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Rubo shrugged. “We try.”
Rubo shambled up the faint path to the next cluster of dwellings and hesitated at the entry of the one farthest up the hill. The villagers in the lower tier watched Sam and Remi with curiosity. The adults lingered by their huts, joined by their children, as the village turned out for the unexpected excitement.
Sam said to Remi, “Everyone seems friendly enough. If the rebels are hoping to recruit from rural villages like this one, they’re not going to do very well. I’m not getting a lot of anger and resentment, are you?”
“Let’s hope our luck holds, at least until we’re back in Honiara.”
“So far, so good.”
An elderly man with skin the color of tobacco stepped down from the nearest entryway and eyed Sam and Remi distrustfully from his position on the raised wooden porch. Rubo stepped forward and nodded to the man, who descended to the path.
A quiet discussion ensued. Rubo pointed at the Toyota parked at the clearing’s edge and then made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The man appeared to consider whatever Rubo had said and then shook his head. More back-and-forth finally elicited a cautious nod, and Rubo gave Remi a sly smile that was all gums.
“He the holy man. Says Nauru very sick for a while. Will be in spirit world soon. Not sure he able to talk much,” Rubo explained.
“But it’s okay if we ask him some questions?”
“I had to promise holy man some American dollars.”
“How many?” Remi asked.
“Twenty.”
Sam eyed Rubo skeptically. “Fine.”
“But we only have little time. Nauru close now.”
Neither Sam nor Remi needed to ask what he was close to.
Rubo took a long look at the hut’s porch and then stepped aside. “You go inside and sit. I follow and talk to him.”
Remi nodded and cautiously stepped up the wooden stairs to the small porch. She peered into the dark interior of the hut, Sam by her side, and then they entered the small room.
CHAPTER 28
Dust motes hovered in the beam of sunlight shining from a slit in the roof as they made their way past a crude rustic table crafted from rough-hewn tree trunks to a cot near the far window, which was nothing more than a rectangular opening in the woven-leaf wall, a thinner woven shade hanging over it.
The interior smelled of death. It was all they could do to breathe without gagging as they neared the makeshift bed upon which lay a small man. He was naked, except for a pair of ratty shorts, and withered like a prune, the years having sucked the juice of life from him, leaving only a barely animated husk.
A pair of eyes squinted at them through the darkness, and the man’s labored breathing rasped ominously as they approached. Sam looked at Rubo, who took tentative steps until he was by the bedside.
Rubo bent toward the dying man and murmured for a few moments. He then straightened, awaiting a response. The air was still, heavy with humidity, the sunbeam on the far side like a dagger of light through the gloom around them. The only sound was the rattle of the sick man’s lungs as he struggled for breath. Rubo stood motionless, and after a few minutes the man muttered a few words.
Rubo nodded and indicated a bench along one wall. Sam and Remi sat while Rubo moved closer to the cot.
“This is Nauru. He said he would try to talk.” Rubo paused. “What you want to know?”
Sam sat forward. “Ask him about the Japanese colonel. The slave labor. Ask him to tell you everything he remembers about it—and the massacre.”
Rubo stared at Nauru, seeming to contemplate the best way to frame his questions, and then began speaking, the words alien to Sam and Remi’s ears. When he was done, Nauru grunted and mumbled for half a minute. Rubo sat back once Nauru finished and turned to Sam.
“He say it was long time ago. Nobody care about it for many years. Most people he know from back then die that day. He the only one left. Other man who live die maybe twenty years back. Kotu. A cousin.”
“Yes, but we’re interested in the story. We’re studying that time on the island and this is the first we’ve heard of any forced labor or mass murder by the Japanese on Guadalcanal. Ask him to start at the beginning. What did the Japanese forces have the islanders doing? What was their job?”
Rubo returned his attention to Nauru and spoke softly. Nauru’s chest rose and fell, and he raised a leathery hand to his face, trembling as he rubbed his cheek before dropping it back onto the mat, his energy spent. When he began talking, it sounded to the Fargos almost like a chant, like some primitive death song as old as time itself.
Rubo listened and nodded until Nauru’s voice trailed off like a motor running out of fuel, sputtering to a halt as he wheezed sporadically. Rubo looked at Remi, and then his gaze drifted to the entry as he began to speak.