THEY GAVE THEIR GEAR a once-over, then donned their packs before standing back to take in the scenery. The drive from the Antananarivo airport had taken them east on Route 2 and down from the central highlands that ran roughly north to south down the island’s spine to where they stood, the coastal lowlands, a two-mile-wide ribbon of rain forest and ravine-laden terrain buttressed by fifteen-hundred-foot escarpments interlaced with waterfalls. At their back was the Canal des Pangalanes, a five-hundred-mile-long chain of natural and man-made lakes and coves connected by canals.

It was in this section of the Pangalanes that they hoped to find the spot Blaylock had indicated with his cryptic notation. From there it would be only a matter of pacing off 1,442 “spans” (which they assumed and hoped referred to Blaylock’s staff) on a compass bearing of 315 and looking for a “Lion’s Mouth” into which they could leap or stare or whatever Blaylock had in mind. The problem was, Moreau, the author of the map, had clearly missed Cartography Day in Explorers’ School. His sense of scale and distance was nearly nonexistent. Sam and Remi’s exploration would have to be trial and error.“It never sounded simple,” Remi now said, “but looking at this place . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head in frustration.

Sam nodded. “The land that time forgot.”

IN THE LEAD, Sam stepped off the road onto what resembled a game trail, which evaporated after a hundred yards, at which point he unsheathed his machete and began bushwhacking through the head-height brush. With every step, saw-toothed leaves nicked their exposed skin while spiked stems plucked at their clothing, frequently requiring them to stop to free themselves. After thirty minutes they’d covered a quarter mile, when a garage-sized clearing opened before them. Remi took a reading from their handheld GPS, looked around to get her bearings, then pointed. They set off again, Sam hacking a path while Remi navigated. Thirty minutes turned into an hour. Sweat beaded on their pinpricked skin, and their clothes became so saturated they might as well have just stepped from a swimming pool. Despite the blazing sun, each of them felt slightly chilled. After another thirty minutes, Sam stopped suddenly and held up his hand for quiet. He glanced back at Remi and tapped his nose. She nodded. Smoke. Somewhere nearby was a campfire.

Then, somewhere off to their left, came a rustling sound. Something was moving in the underbrush. They stood stock-still, barely breathing, trying to pinpoint the location. It came again but sounded farther away.Suddenly a male voice called out, “Are you good folks lost, by chance?”

Sam looked back at Remi, who shrugged. Sam called back, “I wouldn’t so much call it ‘lost’ as ‘serendipitous exploration.’”

The voice chuckled. “Well, that’s a first. If you feel like a break, I’ve got coffee on.”

“Sure, why not? Where-”

“Look to your left.”

They did so. A moment later the flaming tip of a branch jutted up from the undergrowth thirty feet away. “If you keep going straight for ten or twelve more paces, you’ll run into a game trail. It’ll take you straight in.”“On our way.”

Five minutes later they pushed their way off the trail into a clearing surrounded by dwarf baobabs. Strung between two of them was a netted hammock. In the center of the clearing, hemmed in by a pair of fallen logs for seating, a small campfire crackled. A mid-seventies man with silver hair and a goatee smiled up at them. His eyes were a mischievous green.“Welcome. Have a seat.”

Sam and Remi shrugged off their packs and sat down on the log opposite the man. They introduced themselves.

The man nodded, smiled, and said, “Everybody calls me Kid.”

Sam nodded at the revolver strapped to the man’s hip. “Because of that?”

“More or less.” “A Webley?”

“Good eye. Model Mark VI, .455 caliber. Circa 1915.”

“Enough gun talk, boys,” Remi said. “We appreciate the invitation. It feels like we’ve been out there for two days.”

“In Madagascar time, that’s about two hours.”

Sam checked his watch. “You’re right.” Sam noticed what looked like a two-foot-high pyramid of dirt clods lying at the man’s feet. “May I ask . . .”

“Ah, these. Madagascar truffles. Finest in the world.”

“Never heard of them,” Remi replied.

“Most of them get sold to Japan. A thousand dollars a pound.”

Sam said, “Looks like you’ve got a few thousand dollars sitting beside your boots.”

“Give or take.”

“How do you find them?” asked Remi.

“Smell, location, animal tracks. After ten years, it’s more a feeling than anything else.”

“Ten years? Not out here the whole time, I hope.”

The Kid chuckled. “No. Truffle season’s only five weeks long. The other forty-seven weeks I’ve got a little place on the beach near Andevoranto. Do a little fishing, a little diving, a little hiking, and a lot of staring at sunsets.”“Sounds wonderful.”

“It is indeed, madam. What’s not wonderful, however, is the nice collection of scratches there.”

Sam and Remi glanced at the red crisscrosses on their arms and legs. The man reached into an old canvas backpack leaning against the log, rummaged around, and came out with an unmarked glass tube. He tossed it across to Remi.

“Local recipe,” the Kid said. “Works miracles. Just don’t ask what’s in it.” Sam and Remi dabbed the greenish, foul-smelling ointment on their scratches. Immediately the sting disappeared. Sam said, “Smells a lot like animal urine and-”

The Kid smiled. “I told you not to ask.” He poured them each a cup of coffee from the soot-burnished percolator sitting at the edge of the fire. “So if you don’t mind me asking, what’re you folks doing out here?”“We’re looking for a spot that may or may not exist,” Sam replied.

“Ah, the siren song of lost lands. As it happens, imaginary places are one of my specialties.”

Sam reached into the side pocket of his pack, withdrew the Moreau map, and handed it across. The Kid studied it for thirty seconds, then handed it back. “Good news, bad news. Pick your poison.”“Bad news,” Remi replied.

“You’re about eighty years too late. That area of the Pangalanes was swallowed up after an earthquake in 1932.”

“And the good news?”

“It’s dry land now. And I can probably get you to within a few yards of the spot you seek.”

THEY FINISHED THEIR COFFEE, then the Kid kicked dirt over his fire and packed his gear, and the three of them set out with the Kid in the lead, Remi in the middle, and Sam trailing. The Kid required neither machete nor compass as he headed northeast, following trails that at first glance seemed like nothing more than gaps in the foliage. Despite his years, he moved at a steady, economical pace that told Sam and Remi their guide had spent more of his life out-of-doors than in.After forty minutes of walking in companionable silence, the Kid called over his shoulder, “This place you’re looking for . . . What’s so special about it?”

Remi glanced back at Sam with a questioning look on her face. Sam gave it a moment’s thought, then replied, “You strike me as an honest man, Kid. Am I wrong about that?”

The Kid stopped walking and turned around. He smiled.

“You’re not wrong. I’ve kept more confidences than steps I’ve taken.” Sam held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded. “Lead on, and we’ll tell you a story.”The Kid turned around and started walking again.

Sam said, “Have you ever heard of the CSS Shenandoah ?”

AFTER ANOTHER HOUR the underbrush began to thin out, and they soon found themselves surrounded by savanna dotted with clusters of baobab. A mile to their left, the grassland again gave way to rain forest that rose to meet the escarpment, while to their right they could see the Canal des Pangalanes; beyond that, the blue of the Indian Ocean.They stopped walking and took a water break. After a gulp from his canteen, the Kid said, “So this Blaylock fella . . . He sounds like quite a character.”