Light rain droplets knocked on Fiona's shoulders, greeting her like a tap from a tender, cautious forefinger of an old friend she hadn't seen in a long time as she emerged from the Belgrade airport Arrivals lounge.

She spun around, squinted, and strained her tired eyes, making an honest-to-god effort to comprehend the massive chubby silvery letters:

AERODROM NIKOLA TESLA

Fair enough, being in a country whose language differed so much from her own supposed that there was going to be a lot of fun deciphering going on. Her stomach did a mini somersault at the thought. Solving puzzles was her middle name.

"Aerodrom" must have meant "airport."

It took a bit of time for the engine of her sluggish brain to start up and recall Nikola Tesla was a world famous engineer and physicist. He had made dozens of breakthroughs in the production, transmission and application of electric power. Basically, it was thanks to this scientist that we had electricity and wifi — two pillars of modern humanity.

Okay, no wonder the Serbs had named their capital city airport after the man.

The flight from London to Belgrade had actually been quite nice. When one did not know what to expect, pleasant surprises were the best kind of surprises. It lasted a mere two and a half hours and they landed on time — ten a.m. sharp. Fiona had reveled in the view of the clear blue skies above and the puffy clouds underneath her, thinking herself so lucky to snatch a spot next to the window in the everlasting seat-assigning lottery.

On top of it all, a kind, smiling flight assistant had served her a hot cup of strong-brewed black coffee and a yummy omelet with dry-cured ham and cheddar cheese. The pony-tailed woman had sported a uniform that consisted of a crisp skirt suit in navy blue, a matching headpiece and an Air Serbia statement foulard. Fiona found the stewardess' look quite retro, especially paired up with a strong red lipstick, but she kind of dug it, too.

"Taksi! Treba li taksi? Ajmo taksi!" A gauntlet of sly-faced taxi drivers ambushed her from behind, all of them cawing at once.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were ye," a sweet female voice enunciated in perfect English, with just a tiny hint of Eastern European inflection. If anything, she sounded more Irish than Serbian.

"Oh?" Fiona spun around to face a lanky crimson-haired girl clothed in a red Geographical Norway jacket, who was now eyeing the squawking drivers' group with an ill-concealed distaste.

"I'm tellin' ye, it's a total rip-off. They'll rob ye of forty euros for a mere fifteen kilometers ride, just to get you to the city center. A disgrace."

"Wow! That does sound pricey."

"Aye. Taxi drivers here at Serbian airports jus' do what they can to make ends meet. And, when they see a foreigner, they get even more insistent, and charge them thrice. Ugh." The girl furrowed her thick brows in displeasure.

Fiona glanced at her cell phone screen. Another hour or so until the bus for Zlatibor departed from the Belgrade main bus station. Her grandfather's instructions were clear: after arriving in Belgrade, she was to get on the bus to the mountain Zlatibor and pose as a Zimbabwean tourist enamored with Serbian folkways. The hotel had already been paid for.

Would she have time to get there? Granted, a taxi might make her life easier, but forty euros sounded a tad overboard. Heck, that was the exact same price of her low cost London-Belgrade flight ticket, for the distance of two thousand five hundred kilometers.

"There's this mini bus A1, Aerodrom Nikola Tesla - Trg Slavija. It'll take ye to the city center," the red-haired girl offered. "Tis only two hundred and fifty dinars."

"Erm..."

"Oh, silly me. That's like... two euros. By the way, I'm Evelina." The girl stretched out her hand.

Whoa. Significantly cheaper. Fiona made a mental note to remember the exchange rate here, recalling an old Zimbabwean proverb: "A king's child is a servant in a foreign land." She would have to adapt to local culture, customs and food, but she was very much looking forward to this new adventure.

"Nice to meet you, Evelina. I'm Fiona." She shook the girl's hand. "And, um, how long does it take, exactly, to get to the Belgrade Main Bus Station?" Fiona inquired next, pushing the glasses up her nose, wondering if she'd have the time to catch her next ride.

"About half an hour. I'm goin' there too, so I'll tell ye where to get off. Oh, shite, wait. Ye don't have dinars on ye. Easy-peasy. There's an exchange office righ' behind us." Evelina pointed at a tiny makeshift kiosk which boasted: Menjačnica.

"Cool. Thanks much." Fiona flashed a grateful grin at the girl, and pushed through the masses of disappointed taxi drivers with a new-found determination.

"Seat twenty six?" Fiona shook off the droplets from her disobedient curls and brandished her Belgrade — Zlatibor newly-acquired ticket at a man currently occupying seat twenty seven. As she struggled to make her voice heard through the loud booming of Serbian folk music, straining her ears, she discerned, among other instruments, the sounds of bagpipes, flutes and trumpets in the traditional ethno melos song the driver was currently imposing on everyone.

The man undonned his black earphones and met her gaze with a blunt directness. "Šta?"

Fiona cleared her throat. "Uhm, seat twenty-six?"

The confusion that followed on his face was mostly obscured by a red scraggly stubble that clung to his skin like winter ravaged ivy tendrils.

"Just sit wherever you want, woman." Redbeard replied in poor English this time round — Eastern European inflection was strong in this one. He shrugged and moved for her to occupy the seat by the window.

A familiar crimson mane dominated the parallel cobalt-blue-curtained window, the one on the adjacent bus. Fiona squinted through her foggy glasses, discerning the blurry letters Beograd — Čačak.

A platform formed the gap between them.

What was the Geographic Norway jacket girl's name? E-something? It had already slipped Fiona's mind. It was a lovely name, that much she recalled.

The bus lurched forward, its engine roaring akin to a hungry belly of a ravenous beast.

She glanced at her phone screen.

11.30. Right on time.

Fiona adored traveling. She loved the hypnotic rhythm of trains, cars and buses as they slithered forth towards the new destinations. Cherished the absolute freedom of being suspended between two places, the familiar, and unfamiliar, all anxieties of purpose taken care of.

As their four-wheeled chariot was cruelly abandoning the crowded Belgrade Main Bus Station, carrying its passengers into the great unknown, Fiona craned her neck to get a last glimpse of the E-something kind Serbian girl.

Who was she? Where did she come from? Where was she going? Who did she love, and who did she hate?

The two had shared the same space and time, even if just for a fleeting moment.

So close, yet so far away.

So much potential for connection — all of it wasted by different directions they were heading to; different choices they were making.

Fiona wondered just how many genuine bonds she had formed throughout her life — they were awfully scarce — and where her roots lay. Perhaps Tempus would provide the answer to that question, she concluded.

The rude red bearded man to her right pounced into the air all of a sudden, his lavishly ketchup-cum-mustard decorated hot dog springing to life. Employing the ninja reflexes she hadn't even known she'd possessed, Fiona halted the many-condimented transgressor seconds before it hit her unsuspecting lap.

The sausage landed on her palm going thwack, this time bypassing her comfy khaki pants. She shook her head in a futile attempt to banish the horrifying memory of a similar mortifying incident involving a stubbly stranger on her Dubai — Zürich flight and her back then not-so-lucky favorite mauve blouse.

Bloody hell.

Were all red headed males more prone to clumsiness for some reason?

"Excuse me?" She addressed the man. "Would you mind?"

"Not my fault, woman. It's this stupid grandma!" He shucked off Fiona's comment, eagerly snatching the hot dog back from her mustarded palm without the tiniest intention of apologizing.

The "stupid" grandma in question directed her pleading gaze at Fiona. Her warm brown eyes were carved into her gentle, wizened face.

They made Fiona think of her own grandfather and his kind eyes. An invisible fist clenched around her heart, and she swallowed, worrying if she would ever see him again.

The wisps of Serbian grandma's silvery hair played hide-and-seek under her pink and brown polkadot headscarf. Deep wrinkles that stretched across her forehead and her hand traced the map of her very soul.

The hand in which she clutched the ticket with a seat number twenty-seven.

The nerve of the man. He had occupied her seat and still had the guts to complain about her disturbing him?

Fiona waited, but the Redbeard showed no signs of remorse whatsoever, giving his full attention to his black earphones and his pink hotdog instead.

No way would she allow an injustice like that to take place, without lifting a finger to stop it. On no account did Fiona enjoy conflicts or seek out confrontations, but this time she just couldn't keep quiet.

When still nothing happened for a good two minutes, Fiona leapt up from the seat and walked over to the bus driver.

Moments later, the red bearded invader was forced to retreat to his own seat — number fifty two, in the back of the bus.

Justice had been served.

After having endured grandma's hugs, gratitudes and blessings, alongside her offerings of gibanica, which looked like some kind of a home-made cheese pie with filo dough, Fiona was finally able to lean her weary head against a droplet-peppered dusty window.

Observing the postcard-perfect micro scenes of verdant fields and trees, banana-colored houses with red roofs and black-and-white bawling sheep, she suddenly realized how much she didn't know about this country.

Save for the fact it was one of the protagonists of the Balkan separatist war of the 1990s — the war in which the former republic of Yugoslavia split into several smaller states; Serbia being one of them.

Croatia was another – her binge-traveling mom had gone on and on about how she had always yearned to partake in the all-inclusive Adriatic sea cruise, and walk the streets of Dubrovnik, the city where the Game of Thrones TV show was filmed.

Welp, maybe now she would get a chance to do so with her someone new. Fiona cracked a wide grin at the notion of her buoyant mom thoroughly enjoying herself at the very heart of Spain. She closed her eyes, her mind drifting away into the la-la-land as the rhythmic hum of the bus engine lulled her to sleep.

She awoke what seemed to be hours later, only to find herself awarded by the sound of a Whatsapp notification and covered by a knitted patchwork blanket.

Warm fuzzies unknotted a pretzel in her gut upon reading more of Nkosi's familiar words in yet another strange land.

Nkosi was inquiring if she had a nice flight, and if she'd already arrived at the Serbian mountain. He had also delivered a piece of gossip — their students were wondering why they didn't go on a trip together.

Boy, were they in for a surprise when they found out Nkosi was getting hitched to someone other than her.

The thought made Fiona snicker a tad.

The on-screen texting with her best friend made Fiona dig up a final crumb of knowledge, as far as Serbia was concerned, and it was related to a Serbian tennis player, Novak Đoković.

Nkosi had always been a passionate tennis fan and he raved about Đoković, the winner of twenty-one Grand Slams, who was the GOAT – the man's talents easily surpassed those of his contemporaries and rivals.

An endearing wrinkled hand startled her from her reverie — the polkadot-headscarf grandma was pointing at a picturesque lacquered white-oak wooden board that sported the words ZLATIBOR.

The Golden Pine Mountain. Here at last.

As Fiona descended the rickety bus stairs, the restless sea of faces, voices, clothings and accents was slowly turning into a nebulous blur.

She was walking among these people, yes, but she did not truly belong with any of them.

With that realization, Fiona let out a deep sigh, hefted her rucksack, and started upon a path towards Grand Hotel Tornik.

"It is believed that the name ZLATNI BOR, Golden Pine, comes from the color of the white pine and its yellow conifer, the color of old gold. The pine once covered undulating slopes of Zlatibor. Scientific name of the pine is PINUS SYLVESTRIS VARIEGATA ZLATIBORICA." The tour guide's shrill voice was Fiona's flashlight in the darkness of the cave.

The 6 pm to 7 pm tour group, just shy of ten participants, which Fiona formed a part of, now stood before a truly imposing sight.

The river pouring down the cascades made small ripples when the water was low, while it created a unique 9,44 m (according to the tour guides' precise information) high waterfall when there was an abundance of water.

"You cannot even hear the person next to you because of the deafening noise of the powerful stream," the alluring woman added, shaping her palms into a mini megaphone to better focus the flow of her voice.

To Fiona, it seemed the foaming stream was pouring down the sky while the air was trembling because water drops with cold coming from the wet walls were leaving visitors shivering in the pitch darkness of this cave. In spite of the chill it caused, the waterfall called Vrelo života, "The Source of Life," was well worth the visit.

Just like the entire mountain, really. Grand Hotel Tornik was truly awe-inspiring in all its splendor. After a long refreshing shower in a superior suite located in the SKY part of the hotel, change of clothes, and a hearty meal in a 360 degrees revolving restaurant which gave her a first-hand experience of Zlatibor scenery, Fiona felt like a woman reborn.

The sunny afternoon hike towards the northeastern end of the mountain slopes, the visit to the ethno village of Sirogojno and an interesting, informative chat about the griffon vulture, a species on the verge of extinction that nested on Zlatibor only reaffirmed that sensation. Fiona found out she quite enjoyed the chillier temperature. No more sweating buckets for her, hooray!

Crisp, clean air. Beautiful views. No god awful heat. Wahoo! What more could one wish for?

So far, the artifact clue hunt felt like a luxurious holiday Fiona never knew she needed.

"The second legend says that Zlatibor got its name from the richness of pine forest, which was the main source of income for settlers from Montenegro and Herzegovina. They used this wood as building material, and they made tar and kindling of it, which they would later sell in the provinces Šumadija and Dalmatia. To them, the pine was worth its weight in gold. In their stories, they always praised it with the following words: "What a golden pine it is!" The bombshell tour guide enunciated in perfect English. The young woman was quite a looker — her curvy shape, alluring set of pearly whites and a luscious waist-length dark mane affirmed as much.

Fiona thought about asking a follow up question regarding the exact century when the settlers from Montenegro and Herzegovina had begun selling the pine, but then she withheld a comment with a blush.

She recalled how easily that redhead stubbly stranger small-chatted with a receptionist at a desk of the Dubai airport.

With the same ease which he had employed to cause Fiona's curry sauce to spill all over her when he folded his seat back on the plane.

What a womanizer.

That William-whatever was probably the kind of person who would push forth and ask not just one, but a salvo of follow-up questions, brushing that perfect hairdo of his behind the ears. Flirting shamelessly like he did with a stewardess.

Fiona shrugged and let out a sigh. Some people were just natural born social butterflies. It was not up to her to judge him. Everyone carries around his own witches, she thought of a proverb in Shona.

The eurythmic voice yanked her out of that particular memory, and back into the reality of Stopica cave.

"The third and final legend says that Zlatibor got its name after the mountain pastures which, in autumn, as we have seen today, become yellow in color. Gold yellow, to be more precise. Which of these legends is true? Decide for yourself. Or better yet, come to Zlatibor again. Perhaps, in the song of the pine trees, you'll hear yet another new story," the tour guide concluded her little diatribe in a rather poetic fashion.

A few here-and-there hand claps from her co-tourers showed the obvious approval for the woman's craftily woven and delivered tale.

Fiona plunged her slightly sweaty palm into her trusty brown leather satchel. She dug out the hand-drawn map her grandfather had handed to her during their visit to the British Museum's exclusive exhibition "Africa — The Legacy of Colonialism."

Judging by the charted coordinates, the clue lay right in the next cave section, just after the waterfall visit: the Bigren tubs chamber.

Why would grandfather's late friend Jackson Turner hide a clue in here of all places? She had no idea. Perhaps the intelligence services grandpa had mentioned recruited him for a hidden assignment in Yugoslavia during the 80s?

The man had decided to ensconce it on a small mountain in an even smaller country. He probably hadn't counted with the fact the mountain would become such a popular, touristy place as it was today.

"Ah, Miss Grenville-Temple," the tour guide's treacly-sweet voice made her almost drop the map she had been clutching on to. "I have been wondering if we lost you."

"Who, me?" Fiona giggled nervously, twirling a lock of her messily ponytailed hair. "Nope. Right here. Just... admiring the waterfall."

"May I please remind you it is necessary to keep close to your touring group at all times? We are about to enter the Bigren tubs section," the woman's voice now held a hint of reprimand.

"Gosh, so sorry. I'll be there in a jiffy." She fell into an awkward step behind the Dark Mane and into a recess framed by stone walls.

Winding, yellowish folds where water accumulated and cascades overflowing to form tiny waterfalls greeted her on her right.

The other tourists from her group were already advancing up the steep metallic stairs that twisted upwards in a sharp curve.

The cave illumination gifted the Bigren tubs an elegant purple sheen, rendering a magical glow to a water surface. Fiona felt a bit like a princess in a fairytale.

"Now!" The Dark Mane, whose name was Adrijana Ćorić, judging by a silvery tag adorning her pine-green blazer, exclaimed with excitement. "This cave was opened to the public in 2009. and since that year, it has been protected as a natural monument. Did you know that the limestone layer dates all the way to the Triassic period and is over one hundred meters thick?"

The ooh-s and aah-s of mesmerized spectators told Fiona they had, in fact, not known that.

Neither had she.

Another thing she had not known was where the bloody clue was hidden.

Judging by the map drawing she had checked mere moments ago, she was standing a scarce few meters from it.

Was it on the cave floor? On the ceiling?

Inside one of those Bigren tubs?

She certainly hoped not. Taking an out-of-the-blue dip in the natural-monument-protected limestone pool would have been quite unprecedented.

Adrijana added another tidbit of trivia information.

"The Bigren tubs, with their unique characteristics, represent the hallmark of the Stopica cave by the way in which limestone has been deposited over the ages. Can you see the curved reddish folds in which water is collected and poured out into the baths in the cascades?"

The tourists paused both their chatter and the stair climb, turning around to check out the phenomenon the tour guide was pointing at.

Fiona was more than grateful for the halt. It was just the intermission she needed to finally catch up with the others. She placed her foot on the first stair.

"Mind you, Bigren tubs are occasionally flooded, and they differ from some of the other cave pools in Serbia by the way of their size and depth, some of them being up to seven meters long! The water is known to flow out of the pools and onto the stairs at times, thus making them slippery, so you would do well to watch your..."

Fiona's foot lost her footing.

"... step!" Adrijana completed the sentence with a yelp. "Oh my gosh!" She made a gesture as if she was going to run up to Fiona, but Fiona lifted a thumb up in the air, still lying on the ground.

"Owww," she moaned, groping around for her glasses. "I'm okay! I'll be right with you." She was one hundred percent sure her face was emitting that beetroot-red glow.

Fiona inspected her arms and legs and found nothing broken, or amiss, save for the sharp tinge in her left knee which was most likely scraped.

Why did things like these keep happening to her? Everyone had to be staring right about now.

Of course. It was Thursday. God, how much she hated Thursdays.

After launching a few additional, feeble, reassuring sentences that she was about to catch up with the rest of them, the group advanced a bit further.

Fiona got on her knees, relieved that her glasses remained intact, even if a bit foggy from the vapor the warm pool water was emanating.

She adamantly slammed them on her nose with a firm efficiency, ready to consult the map once again.

And that was when she saw it.

On the cave wall to her left, at knee-height, there was a tiny but precisely drawn griffon vulture pictograph.

Fiona's heart beat faster.

The griffon vulture was an endangered bird species, and its population in Serbia was now the largest in the Balkan Peninsula, they had learned this afternoon. The bird had also been a symbol of Zlatibor mountain. Perhaps the pictograph was a mere coincidence, and had nothing to do with her own quest?

There was only one way to find out, and she had to do it quickly.

Fiona wormed her way towards the pictograph, still very much on her knees. Upon reaching it, her shaky fingers felt up the stone wedge on which it had been drawn.

The slab came loose almost immediately, and she had to cover her mouth with both hands in order not to squeak out loud.

Inside a square-shaped niche that the stone had just abandoned, there lay a small box made of a strong and shiny metal. The thing in the hole was a mini treasure chest by all accounts except its size — its design made it look as if it had belonged to a seafaring pirate, and had spent many decades in free-spun briny air.

Oh my god.

She had actually done it.

She had located the first clue.

Fiona hastily dumped the metallic box into her leather satchel with trembling hands before anyone could notice what she was doing, put the unfortunate stone back in its place and rose with supreme haste.

The burden of responsibility for encountering and returning the original of such an important artifact to the Zimbabwean people had just increased tenfold — but so had her exhilaration and a sense of pride.

Fiona had finally found something to believe in, to wildly care about.

Repatriation of the misplaced artifact was no longer just her grandfather's goal.

It had become her goal, too.

Bird of the Gods was going to be returned to its rightful home.