I sent them off with a warning to be ready to prepare for the trek east in the morn. They begged to know if they would be carrying the “long drums,” the kayaks, and I informed them I thought not. That made everyone happy.
The more I drink, the more the images of Duarte and Kaikane climbing on the raft, and Jones falling to his death, hammer away at my soul. “What have I done? Why did I not leave with them?” The questions roll around my brain and will not leave.
For reasons I do not pretend to comprehend, I have hitched my train to the Lord God and the Mighty Lorenzo. Heaven help us all.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Jones, this is Duarte. Do you read me? Jones, are you there? If you can read me, respond, please!”
Martinelli: “Dr. Duarte, is it you? Where are calling from? Down on the beach? I’ll send my men to bring you in.”
Duarte: “Where’s Jones? What have you done to him?”
Martinelli: “Haven’t you heard? Corporal Jones suffered a bad fall. I am afraid your friend has gone to Hell. Come up to my camp and I’ll have a dozen eyewitnesses tell you all about it. Bring Kaikane with you, we’ll have a proper wake.”
Duarte: “You will pay.”
Martinelli: “What is it you say? You are breaking….”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
In all my years on the water, I’ve never seen a more fucked-up boat. No oars, no sails, no rudder and no prow. Just a big mass of poles, 20-foot broom handles, lashed together. We sit here on deck spinning circles as we drift farther and farther from land.
I didn’t really know what we were getting into when we met Captain Malmud in the dark. My eyes were on the flames and smoke, watching for hostiles, when I should have been examining this piece of shit. All the screaming and yelling from the hilltop, waiting for Jones and Bolzano, distracted me. Not much of an excuse. Once I heard the news about Jones, my brain turned to mush.
Yesterday, I fished some driftwood out of the sea, tried a make a paddle, or at least a rudder. Captain will have none of it. He ranted and raved the way all sailors do when somebody starts messing with their boat.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “The border must be right around here.”
Bolzano: “I must have passed through the train station in Ventimiglia fifty times. We often changed trains there, entering and leaving France. Yet, I have no memory of the hillside. We were always looking out toward the water, the boats and people.”
Martinelli: “That’s a nice story, Sal. Why don’t you tell somebody who cares? I’m calling this Italy. Let’s paddle ashore and make camp for the night. Wallunda’s tired of being towed around in a broken kayak. Aren’t you, honey?”
Bolzano: “I must express to her once again how much I appreciate her willingness to share. It is a lifesaver to cover so much distance so easily. I do not envy those who must traverse such mountainous country.”
Martinelli: “They’ll be all right. I’m thinking I might make a climb tomorrow, see if I can meet them along the trail. I got some things I need to go over with Big Ears.”
Bolzano: “Will you be taking Wallunda?”
Martinelli: “Maybe. I’ll ask her if she wants to stay back, get to know you better.”
Bolzano: “Oh, boy.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
We are camped on a narrow stone beach at the base of a tall cliff of crumbling red rock and scrubby pines. Back in Nice, as we planned the journey, our new Italian guides insisted there were no trails along the coast. One day’s paddle out of Nice, we see they were correct.
In a gesture as generous as it was pragmatic, His Holiness invited me to join him on a kayak tour of the Riviera coast. He and I would partake in a solitary religious retreat, while the rest of our 230-strong entourage hiked high over mountain passes and around precipitous cliffs. His Holiness paid me a great honor by suggesting I might assist him in formulating an overall religious and social agenda for his ever-expanding ministry.
When Wallunda was informed she was to shed her jumpsuit and travel with her father, she refused to leave the Great One’s side. “Pitched a fit,” is how the hillbillies would have phrased it during training. She displayed her fierce devotion to the Great One by dashing herself to the ground and rolling in the dirt. Screaming she would kill herself if she could not accompany her man, she rolled atop a smoldering fire.
His Holiness does not usually tolerate such behavior. This time he showed mercy upon the headstrong girl. In a very public display, in front of the Saints of the inner circle and assembled clan chiefs, he gently lifted Wallunda from the fire, gathered her up in his arms and whispered sweet nothings into the singed ear holes of her helmet until she calmed down. The rest of us were forgotten as their suits winked away to full stealth and a pair of shimmering forms ducked into the woods to, I imagine, make up in the standard fashion.
She was towed by the Great One yesterday while sitting low in the gutted kayak. I hope I am able to continue paddling for myself. The exercise will do me good. His Holiness and I invariably travel at different paces. He has so many important issues on his mind, he tends to rush from point to point. My curiosity lures me into shallow bays and around un-worldly basalt summits which jut from the sea like crooked trolls’ hats.
Though far from warm, the weather was mild and the seas were calm on our first day afloat. I hugged the coastline, drinking in the sun-swept mountain views, scanning the depths of the crystal waters to witness such a plethora of moving octopus, eel, anemone, crabs and sea cucumbers amongst the coral, the seafloor seemed to vibrate. I paddled through flights of manta rays and stopped to bob along with perhaps 1,000 green sea turtles as they gathered near a warm-water, volcanic vent choked with waving, purple seaweed.
Even though he was towing Wallunda, His Holiness soon pulled away. Left alone with my thoughts, I immersed myself in the tranquility of being set free with the birds, fish, porpoise, seal, sea otter, and, yes, even the sharks. They are ever-present, but never bother us. It is a strange and inviting world, one free of flutes and drums, chattering women and the terra firma howls of predator and prey.
The maps in this computer say we will navigate nearly 300 kilometers of coastline before reaching the River Arno. Judging by what we have seen so far, this has the potential to be a beautiful trip. My feet certainly appreciate the reprieve from walking over mountains. Storms are my only concern. As long as we are close enough to shore to dash for safety should a gale arise, everything will be fine.
Yesterday, we beached several hours before sunset, well in time to construct a fire from the abundant supply of driftwood. The tide was out and Wallunda scavenged a dinner of mollusks, limpets, kelp and sea urchin which we steamed to augment our supply of dried elk, dried berries, olive oil, grappa, shelled hazel nuts and herbs.
Lorenzo the Bold enjoys every opportunity to practice his alpine skills. I could tell by the long looks he cast toward the mountains yesterday that it would not be long before he answered their call. Citing an urgent need to speak with his lieutenant Big Ears, he left with Wallunda in tow early this morning, quickly climbing so far up into the hills they disappeared from view.
It is the first time I have been alone, really alone, for a long, long time. Perhaps years. I took a refreshing (freezing) swim in the shallow waters inside the reef, and wished I had a way to catch one of the many fish surfacing nearby. The kayaks are parked in a long, lava-tube cave with their paddles locked securely away by the Great One. He still frets I may take a runner.
The water which fills the kayak’s bladders makes them heavy and difficult to carry up the beach. Lord Lorenzo topped off the tanks of the two functioning boats before we departed Nice. Though he saw fit to siphon swamp water the natives would never have trusted, three bravos to the filtration system. Not one stray paramecium or other gut-wrencher has made it through to test the fragile B
olzano constitution.
I tried my hand at writing a few scientific reports today. What a half-assed disaster. I see things, I take mental notes, but without the recording capabilities of my helmet, or the ability to jot things down within a reasonable time, I find most facts have drifted away by the time I sit down weeks later to enter them into my computer. I fear my memory fails me at an accelerated pace. Oh, how I wish I had my helmet back.
His Holiness is anxious to set his Saints loose upon the land in search of souls and treasure. Fortunately, our new Italian clan is well acquainted with the area. The clan’s leader, Marqono, is a tall, slender redhead with a mangled bulb for a nose. His heavy-lidded eyes miss little. Marqono claims to know where the trading centers are located, and where wealthy tribes spend their winters.
I sense avarice fuels his eagerness to please. The Great Lorenzo appreciates the man’s initiative. He has seen fit to elevate Marqono and two of his sub-chiefs to the inner circle of Saints. His clan is tasked with leading the entire congregation, all the Saints and witches, women and hangers-on, Green Turtle Porters and other “invited” clans through the mountains. We plan to rendezvous where the coastline concludes its climb to the northeast and turns to the south. Genova.
His Holiness toys with the idea of splitting his force in two. Keeping everybody fed on the Cote d’Azur proved much harder than he expected. Another incentive is Marqono’s insistence the richest clans hunt the fertile plains north of the Appennino, the Po River Valley.
As the plan stands now, a contingent of fast-moving Tattoo squads will travel north from Genova before sweeping eastward along the base of the Appennino, past where the future farm towns of Parma and Modena will one day become cities. When they reach the Reno River, they will turn south and cross the mountains to deliver a bounty of converts and treasure to Firenze.
I can tell His Holiness is anxious to lead this force in search of worthy souls.
The second group will consist of the women and children, the dogs and the wrinkled ancients. Its route to Firenze will be far more direct, skirting along the Mediterranean coast to the mouth of the River Arno, then turning inland to follow its banks to the Tuscan jewel. I wonder if the Arno runs as muddy yellow now as I remember. Of course, it wasn’t much more than a stream trickling under the Ponte Vecchio in those arid days.
His Holiness wrestles with these decisions, along with many others. He is driven to reach Firenze well before Easter. He insists on arriving in time to prepare properly for Earth’s first resurrection. The man is a living saint.
I am afraid I have far less lofty goals. Sloth and indolence have forever plagued my soul. As I sit in the sun, listening to Vivaldi, shielded from the wind by a curtain of tall, wave-rounded rocks, I feel no need to rush.
Life is good. Life is great. I am in no hurry to see it end.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “What do you think Jones would have made of this guy?”
Duarte: “Malmud? He would have tossed him overboard by now.”
Kaikane: “I can’t wrap my head around the fact Jones is dead. Do you think they are lying?”
Duarte: “I hailed him on the com line during all the commotion. He cursed me for using the radio, said he had some bad guys on his tail. You heard the cheers from the hill, the singing.”
Kaikane: “I wish I had the time to say goodbye. We were brothers.”
Duarte: “I keep thinking of questions I meant to ask him. He took good care of us.”
Kaikane: “We probably wouldn’t have lasted those first few days without him.”
Duarte: “Do you think that is why he was so often angry? Because we wandered through life enjoying ourselves, while he kept watch to make sure we were safe?”
Kaikane: “It’s possible, but I think back to what Bolzano said. I wonder if the jump screwed with his brain. Made him depressed. Jones was rock solid back in training.”
Duarte: “We should have told him how much we appreciated him. In many ways, we took him for granted. You know?”
Kaikane: “I miss him too, babe.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
We lost sight of land four days ago. Leaden clouds make it all but impossible to navigate by the sun.
I’m not sure how much “navigating” our captain actually does. We bob along the top of the sea like a piece of driftwood, puking our guts out while he drinks our water and eats our food. Even Paul the Hawaiian waterman turned green under the gills for the first week.
We had barely heaved our packs aboard and found a place to sit, when captain Malmud pulled up his four stone anchors. Quickly poling the raft toward the river mouth in the dark, he used its current to project us out to the open sea. Our views rotated slowly as we spun away with the current and departing tide. Paul said Bolzano assured him we would remain in near-shore waters. We coasted straight out, swept away by the northeast wind. “We’re supposed to go east,” Paul griped as we drifted in lazy circles, away from the rising sun.
That was eight days ago. I have no idea which direction we’re headed today. Would it make a difference if I did? The waves stopped breaking over the deck this afternoon. I pulled my computer out for the first time at sea. I sit shivering under a leather tarp while Paul and Gray Beard attempt to spear one of the tuna Malmud attracts with bright, wooden floaters.
It has been three days since the last rain squall. Our gourds of water grow nearly empty. We only managed to add several inches to three gourds in the last storm, but have devised a new filling system. Next time we have the good fortune to once again pass under a rain cloud, we’ll be ready.
Malmud says we can live off the moisture of the marine life we catch. We just need to haul something in. So far, the tuna have proven much too elusive for the harpoons. Every hour or two, one will streak past to inspect a floater. Malmud insists we’ll eventually hit a school of fish, and the water will be so thick with them, it will be impossible to miss. I think that is what he said.
He’s an odd fellow. After a few days of moody silence, he warmed up enough to speak to Gray Beard. They traded small talk for an hour. Afterward, Gray Beard said they didn’t cover much ground. The captain was generally elusive about where and what he trades. He preferred to tell tales of sea monsters and giant white sharks. Apart from trying to scare the hell out of us, Malmud did say I remind him of his daughter. I hope he likes her. If his estimates are anywhere near correct, we have at least another three weeks afloat.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Marqono is a good man. Perhaps the best we have.”
Bolzano: “I wondered why you promoted him through the ranks so quickly.”
Martinelli: “The Tattoos serve a purpose, but they are blunt tools. If Marqono knows half of what he claims, he will prove invaluable indeed. I trust him.”
Bolzano: “That is a very nice necklace you are wearing.”
Martinelli: “Why thank you, it’s a belated Christmas gift from Wallunda.”
Bolzano: “It appears very similar to the one worn by the cantankerous old clan leader.”
Martinelli: “It does, doesn’t it, right down to the termites. Salvatore, as I read this report I get the feeling you don’t approve of my tactics.”
Bolzano: “How so?”
Martinelli: “You describe me as ‘Lorenzo the Bold,’ and claim I am anxious to set ‘my Saints loose upon the land.’ Sounds like a medieval king pillaging the countryside, not the greatest missionary in the history of the planet. One who spreads the True Word of God.”
Bolzano: “You are right. I suppose I am jealous. You have so many chances to do so much good, while I feel like a mere spectator.”
Martinelli: “Don’t worry, I’ll see you receive your due credit. What’s this stuff about not being in a hurry to see it end? See what end?”
Bolzano: “Life. Don’t you ever think about dying?”
Martinelli: “Why worry about it? We’ll be two of the first guys in heaven. Wait ’
til you hear the opera music up there. Your ears, your feet, they will all be brand new. We’ll have the rest of eternity to enjoy its splendid delights.”
Bolzano: “When you put it that way, it makes it so much more palatable. I should not fear death. Correct?”
Martinelli: “That’s right, Rabbit.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli is as angry as I have ever seen him. “Spitting-nails mad” is how Mother described such tantrums, though I was never quite sure if she meant spitting fingernails or woodworking nails. I never bothered to ask.
When he storms about, throwing stones and screaming so vehemently that Holy Spittle flies upon your face, you know he’s working through his anger. The Wrath of God is finding release. When he grinds his teeth, eyes focused like lasers on the guilty party, he is weighing punishment against crime. The release will come slowly, and at someone’s great expense.
I peer from under the hood of my cape, typing on my computer. Everyone else, even Wallunda, has their head bowed low. His Holiness leans against an oak tree in solemn contemplation, a long pregnant pause at the conclusion of several hours of sometimes intense questioning.
Kneeling before him on the muddy bank of a muddy river, naked and bound, are Big Ears, two Saints named Jonah and Hans, and Sarah the witch. What is left of Lord Martinelli’s great gathering of clans, about half the people who set off from Nice with such high hopes, cowers along the river in the steel gray afternoon. A steady chill wind gusts from the east, yet no one dares rummage through their pack for a cape or warm leggings.
Bedraggled survivors began bellying up to our signal fire before I rose at noon. As I propped my head with my elbow and studied the worry on the dirty faces, I knew something was amiss. They cast pleading glances my way which said, “Do something, please. Help us.”
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