THE island is a strange place. Overgrown, unpredictable, war-torn. For hours during the day, the sun climbs into the sky and it is quiet and peaceful. But later, as the shadows gather in the trees, a volley of hoots erupts from the forest canopy and echoes around the island. Moments later, an answering call bursts from a thickly wooded valley on the other side of the island. A call, and then a response. And then silence.
The sound comes again across the tops of the trees. Hooting, and then distant replies. High-pitched and repetitive, the sounds are not words. But they mean something anyway: the hunters are coming home.
They emerge one by one from the foliage, stepping out cautiously into a wide and sandy bay. There are five of them, all males. Their ...
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