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“Most hunters try to sneak up from behind, but the crabs have a highly developed sense of smell, which makes it risky. Especially given their claws have a crushing strength twenty times greater than a lobster’s.”
“They can smell?” I study the creature, from the safety of the UTV, for some kind of nose. In return, it waves a massive blue claw at me in a clearly threatening gesture.
“It’s how they hunt at night. They’re nicknamed the Robber Crab, based on writings from an English naturalist at the turn of the twentieth century. He observed them stealing saucepans, bottles, and other small items from his tent. Reportedly, one even got away with a bottle of whiskey. Naturalists believe they were attracted to the smells from the campsite.”
“Are they violent drunks? Because I think that’s the most relevant question.”
Ronin finally smiles. It eases more of the tension from his face. “They’re territorial. Most likely we interrupted this crab returning home from a long night hunting, and he wants to make sure we know all of this belongs to him before he disappears back into his den.”
“He can have it. Jungle, coconuts, and all. Seriously no argument here.”
“What do you think of the coloring?”
I glance from Ronin to the crab and back to Ronin. I hadn’t really gotten that far, being much more obsessed with the Hulk-sized claws. “I’ve never seen that shade of purply blue before,” I allow. “Kind of pretty.”
“You will see them in two colors—either this shade of blue sapphire, or a dark ruby red. But no one knows why. Their shading doesn’t seem to be related to diet or gender. It’s one of those things that even now, we can’t explain.”
There’s a change to his voice I understand. “You like that. That the world is still full of wonder.”
“It is good to still have questions to ask. It is even better to still have answers to discover. It means someone like me will never be bored.”
“I like a good mystery, too,” I allow.
Our giant roadblock seems to finally be done with its intimidation tactics. Slowly, it turns and starts a lumbering march to the edge of the underbrush. The side view is no less impressive. So this is what I heard last night on my way back from the bathroom. I swear to never pee after dark again. And Crabby, poor Crabby, who must worry about falling prey to this kind of monster each and every night. I vow to protect my property mate at all costs, even if we have just met.
Ronin lurches the UTV back into drive.
“Speaking of mysteries,” I say, swatting at mosquitoes that are now buzzing about, “are you going to tell me what we’re doing this morning?”
Ronin remains silent for so long, I assume he’s not going to answer. But then:
“Remember how I told you all of these islands come with legends of pirate treasure? It’s nothing worth taking too seriously.”
I nod.
He glances over at me. “I might have been wrong about that.”
CHAPTER 11
THE MUDDY ROAD GROWS ROUGHER as the ruts become deeper and deeper. I grip the roll bar tightly as we pound our way along. I now understand why Ronin tied down the gear so tightly. Finally, when my entire body is starting to ache, Ronin rolls to a stop.
I look at him blankly, having no idea where we are, but apparently, it’s our destination as he’s already climbing out.
I just manage to muffle my moan as my feet hit solid ground. I feel beaten and battered, and we haven’t even done anything yet. More mosquitoes appear around my head. I clap my hands long enough to kill two of them, then give up as it requires too much effort.
Now that we’re still, I realize the sound of birds has picked back up, as well as feeling a salty breeze across my overheated face. We must be near the ocean. Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of blue between the leaves of some truly impressive trees with massive, silvery smooth trunks that twist into gnarled branches that soar up even higher. They remind me of the manta rays, both majestic and ancient. I stare in rapt fascination. If only trees could talk, the stories I bet these ones have to tell…
More seabirds swoop across the sky. They have large, white bodies with sooty brown wings and appear to travel in packs. Or flocks, I suppose. There’s certainly way more of them than us, and I’m happy to remain tucked in the relative safety of tree cover.
“Where are we?”
“They call it Rory’s Beach, named after an early explorer’s favorite cocker spaniel.”
I turn to Ronin, who’s releasing the bungees holding down our gear. “By ‘they’ you mean?”
“Europeans.” The way he says it, white men is implied.
“Why name a beach after a dog?”
