forearm. She places them within reach in the fore compartment.

“Sure you want to go out there alone?” Pradeep doubtfully studies the dark gray water. It looks forbidding in the gloom. “Where you headed?”

Realizing she won’t be free of him until she gets on the water, Maahjabeen steps beside him to study the small waves and says, “Not sure. I got a sense of the currents yesterday as we came in but this morning they’ve changed. The breaks are hitting the other side of the lagoon rocks now.”

“I love the ocean. Oceanography.”

“Yes, well,” Maahjabeen had done all she could to get out of camp this morning without a conversation like this and yet here she is. “She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t care about you at all.”

Normally she would sit in the kayak at the edge of the waves and scoot herself in, but Pradeep would obviously push her off and that is the last thing she wants. So she splashes into the frigid surf, awkwardly slips her legs in, and pushes off before he can lay another hand on it.

“Be careful,” Pradeep calls out, waving goodbye to her like her dad. Then he turns and walks away from the water’s edge.

Now that she is free of him, Maahjabeen can actually see that he is just a nice earnest Indian boy. Harmless. She sighs and lowers the rudder behind her, taking shallow little scoops of water with the tips of her blades to warm herself up. Also, these waters are hectic and she needs time to assess the currents before she goes anywhere. There are pools and eddies throughout this entire cove. Dark jagged rocks ring it almost perfectly, of dead black coral and even some gray benthic shelves that the surf uncovers at its lowest ebb.

Those rocks prevent all but the gentlest waves from hitting their beach. She paddles behind them onto a stretch of flat water and tries to estimate the size of the lagoon. She always thinks in terms of area based on her ancestral family orchard outside of Zarzis on the Mediterranean coast. It is six hectares of olives and pasture and she knows every bit of it from spending her summers there as a child. In all, the lagoon is probably two to three times the size of the orchard. So maybe fifteen hectares. Quite large, larger than she had thought yesterday, that’s for sure. And quite a lot of coral, still mostly alive unlike so many places these days. She glides above a huge patch of sea grass. There must be a tremendous amount of life in these waters. It is entirely pristine.

No, not entirely. A bleached fragment of plastic is wedged in a crack of rock between clusters of mussels. Maahjabeen coasts to a halt so she can remove it. As she does so, she sees an old weathered patch of concrete on the far side of the rock, with a rusted eyebolt. More remains of whatever Air Force base this had been.

Her mood, which had been rising as it always does when she is alone on the water, now crashes again. Right. The American military here like they are everywhere, ruining everything. She isn’t very political but sometimes people make it hard. Whether it’s Chinese fishing fleets or stateless pirates in Guiana, the freedom of the seas is slowly diminishing in her lifetime. The open wild ocean is now chained in fishing lines and covered in trash.

But here, here the wildness remains. Those crabs on the beach last night. The sheer remoteness of this impossible island… despite her many misgivings it calls to her.

The sun begins to rise over her left shoulder. Feeling more confident, she paddles strongly to the mouth of the lagoon, where the open sea awaits. She knows the Pacific Ocean well, and despite what she had told Pradeep, considers herself one of the ocean’s beloved children. But the parts of this ocean she knows are the more tropical regions, around the Philippines and the north coast of Australia. The North Pacific is something else. Here, the ocean still carries the tang of Alaskan glaciers and green seafoam. She could die of exposure in its twelve degree waters.

Maahjabeen pulls up short of the lagoon’s mouth. Invisible currents intensify with surprising strength beneath her, dragging her toward oblivion. With rising alarm, she digs deep with her paddle and pushes herself to one of the last outcrops, where she grabs the coral with an outstretched hand. It bites into the heel of her palm but she only drops her head and endures it. She needs the sea to calm before she lets go.

Maahjabeen clings to the coral, trying to isolate the outrageous stinging burn from the salt and coral in her hand. She sees that Pradeep still watches her from the beach. Great. Now she looks like she’s in trouble and doesn’t know what she’s doing. Feh. This is intolerable. Grimly, she holds on while the current tries to blow her out onto the open ocean, where the waves crash against the outer rocks with thunderous force. As a sometime surfer, she can tell that was at least a double or triple overhead with a pretty devastating closeout. And there are ranks of heavy waves behind. No, she is doing the right thing. Maahjabeen doesn’t need to navigate her kayak through there. Not alone.

Ugh. This is bigger water than she anticipated. She’d thought she could just slip out and hug the outer rocks and maybe paddle over to the base of the cliffs but now she sees that would be more danger than she can handle. Maybe the seas will calm down later but right now, she will have to settle for exploring the lagoon.

She only wishes that Pradeep would stop watching her.

Ξ

Miriam kneels in the dirt. Triquet joins her, standing at her side. “Volcanic, of course, but it must be ancient. There hasn’t been any active seamounts or volcanism in this entire region for eons. Tens of millions of years. This sand is nearly as fine as glacial flour. I still can’t quite bring myself to believe this island is actually here.” She sifts through the dirt in her fingers, finding small bits of stone that she looks at through a loupe.

“I’m not sure how much of my skills will actually be required here.” Triquet frowns at the remains of the concrete bunker. “A pair of undergrads with a shovel and some trash bags could properly excavate the ruins here. So perhaps I could help whatever you have in mind. Digging, I assume?”

“Oh, yes!” Miriam stands and claps her gloved hands. “Plenty of digging. Thanks, Triquet. And don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find ways to keep everyone busy.” She assesses the ground around her. “Here. But careful of roots. Don’t take down any plants or Amy will yell at us. Yes, busy and engaged. A working holiday for all.”

She fetches a narrow spade. Triquet uses a garden trowel. They begin to dig.

“I’m just hoping for a wee cross-section this morning. Just a glimpse at what’s beneath the sand here. So much vegetation on the cliffs I can only make guesses. Later, we’ll get up on the cliff wall there and do some close mineralogical analysis.”

Triquet kneels at Miriam’s feet and listens to the satisfying bite of the blade into the earth. They have been on too many digs to count over the years. And it always starts like this. Building context. Understanding the ground in which all the fascinating secrets are buried. Learning timescales.

Triquet’s work has mostly been in Namibia and Sudan, Crimea and Kyrgyzstan. They are used to human-sized timescales. But Miriam immediately talks of eras spanning millions of years.

“I mean, how does Lisica even form? There’s no tectonic fault within a thousand kilometers. Honestly, when I first heard about Lisica I assumed we’d be further inland at the Juan de Fuca Plate or perhaps the Explorer or Gorda Ridges. Then we’d have a proper model. Ancient eruption, volcanic deposits. Scan and date them and move along, but…” She stops and shakes her head, rueful. “No proper model here at all. There’s literally no reason for the Pacific Plate, the biggest and one of the oldest plates on the planet, to have a volcanic hotspot here. It’s entirely unsupported by hundreds of years of observation and theory.”

“Aha! Once an archaeologist!” Triquet holds up a smashed and faded container, decades old. “The earth giveth. Can’t wait to find out if they buried their waste anywhere. Standard procedure on a site like this for disposal is to burn it. But obviously not everything!”

Miriam takes a quick break to examine a gravel layer. “What is it?” she idly asks, not much interested in trash.

“Camel. Unfiltered. Carton. This artwork is from the seventies. So. At least fifty years old? Hm. No filters, which is a shame. Those can be so illuminating.” Triquet teases the layers of laminated cardboard apart with tweezers, using a small magnifying glass to spot the tiniest of clues. “Look. Lipstick. Either the boys were cross-dressing or a woman was here. For at least a while.”

“Huh.” Miriam is impressed with Triquet’s analysis. “Lipstick? You sure? Before a lab test and all?”

“Honey,” Triquet dismisses her concerns with a wave of their hand, “if there’s one thing I know it’s lipstick. It even still smells of wax. Close your eyes.” They put the carton beneath Miriam’s nose and she inhales with a giggle.

“I only smell dirt. And a bit of tobacco.”

“Bless our messy ancestors. They left all kinds of clues around. Never thought about their litter. Now, we can’t help but think about it because it’s just… so out of control. Trash everywhere. I don’t envy my colleagues in the future trying to dig through the mountains of garbage we’re leaving them. It’ll be like needles in haystacks, for sure.”

“Hey, uh…” Jay arrives, uneasy, fingers picking at the front pockets of his jeans. “Glad to see you already got the shovels out. I’ve got something for you both to look at.”

Miriam and Triquet exchange a glance. “Okay,” Miriam says, brushing a strand of auburn hair off her pale forehead. “Something buried?”

“Yeah,” Jay sighs, unhappy. “Or someone. We should probably bring Esquibel too.”

Miriam and Triquet’s shared glance scales upward into alarm.

Ξ

Jay leads Miriam, Triquet, and Esquibel into Tenure Grove. In a fairy ring of redwoods, Jay points at a spot between the trees.

Triquet leaps onto the roots of the redwood and looks down. They make a face. “Oh, dear. I see.”

Miriam joins them. A simple grave has been dug here. Its marker is nearly covered by years of detritus.

Triquet steps past and kneels at the side of the marker. It is a concrete square holding a plaque of carved wood. They brush it clear and read aloud, “M. C. Dowerd. A good Christian. RIP.”

Miriam asks, “No years?”

“No. Nothing more. I wonder…”

“I mean, who was he?” Jay asks. “And why’d they bury him here? They had boats going in and out in those days. Must have. They brought concrete.” He nudges the marker with the toe of his low boots. “Why didn’t they take him back?”

“Yes, this is very strange. Didn’t this Mister Dowerd have any family?” The find has made Esquibel pensive. She stands back, arms crossed, and lets others do an initial examination. “Wouldn’t they want his body back?”

“It couldn’t be a secret,” Miriam says. “It’s not like someone murdered him. The military must have kept a clear accounting of who came and went. That’s like ninety percent of what they do.”

“And they left a gravestone.” Triquet starts scattering the rest of the duff with their fingertips, trying to find the lineaments of the gravesite. “If they were trying to hide anything they could have just thrown the body in the sea.”

“So who was he?” Jay asks, kneeling and putting his hand against the ground, as if he can somehow feel the remains of the victim underground.

“Or she. Or they,” Triquet amends, lifting the cigarette carton with the lipstick smudge.