Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Gray Beard had no desire to enter the meadow. We slinked through the forest shadows, keeping to one of the game trails skirting the edge of the field. From the dark, in a view punctuated intermittently by trees and other obstructions, I watched a mother and juvenile mammoth ford the valley’s river. Surmounting the near shore, they sent up mighty sprays of water as they shook their bodies like water dogs. So big, so powerful.

  I was woolgathering when the old man tapped my shoulder with one of his spears. Pointing the spear up a faint, nearly-vertical path, he motioned me to climb up and investigate. Using exposed roots as handholds, I scaled about ten meters to discover an abandoned Cro-Magnon camp.

  The camp was sited on a flat shelf near the base of a 30-meter sandstone cliff pocked with caves. It boasted a commanding view of the meadow, as well as two circular fire pits and enough room to comfortably sleep several dozen people. At the far edge of camp, a spring trickled from a crack in the cliff to fill a shallow, tub-sized pool. Tasting the outflow, I found it sweet and bracingly cold. Water, shelter and a defensible position. Who could ask for anything more? Me, of course. Oh, how a hot shower and soft bed would feel right now.

  I turned to see the old man and his dog had climbed to join me. When he declared the camp a fit place to spend the night, I agreed wholeheartedly. The remainder of my afternoon was spent reclined in the fading sun, watching the endless parade of mammals, bugs and birds navigate yonder fair meadow.

  The old man occupied himself by searching out snakes to demolish. He is not shy about knocking them from trees or sneaking up to catch them where they lay warming on sunlit rocks. On this day, most of his victims were harmless varieties which posed us no threat whatsoever, though he assured me two of the serpents he found lurking were quite poisonous indeed. As he had already cast their bodies down into the meadow, I had no way of confirming this.

  No hominids were sighted, and Leonglauix was intent on keeping it that way. He forbade me to build a fire, lest I attract Flat Heads. “Only fools and bandits go into the mountains this early in spring,” he said. What does that make us?

  After collecting ferns for our beds, we dined on blueberries, grubs and other gatherings. I produced some of the Green Turtles’ dried fish from my pack, as well as a handful of dried dates. Sunset was fading to twilight when the bitch exhibited her first signs of agitation. Low growls and soft footfalls as she circled the old man in the growing dark.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Be quiet,” came the reply.

  It took another handful of minutes for the unmistakable sounds of wolves on the hunt to reach our human ears. The howls grew louder as the pack spilled down the hillside and along the edge of the valley straight toward us. Were they tracking our scent?

  The bitch whined low as she trotted nervously about the camp. On one pass, Gray Beard pulled her close and deftly looped a length of twine around her snout. Pulling it tight with his teeth, he looped another short length to hobble her four legs. Picking the struggling dog up in his arms, he carried her to the back of the shallow cave and covered her in ferns.

  “Should we build a fire?” I asked, trying hard to keep the panic out of my voice. I considered digging the jumpsuit out of my pack. There wasn’t time.

  “No fire. Bring spears to me. Sit here.”

  “What will we do?”

  “Do nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Sit. Here.”

  As I lowered myself into the powdery dirt fronting the cave’s entrance, the howling wolves passed directly below the camp to continue along the edge of the meadow. Our relief was short-lived, however, as they quickly doubled back to reacquire our trail.

  Feeling a tug on my tunic, I looked over to see Gray Beard with his lips tightly pursed together. “No teeth,” he mumbled. With a flutter of his left hand he asked, “Do you understand?”

  “No teeth,” I replied as the first wave of wolves bound up the trail to fill the camp with their menacing growls and rancid breaths. I felt the storyteller jab backward with the hilt of his spear to force the bitch to stifle her struggles.

  It would be impossible to state exactly how many wolves climbed the trail, but conservatively, their numbers exceeded 35. Seated with my legs crossed, arms hanging down, each hand closed tightly around the shaft of a spear, I found myself at dogs’ eye level. Quietly, they padded the length of the camp, circling us like sharks. Drawing warily close on each pass, they paused to briefly sniff our hair and clothes.

  I followed the wolves with my eyes, tingles running down my spine as one after another of the beasts gathered our scents. Whiskers tickled the back of my neck as I felt the heat of the inhales and exhales. The bitch received similar treatment as the pack veered into the cave to scent the dog in groups of two and three.

  At last, the alpha male barked an order which brought the circling to a halt. Standing before us in the gloom, his thick coat was full white, and seemed cleaner, better cared for than the rest. He stood a good two hands taller than the next biggest member of the pack.

  My tension ratcheted ever higher as he studied us, lightly panting. I was certain with his night vision he could see far more of us than the toothy, indistinct outlines and glinting eyes I was taking in.

  That is what I was thinking when he darted forward to snap his jaw shut within a millimeter of my right hand. Jerking my hands to my chest, I fought the urge to flee. Growling, teeth bared, he pressed his snout close to mine. What a noxious smell!

  With a violent roar, a skirmish between three wolves broke out at the perimeter of the pack. Turning twice to calmly study the commotion, the leader twice returned his growling countenance upon my face. His head was double the size of mine, and his canine teeth were easily as long as my index fingers. With a final sniff, he sat back and let loose with a mighty howl which brought the fighting to an end.

  To my surprise, Leonglauix answered the wolf’s cry with one of his own. A long, keening howl, topped off by a flurry of staccato yips and barks which caused the wolves to cock their heads from side to side. It set off another round of circling and sniffing, wet noses nudging us as they pressed closer still.

  At some undetected signal, the wolves stopped as one to throw their heads back and yowl together the call of the pack. I had heard the sound off in the distance just about every night of the previous year. It had never been this close, and hopefully never will be again. Feeling a nudge to my ribs, I glanced over to see the old man was howling for all he was worth. Tipping back my head, I added my rich tenor to the chorus.

  We howled for a quarter of an hour, and then, one by one, the wolves began disappearing down the trail. At the end, only the mighty white-coated alpha male remained. Lifting his leg, he took a long piss against the side of the cliff before turning to bound over the edge of the trail.

  Even now, three days later, my heart pounds thrice its normal rate. They could have reduced our feeble bodies to bare bones in one minute. And yet they did not.

  When I asked Leonglauix to explain what happened, he was vague with his answers. “How should I know? I do not speak that pack’s language,” he said.

  “But you communicated with them. What did you say?”

  “I said nothing. Made wolf noises. Sounds packs make when they are fed and happy. Calm.”

  By the heightened tone of his voice, I could tell, even he was not entirely unfazed by the experience. It seemed to wear him out, for he untied the dog and within ten minutes was curled up beside her fast asleep. He conks out so swiftly, it is as if he toggles a switch. Lucky bastard.

  Pressed for an answer on the trail the next day, he admitted the visit could have meant many different things. The wolves may have expected another clan to be in residence, perhaps the one which built the camp in the first place. Whether the wolves were itching for revenge, or anxious to renew an old friendship, he could not say.

  “How did you know to remain still and not fight? Is it what you always do?”

&nbs
p; “First time for me. I have heard stories of the ploy working. I guess those stories were true after all. Predators like to chase their prey. It makes them excited. We met them as wolves, showed respect.”

  “Are they our friends now? Are we part of the pack?”

  He snorted at my stupidity.

  “Adult humans do not become part of a pack. They are eaten! It was a warning. Alpha wolves know, killing humans causes trouble. Clans have long memories. He was telling us to cross his territory quickly and not come back! Friends with wolves! How dumb are you? They might jump from the bushes right now and eat us.”

  With that happy thought swirling through my mind, sleep has become impossible. We crested the spine at midday today and pushed long into the dark to reach a valley bottom where we hope not to freeze to death. Blessed with sunny skies and light winds, the crossing was far more gentle than we ever dared hope.

  Leaving the tree line far behind, we climbed up into the blindingly white snow fields. Up, up, trudging ever upward with the eagles and shrikes. As luck would have it, we stumbled out of the knee-deep snow onto a wide game trail, which proved to be a well-packed highway up and over the mountain. The sun had softened the trail’s surface to allow good traction. I would not want to try to descend that course when it is frozen solid.

  Topping the slope, we were rewarded with our first view of the Po River Valley. Below us unfolded a sea of green forest, dotted by shimmering lakes and bordered far to the east by the deep blue Adriatic Sea. To the north, the snow-capped Alps looked close enough to touch, even though they must be 120 kilometers away. It felt as if we were on top of the world. My world.

  As expected, temperatures plummeted along with the setting sun. Our exertions kept us warm on the march. Once we stopped, I began shivering so badly, I was forced to pull off my wet leggings and don my jumpsuit. With the visor flipped down and the heaters running, it keeps me warm enough. Leonglauix seems impervious to the cold, though he was happy to add my fur robe to the layers with which he covers himself and the dog.

  He says we will soon start seeing other travelers. The fertile plains of Northern Italy are a popular place to hunt and trade. That is not what he said, of course, but it is what he meant.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “We’re alone, really alone.”

  Kaikane: “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

  Duarte: “Quiet.”

  Kaikane: “For a second there, I thought Gray Beard might cry when he said goodbye. Guy sure has a soft spot for you.”

  Duarte: “My father.”

  Kaikane: “What about your other father? The one you left behind? You talk about your mother, but never mention him.”

  Duarte: “Not much to say. Dad was either busy at work, or drinking wine with his friends at the Portuguese Cultural Center.”

  Kaikane: “Sounds fancy.”

  Duarte: “It wasn’t. Just a concrete block clubhouse painted on all four sides with the flag of Portugal. Cheap booze and sad men. Dad came from a family with land outside Lisbon. They had enough money to live comfortably until the big drought. Portugal basically dried up and blew away. We moved to California when I was baby. I always had the feeling he blamed it all on me.”

  Kaikane: “Babies don’t cause droughts.”

  Duarte: “Mother nearly lost me. Low birth weight. She blamed Dad, complained it was too dry to raise a child in Portugal. We moved to San Francisco that year.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Fog and rain cleared out about an hour ago. I’ve been keeping an eye on a pack of wolves across the river. Twenty or 30 of them sniffing around. Had no idea they were there until a few minutes ago when I put on my helmet to do a perimeter check. No howling or other sounds to give them away. This side of the river remains free of varmints, big and small. Still too strong with the scent of man.

  Jones took off early yesterday with Tomon and the Green Turtle clan. Headed west, following the Arno to the sea. Gray Beard and Bolzano left this morning, pointed north, straight for the snowy mountains. We’ll give Jones a few days to scout the river, then follow downstream in the kayaks. If he finds a set of cataracts or tricky spots, he’ll scrape the bark off a tree or two upstream, where we’ll be sure to see. If there’s a Niagara Falls out there, he says he’ll hang around, make sure we don’t paddle off the edge of the earth.

  Must be raining like hell in the mountains. Or an ice dam burst. The river has risen a good two feet in the past 24 hours. Deep and wide, running muddy yellow. Uprooted trees float by every once in a while, some with eagles perched in their limbs, staring down into the curry soup, patiently awaiting the roil of a fish.

  Roil of a fish. That sounds like something Bolzano would say. The Italian sure has a pretty way of putting things. Come to think of it, Sal speaks better English than me or Jones. I’ll miss his bullshit around the fire. I’m never sure where he’ll steer the conversation. The other night he asked Maria if she missed wearing a brassiere. We spent the rest of the night talking about boobs. Sal had me rolling as he described the “seven standard types of native titties.” Jones said he misses big, fake ones. Sal and I told him he was crazy.

  Maria may be outnumbered by all the men in her life, but I’d say she holds her own. In fact, she dishes out far more friendly abuse than she takes. Maria told Sal he had the biggest breasts she had seen in a long time. Back when he weighed 350 pounds. That shut the Italian up. For a while at least.

  She’s been in a funk since they left. Glued to her computer right now, working on some report about ash trees and beetles. She and Gray Beard have grown pretty tight. We’re both going to miss him.

  If all goes as planned, we’ll see those two next month in Nice. Their route is the longest, but I have no doubt they’ll arrive on time. The old man knows how to cover ground. Hope Sal can keep up.

  Maria and I will shadow Jones and the clan for about 275 miles. While they walk, we’ll paddle, first riding the Arno’s current to the sea, and then turning north to hug the coast up past the Italian and French Rivieras.

  Our mission is to scout for remnants of the Tattoo army, and to search for other clans who may have been contaminated by Sgt. Martinelli. Maria’s vague about what we are supposed to do once we find them. If she thinks I’m going to jump in my suit and crack the heads of defenseless people who can’t see me, she has another think coming.

  I’m hopeful she and Sal have over-dramatized Martinelli’s “great impact.” Cro-Magnons are as set in their ways as anybody else I’ve met. I don’t see they have changed all that much. And as far as people who tell stories about the God Man who glowed and vanished and shot lightning from his hands, what can we possibly do about them? Kill everybody?

  I’m anxious to wrap this up and get on with our lives. We have a lot of exploring to do.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Paul, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Kaikane: “Oh, boy, here we go.”

  Duarte: “What?”

  Kaikane: “I know that tone, and I know that look.”

  Duarte: “Well?”

  Kaikane: “Just kiddin’, babe. What’s on your mind?”

  Duarte: “You’re part Hawaiian, right?”

  Kaikane: “Small kine, but I got the name. Plenty people more Hawaiian than me named Smith.”

  Duarte: “Why don’t you observe any of the customs or rituals? I was researching the culture on my computer and there was an entire folder on proud Hawaiian traditions.”

  Kaikane: “It’s a matter of inside and outside. Those are the ‘inside Hawaiians’ you’re talking about. They have the blood quantum. My family, we were ‘outsiders.’ We didn’t qualify to live on the Home Lands or go to the Home Land schools. My mom did. She lived there for a while when she was young, but she left. One of my stepbrothers qualified, he lived on the Home Lands, but the rest of us kids didn’t have a big enough percentage of Hawaiian blood. What
can I say? Mom liked haoles.”

  Duarte: “Haoles?”

  Kaikane: “White people.”

  Duarte: “Oh. So your mother left the Home Lands to raise you and your siblings?”

  Kaikane: “Nah, she had already left. Or been kicked out. I was never sure. On Maui, the Hawaiian elders were really strict. No talking English, except on weekends. Everybody was expected to work the taro patches, grow food. It was a hard life. Mom liked to party.

  “She moved to town and danced hula at the hotels when she was young. Before us kids was born. By the time I grew up, I just remember her cocktailing at the bar.”

  Duarte: “The Blue Mongoose. It is where she met your father, correct?”

  Kaikane: “Yeah. Dad helped deliver a yacht all the way from England. He loved to brag that he captained a crew that pitched empty vodka bottles overboard the whole way. With his part of the delivery fee, he bought a wooden sloop anchored off Lahaina.”

  Duarte: “He never married your mom?”

  Kaikane: “Neither one was the marrying type. They were more like drinking buddies. He taught me to sail when I was little, so they could go down below, concentrate on getting truly fucked up.”

  Duarte: “I’m so sorry.”

  Kaikane: “Nah, don’t be. Things worked out all right.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  It is a warm sunny day. The temperature is 74 degrees.

  I feel like I’m on vacation. Not since the rainy week at Bear Camp have Paul and I had the chance to just stop. We spent the morning wandering the hillside above the camp across the river, gathering nuts and mushrooms, new onions, young nettles, dandelion, strawberries and a pale white asparagus-looking shoot which tastes sweet as honey. Holding hands and making love in the meadow. All under a bright blue Tuscan sky.