Easter Island (17 page)

She awakens, her forehead damp with sweat. The boat rises and falls, issues a prolonged
creak.
Then her stomach leaps. Above her, dangling through the open hatch, is a brown face. Its eyes, white in the moonlight, silently explore her, search her, and then Alice, and the narrow space between them. Elsa slides her arm around Alice’s sleeping figure. She thinks of calling to Edward, but fears startling or angering the visitor. Then she remembers.

She whispers, tentatively, hopefully, “
Iorana?
”

A smile spreads across the visitor’s face. “
Iorana,
” he replies in full volume, stirring Alice. Then comes the sound of dozens of voices, from the cabin, the galley, the deck, the water beyond. Rippling, in unison, they call, “
Iorana.
”

Hello.

9

In the darkness, the ropes lashing the corer to the horse’s back looked like the threads of a giant cobweb floating in front of her. It was just before dawn and Greer was in the rear of a three-horse caravan traveling the northern coastal path. The middle horse carried her large equipment. Ramon rode in the lead. They were on their way to Rano Aroi, the island’s smallest crater.

Greer would need several days to get her initial set of cores, and was eager to start. Extracting a clean core was a rigorous process, and this was her first time doing it alone; she and Thomas had always taken samples together, standing on skis or sleds, drilling holes into frozen lakes, balancing on makeshift rafts to plunge their corer into swamps. On their honeymoon in Tuscany they drove into the Apennines to collect sandstones. This was when things between them were good, when Thomas was himself, and as they hammered at the rock face, they were playful.
Husband, would you give this thing a solid whack? Good God, I am, Wife
. In bed at night, after they made love, waiting for sleep to claim them, they whispered about the colors of the sediment, the texture of the rocks. It was a pleasure they had shared: extracting a physical piece of history, listening to the earth grumble as it “confessed,” they liked to say, to their hammers. Back in the lab, pointing to a sample, Thomas would wink at her:
Take
that
to the interrogation room.
But his liveliness, his delight in these processes, had vanished years ago.

Greer shifted in her saddle, trying to adjust to her gear. She had her field clothes on: long khaki pants, a sweatshirt, and knee-high rubber boots. Her backpack, weighing heavily against her, held her waterproof notebook, a camera, a large bottle of water, a first aid kit, a pair of thick gloves, three rolls of aluminum foil, and her plastic sample bags. Across her lap lay three zirconium extension rods, which flashed with light as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Greer was enjoying this long morning ride to her field site and tried to savor the anticipation, something she knew Thomas wouldn’t have been able to do. He’d become so set on achieving answers that inquiry, for him, had grown burdensome. She still wondered, though, how exactly he’d lost sight of the scientific process, why the man who’d once held himself to such high standards had cut the biggest of corners.

She tried to focus on the landscape. As the sky slowly brightened, craggy shadows revealed themselves as rocks and signposts. The obsidian sea became blue. By the time they turned inland, two miles beyond town, the sun had laid a long sparkling track across the ocean.

“Rano Aroi,” called Ramon, pointing ahead. These were the first words they’d exchanged in an hour. Something about the darkness had made silence feel natural.

“Wonderful,” said Greer. “
Magnífico.
”

He stopped his horse and surveyed the crater. “
Sí, magnífico.
”

In the distance she could see the crater rising from the grassy slope—a knuckle of land. No trees or bushes obscured the view. Beneath the threads of morning cloud, only the crater loomed ahead: her first field site.

The path vanished into the grassy plain, strewn with volcanic rocks, and cautiously, the horses made their way.

It was just past seven-thirty when they tethered the animals to an outcrop, unfastened the corer and the platform, and hauled them to the crater’s edge. Sweat coated Greer as she lugged her backpack and the extension rods along for the final hike. The corer, the rods—all this equipment had been designed by men, for men, and required sheer brute force to transport and operate. Even Ramon huffed at the weight. He was thankful, it seemed, when she told him, half in Spanish, half in pantomime, that she was all right now, that she needed to work alone, and that he could do what he pleased. The risk of having someone unskilled try to help with sample-taking was just too great. Mistakes were made too easily, data contaminated in the smallest, well-intended gesture. Ramon moved to a patch of grass, where he lay down, tucked one arm behind his head, and held a worn paperback in front of him.

Greer took out her camera and photographed the crater, the edges of its mouth barely contained within her lens. Below, the lake was matted with long, thick reeds—the
totora,
she presumed—that the islanders had used for decades to make baskets, mats, and roofs. The earliest European visitors had noted this plant. Strange, then, that it alone should still grow in abundance. What kind of a mass extinction played favorites like that? A profusion of ferns made sense. But reeds weren’t known for wanderlust. They were seed plants, and their best shot at cross-water dispersal was stowing away in the plumage or stomachs of birds—much less reliable than drifting with wind. Greer would have to determine this reed’s relationship to species on nearby landfalls; from that she could estimate its life span on the island. If she found close relatives nearby, the
totora
was a recent arrival. If she found only distant cousins, it had probably been there thousands of years, evolving in solitude.

Opening her notebook, Greer marked the date, time, location, and weather, then began her descent. She tucked half of the baseboard under one arm, and used a zirconium extension rod as a walking stick. The cool water rose to her knees. The reeds, easily seven feet, towered over her, reminding her of the cornfields she had walked through as a child, a world of thick green stalks and sky. But the reeds were brittle and snapped easily beneath her. Soon she had forged a path. As the shore faded from view, Greer recalled stories of scientists getting injured while taking samples. Of people breaking arms, getting their boots stuck in marshes. Of course, Ramon was just on the other side. If anything happened, she had only to call.

When she reached the midpoint of the crater, Greer set the platform on the broken reeds. The sun beat strongly. Sweat streamed into her eyes. She crouched and splashed some water on her face, then lifted off her visor, plunged it in the cool lake, and set it back on her head. The chill felt good.

She then went back for her corer and the other rods, and by the time she set down the last of her equipment, two trips later, Greer was panting. She hadn’t carried this gear in quite a while. She bent for a moment, hands on her thighs, surveying the site—the platform, the corer, the rods—and as her breathing slowed she became aware of the silence all around her, broken only by the slight slap of water against her boots. Here I am, she thought. In the middle of a crater on the most remote island in the world. Reeds rising all around me; all I can see is sky. Not a voice, not a rustle to be heard.

This was solitude, she thought, utter and remorseless. And the image of herself standing there filled her with dread. This was what life could come to.

She had to break the silence. She had to move.

Greer stepped up on one side of the platform and eased the corer through the center hole. She slid on her padded gloves and positioned the piston.

“Come on,” she said, calmed by the sound of her own voice. “Do this. Just do this.”

And with that, Greer pressed all her weight against the long metal rod, throwing herself forward as the barrel cut deeply into the wet earth.

“Ah, look, it’s Doctor Farraday! The very busy Doctor Farraday! She will settle the question once and for all! Please, Doctor, you must join us.”

The sun had almost set, a cool breeze swept the island, and Greer was walking toward her
residencial
. She was thinking of the work that lay ahead of her—another few days taking samples, weeks of cleaning and analyzing. Her project now seemed more daunting than it had back in Marblehead. It had taken her five hours to extract the core segments—after tugging on the piston for an hour, she finally lay on her back, kicking at the handles. By the time she made it back to Mahina’s, tired and somewhat disheartened, she’d devoured an early dinner before dropping off the samples in the lab. Now she was hoping for a shower, and some rest.

“Looks like it was a long day in the field!” From a picnic table outside the Hotel Espíritu, Vicente was waving. A torch was pitched beside each corner of the table. Two men—one brawny, one slender and somewhat hunched—sat across from him. Thursday, she realized. The researchers’ dinner.

“Was it just a day? It felt like a week!” Greer answered cheerily, trying to make light of her weariness. She slipped her backpack off, setting it on the ground. “Those reeds are tougher than rubber. Whoo! The sun felt like a furnace. And when you get up on the rim the wind can really batter you when it gets going!” But she stopped herself; she could feel the exhilaration of finally, after a day alone, speaking with people. Ramon had been quiet even on the ride back to Hanga Roa, and her Spanish wasn’t good enough to goad a stranger, and a shy one, into conversation. He’d mainly been interested in looking at the core. When she came over the rim, he set his book down in the grass as she unwrapped one for him. He had laughed, as though amused by the idea of pieces removed from the earth.

“Doctor Greer Farraday is our new resident palynologist,” Vicente announced. The smaller man, in a gray dress shirt, offered only a nod. A pair of spectacles, thick as paperweights, sat heavily on the bridge of his nose. The other man, blond and tan, stood immediately. He was big. A yellow T-shirt hugged his chest. It read:

Swede e π

“Sven. Sven Urstedt,” he said. His handshake was firm. “Meteorologist, amateur geologist. Pisces.” His eyes, large and blue, traveled Greer. “We insist that you join us.”

Happy to be diverted from misgivings about her work, Greer sat down. The elaborate apparatus of her room key with the poker chip cut into her thigh, and she laid it on the table. “I’ll see you that,” Sven said, setting his own key, attached to a red rabbit’s foot, beside hers. “And raise you one.” He poured her a glass of what looked like pisco sour from a small yellow bucket on the table. “To clear your thoughts. Now. Purple irises,” he said. “No particular meaning, right?”

“Meaning?”

“You are leading the witness, Sven,” said Vicente.

“All right.
Do
purple irises have any meaning?”

“What Sven means to ask is whether or not the purple iris, as a flower, signifies anything in particular. In the way a red rose has particular meaning. Or a black rose.”

“As a gift, you mean?”

“Precisely,” said Vicente.

“Not that I know of,” said Greer. “But that’s more a question for a florist. Ph.D. programs have been cutting back on corsage and bouquet courses.”

“Doctor Farraday, flowers are meant to be cut!” said Sven.

Greer laughed.

“No distractions, Sven,” said Vicente. “We are at an impasse.”

“
Were
at an impasse.”

“Sven, Doctor Farraday has made it clear she isn’t sure.”

“If we can’t find anyone to tell us what the irises do mean, I think it’s safe to assume they simply don’t have a meaning. If they did, people would know. That is, I should think, the whole
purpose
of meaning.”

Greer thought Sven had a good point.

“Well, it seems von Spee knew what they meant. ‘They will do nicely for my grave’—that is a fairly strong statement,” said Vicente.

“Von Spee was depressed. Moody. For God’s sake, Germans can’t take anything lightly.” Sven swigged his pisco and thumped the glass down on the table. “One bouquet and . . . he sinks his fleet.” He grinned, proud of this last statement.

Vicente turned to Greer. He was wearing a dark blue shirt that lent a richness to his olive skin. “We’re speaking of Admiral von Spee. I have come across some documents that—”

“We’re
done
speaking of Admiral von Spee. We are going to bore her to tears.”

“All right,” said Vicente.

The man in the gray shirt had still not looked at her.

“What about plain irises?” Vicente asked. “Do they have a meaning? Like the lily?”

“Vicente!” said Sven. “I like you much better when you are obsessing over the
rongorongo.
It is worth searching for meaning in that. In flowers—well, I simply cannot support you on that mission.”

Lily, thought Greer. Lillian Bethany Greer—that was her given name. But growing up she disliked Lillian—it was too matronly—and Lily in particular, especially as she became interested in botany; some jokes couldn’t be stomached for a lifetime. And in science, androgynous names helped. Applying to graduate school she became Greer Sandor: her father’s name, reversed. And when she married, Greer Sandor Farraday. But Thomas, in private, had always called her Lily.

“Very well,” sighed Vicente. “Another topic. SAAS is making noise about a conference.”

“They’ve been making noise about a conference for two years,” said Sven.

“But now they have threatened to send one of their people.”

“People? They have
people
? No, SAAS is run by machines. Never have I seen an organization for archaeology so uninterested in, well, archaeology. They care about the light fixtures, the memos, the packets of guidelines. Last month we received a shipment, a whole crate, of ballpoint pens. For over a year now I’ve been trying to get access to Chilean weather satellite data. That is, after all, my work. South Pacific weather patterns. Ocean currents and their relation to Polynesian migrations. But what do I get? Seventy-five—the exact number apportioned to my lab—blue ballpoint pens.”