Endworlds - Nicholas Read [16]
They cruised among the ruins in silence for a while before the guide spoke again. When he did, it was to address Eisman with genuine empathy in his voice.
“I know about the search for your missing daughter, visitor Raef. Everyone on the island does. My brother and two of his cousins are part of your search parties.”
“Thank you for your understanding,” Eisman told him quietly. “And for the hospitality that has been shown to us by your friends and families.”
The guide turned wistful.
“My aunt lost my nephew many years ago. He was fishing beyond the reef with two friends when a storm came around the island. It was a very strange storm, one of those where the clouds seem to hug the ocean instead of the sky and sneak up behind the mountain. It caught them and capsized their boat. The two friends were stronger swimmers and made it back safely, but not my nephew. He was with them until they crossed the reef using the surge; then they never saw him again. They think maybe he hit his head coming over the reef top, but no one knows. They never found his body . . .” He paused before finally adding, “. . . either.”
It took Hills a moment to recognize that the guide was not being presumptuous. Micronesians were open and forthcoming. In his fashion, the man was only trying to show sympathy for Eisman’s position and understanding for his pain.
“What will you do, visitor Raef, when the search teams reach the sea and there is no more island to search?”
The billionaire responded immediately. “I’ve already thought of that. I’m going to hire every man or woman on the island with access to scuba gear and have them comb the reef system. If Paige and the other two girls ended up in the ocean they might have been swept inshore, their clothes pinned among the coral. But only their clothes . . .” Choking up, he broke off before he could finish the thought.
“Very long, very expensive,” the guide murmured. With Eisman unable to reply, Hills filled in.
“Mr. Eisman has hired people to search the land. He will hire people to search the sea.”
“And then?” wondered the guide with disarming directness. He stared at Eisman. So did Hills, who had for many days put off asking exactly that question.
Aware of their eyes on him, Eisman looked back from the front of the small boat. “Then? We’ll start over. Every year there are three hundred and sixty five fresh starts, new opportunities to do what you could not do the day before. The mountain search teams will begin again and take different routes downslope. It’s a big island, Bill. If the primitives of Nan Madol didn’t give up their quest to build a city on water with stone tools, we won’t give up our quest using modern ones.” Though determined as ever, there was a crack in Eisman’s voice. Hills nodded knowingly.
“Of course we will, Raef. Of course we will.” Turning away from the other men, he once more turned his gaze and attention to their impossible, overawing surroundings, feeling their weight somehow pressing down on him as he realized the fleeting visit to this island might turn into fulltime residency.
Forcibly he shifted his mindset. “There’s still plenty of daylight left and the day’s faxes won’t be in yet anyway. We may as well stay out here and finish the tour.” He eyed the guide. “What else can you tell us about Nan Madol?”
Relieved that the conversation had turned back to familiar ground, the guide resumed his well-rehearsed narrative as they prepared to disembark at one of the artificial islands.
“Though construction of Nan Madol probably began in the eighth or ninth century AD, the raising of these great stone walls and platforms is considered to have started around twelve hundred in the time of Columbus and the great Chinese fleets of the day.”
With a muted crunching sound the boat grounded on solid, ancient stone.
“Incidentally, the name Nan Madol means ‘the spaces between’ . . .”
“Spaces between what?” asked Raef, wiping the sheen from his head. But