Ocean Builders Seapods
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RICHARD SIDGWICK’S FISHING BOAT, THE BUDDY, glided out of the narrow channel and into the open sea. The crew cast their lines in a long line behind the boat as they followed the coast to the southwest. They had fished this way for two weeks now; every day, they would follow along with an eye toward land, looking for any sign that they might have overlooked.
It was a methodical search: first the western side of the island, then the eastern. In between, there were many places where they could hide if needed—caves, rocky ledges, and even underwater passages that led from one place to another across the ocean floor. Their main concern at the moment wasn’t so much to find them as it was to prevent others from finding them.
The fishing boats all carried small outboard motors that allowed them to move quickly, but only within sight of the shore. Otherwise, they used their hands to maneuver through the waves—and their eyes to avoid danger.
They continued southward until midmorning before turning west toward home. They hadn’t found anything on the previous day’s search, and neither had Frank or Richard, who had come back aboard after several hours of fruitless searching.
Frank had explained what he knew about the history of the island, and how it might be connected with the other islands in this region, which included not only Santa Barbara Island off the California coast (where the lost city of Atlantis was rumored to lie) but also Isla Guadalupe and Isla San Benito near Mexico City.
All three of these islands had been settled by seafaring people thousands of years ago, and each had been inhabited since antiquity. But none of those peoples left any written records, making them difficult to trace historically.
“What you’re seeing here is evidence of habitation over hundreds of years,” Frank said. “But nothing else.”
There were some signs of ancient buildings, including a large stone circle at the southern tip of the island, as well as the ruins of an adobe wall that ran down the hillside, but they were clearly old. They looked like structures that might once have housed a village, but no one had lived there recently.
The inhabitants of the islands had either gone somewhere else or died out naturally, leaving the land empty again. And that was why they were looking around on land and in the ocean today: just in case someone had left a record of where they had gone.
Frank pointed forward, toward the horizon, as he talked. He’d spent most of his career studying the history of this part of the Pacific and had come up with an explanation of events that made sense: “These islands have always been important to sailors because of their size, and because they are relatively isolated from the rest of the world.
This has helped keep them secret. There isn’t enough trade to sustain a permanent population here—not like in South America—so people tend to stay away.”
That was what the Chinese merchant Zheng He had done, heading to India and back, visiting dozens of islands throughout his voyages in the 1500s. And now, nearly five centuries later, China wanted to do it again, using ships that would sail farther than anyone had ever sailed before. It made perfect sense.
The Chinese were building their fleet right under everyone’s noses without drawing attention from other nations. That meant that it would take a major event to bring attention to them, something on the scale of Columbus’s arrival on Hispaniola.
If Columbus and his men hadn’t landed here in the New World, then maybe there would never have been a European presence anywhere north of Florida, let alone in North America.
It was hard to believe that all the countries that bordered the South China Sea would be unaware of their neighbor’s plans. And if someone did suspect something, if it wasn’t clear that the Chinese were planning to sail to the West Indies instead of the Far East, wouldn’t they try to stop them?
Maybe not immediately, but eventually, especially when they saw them crossing the equator. How could so much of the world remain blind to an event as dramatic as that?
Richard leaned back in his chair and listened carefully as Frank told him everything he knew about the history and geography of the islands, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to make sense of what he had seen in the lagoon last night.
“So what are we doing here?” he asked. “We’ve already checked everywhere on land—including inside the caves. You don’t think there’s something here we missed before, do you?”
“No,” Frank answered calmly, though he seemed slightly disappointed. “I’m afraid there aren’t any more clues. Just an abandoned village, and nothing else.”
“But you said there was a shipwreck!”
“Yes. A Spanish galleon was sunk by an unknown ship. We recovered a few pieces of cannon—nothing of great value, really.”
“But what about the people?” Richard asked. “Why didn’t they live here anymore?”
“They went somewhere else,” Frank said. “Or died. I can’t guess where or why. Maybe someone killed them or they were driven off by bandits.” He sighed and shook his head. “The only way to figure this out is to find a new clue. Or better yet, a witness.”
He stood up and stretched, then walked over to the railing, overlooking the blue water beneath them.
Richard followed and joined him. As he studied the calm surface of the ocean far below, he felt the same strange sensation that had gripped him last night. His heart started to pound, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to jump off the side of the ship and plunge into the water, searching for clues below.
He thought of how he and Henry had jumped in to swim together in the lagoon, and he wondered what they might discover if they dove back in tonight.
A shadow passed over the deck overhead; one of the sails was unfurling in the breeze. It was time to go home.
***
The wind whipped my hair against my face as I stepped off the dock and onto a narrow path between two rows of palm trees. The smell of the sea was heavy in the air: briny, salty, and fresh. My senses were alive. It was the closest I had ever come to feeling truly alive since the night at La Navidad, which was odd given that we were actually traveling south rather than north.
But it was as if I were going back in time instead of forward, like stepping back through the years. The place smelled just like it had that night.
My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light and I could see that we were standing near a beach, with a small group of men and boys gathered around a large boat that sat on its anchor line. They were dressed in rough clothing—mostly tattered cotton tunics, some made of homespun wool—and were holding poles in their hands.
Some appeared to be preparing the boat for sailing while others simply watched and waited nearby. One man, tall and thin, approached us slowly. His eyes flicked over me and then Richard, then turned away from us, seeming uninterested. He stopped before a young boy who wore a shirt and pants patched with colorful fabrics sewn together, with long brown hair tied behind his head.
As the man spoke, his words came out softly, almost like he was speaking underwater. “This is the place where our ancestors lived,” he said, pointing at the rocky cliffs that rose above the beach. “Here they built houses, grew food, hunted, and fished.
All of the families who have been coming here for generations now claim descent from these original settlers—the ones who settled on this island before Columbus discovered the New World.”
The boy nodded and pointed ahead, toward the jungle-covered mountains beyond. “That’s where we live,” he said quietly.
“Who lives there?” Richard asked.
“Bakit?” The boy smiled shyly.
“You know the answer already,” the man answered. “Everyone who calls this land home has heard of them.”
“Have you seen them?”
The boy laughed and shook his head. “Not really. We hear stories, of course.”
Richard looked at me questioningly, but I wasn’t sure what he expected an answer to be. What did we expect? Did we hope that a tribe of ancient Indians would appear out of nowhere, dressed in buckskins and beads, singing and dancing, just because we showed up at their island?
I remembered how the man had said we must ask permission before entering. This was probably not the best way to approach the natives. If the people here found us rude, then they might even turn us away. Or worse . . .
“Let’s try another way,” Richard suggested, taking a step back from the edge of the cliff and motioning with his hand for all of us to follow.
One of the younger men approached and bowed low, offering us his hand so that we could climb up onto a flat section of rock. As we climbed out, I noticed that one of the older men had followed us up, and he began to pace along the ledge and mutter to himself, shaking his fist. He seemed angry; his lips moved rapidly as he muttered to himself, cursing in Spanish.
“What are you saying?” Richard asked him.
The man kept talking, repeating himself over and over. He sounded confused; clearly, he couldn’t understand what we were asking.
The man continued to pace and mutter.
“Maybe we should speak English,” Richard suggested.
We tried again in our broken Spanish.
The man stared at us silently, still shaking his fist. Then he spat and pointed down at the water below, shouting something unintelligible. He walked off in anger, leaving us alone on the ledge.
“Didn’t look too good,” Richard commented.
He shrugged, smiling. “They didn’t seem too excited about our visit.”
“Do you think they’re hostile?” I asked.
“No. Just confused and upset. These people have always lived near these shores. They’ve never met anyone from your world before. How could they know who you are or why you want to find them?”
There was no use trying to explain it better to Richard. We knew that if we wanted to get into this place without causing trouble for the tribesmen, we would need to be more subtle. I took a deep breath.
“Can we go inside?” I asked the younger man who had led us here, pointing down at the village on the beach. “I would like to talk with one of the women.”
The man bowed slightly and said nothing, gesturing for us to descend again. We followed him down the rock face and stepped out onto a sandy stretch that stretched between the cliffs and the sea. It looked like there were perhaps thirty huts or houses spread across the rocky landscape, set at various distances from each other.
The houses looked primitive—made mostly of wood and palm fronds—but they were also constructed with the skill and craftsmanship that only comes from years of building. A few of the huts had thatched roofs, while others used corrugated sheets of tin that had been hammered tightly together.
Some of the homes had wooden walls, made from thick slabs of tree trunks lashed together and painted a glossy red, and some of the huts had simple doors that were covered by thin palm leaves. From outside many of the buildings were dark and shadowy, but we saw flashes of light within as if someone was sitting in front of a fire.
Other structures stood empty, with no signs of habitation. The place smelled like smoke, and I thought I caught the scent of burning wood.
“It looks deserted,” I commented.
“Yes.”
As we started walking, I noticed that we were being watched. Several of the young men stared at us from inside their huts, watching us with interest, and a couple of them waved. One shouted out. “Bakit!”
A wave of excitement swept through the group of tribesmen who had gathered around us. I saw several men running forward, laughing and shouting, but when they reached us, they stopped suddenly, staring.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you stopping?”
Some of the men pointed toward the ocean behind us. “You see it?” one of the younger boys cried out.
I turned back and saw the outline of an enormous shadow moving swiftly across the water.
“Shark!” one of the men shouted, his voice full of dread and terror.
The men began to whisper among themselves, pointing at the water. Then one of them shouted out something urgent and began to run toward another hut.
“What’s going on?” Richard called out to me as we started after the man who was fleeing.
“Someone is in danger,” I yelled back, hurrying as fast as I could.
In less than half a minute, we came upon a house where the door was open and a man and woman sat in chairs by a fire, looking terrified. Their backs were against the wall; they stared at us with wide eyes as we burst into the small building.
“Who is she?” Richard asked me.
The woman stared at me, her mouth agape, but neither she nor her husband could speak. She looked to be around forty years old; her hair was short, black, and cut neatly in bangs above her ears.
Her skin was smooth, pale brown, and so soft-looking that I felt me instinctively reaching out to touch it as if my hand could somehow smooth away some of the lines and wrinkles that were etched deeply into her forehead.
She wore a long dress, white in color, and I noticed that she held one of the spears that we had seen the men carrying earlier. In her left arm, she clutched the baby to her breast. There were three children playing nearby, two girls and one boy, all under ten years old.
The little girl who had first spoken to us seemed fascinated by us, and she ran to greet us happily when we entered the hut, hugging my leg, then turning to smile at me with a bright grin. The younger brother followed her closely, peeking over my shoulder to watch us as he played.
We heard the sound of splashing behind the building, and I turned around just in time to see several men racing across the sand toward the cliff top.
“Get your spear,” Richard told the woman in Tagalog as he hurried toward the doorway. He was already dressed in his dive gear and carrying a large metal box. “Stay here.”
He grabbed his gun from my hand and went after the men who were rushing up the rock path from below.
My heart pounded, and fear gripped me. I didn’t want to leave these people, especially the kids who were playing around us. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“Are you all right?” I asked the woman. “Did something happen?”
Her eyes darted around. She kept looking at me, as if waiting for something else to happen, and she shook her head. I couldn’t tell if she was scared or not.
“Where did they come from?” Richard asked as soon as he climbed back into our small shelter. His suit was damp, his hair sticking up in wet tufts, and the look on his face made me think that he was angry, and maybe even frightened.
“They came up the path,” I answered him. “They were hiding in the rocks.”
Richard frowned. “Hiding? You mean someone is trying to hide?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling numb. “But why?”
We waited quietly, listening to the waves crashing on the rocks, wondering how long it would take for someone to climb down that cliff to find us. After a while, Richard put aside his gun and took out his diving knife. “Let’s go,” he said.
It was difficult climbing in my wetsuit, but once we got outside I could feel the fresh air blowing against my skin and hear the cries of the seagulls overhead. As we stepped off the beach and headed toward the path, I realized there was still no one in sight.
We hurried along the rocky trail as quickly as we dared without making too much noise, hoping that whatever was happening hadn’t been spotted yet. The wind was blowing harder now, whipping our clothes in the breeze, and I could feel the cold creeping in as we moved forward.
We rounded a turn and suddenly saw the first of the attackers coming up the cliff face ahead of us. A group of five men stood at the edge of the cliff, watching as we approached. One of them reached into a pack slung over his shoulder and pulled out a pair of binoculars, then raised them to his eyes and stared intently at something in the distance.
There were two more men standing close together farther down the trail. They watched us as we came closer and seemed surprised when Richard stepped in front of me. Richard drew his knife and walked toward the closest man.
As he passed by, Richard whispered, “Don’t do anything stupid until I can talk to these guys.” He nodded to me, then turned back to the man who was staring at us with an expression of disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” Richard said, raising his voice. “Can you speak English?”
The man blinked at him and slowly lowered his binoculars. “Yes,” he said softly as he stared at Richard. Then he glanced at me. “What are you doing here?”
Richard didn’t answer him right away; instead, he looked at the other men. “Do any of you understand English? Can anyone talk to him?”
All four men shook their heads.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything we can do now, but we might need help later,” Richard said to me. “When the sun comes up tomorrow, keep watch, and stay inside.”
One of the other men spoke up, his tone harsh, almost mocking, his words sounding like they had been rehearsed. “Who is this white woman you brought to the island?”
“She is a friend,” Richard answered.
“And this is your friend?” the man asked me. “You have a nice house back there. You should be ashamed.”
“I am no one’s slave!” I shouted back at them.
That made all of them laugh.
“This is not funny,” Richard said.
“Why?” the man asked, grinning. “Does this white bitch frighten you? Or does your wife?”
As they laughed again, Richard glared at the men and growled, “If anyone harms my wife or child, I’ll hunt you down.”
The laughter stopped. All of the men stared at each other in confusion.
“Your daughter,” one of them finally said. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah,” Richard said in a calm voice. He sounded as if nothing had happened, though his eyes were hard and cold. “She’s fine.”
“Good,” the man said after a moment. He lowered the binoculars and stared at Richard as if trying to decide whether he could trust him.
A wave rolled toward the cliffs and crashed loudly nearby. We heard another cry from the ocean below, and I looked down at the water to see several large sharks swimming past the rock-strewn shore. Richard and I both shivered and looked away. I knew he wanted to kill those men right now, and it made me wonder what he would do if someone tried to harm his family someday.
The End