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Rubo appeared to consider the question, tilting his head. “Need to get out and look.”
Sam and Rubo opened their doors and Sam helped the old man out of the vehicle. They trudged together to the water and Rubo closed his eyes and did the odd head tilting again. Sam waited patiently, resisting the urge to prod him into a decision. After several moments, Rubo straightened and nodded.
“Stream wasn’t here last time.”
Sam blinked. “And?”
“I think village is that way,” Rubo said, pointing to the left.
“How do you know?”
“Didn’t say I know. Said I think,” Rubo corrected.
“Then you’re not sure . . .” Sam said, glad Remi wasn’t there to hear Rubo’s admission.
“We on island. If not that way, we come back, and then I’m sure it the other way.”
“Very practical. But I thought you knew where the village was?”
“I do.”
“But not well enough to get us there on the first try.”
“You wanted translator, not guide.” Rubo peered up the hill, and then at the other fork, before nodding sagely. “It either that way or this.”
Sam exhaled, seeing the wisdom of the practical old man’s approach. They had a full tank of gas and all day. It was probably to the left. Or maybe to the right. At least they didn’t have to worry about it being straight ahead.
They moved back to the mud-splattered Toyota and got in.
“Well?” Remi asked.
“We’ve never been closer,” Sam assured her. “Rubo thinks it’s to the left.”
Sam put the transmission in gear and, with a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror, gave the big vehicle gas. Water splashed high into the air as they crossed the stream, and then they were climbing again, the thick canopy nearly blocking the sunlight as they crawled up the slope.
They stopped again five minutes later when the trail became barely wide enough for a bicycle. Sam regarded Rubo in the rearview mirror, keeping his voice even and his face impassive.
“Still think it’s up ahead?”
“Keep going. Should be over this hill.”
They continued on. Branches and vines rustled and scraped along the exterior of the SUV. Remi jerked when a particularly aggressive branch swatted her side window, and she gritted her teeth as she whispered to Sam, “How is this a good idea again?”
Sam was preparing to answer when they broke through into a clearing, where a scattering of huts was arranged around a central fire pit. Rubo smacked his gums in satisfaction as they coasted to a stop on the grass.
“See? Rubo right,” he said. Sam and Remi exchanged a relieved glance and then peered through the windshield at the humble thatched structures climbing the rise into the rain forest on the other side of the clearing.
“Should we stop here?” Sam asked the old man.
Rubo nodded, his expression as peaceful as an angel. “We walk now.”
The muggy heat enveloped them once they were out of the air-conditioning. Sam waited with Remi by the hood as Rubo hobbled to them, and they walked as a group toward the nearest huts, where curious eyes peered from the interiors.
A man in his sixties, wearing ancient shorts and a T-shirt faded by the elements to an indeterminate color, stepped from one of the huts and smiled when he saw Rubo. They exchanged a greeting that neither Sam or Remi understood, and the man gestured to one of the far huts. After another few words, Rubo turned to Sam and Remi.
“He very sick. Up there,” Rubo said, waving a limp hand at the hill.
“Sick? Can we talk to him?”
