Skimming quietly along in a kayak, you get a clear view of sights you miss on the trail, especially if your Cro-Magnon traveling partner toots on a flute every five minutes. Gray Beard would love to see this. He could probably tell us the name, habits and lore of each of these species.
“What’s that noise?” Paul motioned me to stop paddling. “Listen.” From downstream, there came a trumpeting, like an elephant. As we drew closer, the shouts of humans on the hunt carried through the muggy afternoon air.
We rounded a marshy point choked with willows and cattails, to behold an amazing sight. A squad of short, dark men and women, all nude, were doing battle with the oddest-looking animal I have ever seen.
“Is it a hippo?” Paul asked. “It’s huge.”
“I’m not sure what it is. Oh, look, they’re after the baby.”
Amid much shouting and barking dogs along the muddy shore, a clan of 14 Cro-Magnon was engaged in an organized, concerted effort to rob a mother of its child. They had managed to get a pair of ropes around the juvenile’s back legs. Half of the hunting party was attempting to drag the thousand-pound youngster into the brush. The other half was having a whale of a time trying to hold the giant mother at bay.
The animal did bear resemblance to a hippopotamus, except for the density of the brown fur covering its body, its fat beaver-like tail, and the twin breathing periscopes which extended like trumpets from the tip of its head. My guess is the species is a giant member of the rodent family. Or, perhaps, a marsupial.
In the water, the mother was lightning-quick. Thrashing her tail to propel herself forward at great speed, she built up enough momentum to slide her body completely up on shore. Pivoting on her arched belly, she turned to swat at the men with her flat, powerful tail.
The Cro-Magnons scampered out of range, then fired spears and rocks at the mother until she used her short, crocodile-like legs to waddle back into the river. Once she was underwater, with only the twin periscopes visible, she swam off-shore for another run at the beach. Meanwhile, the whole clan pitched in to muscle the baby over the bank and into the brush. Bellowing protest from its pint-sized periscopes, the wide-eyed juvenile made no move to defend itself. I’m still not sure if the people were after food or a new pet.
With a whoosh of river water, the mother exploded onto the beach to find it deserted. Trumpeting and bellowing, casting her massive head about to scan the shoreline, she was a sorrowful sight. We paddled against the gentle current to hold a position about 75 feet from shore.
This species is like nothing we have seen or read about. It looks like a cross between a sea lion and a massive beaver. I estimate the mother’s weight to be five to six tons. The tail has no hair, is horizontally flat, about a foot thick, seven feet long and three feet wide.
Judging by its teeth, which look much like a hippo’s, this animal is most likely an herbivore. Perhaps an omnivore. Peg-like lower tusks are 18 inches long and five inches in diameter, the tops are 12 inches long and just as stout. Her breathing periscopes are about three feet long and spaced about a foot apart on the skull. They taper away from each other in a V-shape. The fur is dark brown and very dense. Perhaps the reason the people didn’t spear the baby was to preserve the animal’s pelt. The mother continues her mournful cries on the beach.
“Hey, check it out.” Paul interrupted my audio note-taking as he pointed to the beach. The clan was shouting again. “Lamallar, lamallar, lammmmmmallar,” drawing closer to the beach and the wailing momma.
With a crash, the baby burst through the brush. Men and women dug their heels in, hauled back on ropes to check its progress. Two brave, grimacing souls clung to the animal’s back. They fought a pitched battle of tug of war for nearly a minute. It looked like the Cro-Magnons would stop the retreat, the bleating baby appeared to be tiring, until it bunched its muscles for one last quivering jump that bucked the men from its back. The two natives flipped high in the air before landing roughly and rolling ass over teacups down the bank.
For an animal of such immense size, the mother’s quickness was startling. She pivoted her body in a flash to hammer one fallen man with her mighty tail. One crushing smack and she swiveled to take aim at her next victim, a quick-thinking man who rolled out of range in the last instant.
The baby managed to get two front legs over the crest, then tugged free to slide down the muddy bank on its belly. Mother and baby made a beeline for the water and disappeared together into the muddy current. We watched for more than a minute before their periscopes surfaced off a point of willows, some 200 yards away.
On shore, another heart-wrenching scene unfolded. A woman and several children knelt by the dead man’s body. No crying, no keening. They stroked his hair and used their hands to wipe mud from his face. The rest of the clan silently watched, many wiping away tears as they lined the bank.
These people have a distinctive appearance which sets them apart from other Cro-Magnon we have encountered. They are darker, with features of an oriental flavor. Flatter faces, heavily-lidded eyes, shorter and stouter. Jet black hair on every head. Overall, they seem well-fed and healthy, except for the numerous bug bites which cover their bodies.
Though their language is unintelligible, many of their hand signs are similar to the ones Gray Beard has taught us. Their verbal communication is clipped and rather high-pitched. I think they called the giant beast a “lamallar” and the dead man “Kragolk.”
No one wore a cross around their neck. Not one of them genuflected or made any other motions pantomiming Martinelli’s teachings. Sal said Lorenzo loved to see his people steeple their hands in front of their foreheads and pray. There was none of that.
We pushed off into the current, paddling side by side under a sunny Tuscan afternoon slowly giving way to a band of gray clouds moving in from the north.
“It’s so sad. That poor woman and kids.”
“Like you say, life comes at you fast in the Pleistocene.”
“What do you think they were going to do with the baby?”
“Once they got it up on the bank, they could have killed it or hamstrung it easy. They wanted the little critter alive and able to walk.”
“A pet?”
“Maybe. Maybe they wanted to take him home to fatten him up, or they didn’t want to carry all the meat when he could walk his own fat butt back to camp.”
“Do you think it meant to knock those men down?”
“How to tell? He seemed pretty passive, didn’t try to bite anyone, just determined to get back to the river. The mother was the one out for blood.”
“Have you seen these animals before?”
“I spotted a few of those horns sticking out of the water when the river widened. First time for me. I thought they were pink reeds or flowers. So tell me, what are you going to name this new species, frau doctor?”
“I was thinking about ‘Lamallarus kragolkus.’”
“Where you come up with this stuff, I’ll never know.”
After a few more miles of wide and flat going, the river abruptly changed its demeanor once again. A band of rocky strata, hard white marble and tough granite threw up a barrier along the coast. Resisting erosion far better than the loamy plain, the rocky zone forced the Arno to spend its last few miles rushing through a warren of narrow channels, rivulets and islands.
Paul and I were paddling about 20 feet apart when we became separated. The current was picking up force as we passed on opposite sides of an immense boulder. My intention was to turn in behind Paul once we passed the giant stone, but there were other rocks and then the point of an island. He waved goodbye as he disappeared from view.
My channel quickly narrowed, then held steady at about 15 feet wide. Deep water sluicing fast through a cut of solid rock. I navigated through the course like a bobsled driver, banking through the turns, picking up speed through the straights. I emerged into a small lake, with no Paul in sight. A sudden boom of thunder, not too far off in the distance, set my nerves on edge.
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br /> No answers over the static-filled com line as I tried over and over to hail Paul. Giving up on the radio, I followed the current to the far end of the lake where it emptied into a fast-running brook. It was shallow in places. The bottom of the kayak groaned over several mossy rocks. The brook joined with another and then another. I found myself once again in a fast-running, deep channel, this time about 20 feet wide. Pine trees streaked by on both sides. I risked a look to the sky to see storm clouds gathering, blocking out the setting sun.
As I rounded a narrow turn in the stream, I had less than three seconds to react to a tree fallen across the width of the channel. Its trunk rested horizontally about a foot above water level. The nose of the kayak passed cleanly underneath the log. I put my hands out to cushion the blow as the tree caught me directly across the midsection. The current pinned my stomach against the trunk. My only hope was to push myself slowly backwards and then try to duck underneath.
Using all of my strength, I slowly pushed myself an arm’s length away. In doing so, I must have presented the kayak’s broadside to the current. In less than a heartbeat, the kayak flipped, tossing me in the drink. Ice cold water leaked through the neck of my suit as I hurtled downstream. The kayak bounced in the current directly in front of me. A few quick strokes and I was able to get an arm over the boat and turn it straight to keep from smashing its nose against white marble walls.
Banging my knees, I tumbled through a series of little waterfalls. There was no shore to haul out on, and no rocks to cling to. My only choice was to stick with the boat. The paddle was gone. It had been leashed to the kayak, but the length of braided seal skin must have snapped.
Where a pair of channels merged, a giant, sucking whirlpool formed just off the point of the Y. My breaths came in horrified little gasps as I passed close enough to look down inside the deep-green funnel. Once clear, I angled the kayak toward a gravel beach, scissor-kicking with jumpsuit legs rapidly filling with water. I must have carried 20 pounds of river with me onto shore. I laid down with my head below my feet to let it all run out. Most of it at least. I was lying there on my stomach when I looked up to see the paddle headed my way. Without thinking, I dove into the current to make a wild grab. I missed twice before my fingers closed around the shaft. I hauled out a good 80 yards downstream from the beached kayak. It was a hellish journey back, climbing over slippery boulders, through waist-deep current and along a narrow ledge.
My adrenaline was pumping so fast by the time I reached the kayak, I didn’t even stop to rest. The moment the water was drained from my jumpsuit, I positioned the boat at the water’s edge, jumped in and let the current sweep me away. The river channel snaked through low dunes and boulders for another 30 minutes. At one point, I was paddling down the middle of the narrow river when a thick bolt of lightning sizzled down to strike with a deafening boom not more than 85 feet in front of the boat.
That was just about it for me. I beached the kayak amongst weeds on the muddy shore and stood there shaking in the gathering dark and falling rain. Scared, alone, a nervous wreck. It lasted for a minute or two. I began to feel foolish. I asked myself what would Paul do? Jones? Gray Beard? I doubted they would haul out to cry. I forced myself back in the kayak and back out into the current. I paddled for another mile before the river finally terminated at the sea.
“There you are!” Paul’s tone over the com line was relieved, but also light. He had probably made it with no difficulties and assumed I had done the same. “I was starting to worry about you,” he said as he paddled alongside. “Jones and the clan are camped over there, why don’t we go over to this side, out of sight? I need to bail out my boat. Flipped twice and it’s full of water. A seal must have leaked. That was some spooky shit.”
“It sure was.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “I wouldn’t take it personal.”
Duarte: “It’s not you they hate.”
Jones: “Just sayin’, be best if ya give ’em a wide berth.”
Duarte: “We’re members of the clan.”
Jones: “This new version, not so much.”
Duarte: “How does Tomon tell the story?”
Jones: “Does all right. The first group we spent the night with, along the river, few of their boys had been spying on Martinelli’s patrols for weeks. Seen him and Wallunda wink from view a couple times. Tomon did his best to cut Martinelli off at the knees. Said he was a bad man from a bad clan.”
Duarte: “Did he persuade them?”
Jones: “How would I know? I suppose. Later on, a few from this new bunch had their heads together with those two boys who did the spying.”
Duarte: “What did you do?”
Jones: “Punched our guys upside the head.”
Duarte: “Really?”
Jones: “All I could think of. Told ’em Lorenzo’s shit was a family secret.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Hooked up with Duarte and Kaikane tonight for dinner and a movie. Thumb Day. Fourth time we have met. Have a routine. I get clan settled in, make sure the area’s secure, then disappear for a day. Twice Duarte and Kaikane cooked a big meal. Had it ready when I wandered in after sunset. Twice took me on searches for renegades from Martinelli’s army. One a wild goose chase, one a bloody skirmish that reminded me of a bad day in Ottawa. When the killin’ goes on long after the fightin’s stopped.
Kaikane and Duarte sleep while I twiddle on the computer. Those two are not welcome with the clan. Tried to join the party while we were camped on beach above the mouth of the Arno. Near disaster. Every man hot to bed Duarte. Following her every move with their eyes. Every woman ready to stab her in the gut.
Tomon pulled me aside next day, said having Duarte in camp causes trouble. Said the people were wild, had lost their manners. I told her and she didn’t like it. Knew it was true though.
The two lovebirds keep to themselves. They paddle ahead and find a good place to locate two Thumb Camps–one for the three of us, and one for the clan. They have the timing down pretty good. About an hour before sunset, I’ll duck into the forest to call them on the com line.
They tell me where to find the clan’s camp. Firewood is always set up. Usually a deer or other game hangs from a tree. I lead the clan in and they think I’m a hero. Wonder how I do it.
Duarte and Kaikane make their camp a few bays down the trail. Smells of a campfire and well-cooked food, voices speaking English, lead me down to their spot. Civilization.
Now understand what Gray Beard meant about his clan wearing him out. Always pounding on their drums, playing high-pitched flutes, fighting and fucking around.
They have regained their strength, settled into a mile-eating pace that don’t quite match the old man’s, but isn’t bad. Four days on the march, 10-15 miles each day, depending on terrain, then one Thumb Day for rest.
Reached northernmost portion of the Italian coast two days ago. Now track shore southwest toward Nice. Lots of up and down, swinging inland around crystal bays full of tuna and dolphin. Easy navigating. Rocky hills and trees, views of snow-capped mountains always to the right. North. To the left, south, is the bright blue sea.
Clan almost walked into a bloody trap in the hills a few miles north of where the town of La Spezia will be. Was out on point about a half-mile ahead of the Turtles. Spotted movement in trees. Circled wide uphill. Remnants of Tattoo dog patrol, eight men, set up for ambush. Situated in high ground above trail where it wound through a narrow gorge. Patrol was split in half, set up on both sides of the ravine.
Too late to warn Tomon and his people. Crawled to a grouping of rocks where I could cover both enemy positions. Drums and flutes getting louder through the trees. Tattoo warriors well-trained, patient. Waiting for the clan to march right under their position.
Near-side target demanded tricky shot, almost straight down. As Turtles came into sight, I launched one long, blind shot at far po
sition to gauge the distance, then moved up on rocks to pour bolts down into warriors below. Six bolts, all four dead.
Tomon and his crew heard the fighting, abandoned their packs and hit the trees for cover. Warriors on far side heaved a couple spears my way as I retrieved my bolts. Spears fell far short. Their time would have been better spent running.
They showed no respect for my range, stayed on their ledge above, hurling insults, launching spears and rocks as Tomon and the young men tried to advance. I found a flat area, stuck seven bolts in a line in the dirt, nocked one, took aim, stepped forward and fired. Took two misses to find correct trajectory. Last five bolts landed one after another into their position.
One warrior escaped. Tomon and his bucks spent a day tracking him down. Brought back his bloody foot as trophy. While they were gone, women and I found the dogs. Fifteen of them tied up in rough camp a mile inland. Clan could not be happier. Called immediate feast day to eat patrol’s food, sort through its possessions.
Clan now travels with lighter step. Dogs carry most belongings and trade goods in twin packs strapped over their backs. One dog’s assigned to me. He totes my computer and a few things pulled from Kaikane’s kayak.
The fight got me thinking about the old man. He would have enjoyed the battle. As snakes go, those vipers were fit for stomping. Was our seventh interaction with Cro-Magnon this trip, second hostile. We do more feasting than fighting.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “This is Corporal Salvatore Bolzano reporting from the fertile banks of the Secchia River. I am guessing it is the Secchia. We cross, on average, a dozen rivers and streams a day. I have not consulted my computer maps for ages. Call it a hunch. Or wishful thinking.
“I remember these hills, or think I do. They transport me back to days of my youth, blue-sky afternoons spent wandering the dry riverbed of the Secchia where it passed my cousin Stefano’s home. We had great times leaping from rock to rock, seeing how far we could hike into the hills and still make the return home by dark. During storms, the river might have run a little bit, but not much. Nearly every drop of water was harvested far upstream. What a different world that was.
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