The Clearing by Dan Newman

words had a calming effect on Nate.
    â€œWe do need to go and get you eye fix. And I want to hear about de intruder. We can talk on de way.”
    â€œThe hospital?”
    â€œMmm, no. I don’t think so. We go private tonight, I think.”
    Nate squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t know if my insurance covers private.”
    â€œDat’s OK, man – dat’s not de kind of private I talking ’bout.”
    â€œ...so what kind of private are you talking about?”
    â€œDe kind where people can’t find you.”
    Nate raised his eyebrows in mild alarm. “People?” he asked.
    Smiley barged on. “Come, let we pack you things. You checking out of de Breadfruit Tree Inn. My brother can fix you up. He a doctor. And don’t worry ʼbout cost.”
    Nate decided not to fight it. He had many more questions, but they could wait. Together they collected Nate’s things and stuffed them into his single suitcase, then stood at the door for one last look back. There was blood spattered liberally about the room, and pooled on the floor where the man who had attacked him had brandished the cow’s hoof. There were so many questions, but they would have to wait.
    â€œYour brother,” said Nate as they closed the door to the hotel room. “I thought he was the archives guy.”
    â€œHe is,” said Smiley. “But dis a different brother.”

 
    11
    Â 
    1976  
    Â 
    The road to Ti Fenwe Estate cut through some of the thickest parts of the island’s rainforest, and the dense green expanse of 1976 was much like it had been for centuries. The road was little more than a roughly hewn track – two wheel-ruts, really. For two hours, the tangled tropics scratched at the Land Rover like jade demons clawing at its sides, eager to snatch away the occupants and drag them into the heart of its darkness.
    The boys squealed with delight with every pitch of the vehicle, every lurch of its rusting frame, especially through the wet spots. Where the track ran through a valley or a dip of any kind, the water pooled and the vehicle’s heavy treads churned it into a sticky black bog. Twice they had to stop and run the cable from the winch mounted on the bumper to a nearby tree, and each time Nate felt his sense of true adventure redoubled.
    Vincent De Villiers heaved the hood of the Land Rover open and slammed it against the frame of the windshield to protect it in case the cable let go. “Out, boys!” he commanded. The four hopped dutifully out of the open back and took their spots safely away from the cable, as the winch whined and slowly drew the vehicle out of the sticky mess. “Keep back, lads! If that cable parts, it’ll slice you in half and your legs will walk off without you!” He announced the horrifying fact the way a pirate might announce the execution of hostages – and to the complete delight of the boys.
    Once clear of the mud, they all clambered back in and the Land Rover continued its jolting progress along the winding trail. “This path was cut by my great-great-grandfather,” announced Vincent. “It was just a pony track back then, just a narrow way through all this, wide enough for a few horses and a line of slaves in chains. There’s many a dead fellow in those bushes, boys,” he said, looking back for a moment and smiling giddily. “Any that couldn’t make the journey were cut loose and left to die where they fell.”
    Pip’s face gathered in concern.
    From his seat on the opposite side, Richard smiled. “Don’t worry about Uncle Vince, Pip. He’s just trying to scare us. There’s nothing in there but more bushes.”
    Pip smiled in thanks, but it was clear he wasn’t convinced. When he looked into the cab Vincent was laughing and wrestling with the steering wheel, fighting the vehicle as the tires bit into the earthen ruts. “There’s nothing to worry