Paul has managed to net one little trout out of the muddy brook and he seems convinced there’s at least one more, though I’m beginning to doubt it. He’s been at it for two hours, sitting there on the opposite side of the stream, keeping one eye on his net and one on me.
We paddled Gray Beard over for a look the morning before he and Sal left. His knee seems much better. The old storyteller found a bird’s nest blown from a limb and asked to use my magnifying glass to inspect it. The nest was dropped and forgotten once a covey of this area’s distinctively tall grouse began darting through the brush. He knocked two birds down by swinging his spear like a baseball bat. After knotting their necks together, he slung them over a shoulder and announced he was ready to return to camp.
He says he likes the looks of this fertile land. He and I were nearly inseparable in the days leading up to his departure. We walked together in search of sunny places to sit in companionable silence and watch the world go by. No longer do I pester him with questions about every little detail. Having picked up the rhythm of my queries, he tells me what he thinks I ought to know.
As our time together grew short, I came to dread the inevitable parting. As did he. Though we both knew it was temporary, and for the best, it was a sorrowful goodbye. I envy Bolzano for the time he will spend with this fascinating man who calls me “daughter.”
When he had seen enough, Paul towed him back across the river in my kayak. The current was really running when Paul returned trailing the empty. I was sure he would be swept far downstream. Towing a kayak through rapids is no simple task. As usual, he made it look easy. With a wave goodbye to Gray Beard, he hugged the shore to paddle a half mile upstream, straight into the teeth of the current. With a turn made dangerous by the drag of the balky spare, he launched himself into the raging river, angling across at great speed. The velocity, he explained later, caused the spare kayak to follow directly behind him and not “stir up any trouble.”
There is a whitecap in the current in front of camp which Paul says is probably made by a submerged boulder. He timed his landing to cut hard around its downstream edge. Jamming the rudder, digging hard with his paddle, leaning far to his left, he snap-turned his kayak to finish parallel to shore. The spare trailed obediently behind, crack-the-whipping right up on the beach. He said it wasn’t planned. I wonder.
Before Jones left, the four surviving modern members of the crew sorted through Martinelli’s belongings. We decided what to keep, what to bury for The Team, what to burn, and what to leave behind. An ethical debate between Bolzano and me was silenced when Jones tossed the bullet-making kit on the blanket between us.
“Fuck the chess set, what are we going to do about these?”
“Good question,” I said.
“Kaikane, what do you think?”
Paul was winding a coil of braided sealskin rope into a circle. He tied it upon itself, dropped it in the hold of a kayak and walked over to pick up one of the bullets. He sighted his finger across the river, made a “kapow” sound.
“What good are they? We’ll never build a pistol.”
“What about a zip gun?” Bolzano asked.
“Made of wood?”
“Sure, why not?”
“You boys will blow your hands off if you’re not careful.”
“I say we keep them.”
“Who’s gonna carry ’em, you?”
“I thought we’d stow the kit in the kayak with everything else.”
Without another word, I snatched up the kit and Martinelli’s rude chess set and sprinted for the river. The boys made no move to stop me as I wound up and threw them both as far as I could. Not that far really, but the bullet kit skipped once and made a nice splash. I was panting a little when I returned to the tent.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “So many animals, this gorge is beautiful.”
Kaikane: “Roger that. You should keep your eyes on the river, babe. See the whirlpool up there?”
Duarte: “I see it, don’t worry.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
I let Maria take the lead when we launched our boats from the wooded shoreline of Camp Firenze. It gave me the best angle to make sure she was dry and upright. We have no life vests, so I insisted we wear our jumpsuits and helmets. As much as I hate the things, they have neutral buoyancy, and their armor might protect us if we end up in the soup.
Maria may have been invisible to the world, but she shined brightly to me as she paddled with the current, doing a good job to avoid whirlpools and backwashes. The kayaks continue to impress me with their handling and stability. The faster we go, the better they behave. Near the junction of a tributary, we passed right by a whirlpool a good six feet in diameter. Like a green tube to nowhere, sucker was pulling in logs and limbs, but thankfully, we slid right by. The level of the river may have dropped a foot or two since the rain quit, but the current is still pumping millions of gallons of muddy yellow water toward the sea every second.
The shorelines were full of deer and elk, pig and a million different kind of ducks, swans and water fowl. As we neared a set of low hills, the river began to narrow and pick up steam. Rounding a bend, I spotted an old pine standing by itself on a rock point. Four white diagonals had been hacked from its bark. I pointed them out to Maria and we eased toward shore.
The shallow waters were a mess of dead trees. We bumped our way through, fighting to escape the current. I finally jumped into the waist-deep water to drag the boats up to solid ground. We had been underway for less than two hours and had probably covered about 15 miles.
We hitched the kayaks to a pair of half-dead birch trees and picked our way uphill through the forest until we crossed a trail that paralleled the river. I whacked some bark off an oak with the meteorite club to mark our spot, then we set off to scout the river.
It turned out to be nothing more than class-one rapids. Maybe the water was running higher when Jones came through, or maybe he’s worried about Maria.
I gave her a choice, told her I could take one boat through and then hike back to fetch the other. She would have none of it.
“You know I can do it or you wouldn’t have asked me if I wanted to try. Am I right?”
“As usual, dear.”
Portaging the kayaks around the rapids was not much of an option. They were just too long and packed too full of heavy junk to pull through the trees. We would need to unpack and make a series of at least five trips to move the gear and boats. This summer, when the river settles down, we could probably walk them along the bank. Now, spring floodwater runs right through the woods on both sides.
Though we had done our best to pare the gear down, each hold is filled to the brim. Even after nearly emptying the water bladders, we ride low in the river. No worries, though, these boats are built for it.
It was quite the domestic scene back at Martinelli’s hidden camp as Maria and I wrangled over what to take and what to leave. Martinelli had some good stuff and so did we. Travel gear, comfortable blankets, ropes, tools and weapons. And our treasure, of course.
Some things were non-negotiable. Since Jones set off with just the bare essentials, we were responsible for his pack and computer, plus Amacapane’s suit. Add to that our packs, bedrolls, meteorite club, obsidian club, two knives, two waist scrips, five computers and six spears and we were filling the holds fast.
We hashed it out for the better part of two hours, moving crap from one pile to the next. Voices rising and falling. In the end, we took all the possibilities down to the beach and laid them out to see just what would fit.
From Martinelli’s gear and supplies, we took: four ropes, two leather cooking bags, one leather and reed blanket, four fine wolf furs, a half-full bag of dates, a third-full bag of deer jerky, two small bags of sea salt and herbs, a collection of bone and ivory fish hooks, needles and clasps, a spool of twine made from hemp, and a lightweight set of turtle shell bowls and cups. My bone flute also made
the cut.
When we were packed and ready to go, we filled the gutted kayak with everything Maria decided was improper for the times, like Martinelli’s naked lady statues, and then pushed it down to the edge of the river. I set the self destruct timer for five minutes, removed Amacapane’s computer and hustled up into the trees to watch with Maria. One hand of minutes later, with a loud crack and puff of smoke, the kayak collapsed in on itself. One second it was there, and the next it and everything inside was just a long pile of ash.
I kind of hated to leave the comfortable tent and bed behind. Maria was of a similar mind, as we took our time squaring the place away, rolling up furs, hanging utensils, wedging food and leather goods up in the rafters away from rodents and porcupines. Whether we return, or someone else does, the camp is prime digs in a Cro-Magnon world. We left it in shipshape.
The swollen river was another reason I dragged my feet leaving. As I towed the boats back through the flooded forest, I figured now we would see how the heavily-laden kayaks stood up to a set of rapids. Looking up into the tree tops and inspecting ivy leaves as she floated by, Maria sat in her boat without a worry in the world.
“I’ll lead the way,” I said. “If you wipe out, don’t panic. Don’t worry about the boat, I’ll get it. Just keep yourself facing downstream, protect your head, watch for snags and rocks.”
“I was trained in watercraft.”
“Consider this a review.”
“Right, captain.”
“Once we’re underway, don’t be careful, be smart. If you commit to a course, go for it. Never hesitate. Follow my line, and you should be OK. That one big rock might be a bitch, the one to the right after the bend. We’ll take it on the left side. OK? Left side, remember? Flip up your visor, it’ll be wet going.”
By then I had both kayaks out to the edge of the trees. Once she was situated, I jumped in my boat and paddled off into the current, leading her well out into the middle of the river. I wanted nothing to do with the shoreline and its trees. Picking up speed as we drifted to the top of the cataracts, I turned for a quick check on Maria. Her eyes were wide, showing a little fear, but mostly determination.
“This will be fun,” I shouted, drawing a grim smile in reply.
It would have been fun, if I could have ridden the rapids as they deserved to be ridden. Instead, I picked the easiest and safest course and worried the whole way. The rapids were formed more by a narrowing of the river than a big drop in elevation. There was nothing too hairy. Fairly tame, except for where boulders pitched up 10-foot waves here and there, but those were easily avoided. We came out of the bend in good shape and swung by the big rock with no problem. I could hear Maria whooping it up behind me.
“It was amazing!” She said, beaming as we hauled out on a spit of sand a half-mile downstream. “Is that what surfing is like?”
“Pretty much, yeah. There’s something about the mix of speed and water, and danger, I guess. It’s a rush.”
“I see what you mean about the kayaks, the faster we went the more control I had.”
“They’re good boats.”
We spread out a picnic lunch and ate while drying ourselves in the sun. When it was time to go, Maria started messing with my hair, running her fingers through in a way that told me she was in no hurry to leave. She’s not the first person inspired by a near-death experience.
We stripped off our suits, spread out some furs and fooled around on the beach for the rest of the afternoon. Slow and easy, and no worries about who was listening or watching. Maria’s body is one future fitness freaks would pay a million Norte Americanos for. A year on the march has toned her muscles and flattened her stomach. Bronze skin, white teeth. Firm, perky tits I could spend all day admiring. She looks like some sort of Olympic gymnast. That thought came to mind as she rode me, with eyes closed and thick black hair thrown back, head and shoulders swaying to an ancient rhythm.
The pace gradually picked up tempo, Maria grinding down upon me, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Trying to pace herself, then giving in, letting go with the sexiest grunts, groans and “oh, fucks” I’ve ever heard. I galloped with her to the finish, where we shuddered to a climax together as one. Panting, she collapsed into my arms.
It was our start to a truly great afternoon. By the time my lover was sated, it was too late to launch. Just before sunset, I speared one of the river turtles the old man taught us are good eating. We cooked a nice stew inside its shell, sitting there naked on the beach, wrapped in the blanket as the dew set in, watching the rising moon light the river in silver.
The last few days have been some of the best in my life. Maria and I are alone for the first time. No deadlines or disasters hang over our heads.
She and Jones make it sound like we went out of our way to corrupt Gray Beard and the clan. Seems to me, we bent over backwards to do the opposite. Trying all the time to either hide out or blend in. “Don’t speak English, don’t count, don’t give directions by saying the words north, south, east or west, up or down.”
Part of me feels like I have been released from jail. We are free to be ourselves. I like it. When we make it to the sea, I’m going to stow my helmet and jumpsuit. Then I’ll really be free.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “What the hell is that thing?”
Duarte: “It’s not a hippo.”
Kaikane: “No kidding.”
Duarte: “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s huge.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Though they became increasingly difficult, we shot through several rapids with no troubles. Paul led the way and I followed his course, charging through low canyons thundering with white water.
When we reached the last major cataracts, a nearly mile-long stretch of fast water hurtling through a maze of twists, turns and exposed boulders, my confidence was at a high. Perhaps I was too busy having fun to be afraid. The six slashes Jones had hacked from an upstream tree didn’t scare me. Big Danger. Ha!
We paddled ashore to scout, and were standing on a ledge overlooking a particularly nasty section of river, when Paul insisted I was not up to the task. He pointed to several massive tree trunks jutting from where they had become wedged in the elbows of a river bend. “Really bad there, and worse on the other side” he said.
“Paul Kaikane, if we are to circle this world together, we cannot stop and fret every time we hit a rough patch. If you go, I go.” I tried to sound nonchalant. Having set the hook, I jiggled the bait. “This narrow gorge is steep and heavily wooded. It will take days to portage around the rapids. You set the course and I’ll follow.”
His brown eyes studied the terrain and he knew I was right.
It took 45 minutes of back-and-forth before Paul gave in to reason. He insisted on spending yet another half-hour of “review” to go over how to steer, how far to lean, and what to do if I hit a rock.
It seems to me, in the rapids you don’t steer as much you “influence” direction. I did my best to follow Paul, but there were times when the river would rise up, deflect off a boulder and pitch him one way and me another. For a while, I even led Paul, until he shot past me with a “yee-haw” on the com line. You become part of the torrent, a cork with a rudder, dipping and rising, slaloming a zigzag course downstream. Some waves we rode, some we flew over and others we pierced directly through.
I’ll admit, after the last stretch of white water, I was feeling a bit overconfident. As it neared the sea, the Arno widened out, lazy and flat. For the first time in two days, we had to paddle to keep up speed. We glided across a mirrored surface two miles wide. Our less frenetic pace gave us a chance to do a bit of sightseeing. To stop and smell the bird shit.
“There must be 10 million ducks and geese here,” Paul said.
“And pelicans, cormorants, coots, gulls, penguins, frigate birds, shearwaters and swans,” I said. His guess of 10 million was no exaggeration. It may have even been conservative. “Look a
t the snake over there.”
Paul swung his kayak to drift parallel to the black and gold reptile as it gracefully whip-corded across the water’s surface.
“Nice coloration,” he said. “Must be 12 feet long.”
“Don’t get so close,” I whined. So, of course, he had to touch its tail with his hand. The snake took one look back and dove immediately underwater.
“We saw one of those snakes trailing a bunch of babies that first day on the Garonne,” Paul said. “Up in Bordeaux, maybe an hour before the waves hit. An eagle had knocked one of the boys overboard and he was hanging over the bow of the sergeant’s kayak. The snakes scared him right back into his boat. Like he had wings.
“All this wildlife, it reminds me of that day. Remember? The herds were on the move, and the riverbanks were crawling with more animals than any of us had ever imagined.”
“It’s a day impossible to forget. Bittersweet. The Team’s down to just us four now. I wonder how Jones is doing.”
“Why don’t we cruise along the shoreline? Do you think we’ll see him and the clan?”
“Maybe, but with such swampy ground, this place must be swarming with bugs at night. My bet is, they’ll head for the coast, or cut inland to higher ground. We should reach the sea pretty soon, probably hook up with them there, like we planned.”
The Arno’s banks offered scenes worthy of oil paintings or photos on The National Geographic Webmagazine. Even for Paul and me, who have had nearly a year to become accustomed to the wildlife inhabiting this pristine world, the river’s enormous bounty was beyond comprehension.
Besides the waterfowl, snakes, turtles, dragonflies, otters, muskrats, fish, seals and sea lions we recognized, the Arno’s marshy banks teemed with other countless mammals, amphibians and birds we had never seen before.
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