The noise is loud enough that they don’t hear the silence how I’ve always heard it.

They scare the fishes away most days, and so I’ve gotten accustomed to idling, to watching them from my boat instead of hunting for my next meal. Hollywood does terrible things with machinery. They whirl and slam and punch the ground, and the earth shakes in retaliation. They dig perfect circles, add pipelines to connect to local supplies, and install water tanks. They set up large generators and test the lighting. They cut down more trees to widen the clearing to place more cabins.

None of them step inside the cave. The one at the center of the island, where the roots begin.

They don’t talk about the roots that ring the island, half-hidden among white sand so fine it’s like powder to the touch, so that they trip when they least expect it. But they talk about the balete. “I came here expecting palm trees,” one of the crew says with a shudder. He stares up fearfully at one of the larger balete trees, with their numerous snake-like gnarls that twist together to pass as trunks, and at the spindly, outstretched branches above. “If trees could look haunted, then it would be these.”

Soon they notice me standing by the shore, only several meters away.

“Hey, you there!” one calls out. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and dark shorts. A pair of sunglasses are slicked up his head. “You live nearby?”

I nod.

“Oh, thank God, you can understand us. We’d been having a hell of a time trying to translate.”

“Most of the people here understand English,” I say. “They probably don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ouch. Big ouch. Well, you’re still the only local I’ve seen this close to the island. Even the fishermen stay clear. You’re not afraid of the curse?”

I shake my head. Askal peers cautiously from around my legs, watching the foreigners curiously. “You?” I ask.

He guffaws. “I’m more afraid of my bosses docking my pay if we don’t get this right.” He peers back at Askal. “Cute dog. I’ve never seen the locals bring pets on their boats.”

“He’s used to the water.”

Askal wags his tail, sensing he is being praised.

“Want to make some money, kid? We need someone who knows their way around the place. Everyone we’ve asked on the mainland has turned us down.”

I row closer to where they stand, hopping out and dragging the boat through the last few feet of water. Askal scampers out after me.

“Not scared like everyone else, eh?” Hawaiian Shirt’s companion asks, a guy with a goatee and bad haircut. Clouds of smoke rise from the little device he’s puffing away at, and it smells of both cigarettes and overly sweet fruit. A half-empty beer bottle is tucked under his arm. His eyes are bloodshot, and I’ve seen enough drunks on the mainland to know what that means. “You hang around this place a lot?”