Chapter One
1850
Joya Penn stood on the valley floor, staring up
high mountain walls lush with vegetation, up into the
cloud of mist that had settled upon the upper slopes of
Kibatante. The mountain was inhabited by a great,
hulking spirit of the same name who was the mountain and
at the same time, was a god who existed within the
volcanic, igneous rock.
As long as the spirit of Kibatante slept in the
heart of the island, everyone knew that all would be well
on Matarenga.
One of her sandals had come untied, so Joya bent
down and quickly rewrapped the woven hemp thong around her
ankle. As she straightened, she brushed a cockroach off
the coarse, yellowed fabric of her shin-length trousers.
Her shirt, a soiled castoff of her father’s, was
knotted at her midriff. She found the garment a nuisance,
but the year that her breasts had developed, her parents
had demanded she cover herself. She would prefer not to
be burdened with so many clothes, but her father still
insisted. She argued that Matarengi women felt no need to
cover their upper bodies. Why should she? She was
perfectly comfortable with or without clothing. Still,
she bowed to her father’s will.
Joya sighed, feeling adrift as she wiped
perspiration from her brow with her forearm. Wishing that
Kibatante’s spirit would slip inside her heart and ease
her unsettled feelings, she touched a pouch tied to a
thong around her neck. The small leather sack was filled
with good-luck charms that kept her safe. She opened the
bag and looked at the objects inside — a feather, sharks’
teeth, a shining piece of rock. The largest among them was
her mother’s silver hair comb, which she had pressed into
Joya’s hand on the day she died. She had begged Joya not
to forget her. As if she ever could.
Eight Matarengi bearers, their skin glistening
with sweat, were scattered over the hillside gathering
moss and plant fibers used to pack around orchid specimens
to be shipped to London. Joya had been in charge of
leading the men today, and the search had gone well.
Tomorrow morning, the hunting party would start back over
the mountain trail to the native village and the house
that she and her father shared on the beach.
Even knowing that her life was full, she wished
she could lose the heaviness that she carried in her
heart. She had the breathtaking beauty of the island
paradise and the lifelong friends she had made among the
Matarengi people. She had the orchids that she and her
father hunted, gathered and packed. They were the
loveliest of flowers, fragile in appearance, yet hardy
enough to grow in the wild and even survive being shipped
all over the world.
The work she shared with her father was
fulfilling and, over time, she had recovered as much as a
daughter can from the loss of her mother. Despite the
fact that she was no man’s wife, and the fact that she had
seen little of the world, she realized that she was a very
lucky young woman.
But ever since she had been a child, there had
been a shadow of sadness haunting her, a notion that there
was something vital, something she could not explain,
missing from her life.
According to Matarengi custom, she should have
been a bride long before now, but her white, English
parents had strictly forbidden her ever marrying into the
Matarengi tribe. She was to marry one of her own kind —
something that had proved to be nearly impossible, for no
suitable white man had ever come to the island for any
length of time. Even if she chose to ignore her parents’
dictates, there was not a single Matarengi male on the
island, save Umbaba, her closest friend, who was even
comfortable around her.
She was beginning to lose hope of ever leaving
the island or marrying anyone. She wondered if there was
anything in the least desirable about her by English
standards. How would she ever find out, when leaving the
island to search farther afield was something her father
refused to allow?
Uncomfortable with the direction of her
thoughts, she began to climb the mountainside, keeping to
the trail the men had hacked out with huge, lethally sharp
machetes. In the lower regions of the valley floor,
where the sun rarely fought its way through the dense
growth, the ground was perpetually damp. She took care
not to fall, for her sandals were caked with mud and
slippery. Occasionally she had to pause and chop away,
with her own blade, branches that intruded across the
trail.
She passed two of the men, stopping to direct
three others to take rooted samples from various plants in
a deep ravine on the mountainside. She took a specimen
from one of the men, held it close, and examined the root
structure. It was a fine orchid, a soft lavender-rose in
color.
She wished she could accompany the next shipment
of flowers to England, walk along the crowded streets and
byways, see the River Thames. She longed to experience
the sights and sounds she had only learned of from her
parents’ stories or seen in the prints in her books.
Whenever she closed her eyes and thought of
London, somehow she easily imagined herself already
there. Sometimes she would dream of England in vivid
detail, scene upon scene, with such complete clarity that
the images seemed very real.
Sometimes her dreams were haunting. Like
Kibatante, the spirit of the mountain, it was as if she
could be in two places — in the dream itself and outside
of it, watching it unfold. She always dreamed of a girl,
very much like herself, but not herself, in and about
London.
Whenever she awoke from such a dream, it would
take her a moment or two to realize she had actually been
safe in her bed asleep and that she had never really left
Matarenga.
The odd sensation of these dreams-within-dreams
had begun when she was a child. More curious than
frightened, she would tell her mother about the experience
and ask for explanations her mother could not give.
Joya could still recall the way deep frown lines
appeared on her mother’s brow whenever she tried to
explain about the girl who was her and yet was not her.
“Do not dwell on such things, child,” her
mother, Clara, would always say. “Dreams are only that.
They aren’t real.” Then her lovely mother would smile,
but the smile would never reach her eyes. Afterward, Joya
would feel more confused than ever.
Eventually, she took up sketching, using bits of
charcoal and odd pieces of paper, bark cloth, whatever she
could find, as she wrestled with the images in an effort
to understand. At first the drawings were only the
scribbles of a child. As she grew, she amazed her parents
with her skill, but they believed that the girl portrayed
in the sketches was Joya herself.
Only she knew differently. The young woman in
her drawings looked like her but was definitely not her.
She knew that as well as she knew the names of all the
shimmering, rainbow-hued fish in the lagoon and the
orchids on the hillsides. Drawing what she dreamed about
sometimes left her feeling even more adrift than ever.
One day she had called upon Otakgi, the oldest,
wisest man on Matarenga, the man her father called a witch
doctor. From what little she knew of either, Otakgi was
neither a witch nor a doctor. He was a man of magic, a
healer, keeper of Matarengi legends and age-old tribal
lore. Even when she had been a young girl with a head
full of strange dreams and a heart full of questions, even
then he had seemed ancient.
Otakgi’s skin was blue-black, thin and wrinkled,
as withered as the dried blossoms of the flame tree. His
hair was tightly braided with colorful beads among the
woven strands. He looked as old as the island itself, and
it was whispered among the natives that he was almost as
old as Kibatante, as timeless as the turquoise lagoon that
surrounded Matarenga.
Alone, more frightened of her dreams than of the
old man, she had slipped into the shadowy interior of his
small fadu, a native dwelling made of coconut fronds and
bamboo. He was seated cross-legged on a tightly woven mat
of pandanus, staring through the open door, toward the
reef and beyond.
She sat in silence and tried not to wiggle until
he came out of his trance, looked over, and found her
waiting.
“I have strange dreams, Otakgi. Dreams of
myself and not myself. I am very confused.” She spoke in
Matarengi, a language she knew as well as, or better than,
English.
She was forced to remain still, even though it
was a while before he looked at her again. When he did,
his eyes burned like hot black obsidian. He stared
through her, as if she had no more substance than smoke.
When he finally spoke, his voice reminded her of the
rustling of the leaves when the Kusi trade winds blew
gently over the land. He raised both hands, palms up. His
long fingers, gnarled with age, lifted skyward.
“It will be many, many seasons yet before you
know the meaning of these dreams. Do not be frightened,
even if they seem strange, for one day you will find your
other self. You will know the secret of this second
spirit, the lost spirit of your soul.”
When he paused, silent again, she was afraid
that he would say no more, that she would be no wiser, no
more satisfied than when she had entered the fadu.
But the old man eventually stirred. He hummed
quietly to himself and rocked back and forth on his bare,
bony buttocks. “There is no need to fear,” he had said,
louder now, his voice firm, as if trying to impress her
with the truth. “Be patient.”
And so, as the years passed, she continued
dreaming and drawing and trying to be patient. She locked
her questions away rather than make her lovely mama
frown. Her papa, who had always worked so hard exploring
the uncharted interior of the island for new orchids,
certainly had no time for questions.
She had endured until one day she discovered she
was no longer a child, but a woman — and everything
changed. She was no longer allowed to go half naked, like
her Matarengi friends. Soon, none of the young men, save
Umbaba, would speak directly to her. Slowly, she began to
feel more and more isolated.
She went to her parents and begged them to take
her to England, to let her experience life off the
island. Since she could not live a full life as a
Matarengi, she wanted to live among her own kind for a
while. They gently refused her outright, but then debated
in hushed whispers behind their bedroom door.
Not long afterward, her mother died.
Months eased into years. She tried to lose
herself, her questions, her needs, in her work with the
orchids, but late at night, she was forced to battle her
aching loneliness.
Perhaps, if she could get to London, she would
not only find that part of her she felt was missing, but
even meet a suitable man who would find her desirable,
someone who would want her enough to marry her.
She had not argued with her father about leaving
Matarenga in a good while, but today, almost as if the
Kusi winds were charged with change, as if her skin no
longer fit, Joya found herself thinking about what Otakgi
had said to her so long ago: “One day you will find your
other self.” She was determined to leave the island. She
would demand that her father make some arrangements to
send her along when the boat came to pick up the orchids.
She would make her demands when they returned home from
the hunt.
Suddenly, the ground began to tremble. Her hand
closed around the orchid plant as rocks began to tumble
down the mountainside. She was grazed by flying gravel.
The Matarengi became frightened. They shouted to each
other, and to her, to take cover.
Kibatante was stirring. The god of the
mountain, keeper of the island, was disturbed.
Chapter Two
I’ll be damned if I die now. Not when I’m so
close.
Dangling high above the valley floor, Trevor
Mandeville clung with bare, muddied hands to the twisted,
exposed root of a jacaranda tree. The gnarled root was
his lifeline, his only hope.
He cursed and prayed that it would hold his
weight until he was safe on solid ground, until the idea
that he could fail became a memory and the reality that he
was mortal had faded back into his subconscious.
The muscles in his back and arms screamed as he
strained to save himself. A heavy pack on his back
weighed him down. His rifle swayed from the strap over
his shoulder and slapped him in the side. His face was
inches from the scarred, loose earth of the mountainside.
He spat at the dirt, cursed fate, then himself,
and even Dustin Penn, the man he had journeyed halfway
around the world to find. He closed his eyes, imagined
staring Death in the face. Skeletal, hollow-eyed, the
Grim Reaper tempted him to ease the muscles burning in his
arms and shoulders.
“Let go,” Death whispered, urging him to give
up, to feel the cool wind rush past him as he floated
through the abyss, down, down through the tangled canopy
of treetops that hid the valley floor.
He was raised never to leave a job unfinished,
never to walk away from responsibility. His sister,
Janelle, had accompanied him to Africa. She was awaiting
him off the mainland coast, on Zanzibar. He refused to
abandon her on foreign soil.
So Trevor clung tighter, strained harder.
Pulling himself up hand over hand, he fought for a toehold
in the crumbling earth. Death was something he would not
even consider in this instance, for death meant failure.
An hour ago, as he was hiking a barely
discernible jungle trail no wider than his shoulders, a
cloud of heavy gray mist had taken him by surprise. Fog
settled in, camouflaging the landscape. Thick as rain, it
rendered the trail dangerously slick.
Around midday he had stripped off his sweat-
soaked shirt and shoved it into the top of his pack, and
so when he fell, his skin was scraped by the rough stones
embedded in the mountainside. Now his bare chest,
scratched and bleeding, stung.
Sweat mingled with dampness from the fog
trickled down his spine. His knee-high leather gaiters
were covered with trail mud, their crossed laces caked
with it. His khaki pants were filthy and torn, the toes
of his leather shoes scratched from kicking the
mountainside.
In the heavy mist, looming palms and acacia
trees around him became hulking dark shapes. Their leaves
swayed with the rhythm of the trade wind. Green parrots
dived and squawked, taunting him. Howler monkeys screamed
with the shrill sound of demented laughter.
Again, Death whispered in his ear, “Just let go.”
A coarse sound burst from Trevor’s throat, one
that might have sounded like a laugh, but really a shout
of defiance. It echoed against the face of the mountain
and carried to the treetops.
Failure was not an option. The jungles of the
world were already littered with the bones of hapless
Englishmen who had lost lives for their orchid-crazed
patrons. Hunters had drowned, been lost or murdered, or
fallen to their deaths — men who loved to gamble, men of
adventure willing to die while searching for beautiful
flowers in terrible places, to discover rare, exotic
plants that would grace some wealthy aristocrat’s home.
Sweat slipped into his eyes and made him blink.
He tightened his grip. Hand over hand, Trevor heaved
himself upward, using the rough, twisted root to bring him
even with the raw, broken edge of the trail. Gritting his
teeth, he swung side to side like a pendulum until he
dared to let go and grab for a place to land.
He hit the edge and clung. Before he started to
slip again, he quickly scooted his upper body along with
his elbows and forearms, grunting with effort as he
dragged himself along, kicking with his legs. Soon he
propelled himself to a secure patch of smooth, level
ground.
Not until he drew his legs up and crawled a few
feet away from the precipice did he allow himself to
breathe. His heartbeat was ragged and wild.
A pair of noisy, red-beaked parrots swooped down
for a closer look. Beneath him, the earth trembled again,
but gently this time, as if settling into place.
His hands shook. He took off his sun helmet,
wiped his brow with his forearm, replaced the headgear,
and then adjusted the rifle strap. Unfastening the
canteen at his waist, he took a long pull of water. As
his breath settled into an even cadence, Trevor scanned
the sky and tried to see the sun through the tangle of
branches and leaves that canopied the trail.
There was no indication it might burn through
the fog before nightfall. If he did not start walking
again soon, darkness would catch him on the side of the
mountain and he would be forced to either bed down there
or crawl along the narrow path on hands and knees, feeling
his way out.
Pushing himself to his feet, he ignored the
swell of weakness in his legs. Resettling his rifle
strap, he took note of the superficial scratches on his
chest and arms. His right cheek stung. He touched it and
his fingers came away smeared with blood.
Starting out again, he concentrated on the
trail, searching for any sign of weakness in the earth.
Around the bend, where the mountainside was less eroded,
he came upon crude steps set into the downhill slope.
Flat rocks had been buried in the earth to form stepping
stones. He experienced a surge of relief when hiking
became easier.
Every few yards, he could make out an outline of
a bootprint amid scattered prints of bare feet in the
thick mud along the side of the trail. Trevor smiled with
satisfaction. The shock of his close call slowly ebbed,
soothed by the promise of success. Months of relentless
work could finally yield the desired result. By
nightfall, he could actually come face to face with Dustin
Penn, the world’s most elusive and most renowned orchid
hunter.
For years Penn had been shipping notable
quantities of rare and unusual finds to London from
different ports in Africa, while somehow keeping his
whereabouts a secret. Over the last twenty years, Penn’s
reputation as well as the mystery surrounding him had
grown.
In the highly competitive business of orchid
hunting, hiding the locations of one’s finds was perfectly
normal. An amateur orchidologist and part-time hunter
himself, Trevor kept meticulous notes and maps that he
shared with no one. But hiding from the world, as Penn
had done, was not the norm.
Unconsciously, his hand smoothed the butt of his
rifle as he wondered how Penn would react to discovery.
Would the man resort to violence to keep his whereabouts
secret? Had he become a deranged recluse? How would he
react when surprised?
As for himself, Trevor hated surprises. He
always took great pains to make certain his own life was
well ordered, that he consistently stayed on schedule.
Everything that he could control always went according to
plan.
He had learned at his grandmother’s knee that
strict routine was necessary to success and that
discipline kept one’s life from falling into chaos. He
was well prepared to face Penn and whatever challenges
came with finding him. Hopefully, there would be no
surprises.
Although he had never set foot on Matarenga
before, Trevor had often trekked over similar ground. If
he had learned one thing, it was that jungles were filthy,
humid and a man was never entirely safe. Still, he never
felt as fully alive as he did whenever he was on a hunt.
Perhaps it was the challenge of the very unpredictability
of the jungle that attracted him.
He often thought that if it were not for his
responsibilities to Mandeville Imports, to his grandmother
and his family name, he would choose to spend all his time
hunting orchids in the far corners of the world.
Dusk had poured shadows between the trees by the
time Trevor had reached the valley floor. The air was
thick enough to drink, close and stagnant. Moss grew on
the trees, as did many epiphytic vines and plants that
eventually destroyed their hosts.
It was too dark to see the trail now, but the
scent of wood smoke had begun to beckon him. He had
slipped his shirt on and left it hanging open until he
could clean his wounds. Beneath the cuts and bruises, his
heart raced with excitement. He hacked away at the
undergrowth with his machete until he could see firelight
flickering through the trees.
Caution was of the utmost importance now, so he
moved with stealth. As he edged closer to the light, he
slipped his rifle off his shoulder. Primed and loaded, it
would give him only one shot. Then, if attacked, he would
be forced to fight hand to hand until the end.
He had never killed another human being before.
He did not relish the prospect of doing so now, but he
would fire in self-defense if he had to. After what had
happened on the trail, he was determined Death would have
to work very hard to claim him.
Shoving aside a thick vine that blocked his line
of vision, Trevor recoiled when his fingers touched the
cool, dry skin of a huge snake as thick as his biceps.
Face to face with the reptile, he watched its tongue
flicker and its eyes close down to slits. It seemed
suspended in air as it hung inches from his face until,
without a sound, it slithered down the trunk of the tree
and away.
He crouched low and focused on the small, nearly
circular clearing ahead of him. A low fire glowed in the
center of the encampment. Two small tents had been
pitched off to one side.
Three male natives hunkered by the fire while a
few more worked together on the far edge of the fire’s
light. Trevor let go a soft sigh of satisfaction when one
of the men moved to reveal a tall packing crate. Further
stirring in the group gave him a clear view of three large
barrels. Piles of dried moss and coconut husk, packing
material for orchid shipments, were heaped on the ground
at their feet.
Trevor’s gaze shot around the camp. If not
Penn, then someone else was hunting orchids here.
Firelight shimmered on slick, green leaves knitted into a
backdrop. To the right he heard rushing water. Trevor
wiped sweat from his brow as he studied the shadowed
jungle landscape, recalling the topography of the last few
yards so that he could commit them to paper when he logged
his notes.
Suddenly his eyes picked up flashes of white
against the dark foliage. It was a moment before he
realized that what he was seeing was not reflected
firelight, but thousands of stark white orchid blossoms
scattered like countless stars against the dark backdrop
of jungle growth.
His breath left him in a rush.
Not only did he hunt and import orchids, but he
had inherited his father’s extensive collection. He knew
the breathtaking beauty of one single bloom, but nothing
he had ever seen before could compare to the sight of
hundreds of orchid blossoms exploding across the hillside.
A deep, gravelly laugh diverted his attention.
There was movement in the camp. One of the natives called
to another, then all of them laughed, sharing some joke in
their own language.
A white man, illuminated by the firelight,
stepped out of one of the tents. Tall, broad-shouldered,
with a full head of long white hair, he looked about the
right age to be Penn — somewhere between forty-five and
fifty. He wore no sun helmet. His shirt was linen,
stained down the front; his pants, muddied khaki, were
tucked into worn gaiters. His fist was wrapped around the
neck of a whisky bottle. Three gold earrings dangled from
his earlobe to flash in the firelight’s glow.
The orchid hunter was unarmed. He spoke to one
of his men, then laughed boisterously again, secure in the
false belief that they were alone.
Trevor reminded himself to be calm, clear,
concise. He would show no threat. He straightened to
full height. Every muscle protested. He slipped his
rifle strap off, pointing the barrel down. He had
traveled halfway round the world for this moment. He
would introduce himself, then present his proposition to
Penn.
He stepped out of the shadows into the
shimmering ring of the campfire’s glow and watched as the
man across the fire froze stock still and stared back at
him in shock.
“Are you Dustin Penn?” Trevor called out.
The native bearers around the fire jumped to
their feet. Those near the packing crate swung around.
In their own tongue, they murmured among themselves.
Their dark eyes shifted to the man he assumed to be Dustin
Penn, and then back to him. The Matarengi were tense,
ready, awaiting Penn’s orders.
Trevor knew he was already a dead man if Penn
wanted him dead. He tightened his grip on the rifle.
“Who wants to know?” the orchid hunter shouted
back.
Penn, if it was Penn, had not moved a muscle,
although he appeared less guarded than his men. His voice
was rough as the rocky mountainside, his bulk more muscle
than fat. In sharp contrast to his shoulder-length white
hair, his skin was bronze, sun-damaged, and leathered.
His eyes were light blue and piercing.
“I’m Trevor Mandeville. I’m from London.”
Everything seemed to be going according to plan
until one of the bearers beside the crate shifted to his
left. A young white woman stepped out from behind him
into Trevor’s line of vision and walked into the clearing.
“And I’ve come to —” Trevor’s gaze touched upon
the girl, and he was arrested. He could not take his eyes
off her. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the
orchid hunter demanding answers, but for the life of him,
he could do nothing but stare at the young woman across
the campsite.
Medium height. Round blue eyes, clear as a
mountain lake. Bracketed by deep dimples was her evenly
drawn, pouting mouth, the lower lip slightly fuller than
the upper. Her long hair was blond, thick, tangled, and
untamed. Her clear skin had seen much sun, but she was
not as darkly suntanned as her father. Her cheeks were
radiant.
He was shocked when he realized that not only
was she wearing shin-length trousers, but her shirt was
tied below her full breasts, leaving nothing to the
imagination. Her midriff was bare and trim, her navel
exposed. She was not soft, but sleek and finely sculpted,
her flesh golden tan.
“Who in the hell are you, sir?” The man was
yelling at him now.
The girl quickly crossed the clearing and stood
beside the man. Up close, her features were even more
remarkable. Hers was a face Trevor knew as well as his
own.
Suddenly, he found his voice.
“Janelle?”