by Josh Lacey
He kept talking to me in the same lingo.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said. “But I guess there’s not much point in telling you that, because you don’t know what I’m saying either, do you?”
He grabbed ahold of my sleeve and tugged me toward the door.
I asked him what he was doing, but he just answered in Spanish. He obviously wanted me to follow him.
I thought I might as well. Why not? What was the worst that could happen?
We walked out of the house and up the field to an ancient barn.
The old man pushed the door. It creaked open. There was a rancid stench of manure. We stepped inside.
The floor of the barn was a mass of mud and straw. Junk was piled everywhere. The same family must have lived at this farm for years, and I could imagine that they had used this place to dump whatever they didn’t want but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. My eyes rested on broken chairs and wooden ladders with missing rungs and various lengths of rope and an old bath and a sheep’s skull and a bicycle and rusty old pipes and a piece of paper. Scrunched and scrawled with words in black ink.
I was just about to dart forward and pick it up when I noticed another. And another. And more of them; ten, twenty, fifty, trodden into the mud, buried under boxes, jumbled among everything.
The old man was grinning.
“Dollars,” he said. “Dollars.”
“You want more dollars?”
“Sí, sí. Dollars.”
“No problem. You can have more dollars.”
We went back to the house to find my uncle, who handed over another forty dollars, and everyone was happy.
12
I allowed myself only a quick peek at each of the pages as I removed them from the barn. They were all covered with the same dense black handwriting, which was pretty much impossible to read. The spelling was crazy too. A teacher would have gone through the whole thing with a red pen.
For instance: The tayl snapt of in the myddle.
Or: In the nyght yt thundereth and rayneth but the after noone is fayr and hote and drye but clowdy.
The pictures were nice, though. There was at least one on every page and sometimes two or three: a fish, a bird, a flower, a man’s face. The things that you’d see on a voyage up the coast of Peru, stopping every few days to go ashore and trade with the natives or gather fresh water. They were more like doodles than serious drawings. As if the writer had knocked off a little scribble whenever he was wondering what to write next.
The final few pages were trampled into the mud or stuffed between bricks. Up in the rafters I could see a couple of white scraps. I fetched a ladder, jammed it against the wall, climbed the rickety rungs, and pulled out a single sheet of creased old paper. I couldn’t imagine how it had gotten up there.
I crept down to solid ground. Leaving the ladder propped against the wall, I walked out of the barn, unfolding the page. The sunshine blinded me for a moment, but then I noticed a funny little picture of a deer with bandy legs and two tiny horns. Next to it, in the text, my eye was drawn to an ornate capital G, the first letter of a word.
I could actually read the whole word.
It said Golden.
I could read the next word in the sentence too.
Hinge.
What’s a golden hinge?
Would you find one on a chest filled with gold? Or a chest made from gold? A solid-gold chest—that would be worth a fortune!
Or did it mean something else entirely?
I read the whole sentence, trying to puzzle out the words on either side of the “golden hinge,” but the handwriting was so curly and scrawled that I could distinguish only a few letters here and there. An “n” or an “m.” An “o.” A “t.” An “ant.” An “st.” A capital letter that might have been an “F” or a “P.”
I didn’t give up. Letter by letter, I deciphered the entire sentence. Eventually I got back to the word that had first attracted my attention. Reading it again, I realized I had misread one of the letters. It wasn’t a “g.” It was a “d.” I had read “Hinge,” but the word actually said “Hinde.”
What’s a hinde?
Dunno.
And what on earth is a “Golden Hinde”?
Oh.
The Golden Hinde.
Better known without that extra “e” as the Golden Hind.
We spent a whole year doing British history at school, so I knew the name, just as I knew the names of Walter Raleigh and William Shakespeare and Mary Queen of Scots. The problem was, apart from their names, I couldn’t remember much else about any of them. If only I’d spent all those lessons listening to Mrs. McNab instead of staring out the window.
No, wait a minute. I did remember one thing. A hind is a female deer. That explained the picture. And the Golden Hind was a ship, captained by Sir Francis Drake.
What did I know about Drake?
I could summon up a picture of a guy with a little goatee beard.
Oh, and a fact! A useful fact! The sort of fact that would get me a big smile from Mrs. McNab. Sir Francis Drake was the first Englishman to sail around the world.
The writer of these pages might have been a sailor who accompanied Drake.
Or even Drake himself.
I piled up the pages and took them inside. Uncle Harvey was just finishing up. The room looked terrible. Plaster was peeling from the walls and the ceiling was dripping with condensation from all the boiling water, but apparently the old folks didn’t mind. For sixty dollars, they would have let us rip the whole house to shreds.
I showed him what I had discovered. The drawing of the young deer and the words “Golden Hinde.” And I told him my theory.
Uncle Harvey took the page from me and pored over the words. Then he looked up. “This is very interesting. You might be onto something. I have to confess, Tom, I don’t know very much about Francis Drake. Do you?”
“We did him at school, but I’ve forgotten it all.”
Uncle Harvey tapped his forehead as if he were trying to dislodge a blocked chunk of information. “Wasn’t he the first man to sail around the world?”
“I don’t think he was the first man,” I said. “But he was the first Englishman.”
“Oh, yes. After Magellan. That’s right. Now I remember. Everyone calls Drake an explorer, but he was really a pirate, wasn’t he? He sailed up the coast of South America, stealing gold from the Spanish.”
At the same moment, we both realized what he’d said. I could feel laughter bubbling up inside me. Uncle Harvey was grinning too. Suddenly it all made sense. We knew what we’d found and why it was here. Drake’s gold. Buried on an island four hundred years ago and never seen since.
Now we just had to find it.
13
We said “Gracias” and “Adiós” to the old chap and his wife, then got into the car and drove down the bumpy track.
At a curve in the road, I looked back at the farmhouse. Our hosts were still standing in the doorway of their tumbledown home, waving to us.
I thought about the pile of papers now sitting in the trunk of the car, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag and zipped inside my uncle’s suitcase. Then I thought about the old folks and their sixty dollars, and I suddenly felt ashamed of myself—and my uncle. The old couple shared their food with us, gave us somewhere to sleep, let us do what we liked to their house, waved us off, and were now intensely, embarrassingly grateful for the paltry sum of sixty dollars, which we’d handed over in exchange for the key to priceless treasure.
We hadn’t actually lied to them, or even stolen from them. But it still made me feel like a crook.
I looked at my uncle, wondering if he was feeling the same way.
He was grinning to himself and whistling under his breath as he watched the road ahead. I’d never seen anyone look less guilty.
There was no point in talking to him about my doubts. He’d just laugh and tell me to stop being such a sentimental fool. Perhaps he’d b
e right. Instead, I asked, “Where are we going now?”
“Lima,” said Uncle Harvey. “We’ll stay with Alejandra.”
“I thought you said we were going to stay in a hotel.”
“We’ve got to give her car back. And she’s a great cook. Plus it’ll be free. Once we’re there, we’ll sit down with the manuscript and work out where this island actually is.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here in the middle of the countryside? Won’t Otto be able to find us in Lima?”
“No, no. A big city is the best place to hide. Out here, we’re the only gringos for miles. Whenever someone sees us, they’ll know we’re foreign and wonder what we’re doing. In Lima, we’ll blend in.”
I had one more question: “Do you think it’s a real island?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I had a look at a map of Peru. There aren’t very many islands along the coast.”
“Where was this map?”
“In the guidebook.”
“Didn’t I tell you not to trust guidebooks? Those maps are hopeless. They only show tourist destinations. There are hundreds of tiny islands up and down the coast of Peru. Look at a proper map and you’ll see them.”
I wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse. If there were really hundreds of tiny islands along the coast, how were we ever going to find the right one? Wouldn’t it take years?
Today was Friday. We’d already been in Peru for two nights. Our flight back to New York left on Monday. Uncle Harvey could delay his and stay another week, another month, however long he wanted, but I couldn’t. I had to get back to New York in time to meet Mom and Dad and pretend I hadn’t been anywhere more exciting than the Natural History Museum.
“What’s this?” said Uncle Harvey.
I lifted my head.
Up ahead, a big black Toyota Land Cruiser was blocking the road. Two men were standing by the open hood. They waved at us to stop. They must have broken down.
As we came closer, I got a better view of the men. They were wearing leather boots, blue jeans, and white shirts rolled up to the elbows. One of them had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck. There was something familiar about his square shoulders and his big head. Then I realized why. “It’s Miguel,” I blurted out.
Uncle Harvey must have recognized him at the exactly same moment, because he had already thrust his foot onto the accelerator. The car sprang forward. We headed straight at Miguel, speeding up all the time.
If someone were driving a car at me, I’d jump out of the way, but Miguel didn’t even flinch. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun.
A gun?
A gun!
I’d seen a few guns before. My friend Benjy lives out on a farm and he has an air rifle. His dad has a shotgun. But this was the first time in my life that anyone had ever pointed a pistol at me.
I didn’t like how it felt.
There was nowhere to hide. Through the windshield, I was staring at the black barrel of a gun. If Miguel pulled the trigger, it would all be over.
But before he could fire, we were upon him. The bumper was about to crack into his kneecaps. Just in time, Miguel threw himself out of our way and rolled across the road.
Uncle Harvey yanked the wheel to the left. Our little red Honda swerved and headed for the narrow gap between the Toyota and the mountainside. I shouted at him to stop—I knew we couldn’t get through such a small space—but he took no notice.
I could see the other man tugging at his gun.
Where was Miguel? Why hadn’t he shot us yet?
Then I was thrown forward in my seat as we crunched into the flank of their enormous car. Metal scraped against metal. The windows cracked. The engine roared. Uncle Harvey forced our car onward, ignoring its protests, jamming his foot on the floor.
I thought we’d come shuddering to a halt in a spaghetti of shredded metal, but our heroic little Honda shoved the Toyota aside, both cars howling in protest, and then we burst out the other side and accelerated down the hill, leaving a trail of glass and paint and metal and mirrors, one of theirs and both of ours.
Behind us there was a sound like an exploding firework.
I looked back.
Miguel was standing in the middle of the road. His right arm was raised.
I ducked.
There were two more bangs and the car swerved.
The cliff loomed up ahead of us. The brakes screeched. Uncle Harvey yelled and struggled with the steering wheel. I put my hands over my face and we smashed into the hillside.
14
I must have blacked out for a few seconds.
When I next opened my eyes, Miguel was standing by the side of the car, pointing his gun at my face. He said something in Spanish. I tugged at the door and stumbled out.
Uncle Harvey was waiting for me with his hands in the air. A line of blood was trickling down his face. He asked, “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my head. “What happened?”
“He got the tire.” Uncle Harvey nodded at the car.
I turned to look. The back tire was shredded into skinny rubber strips.
Miguel snapped an order at me and gestured with his pistol. He was speaking Spanish, so I didn’t know what he was saying, but I could guess what he meant: Shut up and put your hands in the air. And that was exactly what I did.
There were three of them: Miguel and two other thugs, who could have been his brothers; they had the same thick neck and broad shoulders.
Miguel kept us covered. One of the others pulled our bags out of the car and dumped them on the ground. I was waiting for him to unzip my uncle’s bag and find the bundle of papers, but he didn’t bother. The third thug leaned in to the driver’s seat. He fiddled with the parking brake and the steering wheel. Then the two of them put their shoulders against the Honda, braced themselves, and shoved the little red car toward the edge of the precipice.
As soon as my uncle realized what they were doing, he yelled, “Hey! You can’t do that!”
Miguel raised the pistol.
“No problem,” said my uncle. “You can do whatever you want. I never liked that car anyway.”
They wheeled the Honda to the side of the road. The front wheels bumped over the edge. They kept pushing. The little car tipped forward, nose first, and wavered for a moment as if it were deciding what to do, then slid over.
There was a series of crashes, each quieter than the one before. When the noises had stopped, Miguel motioned for us to have a look.
A couple of hundred yards below us, at the bottom of the valley, the car was lying upside down, a tangled heap of glass and metal. One of the wheels was spinning. Another had been torn off and discarded halfway down the hillside.
I thought Miguel might shoot us and toss our bodies over the edge after the Honda. Instead he checked us for weapons, confiscated our phones, and ushered us into his own car.
We sat in the back seat with one of the thugs, who kept a watchful eye on us, cradling a pistol on his lap. Miguel sat up front with the driver. Our bags were in the trunk. And off we went.
15
It was late afternoon when we came to a high white wall and a pair of steel gates that looked strong enough to stop a tank. The driver hooted his horn. One of the gates inched open, and a man in a poncho peered warily out. When he recognized the car, he pulled back both gates, letting us in. He had a rifle slung across his shoulder and a pistol tucked into his belt. There were more guards milling around the gatehouse, equally heavily armed. This place was a fortress. Outsiders couldn’t get in, and once you were inside, you’d never get out again.
We drove up a long, curving road. Neatly trimmed lawns stretched away on either side. Men in green dungarees were bent over the grass, working with rakes and spades.
Soon we arrived at a large house built around a courtyard. Whitewashed walls reflected the last of the afternoon sun. Seven black cars were parked in a line in front of the house. Through an archway, I c
ould see the shimmering blue glare of a swimming pool.
Miguel led us into the house, down one corridor and then another. He knocked on a wooden door and waited for an answering shout, then ushered us into an enormous room with a huge fireplace at one end and a glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. Attached to one wall there was literally the biggest TV I’d ever seen in my life. Two massive white sofas faced the screen. Otto was sprawled on one of them with a laptop on his knees. When he saw us, he snapped the computer shut and threw it on the sofa. Then he came toward us like a bull, shoulders hunched, fists raised, ready to fight. I took a step backwards. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to be run down by him. My uncle was braver. He even managed to smile. “Hello, Otto,” he said. “This is a—”
Otto grabbed his throat with both hands, his fingers digging into my uncle’s neck, squeezing the air out of him.
I was about to dart forward and join the fight when something prodded me in the middle of my back. I half turned. Miguel was standing behind me, holding a pistol. I stood very still, not wanting to give him any excuse to shoot.
My uncle wriggled and writhed, trying to get out of Otto’s clutches, but he wasn’t strong enough. With each second, his face went a brighter shade of scarlet. His eyes bulged as if they were going to pop out of his head.
Suddenly Otto pushed him away.
Uncle Harvey doubled over, clutching his throat with both hands and gasping for breath.
“You think I don’t find you?” said Otto. “In my country? Huh?”
“I’m very sorry,” my uncle managed to say. His voice sounded scratchy and high pitched. “I tried to—”
“I don’t want to hear no excuses,” interrupted Otto. “Just don’t do it again. Because you can’t. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You too, Tom. You understand me?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. Come here. Sit down.”
We followed him to the white sofas. He sprawled on one and we sat opposite him. I looked at my uncle. He was still rubbing his neck. I could see the bruises on his skin, the red marks of Otto’s fingers.
