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“That’s what I’m here for.”
Sam opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle and then slowly made his way toward the dwelling, which looked uninhabited. When he was a few yards away, a tremulous voice called out from inside in pidgin. Even though Sam didn’t understand it, from the tone it was clearly a warning, so he stopped.
“I’m looking for Rubo,” he said slowly. “Rubo,” he repeated for emphasis. “Do you speak English?”
All Sam could hear was the soft rumbling of the Nissan’s poorly muffled exhaust and the buzz of inquisitive insects that had taken an interest in him. He resisted the urge to swat at the air like an enraged bear and instead waited for a response.
A figure appeared in the doorway. It was an ancient man, stooped and thin, with sagging skin, and clad only in a pair of tattered shorts. The skeletal face studied Sam, the eyes dull in the shadows, and then the figure spoke.
“I speak some English. What you want?”
“I’m a friend of Orwen Manchester. I’m looking for Rubo.”
“I heard you fine. Why?”
“I need to ask some questions. About local legends.”
The old man emerged from the dark interior and regarded Sam with suspicion. “You come long way for questions.”
“They’re important.”
The old man grunted. “I’m Rubo.”
“I’m Sam. Sam Fargo.” Sam extended his hand, and Rubo stared at it like it was smeared with filth. Sam hesitated, wondering if he’d crossed some social line, and the old man grinned, exposing toothless gums.
“Don’t worry. Me don’t like shaking hands. Not taboo. Just don’t like.” Rubo asked, “You sit?” motioning to a log that ran along one of the thatched walls, thankfully in the shade.
“Thank you.”
They took seats, the old man’s watchful gaze roving from Sam’s shoes to his hair.
“What you want?” Rubo asked again, his voice quiet.
“I want to talk about the old days. Old stories. Orwen said you know more than anyone.”
Rubo nodded. “Could be. Lot of stories.”
“I’m interested in any about a curse. Or a lost city.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Lost city? Curse?”
Sam nodded. “About a bay on the other side of the island that’s cursed. Bad luck.”
“Why you ask ’bout city?”
“I heard from someone who’s exploring the island that there are ruins underwater.”
Rubo looked off into the distance, watching the river’s brown water surge past. When he returned his attention to Sam, his face was stony.
“There is story. Old. King who tempt gods. No good, tempt gods. He build temples in bay. But big wave destroy. Curse bay. No good go there.”
“When did this happen?”
The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Long time back. Before white man come.”
Sam waited for him to continue, but for a storyteller Rubo was short on details. After a half minute of silence, Sam tried a smile. “That’s it?”
Rubo nodded, then held out a gnarled finger, pointing at the car. “Who that?”