Without another word, I head up the path, Askal keeping easy pace beside me. I can hear them scrambling to follow me.

No one can miss the cave entrance at the center of the island. It’s two hundred feet high, built for giants to walk through. Limestone stains mar the walls. Something glitters in their cavities.

It doesn’t take long for Hawaiian Shirt and Goatee to catch up, both looking annoyed.

“Ask it permission,” I tell them, and they guffaw.

“The hell I’m asking some ghost,” Goatee says with a snort.

“We can’t go in until we get the all clear,” Hawaiian Shirt repeats.

“A few steps in won’t make a difference.” I place my hand on the stone, which is cool to the touch. “Tabi po,” I murmur, and enter.

The ground is softer here, and my sandals sink down slightly wherever I trod, leaving prints in my wake. Though reluctant at first, I hear them following, Hawaiian Shirt grumbling about all the trouble they could get into should R&D find out. Askal pads along, ears pricked as if he already senses something we cannot.

It’s not a long walk. A stone altar lies a hundred feet in. Part of the ceiling above it caved in at some point, revealing a view of the sky. It’s late afternoon, and the moon is already visible and silhouetted against a sea of blue.

The altar is more yellowing limestone bedrock, chiseled from ancient tools and carved with purpose. I look down at the ground and see, running along the sides, withered tree roots so old they’ve grown into the cave wall, stamped so deeply into the stones as to be a part of its foundation.

The passageway branches out, circles around to another tunnel that lies just behind the altar, leading deeper into rock.

“You said something before we came in,” Goatee says. “‘Tabi po’? That’s how we’re supposed to ask permission to enter?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” I say.

But the two men are no longer listening. They’re too busy staring at the stonework, and then at the sky where the moon stands at the center of the hole above—a giant eye gazing down at them.

Askal whimpers softly. I lean down and stroke his fur.

“They weren’t kidding about the Godseye,” Goatee says, impressed. “How’d you have the balls to come here all by yourself, kid? Seen any of the so-called ghosts? See Cortes himself?”

I pause, debating what to tell them. “I’ve heard the screaming.”

“No one’s told us about any screaming.”

I approach the altar but do not touch it. I hear a soft, rasping sound, and look down to see small makahiya leaves writhing quietly on the ground. From the corner of my eye, I catch the tree roots on the walls curling, stilling only when Goatee, sensing their movements, steps nearer.

I have spent enough time on this island to recognize when it’s distressed.

“You all shouldn’t be here,” I say again.

Goatee snorts. “Let’s wait until the cameras start rolling before you get all creepy, kid.”