Until the Day I Die(39)
“What time is it?” I ask him meekly.
“Time to get dressed.” He grins slightly and tosses a string sack at me. In the bathroom, I change out of my Hidden Sands pajamas and into underwear, sports bra, nylon cargo shorts, and a white moisture-wicking T-shirt. When I walk back out, he points to a pair of hiking boots and socks on the bed. I sit and put them on, then stare at his ponytail wistfully.
“Could I have something to tie my hair back?”
“Sorry, no.” He swings open the door. “Move out.”
Outside my cottage, three women huddle in the bed of an idling pickup truck, all of them dressed in the same shorts and T-shirts. One is Deirdre, who manages a quick grimace at me. Not surprisingly, her pale, puffy face resembles three-day-old scrambled eggs. There’s also a black woman I haven’t seen before. And Agnes, crouched in the far corner of the truck.
Behind her glasses her eyes are round with fear. I can’t imagine why. I get that the early-morning wake-up call is just another way to throw us off-balance, but the guy seems nice enough.
We all cling to the sides of the truck as he drives us down the lane, past the cottages, and into the jungle. As we hit a patch of rough road, overhung with a leafy canopy, I berate myself for not sticking my mouth under the water faucet when I was in the bathroom. And for not peeing.
I’m longing for coffee—dying for it—but I’m getting the distinct impression there’s not going to be any chance of getting it. Or a bed or warm breakfast, for that matter. The farther we get away from the resort, the more I start to wonder if what is happening here isn’t, in fact, the start of my L’élu. But that seems strange.
Why would Antonia fast-track a couple of newcomers like Deirdre and me? Is it because I refused her offer of the special VIP L’élu II, and she wants to inflict some kind of punishment on me?
Agnes could probably provide some context, seeing as how she’s already done one of these things, but she’s put her head down, and I’d have to yell over the truck engine to be heard. And anyway, it doesn’t make any difference. Whether Antonia is acting out of revenge or just changed her mind, the bottom line is, finishing my L’élu means I get to go home. This is what I wanted. I need to focus on the task at hand.
We climb a hill, ford a stream, then climb another hill, the truck ramming its way through thick brush. In the back, we cower to avoid the stinging lash of branches. Deirdre vomits the sour-smelling contents of her stomach over the side. Some sloshes down into the grooved bed of the truck, and the other three of us lift our butts and crab walk around the perimeter to avoid it.
“I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying. She’s weeping now, tears and snot streaming down her face. A tide of foreboding rises inside me, and I turn away from her so I don’t choke. If this is our L’élu, she’s in for a world of hurt.
We finally pull off the side of the road, and Ponytail jumps out, banging the side of the truck. We climb out, and higher now in elevation, we huddle together, arms folded against the chill air. There’s a smell here—a dank, mossy aroma of old soil and decaying fish. The light between the dark silhouettes of the trees has turned gray. The sun will be up soon. And I’ve still got to pee.
“I’m Lach,” he says, arranging the strap of a canvas bag full of water bottles across his chest. “Welcome to your L’élu.”
In the predawn gray, I can’t help but notice his eyes. They’re the lightest I’ve seen on a human. Blue, probably. And he’s deeply tanned and wearing faded leather flip-flops, like he’s a surfer headed out to the waves instead of leading a group of women through the tropical rainforest. I look around the group. Agnes is scowling. So is the black woman. Deirdre looks like she wants to die.
He stares off into the distance. “We’re now going to embark on a quest,” he says. “The heart of your Hidden Sands experience. It’s meant to be a physical challenge, but, be aware, it is a spiritual one as well.”
We all exchange glances. Whatever Tony Robbins, self-help bullshit this is, we can handle it. We all just want to get through this.
“On a L’élu, you’ve got to think and feel at the most basic level,” he continues in his tour-guide monotone. “You must get away from your self-centered, first world mindset so you can become more fully, completely yourself. While the external focus is on survival, problem-solving, and teamwork, the internal focus is on forging a new way of seeing yourself.”
How should I see myself? I think. If I’m not CEO of Jax, not Perry’s wife, what am I?
He sighs. “Anyway, you get the gist. You’re about to do a hash, okay? Anybody other than Agnes know what that is?”
No one says a word. He reaches into the canvas bag, pulls out a handful of flour, and sprinkles it onto the ground. It’s in the shape of a circle with an X inside.
“A hash is a running challenge, a social activity, where you get to drink beer at the end. Only we drink water, not beer.” He gives us a slight sardonic smile. “The hare—that’s me—runs ahead and leaves a trail for the harriers—that’s you—to follow. A normal hash is part treasure map, part obstacle course, but ours is a little different. Ours is not a game. If you find the trail and follow it correctly, you get food and water. If you don’t, there’s a consequence.”