Scientists from all over the world would study the treasure.

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It wasn’t just my grandfather’s legacy.

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It was a legacy for all of humanity.

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I nodded.

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Words were few, but inside I felt as if something was filling up, like the rising tide.

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Louise left me with Arina.

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Arina was sitting on a folding chair under a canopy.

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Around her were scattered pencils, sketchbooks, a camera, instruments, and other things.

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My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

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This sentence has been marked as perfect!

Chapter Five — The Heart of the Turtle Louise, Ded, and I headed back to camp from the seaplane.

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This sentence has been marked as perfect!

The sun was climbing higher, heating the sand.

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This sentence has been marked as perfect!

Activity had already started all around.

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The spot with the hatch was now cordoned off with tape.

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Dr. Suresh Varma was giving orders not only to his team but to anyone who happened to cross his path.

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Louise leaned over to me and whispered: "He's from India.

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That’s why the captain didn’t shake his hand — the greeting was different."

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She pressed her palms together at her chest: "It’s called namaste.

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It’s a way to show respect from the heart."

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We practiced the gesture as we walked, laughing and bowing at each other.

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When we reached Arina, I greeted her the same way, and she, smiling, returned the gesture.

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"You know, Toma..." Louise said, "this is where the real work with the Heart of the Black Turtle begins."

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I looked at her.

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"Everything we found isn’t just gold.

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Every coin, every scratch on the cave wall — it’s a story."

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"You can’t simply take them away.

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You have to understand them."

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Louise nodded.

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Thanks to them, we might discover things long lost."

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I thought about it.

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Then asked: "And the money?

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To save the ocean?"

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Louise smiled faintly.

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"That will be all right.

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Some of the finds can't be sold — they’ll go to museums.

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But some will be auctioned."

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"And with that money, we’ll create a fund to protect the ocean."

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I looked at the pouch in her hands.

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Far off, I heard the sea rumbling.

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Ded, lying at my feet, raised his head and sniffed the air, as if sensing something.

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And his voice in my mind said: "We’ve taken the first step.

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Saving the ocean is right.

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But first, we must save our island.

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Restore its name.

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Its strength.

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Let them create the fund — but it must be registered here, on our free, independent island."

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I looked at Louise: "Can the fund be registered on the island?"

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Louise nodded.

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"Of course, Toma.

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It all starts here.

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And since it all starts with the Heart of the Black Turtle, I think we should restore the island’s old name — The Island of the Black Turtle."

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"Shall I represent you in this, Toma?"

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To be continued...

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That’s why Suresh Varma and his team arrived so quickly.

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And soon a special research vessel would come, bringing equipment.

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I nodded.

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"Come sit," she said.

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"Let’s continue."

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I settled onto a mat nearby.

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Ded stretched out between us, lying so he could watch both me and her at once.

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Arina opened a fresh sheet of paper.

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"Tell me who else you remember.

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We won’t find the living, of course... but maybe we’ll find the lost.

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We’ll bury them, just like we buried your grandfather."

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I began to speak.

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About Laurent, who gathered crabs in the western lagoon.

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About Miryam, who sang at night.

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About Aunt Miryam and her love for strange things — like the doll we had left behind in the cabin.

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About the catches Grandfather and I shared with her.

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Arina quickly sketched faces, boats, outlines of houses from my words.

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When I faltered, Ded nudged me gently with his nose.

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And in my head, his voice whispered: "Traps, Toma.

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Where the water's cold."

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"Grandfather knew where to set traps," I said aloud.

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"Where the sand feels colder.

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That’s where the springs are."

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Arina wrote everything down without interrupting.

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Then Ded prompted me again, and I continued: "Your mother, Maya.

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Her laughter chimed like a tiny silver bell, light and joyful."

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I spoke of my mother.

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Her bright, ringing voice.

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My father — Levi Makea.

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He caught barracudas by hand, diving under the reefs.

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They drowned together.

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Their canoe was shattered — only fragments were found.

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I had just turned one year old.

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After that, Grandfather raised me.

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Ded kept guiding me: "Tunea Orteaa... he was my friend.

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A carpenter.

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He cursed funny while he worked.

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Built boats."

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I told Arina about Tunea, about his canoe we found after the tsunami.

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And Ded remembered Fari Busque — an old man whose hands always smelled of crabs.

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And old Laurent, who laughed with a hiccup-like chuckle.

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I honestly admitted to Arina that I didn’t remember most of them myself — Grandfather had told me their stories.

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Time moved quietly.

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The air smelled of sunlight and paper as Arina wrote and sketched.

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Sometimes I fell silent, staring at the dancing patches of light.

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Sometimes Ded whimpered softly — and another memory surfaced: Old anchors buried in the sand.

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The songs of the wind in the abandoned houses.

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Letters from missionaries, rotted away inside a forgotten time capsule.

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Later we went with Arina to the graveyard.

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There, on the slope, the storm had toppled faded crosses, but some names were still visible.

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Arina carefully copied the inscriptions: Mokea Quassen (elder) 1910–1980 Aneta Leblanc (wife of Louis) 1935–1960 Dominique Castagne 1861–1945 Armand Giraud 1866–1942 When I grew tired and my head ached, we returned to camp.

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Louise was waiting for us.

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She sat down beside me.

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"Toma," she said.

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"We’ll document everything we find.

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Your coins are important too.

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Without them, the picture would be incomplete."

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I already understood: I had to give them everything.

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Even the little string from the pouch was precious to them.

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I walked to the spot where I had buried the pouch.

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Ded walked silently at my side.

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I dug quickly with my hands and pulled out the cloth.

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I took out the tiny bundle of coins tied to my belt.

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I offered them to Louise: the pouch separately, the coins separately.

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She accepted them with both hands — the way one accepts something alive.

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"Thank you, Toma," she said.

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I looked at her.

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"They’re beautiful," I said.

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"And valuable.

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Grandfather told me about the price of gold.

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It is gold, right?"

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"They are valuable.

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But not for the gold itself.

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Their real value is the story they carry.

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