Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Gray Beard said he recognized a few of the pieces. A teardrop of amber embedded with a line of termites once belonged to a rival of his. I noticed he wasn’t shy about claiming the necklace and a few additional trinkets for himself.

  “What will we do with it all?” Jones asked in English.

  Maria surprised us all by suggesting we try to give it back, reasoning everything left over would then be buried along with a computer to send back to the future. Bolzano offered an opinion that surprised no one. He thought we should keep it all.

  “Damn The Team,” he said. “These are trade goods. You must have noticed how much these people love to barter. We must use this treasure to move our lots forward in life.”

  Jones and I got tired of listening to them argue back and forth. He wandered off toward the Green Turtle camp with Gray Beard, while I dragged the kayaks down to the river to rinse away the mud. When the last boat was clean, I couldn’t resist the urge to take it for a spin.

  Floating out into the river, letting the current take hold, I felt whole once again. When the nose of the boat edged up onto the opposite shore, I discovered a different world. Spared the depredations of the starving clans, this side of the river teemed with game of every sort. I had spotted deer, horse and pig feeding along the far banks, but I never imagined how good the hunting would be.

  Pulling the meteorite club from my belt, I circled in front of a hairy black sow and tucked in behind the trunk of a fat elm. She was so busy foraging nuts, cracking the shells like candy, I could have walked right up to her and she never would have heard me. I waited for her to graze even with the tree, then rose up on my toes and delivered a crushing chop to the top of her head. Her legs buckled and she died instantly. “Good thing,” I thought when I saw the length of those tusks.

  I figured Maria would have a lecture for me once she figured out I crossed the river for a hunt without spears. Even so, there was no leaving the meat behind. The sturgeon was long gone and people were hungry. I dragged the 400-pound carcass down to the beach, used a long driftwood limb to lever it across the rocky shore, and pulled a rope from the kayak and tied the pig to the stern. It took more than a half-hour fighting the current to tow it across the river. I could have drifted and landed a mile or two downstream, but the exercise felt good.

  I pulled ashore to whoops from Sal, Gray Beard and Jones, happy barks from the old man’s dog, and a stern face on the love of my life.

  She doesn’t like me using the kayak in front of the old man. I guess she still thinks she can shield him from our modern ways. When I pointed out we spent about two months with him drifting around the Mediterranean Sea, she said, “That was different.”

  The Green Turtles had no problem accepting my gift. Bolzano says they are well acquainted with the boats and their capabilities. He said that was probably why Martinelli had them buried in the first place–to keep Wallunda or one of the others from paddling off into the sunset.

  Maria and I returned to our tent early and alone. She bangs out reports on her computer while I hunt and peck my way to the end of this journal entry. An owl hoots nearby, and occasionally, the breeze shifts to carry the sounds of tonight’s feast. Flutes and drums in the trees. Bolzano finished belting out an opera song a few minutes ago. Native words set to a modern tune, drifting our way through the night air.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “What’s wrong, hon?”

  Kaikane: “Ah, nothing.”

  Duarte: “Come on, you’re too quiet. Something’s up.”

  Kaikane: “I dreamed again.”

  Duarte: “Same one?”

  Kaikane: “Yep. Awful.”

  Duarte: “Dreams are a natural process we use to deal with stress.”

  Kaikane: “So you said.”

  Duarte: “Tell me about it again.”

  Kaikane: “I don’t want to.”

  Duarte: “Come on. Talking about it will help.”

  Kaikane: “It’s always the same. Me killing Tattoos. They keep coming without end, and I cut them down. Like chopping wood.”

  Duarte: “Who else is there?”

  Kaikane: “Everybody. All watching. You and Doreen were sitting at a tiny little table this time. Dressed up. The table had a red tablecloth and flowers. Coach Kawaguchi was shouting stuff. Yelling for me to keep my form. ‘Keep your elbows in. Stay low.’ It was no way to use a club. Every time I did what he said the Tattoos would be all over me.”

  Duarte: “Sounds terrible.”

  Kaikane: “Maria, a few days ago, I killed more than three dozen people in no more than 10 minutes. They couldn’t even see me to defend themselves. Murder. Now that you’re better, and I have time to think, I can’t shake it. So much blood on my hands. I see their faces in the dream and I know that part’s real. I remember them.”

  Duarte: “You did a job which had to be done. A messy one, no doubt, but you were protecting me and Sal, Gray Beard and all the rest. Martinelli had to be stopped.”

  Kaikane: “I know. I know all that. What bugs me is how I felt while it was happening. It felt good. Euphoric. I couldn’t have quit. Didn’t want to. It was like I had no conscience.”

  Duarte: “That’s not you, Paul.”

  Kaikane: “What if I’ve changed?”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Feeling antsy. Need to get moving, headed somewhere other than here. Wish they could snap my attitude into place like they did my back.

  Adjustment surprised me. Felt better right away. Neck injury still sore, weak, but pain in low back is gone. Feels good to walk.

  Been thinking a lot about Suzie. Imagine she hooked up with another man by now. Baby must be few months old. Even so, might head back that way, see how she’s doing. Hot springs could do me some good.

  Kaikane found kayaks buried near Martinelli’s tent. Two are in good shape. Guts ripped out of one. Useless except for storage.

  Found bullet-making kit, cooked up 14 shells. All the remaining cartridges. Martinelli was almost out of lead. No idea what I’ll do with them. Pistols beyond repair.

  Bolzano’s hearing is tomorrow. Wondering if his jumpsuit would fit me.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “This little Suzie, might she become a lifetime soul mate?”

  Jones: “Doubt she waited for me.”

  Bolzano: “In terms of amore, how was your experience with a native woman? If you do not mind my asking.”

  Jones: “Na, I don’t mind. Kinda like talking about her. Suzie was short and skinny though she was pregnant. By another man. Once she started eating regular she filled out some. Nice boobs. Girl was a tiger in the sack. Didn’t let her belly stop her none. Was built like any woman back home.”

  Bolzano: “That surprised me as well. These women have the same body parts, the same erogenous zones, and the same responses to sexual stimuli.”

  Jones: “How would you know?”

  Bolzano: “As you are well aware, I am an astute observer. In this matter, however, I do speak with a modicum of personal experience. Did you know I was married along the trail?”

  Jones: “To who? One of those drummer boys?”

  Bolzano: “I am not a homosexual.”

  Jones: “Always wondered about you.”

  Bolzano: “I am sure you were not the only one. My own father even asked me once, ‘Are you queer?’ I have had many homosexual friends and many chances, but that is not how I am wired. In training, playing the effete card got me out of more than my fair share of chores.”

  Jones: “Noticed that.”

  Bolzano: “All you men and women fighting to out-work and out-perform each other.”

  Jones: “Whatever happened to those drummers? They were brave enough.”

  Bolzano: “Two of the most talented musicians I have ever met. Bongo and Conga is what I called them. Cousins who loved each other. They shared a natural sense of rhythm symbiotic in nature. Two parts of one whole. Their ability to cre
ate and mimic, to improvise without ever missing a beat, reminded me of a tight chamber ensemble, or jazz quartet. They knew what the other fellow was going to do before he did it. Bongo and Conga had the strength to carry the kayaks all day and then drum for hours at night without stop.”

  Jones: “Where are they?”

  Bolzano: “Tomon says they were mutilated and then murdered while attempting to escape. I was on the cross. Hard times were getting harder for my Porters. The boys made a run for it. Lorenzo and his Tattoo dogs chased them down.”

  Jones: “Bet that wasn’t pretty.”

  Bolzano: “From what Tomon tells me, it was not.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  What a lovely meal. Under Tomon and Gertie’s guidance, the natives gutted the pig, stuffed it with steaming watercress and wrapped it in ferns before lowering it into a pit of red-hot rocks to bake. Once the pig was encased in glowing rocks, the pit was covered with pine boughs topped by a leather tarp to hold in the steam and smoke.

  The animal’s heart, liver, sweetbreads and other goodies were slopped into a leather cook bag along with several dozen young onions, sea salt, a clove of dried garlic from Lorenzo’s tent and a handful of fat truffles unearthed yesterday by the old man’s dog. The concoction cooked through the day to become a glutinous stew.

  We all agreed the pig could have used either a few more hours in the pit or a few thousand more BTUs of heat. Tomon and the boys pulled back the tarp not long after sunset. Rocks were rolled away and spears were used in unison to lift the animal to the side of the fire where Tomon, Gertie and one of the new women went to work with blades to carve hunks of bloody pork and fat onto a leather tarp.

  I enjoyed it immensely. The trick was to dip your pork into the cook bag for flavor. Tomon knows how I like my meat prepared, so of course he saved a bowl of choice bits for me. Cooked through, with a bit of texture, a crispiness on the exterior regions. Mmmmm, delightful.

  The ground was muddy and the air chilly, so we ate standing up, warming ourselves by the fire pit alongside the natives. Those in the mood to entertain took turns singing and dancing. I delivered a pair of arias between servings. Though my body is weak, the voice is in fine fiddle. I kept to my native repertoire in deference to tomorrow’s hearing. No sense prompting the natives to break into Rossini’s “Largo al factotum” or one of their other favorite arias, “Fig-haro, Fig-haro, Fig-haro!” Duarte might have me hanged.

  I recognize a few of the men and women from this new lot. The Green Turtles could have fared far worse. The hard-working little tribe must have recognized Tomon’s leadership qualities, for its members defer to him in all matters. In an interesting paradox, they have accepted him as clan leader before he has cemented the role with his own people.

  Old time Turtles, and Tomon himself, continue to bear allegiance to the storyteller Leonglauix, the one the Americans call Gray Beard. I think the old man sees the problem. Even so, he needs to be convinced Tomon is ready.

  Their heads are dipped together in conversation quite often lately. I was on my way to the river this morning when I saw them sitting side-by-side on the trunk of a fallen willow. Suddenly, the storyteller leapt up to berate his nephew. He cut his reprimand short when he spied my approach on the nearby trail.

  For some reason I cannot explain, the old man has taken an instant liking to me. He treats me better than the Americans do. He has shared several long stories, and allows me to interrupt to ask questions about the portions I do not understand. Of course, I am able to ask leading questions. His nephew has regaled me of the man’s exploits many, many times. It makes me wish I had time to take down his entire life story. What a tale it would be.

  As much as I have come to like Leonglauix, I am squarely in Tomon’s court should there be a power struggle. He and Gertie are as close to family as I have in this prehistoric world. They nursed me back from the brink of death twice, and show time and again, they are expert problem solvers. Having survived by going with the flow under Martinelli’s regime, they are now free to exhibit the traits which make them natural-born leaders. As my papa would say, “They have the smarts.”

  It is a slice of Cro-Magnon life which merits close observation. I do hope the Americans refrain from chaining me to a tree. This “official hearing” has me spooked. I waste far too many hours worrying, scouring memories of my time on this ancient earth. Certainly, I recognize many moments when I could have done things differently. Hindsight provides perfect vision, no?

  If Andre and I had stood up to Lorenzo in those first crazy days, could we have knocked him back on track? How could we ever know for sure? Poor Andre. At least he had the cojones to fly the coop.

  No matter what Duarte claims, I have come to the conclusion there was nothing I could do to escape Lorenzo’s orbit. Events spun out of control quickly. I believe the jump heightened an already violent, calculating psyche to create a monster we were ill-equipped to control.

  Once he was armed with the pistols, and had the full support of Wallunda and the Tattoos, he became an unstoppable force. That is, until the Americans stopped him. I must give them credit. When it comes to matters regarding war, North American savages are tough to defeat.

  To their credit, the Americans also attempt to play by the rules. The truth will serve as my attorney. I will tell my story, and in the end, what could they possibly do which is worse than what I have already endured? As I gaze down to study my new moccasins, I rest assured. They will not wrap me in Lorenzo’s rhino skin.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Raise your right hand and state your name for the record.”

  Bolzano: “Corporal Salvatore Benito Bolzano.”

  Duarte: “Do you swear everything you say will be the truth?”

  Bolzano: “Whom am I to swear to, God? Is this a trick question?”

  Duarte: “Don’t cause problems. Do you swear to tell the truth?”

  Bolzano: “I swear on my mother’s future grave to say the truth and only the truth.”

  Duarte: “Did you teach Early Modern Human natives to sing Italian opera?”

  Bolzano: “Not only Italian. They rather prefer German arias.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Maria insisted we hold our big meeting in private. The four of us shuttled across the river in two kayaks. I knew just the spot to set up camp. On an earlier trip, I found a nice flat area almost straight across the river. It was shaded by tall pines, and backed up against a pile of big rocks. I figured we could always climb up into the boulders if we got into a scrap with wolves or unfriendly natives.

  Best of all, a clear little brook gurgled up out of those rocks to run downhill, 40 yards to the Arno. The old man would approve.

  It was a fine day, not a cloud in the sky. The half-mile-wide river runs fast and cold. I made three round trips, twice hauling an empty kayak back to fetch another member of The Team. Maria was the last to go. Gray Beard seemed disappointed we didn’t take him along. She talked to him for a while, promised we would be back the next morning.

  “Don’t leave without us,” she said.

  Maria jumped into the boat like an expert, then paddled like hell to keep from being swept downstream. I trailed a boat length behind, down current to enjoy the view of her pretty face in profile. Untied, her wavy black hair flowed in ringlets to her shoulders. Dressed in her ceremonial buckskins, she is without a doubt the most beautiful woman in this world.

  It took us a while to get the camp squared away. I don’t think anybody was looking forward to the stupid hearing. We puttered around, making sure there was plenty of firewood and four fat beds of ferns to sleep on.

  The brush around our camp was thick with gray and black game birds about twice the size of modern chickens. Long-legged runners with red sacks at the front of their throats which they puff out like bullfrogs to deliver loud mating calls. “Eeee
-ahhhh, eeeee-ahhhh!” Jones and I knocked a few down with spears and the rest took off.

  Bolzano insisted on stuffing and spitting the birds for dinner.

  “We’ll save the leftovers for breakfast,” he said.

  There was no arguing with his logic. That gave us another project. Even this early in spring, we found plenty of goodies for Sal to mix into his stuffing. Nettles, nuts, dried berries and grapes still hanging from last fall.

  We were emptying the gatherings onto a leather tarp when a large pack of hyenas trotted in from the south. Yipping and yowling. Maria gave them a couple blasts with her flute and they skirted wide to scavenge the riverbank for a while. They returned pretty quick to give us a better inspection. Jones did a few stretching exercises, nocked a bolt into his atlatl.

  “Gray Beard would say it’s time to teach these dogs to fear the flute,” he said. “Kaikane, you and Maria take those two females on the left. Brown ones. Corporal Bolzano, you have the dirty-ass male in the lead. Make sure to save one spear, we’ll advance as a unit. Hold on, let ’em clear the trees. On my signal, cast on three. One, two, three!”

  My first spear drilled through the neck of a nasty-looking female. Maria’s shot dropped short to bounce off the ground and rattle down among the hyenas at the back of the pack. The dogs flinched a little, then kept moving forward. Covered in dried blood and a stench of rotting flesh, the hyenas were close enough to smell, maybe 20 feet away, when we launched our second round.

  “Flutes,” Jones ordered.

  Piping a shrill note on the bone flute Gray Beard had carved for me, I turned to see Jones windmill a bolt off the end of his atlatl. Almost instantly, the three-foot length of oak was buried in a hyena’s ribcage. Plucking another bolt from where he had jammed it in the dirt, he loaded and fired with a smooth easy motion. His cast caught a big male in the left shoulder.