“You are the tallest tree I have ever climbed,” I said. “You must be the oldest being in the forest.”
“Yes, I am very old, but I feel healthy and strong. I think I will live many more years. In fact, I plan to live forever.”
“Nothing lives forever.”
“I have a plan,” he said.
Less than two hands of years passed. The clan was camped by a stream running with smelt, when a traveling man stopped by to tell my father a great fire had swept through the distant forest. I asked for, and received, my father’s permission to return to my friend. Many of us made the journey. We all wanted to see the Juicklain. Although it was my third time walking the tracks of a great fire, it felt like the first. So many colors! Beautiful for the eyes. Bad for trees.
As I walked up the hill, I saw the tree’s trunk had been burned black. Bare wood showed through holes in its bark. Flames had shot high enough to roast limbs and leaves to the height of four hands of men laid end to end. Only the leaves at the top of the tree were still green. Artolom clung to life like a man kicked by a bison.
He was alone atop the hill with just one other tree. Artolom was weak, and did not have energy to share many thoughts. It was too dangerous to climb into his burned limbs. I pressed my head against his trunk and told him about my travels. I described the many strange varieties of trees I had seen. Before I left, I asked him about his plans to live forever. My forehead was black. My body hurt from sharing his pain. I needed to know. All through the afternoon I waited for his reply.
At the same moment the sun dropped down over the horizon, he spoke. “I have a plan.” It is all he said.
That summer, insects made nests under Artolom’s bark. Woodpeckers hammered through to find them. More insects came the next summer. Wood ducks and squirrels built nests in the holes drilled by the birds. There were no more than two hands of leaves sprouting from one skinny limb the last time I spoke with the tree.
When I arrived, an old bear stood on its back legs, tearing away bark in search of white grubs. I played a song on my flute, waited for the bear to grow tired of the tune and walk away.
This time, I pressed my head to gray, hard wood. Puckered burn holes which had healed like scars upon a man’s skin. I bid him good passage into death, delivered my father’s respect, then couldn’t resist asking him one last time about his plans to live forever. Quietly, almost too softly to hear, he replied. “I have done it, I will carry on. Help me.” Looking over, I saw a young oak had sprouted up between Artolom and his dying bride.
It has been many years since that day. I must go talk to that young tree. It deserves to hear the stories of its father before I die. I will not be traveling north with you.
Be calm. You do not need me to help you find your way home. Tomon can lead you. My friends Jones, Doo-Art and Kai-kane are traveling the same direction. They are powerful warriors. They will help protect you. They know a secret valley where you will find much food stored for the winter. Tomon’s cousin lives there. It has warm springs. It is a good place to spend the winter, if his cousin, my daughter, accepts you.
Tomon, stand, tell these people the story of the first Green Turtles, father man and mother woman.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Witness the mantle of leadership as it passes to the next generation.”
Duarte: “See how the boy’s hands shake. He’s nervous as hell.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
When Leonglauix finished, he sat in the front row and gave Tomon his full attention as the boy launched into the ancient tale. As Sal pointed out later, the kid had a tough act to follow. I thought he did OK. He only left out two important parts. (See report #GB-287 for Leonglauix’s version).
When he finished, I expected shy Tomon to scamper back to his little mate. They’re rarely far apart. However, the young man dressed in reed kilt and soft leather cape remained standing, quietly studying the clan. He seemed to be pondering the question, “Do I want this job?”
With a shrug, he cleared his throat and pointed in the direction of the razed Tattoo camp.
“We leave on the morn. Pack light. Pack smart. We must move fast upon the trail if we are to join the herds. Hunt well in your dreams tonight.”
Leonglauix wore a satisfied smile when he plopped down beside me in the light of the fire. Pulling the trout within reach, he picked at the sweet meat between the bones and used his thumb to lever out the fatty cheeks. Bolzano leaned over and gave him a tap on the shoulder. Using native sign, the Italian asked, “What about you and me? What will we do?”
“Daughter Doo-art has asked me to take you over the mountains. Scout for Tattoos. So we will.”
Bolzano bent low to speak. Showed his elder respect.
“What about your friend the tree?”
“Do you believe I can talk to trees?”
“I do not know. Can you?”
“Travel with me for a season. See for yourself.”
And with that, our immediate plans were set. It was Jones who suggested a three-pronged return to the north. We were discussing the new Team Oath I am to write, when I insisted, for perhaps the 500th time, that if Martinelli left a toxic mess, it was our job to clean it up. I can be such a nag, I know, but I am truly worried.
Tomon claims at least a dozen Tattoo warriors slipped away uninjured the night we brought down Sgt. Martinelli. The cult leader’s explosive demise also scattered two score of hangers-on, slaves and religious zealots. Cpl Bolzano harps about “witches in feather capes.” We all wonder what they are up to.
Salvatore is most concerned that Sgt. Martinelli has given the warlike Tattoos an unfair advantage in their quest to pillage and plunder. He says Lorenzo was shameless about training his troops in modern battle tactics, hand-to-hand combat and weapons skills. Although most have yet to embrace the use of a shield, they do indeed employ Zulu tactics. Shock warfare. Coordinated, four-pronged assaults with heavy stabbing spears.
“If you take into account the Tattoo clan’s contrary, greedy natures, you can rest sure they will cause havoc everywhere they go,” Cpl. Bolzano said.
Jones suggested we split into three parties, take three separate routes and rendezvous in Nice in about six weeks. “Swedsissi” is the name the Turtles use for the trading crossroads. It’s a place I’m anxious to revisit. If there are to be obvious signs of our incursion upon this ancient earth, they must certainly be evident there.
When I floated the plan with Leonglauix, he surprised me by volunteering to take Bolzano over the mountains to make a sweep westward across the plains. He’s never been this far south, but is well-acquainted with the lands to the north. He said the swamp lands between the Appennino and the Alps (my words, not his) are “good hunting.” He also wants to visit a friend which may or may not be a tree.
The rest fell into place rather easily. Paul and I will transport the two functioning kayaks, while investigating the banks of the Arno and along the Mediterranean coast. Jones and the Green Turtles will traverse the inland hills, backtracking the route Martinelli used to lead his people south. When I pointed out he once again drew the most dangerous duty, the career soldier shrugged it off.
“Not the first time I grabbed the shit end of the stick. Don’t worry. I’m no hero. Any of us sees something too hot to handle, we’ll just slide on by. Return with reinforcements.”
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “The artisan’s cross-hatching technique on this ivory bison is quite exquisite. A dozen simple strokes to bring the beast to life. This piece alone would have fetched a fair fortune in Milano.”
Duarte: “Where did you bums steal it?”
Bolzano: “I believe the running bison was traded for helmet time.”
Kaikane: “Helmet time?”
Bolzano: “That is what Lorenzo called it. He bestowed the helmet upon many a Cro-Magnon head in trade for goods and favors. The natives received a minute or two to see the world in a completely
different manner. Lorenzo controlled the device with his computer, scrolling through optical and sound settings, thermal, zoom, all of it.”
Duarte: “What an idiotic, awful thing to do.”
Bolzano: “I assure you, I expressed my disapproval in the strongest terms. Lorenzo shrugged me off. It was an effective recruiting tool, and a way to reward loyal behavior.”
Duarte: “Everything I read says the equipment cannot be shared. Not without the master code and a clean wiping by Team technicians.”
Bolzano: “Perhaps the Master Sergeant’s computer had the proper code. All I know is this. Lorenzo confiscated our jumpsuits, and within three months, his girlfriend was frolicking about in Andre’s magic garment. In the end, however, the jumpsuited natives caused many problems. Wallunda was forever scrolling through the settings, then disappearing to cause invisible mischief. The warriors of the inner circle competed for the right to wear my suit on patrol or guard duty. The Tattoos were such boors. Once they had the garment on, they hated to give it up. It spawned many a fight and stern rebukes from their master ‘Lord-enzo.’ Something about these suits in combination with the helmets, they affect your mind.”
Kaikane: “Roger that. Takes me a couple hours to get used to, and a couple days to get over.”
Duarte: “How often did Sergeant Martinelli wear his suit?”
Bolzano: “Always. He lived in it. The filters were jammed, it needed service, he stank.”
Duarte: “His odor is one of the only things I remember about that night. He smelled bad. So, back to this statue, you’re saying a clan or person just gave it to you?”
Bolzano: “Not me. It was presented to Lorenzo. Unless I miss my guess, this particular item was culled from a flea-ridden gang camped near the Rhone River delta. We showed them our best pieces and they were not so gullible as to show us theirs. Lorenzo pulled off his helmet and gave the leader a sneak peek. What do drug dealers say? ‘The first hit is free?’ Well, the man was so taken by the experience, he asked what it would take to see more. In the end, and in the face of harsh insults shouted by his people, the clan leader produced this carved bison from a hidden niche. As he handed it over to Lorenzo, he explained it was a most powerful carving. The clan used it in ceremonies marking great hunts and important dates on the moon calendar. Sergeant Martinelli construed it as idol worship and ordered the entire camp wiped out. He hated idol worshippers.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Spc. Kaikane insisted I join him for physical training this morning. I think the Americans fear I will be unable to keep pace with their old man. Tomon also expressed concern prior to his departure. Twice, and in great detail, he described the difficulty of his uncle’s forced marches. Perhaps my friends are correct, I may very well clutch my heart and expire at the apex of a mountain trail. I doubt it.
Not long after bidding tearful adieu to Tomon and Gertie, I was about to break my morning fast when Kaikane emerged from the mists with an invitation to exercise. I set my gooey mixture of berries and grains aside and followed him to the river’s edge.
We started with a series of Tai chi exercises and finished with a pair of karate katas, right from Team training.
“Kurunufa,” the raw-boned Polynesian called out as he rose up to the opening position of the praying mantis style of fighting. We worked up a good sweat with that, and just when I felt I could continue no longer, he called out, “Seiunchin,” and launched into that form’s distinctive sweeps and throws and close-quarter fighting. I dug deep into my inner reserves to match him move for move, our feet churning in the soft sand and pebbles of the riverbank.
The kata’s conclusion left us both bent over, straining for breath. Kaikane faced me and bowed, then gave me a slap on the back.
“Hey, Sal, not bad. You’ll be nice and warmed up when we carry all that crap up to the top of the hill.”
Had I known how difficult the labor would turn out to be, I never would have accepted his invitation to exercise. It took the four of us three trips each to transport Martinelli’s artifacts to the crest of a distant knoll. It seemed such a needless waste to travel so far. The logical choice was to bury the loot in the same nearby cave where Lorenzo planned to entomb my crucified body.
He had taken me on a tour of the deep cavern the day before I was placed upon the cross.
“This is where you’ll go,” Lorenzo had said.
“And let me guess,” I replied. “You’ll seal it with a boulder, and in three days, one of your loyal boys will emerge, alive and ready to serve?”
He refused to answer, just turned and led the way down the hill at a trot. I jogged diligently behind, in single-file line with my Tattoo escorts. We were on Day 20 of my weight-loss program. Three weeks earlier, I wagered Lorenzo I would never fit back into my suit. He was determined to win.
Dr. Duarte searched her computer to find Lorenzo’s cave listed as a Level-A, alternative drop site. She and I hiked over to the cave to explore it with the narrow beam of our helmet lights.
“This is the spot where I was to be laid to rest,” I said as we crawled to the end of a narrow side spur.
“The ground has been disturbed over here,” Duarte said as she used the flint knife from her belt to probe the soft dirt. “I think he’s buried something here.”
“More likely, somebody.”
Add shovel to my list of things I miss most. Right up there with 300-thread count cotton sheets, Belgian chocolate and lazy mornings spent reading the Sunday web-paper.
Employing sticks, sharp rocks and finally our bare hands, we quarried down nearly a meter to unearth a trove of items coated in sticky black pitch. It was impossible to identify most of the artifacts. A pair of pieces, however, were easily recognized. They were the largest and heaviest objects, two meter-long crosses.
“This cave will never do,” Dr. Duarte said in a low tone.
She enlisted Gray Beard’s assistance and the two of them spent the next two days finding a substitute. The new cave is not listed on our Team maps, it is more than twice the distance from our riverside camp, and it is destined to collapse. It is also located on what will someday be public farmland far from Sellaro’s hilltop villa. Duarte deems it acceptable.
We combed through the camp’s detritus one last time in search of items of anthropological value. Gathering arm-loads of spear points, stone adze, rude mortar, and pestles and other heavy tools, we soon realized the criteria of our search was diametrically opposite to the one adopted by the natives who first pillaged the camp. While they sought small, light objects easily transported and traded, we needed treasures stout enough to stand up to time.
Once we scavenged every available Cro-Magnon utensil and handicraft leaning against the sides of lean-tos, or laying in the dirt, we spent a fascinating hour separating it all by category. Dr. Duarte spread a leather tarp in the sun and we commenced making piles. I was able to show off a bit, since, after all, artifact appraisal was once my specialty. I am convinced it is the primary reason I was placed upon The Team. That, and my predilection toward larceny.
One glittering pile, sitting off by itself on a far corner of the tarp, was, without a doubt, the one our sponsors would most love to see. Rude gems, fine ivory carvings of running bison and stoic mammoth, perhaps 60 Venus statues of varying quality, beaded necklaces and solid ivory bracelets, flint knives and skinning kits, bone moon calendars, ivory combs, fish hooks, needles and toys. I recognized many of the pieces from Lorenzo’s treasures, and a few which were part of my down payment to the ship captain Malmud.
Also included were Wallunda’s belongings. I recall the woman scurrying about, collecting necklaces and other trinkets from the dead and dominated, but had no idea how much she had stockpiled. Lifting the top of a tightly woven reed basket, we found a cache of Cro-Magnon jewelry, including at least 200 necklaces, which ranged from simple lengths of sennit strung with single shells to elaborate st
rings of bear claws, eagle skulls, ivory carvings and pieces of amber. Resting on top of the pile was her personal necklace. I recognized it immediately with its line of ivory beads, shriveled human fingers and thumb-sized amber jewel embedded with a circle of baby mantis. It was a close match to Lorenzo’s amber-jeweled termites.
Next to the pile rested a mound of recently constructed artifacts which would absolutely make Team leaders gnash their teeth. More than four dozen ivory and wooden crucifixes lay in a tangled heap along with rude carvings of the Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus, and several clumsy likenesses of Lorenzo himself. Many were small crosses dangling from lengths of twine and leather. We had confiscated them from Cro-Magnon necks, or found them where they had been tossed to the ground as the people retreated. Three elaborately-carved wooden crosses were procured from Lorenzo’s tent, while the two largest crucifixes were the ivory pair unearthed from the cave.
Once they were scraped free of their coating of pine tar, I recognized the meter-long crucifixes. They had been fashioned from the largest pieces of Lorenzo’s shattered mammoth tusk cross. He used the recycled ivory crosses in church services across Tuscany. Lorenzo must have added the block lettering after he hung me up, for it was new to my eyes. One read, “Jesus is Lord–30,000 BC,” while the other was etched with, “Lorenzo Martinelli–32,233 BL.”
“BL? What’s BL?” Kaikane asked. At times, the surfer boy is quite slow on the uptake.
“Before Lorenzo,” Dr. Duarte and I chorused.
“Wow, he put himself right up there with God and Jesus. Did the son-of-a-bitch have a giant ego or what?”
“Megalomania was just one of Lorenzo’s many tragic flaws,” I sighed. “I am afraid my countryman was quite mad, particularly near the end. The sergeant complained God was perpetually adding new items to his mental ‘to-do’ list. How would you like to have the Supreme Being issuing marching orders inside your brain 24/7?”
Tuscany Page 23