Though well-trained, the fire overwhelmed the dog. Thrashing and kicking, she struggled to break free. Seeing they were about to fight to an impasse, I somehow found the courage to rush forward and grab the dog in a tight embrace and carry her out to safety.
It was in that state of disarray in which we stumbled from the cave to meet our new friends. Coughing, throwing myself to the ground, I was busy trying to fill my lungs with clean air when the father rushed forth to beat me over the head with his hat and snuff the flames in my hair. Somehow, we all escaped with nothing more than minor burns.
The father’s name was Jok. He pressed gourds of water to our lips and sent two of his boys to collect aloe for our sores. As his dialect was not very different than that of the Green Turtles, we were able to communicate rather freely. He said they were hunting pig when they saw our smoke. He explained they were members of a clan which had set up a semi-permanent camp in a wide valley two days march to the northwest. Jok offered to show us the camp, promising there were several unclaimed women we may want to inspect.
“What about the pigs you were hunting?” Gray Beard asked.
“Our valley has many pigs. We traveled far to avoid the women. They want us to help them pick berries.”
“Berry-picking is not so terrible of a job.”
“With my woman it is.”
Jok looked to his sons to confirm the statement. Both blue-eyed youth nodded quickly to validate his aspersions against the woman I assumed to be their mother.
“I have been trying to talk to this tree,” Gray Beard said with a sigh. “I promised its father I would pass on his stories.”
“I have never talked to a tree. Are you a shaman?”
“I am a storyteller.”
“A man who tells stories to trees, that is a new thing. You should meet my wife’s sister. She knows strange tales about worms and frogs. Our clan is tired of her stories. You two may enjoy them.”
I decided to drop a line into the water. “What about stories of the man named Lorenzo?”
All four men stood and bowed their heads. “Lord-enzo! The father, son and Holy Ghost! Lord-enzo is God.”
Delivered in perfect Italian, the words about knocked me from my feet.
“Parla Italiano?” The question was out of my mouth before I realized its stupidity. Of course he did not speak Italian.
Our interest was not lost on Jok. Peering out from beneath his fur hat, he shared a wry smile with his boys. They knew something we did not. With a little coaxing and four necklaces from Wallunda’s bag, he agreed to tell us his tale.
Jok adopted a solemn tone as he described an early morning attack and brief occupation by a powerful force of warriors led by a strange woman. When he stated his clan was overrun after the new moon, one of the sons interrupted to say it was just before the new moon. While they argued, I extracted my moon calendar to deduce that the night of the new moon was 15 days prior.
The discussion was settled when Jok removed his fur cap and harried his son a few times over the head.
Continuing with a huff, he said about the time of the new moon, a woman in a blue feather cape led a clan of fearsome warriors on a raid of their camp before daybreak. Knocking down tents and killing the two fools who dared resist, the invaders herded everyone to a clearing by the fire pit. The clan knelt in the wet grass while the invaders ransacked their belongings.
He said there were two hands of warriors, men who could see all things in every direction. They had eyes at their temples and at the backs of their necks. The intimidating killers also sported giant mouths and demonic cheeks dotted with red and black whorls.
The Tattoos are on the loose.
Jok said once the frightened clan was assembled, the woman in the cape chanted gibberish over them until sunrise. When she finally addressed them in trade dialect, she offered no apologies for the sudden attack, or for the deaths of the two brothers who were struck down merely because they emerged from their lean-tos with spears in their hands. She shouted that she was speaking on behalf of the greatest clan chief of all time, the Great Lord-enzo.
Jok said the woman made many extravagant claims concerning the power of this man. Besides glowing like the sun and disappearing into thin air, she said he could fly up to the stars and live forever. All worthy members who join his clan will be invited to join him where there is always food. She claimed it was a place where no one grows old or sick or dies after being kicked by a bison or struck down by an enemy.
Gray Beard held up a hand to interrupt. “What was the trade? What did she want?”
Jok shrugged his shoulders to confirm his suspicions. The age-old expression may not have been coined yet, but the meaning is already well understood. “You do not get something for nothing.”
For two days, the woman and her entourage of female helpers conducted services to drum home the words and teachings of Lord-enzo. Meanwhile, the Tattoos emptied the clan’s food stores and defiled its women.
“My wife, though she is clearly not worth fighting for, says she will never forgive me for not protecting her from the abuse. What were we to do? They took our weapons before we were awake. These men fought as no others. Working in teams, always protecting each other. Half the men stood guard while the other half had its fun.
“When they left, they took our dogs, two of our girls and three of the young men. Fools said they wanted to go.”
“Tell us about the blue cape,” Leonglauix ordered.
“Made of feathers from the necks of ground birds. Tiny. Many hands of many feathers. The cape must have been magnificent at one time. Fit for a great shaman. Now it is old, stained with mud and blood.”
I asked for the identity of the woman, though I already knew the answer. He said the woman’s name was Esther. She was headed west.
Leonglauix grasped Jok’s elbow.
“If you brought those men’s genitals back to your wife in a cook bag, would she forgive you then?”
“You think she wants to eat a mess like that?”
“No. Your woman will not feel safe until those men are dead. I know women. It will please her mightily if you and your sons help us kill them.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
For eight days, we have leapfrogged from one dazed and destitute camp to the next. Leonglauix leads a killing pace between stops. At those times when we wander upon survivors of a ruined camp, or find hungry refugees along the trail, he orders a full halt. Hunters are sent out to collect food while the old man and I render whatever medical services we are qualified to offer. We have been busy stitching wounds, setting broken bones and, though it has nothing to do with the Tattoos, pulling a lot of rotten teeth. (Actually, we don’t pull them, but rather, knock them free by rapping stones on the end of stick pressed tight against the offending molar or bicuspid.)
We see many old women and small children, people who are sick and wounded. Most clans weren’t smart or timid enough to surrender without a fight. I will say this for Lorenzo, he trained his troops well. The Tattoos have been mowing their undisciplined adversaries down like spring wheat.
By the time we pass the battlefields, carrion have flensed most into swaths of leather clothes, hair and crushed bones.
Esther can be counted on to leave behind a cross of some sort in each camp her warriors conquer. We have knocked down crosses made of antlers, crosses made of human bones and crosses made of porcupine quills.
Her craftsmanship leaves much to be desired. Truth be told, most of her efforts have sagged to the point where they resemble nothing like a crucifix. She does not bother to notch the crosspieces or lash the pieces together properly. Her knots tend to slip, or are tied with new leather which is easily gnawed away by small animals. The same can be said about the wooden crucifixes on the necklaces we see worn by some of the survivors. Having slipped their lashings, the relics most often appear to be two sticks hanging tangled, side by sid
e.
Lorenzo would never have stood for such shoddy work.
Piecing together the survivors’ tales, I have a good sense of who is traveling with Esther. Four witches, 10 Tattoo warriors and a growing entourage of neophytes, slatterns and hangers-on. The troops are most likely being led by one of Big Ears’ nephews, a nasty piece of work, about 17 years of age, named Kloick. I remember the boy from our travels, not as a leader, but for his fervent dedication to Lorenzo.
The lad relished his job as acolyte. It allowed him to punish sleepers and slackers during his master’s long sermons. Wielding a willow switch, stalking quietly around the congregation’s perimeter, he specialized in lightning-quick attacks. Many a whispered conversation was silenced by a sizzling whip of Kloick’s switch. One poor girl lost an eye.
As I was generally seated near the altar, facing the congregation along with others of the chosen few, I had a fine view of his exploits. Parishioners were ordered to keep their eyes forward, on Lord-enzo, at all times. Kloick and other acolytes hovered at the rear, poised to strike. Warning a friend, or waking a spouse, earned both parties a good thrashing.
And now Kloick was on the prowl with a squad of Tattoos of similar ilk. Hitler youth. Young and fervent, driven by testosterone and bravado. One cannot help but wonder how many other rogue bands have spun off from Lorenzo’s dysfunctional army. Perhaps Dr. Duarte is not unduly paranoid after all.
Asked many times, many different ways, Tomon and Gertie steadfastly estimated less than 20 loyal followers survived the night of the Americans’ attack and the subsequent slave rebellion.
They said Kaikane, kind and gentle Kaikane the surfer man, killed more than 40 warriors by himself. The power of a suit. The power of our training. The power of modern man in a prehistoric world. The power of a meteorite club.
Could I ever do such a thing? Forty warriors? My hunting trophies have progressed in the past weeks from rabbits to the leaping deer I laid low with a single throw of my spear yesterday afternoon. With men, however, it must be different. To slay someone, a human?
Leonglauix and Jok ranged far ahead today to locate the Tattoos where they have pitched camp on the inside bend of a medium-sized river. We are now bivouacked about two kilometers upstream. When I insisted Leonglauix take me close enough to view their site, he did not hesitate. He knows what I must do.
Against all of my better judgment, I will extract the long-neglected jumpsuit from my pack and make an evening reconnaissance into enemy territory. If we are to do battle with these troops on the morrow, how can I not take every advantage to probe for their weaknesses? If an opportunity to sever the head of this beast presents itself, will I be so bold to strike?
In the event I do not make it back alive, this trip has been a real slice of pizza pie. Cardinal Sellaro, thank you for nothing. Dr. Duarte, please take excellent care of my notes.
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
I think I now understand what cat burglars must feel as they slowly pull a diamond necklace from beneath a sleeping woman’s pillow. What is it about creeping around, putting one’s life in extreme peril, which makes you feel so bloody alive? Is it exhilarating because we cheat death, or because we live to tell the tale?
Without a word to Leonglauix, Jok or anyone else, I donned my suit and slipped away well before sunset. The long walk to Esther’s lair proved quite beneficial. It gave me a much-needed opportunity to acclimate myself to the jumpsuit’s electrical rush. The longer the interval between uses of this modern equipment, the more taxing it becomes. Though I often wear my helmet (camouflaged with fox fur and strands of ivory beads), I rarely activate it.
I now find it overwhelming to see everything, hear everything, zoom in, zoom out, to compare heat signatures, to have 100 different facts instantly available including wind velocity, distances, time, outside temperature, my temperature and heart rate. All controlled by thought. The volume controls remain flawed, forever creeping louder and louder to ratchet an informational deluge with no logical place in this world.
That is not to say the equipment does not have its strong points. Once I peeled the accoutrements from my helmet, I was well and truly invisible. Even hyenas failed to scent me as they slinked past me along the trail. Midway to the Tattoo camp, the first bout of nausea forced me to doff the helmet and vomit.
At the sound of rustling nearby, I crammed the helmet on and staggered against the trunk of an elm as a male cave lion padded from the trees. Lit by slanting rays of the afternoon sun, the cat’s tawny coat showed a thin overcoat of long red hairs. Muscles rippling, nostrils flaring as it scented the air, the beast quickly located my regurgitated lunch of jerked meat, young nettles and a caterpillar. Giving the pile a good sniff, the puzzled lion circled the spot twice, even sat back to gaze up into the trees. His mind was easily read. “How did this get here without a trail?” I stood stock still, heart pounding, as his tail twitched to lash once, twice against my armored thigh. Something about the sound or the feel caused the cat to turn swiftly and fix its steady gaze upon me.
Of such giant size, the cave lion was every bit as tall as me. I was eye to eye with that killer and, thankfully, he thought he was eye to tree. The suit did its job. After five seconds that seemed an eternity, the cat turned to give my vomit one last sniff, then trotted back in the same direction from which he arrived.
Though heart-pounding, the close call instilled me with more confidence than ever in the jumpsuit. If a lion failed to smell or see me from two meters away, I reasoned the Cro-Magnons wouldn’t either, especially in the dark, and with the river masking all but the loudest sounds.
Edging through tall pines at the top of the riverbank, I followed the glow of fires, sounds of human voices and barking dogs to find the Tattoo party gathered on a scrubby, tongue-shaped peninsula of pebbles and sand and driftwood. The natives formed a loose semi-circle around Esther as she conducted her version of evening vespers. Whirling a native dance which caused her mottled blue cape to swing wide from her nude, sinewy frame, she repeated the same words in Italian, over and over. “Lord-enzo! The Father, Son and Holy Ghost! Lord-enzo is God.”
Off to the side, four witches snapped flaming sticks against the feet of two women rolled tightly in deer skins. The penne pasta lives on. Just as I was about to rush down and halt the torture, the victims were ceremoniously unrolled and lifted to stand on their aching feet. Everybody had a good laugh as the women lurched to the river to dunk their scorched paws.
Taking a seat in a patch of ferns at the edge of the firelight, I struggled to control the rage building within me. Did these demented souls enjoy my suffering so much they made it part of their nightly ritual?
Esther raised her hands for silence. Amidst jabbering and laughing, it was slow in coming. Finally, Kloick stood to shake his spear and glare. Once she had absolute quiet, Esther shouted, “Salvatore Bolzano!”
“Son of God, Son of Lorenzo,” came the crowd’s reply in butchered Italian. That punch to the solar plexus was quickly followed by another. As the service concluded, Esther joined the witches in a clearly recognizable first verse of “La Donna è Mobile.” The fools had memorized both Verdi’s rhythm and his words. The sounds of them at least. What have I done?
Self-recrimination is good for a person. As one who has made several, quite grand missteps in his life, I can vouch for the power of facing up to your mistakes. I sat there, ears burning, while my mind flip-flopped between spying on my enemies and beating myself up for my sins. It had been so much easier to blame everything on Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli.
There was a period of time when Esther and I had shared a two-bedroom tent in more-or-less harmony. Living above the seaside pond in Nice, there were many nights I lay on my bed of furs listening to her snores through the leather wall. She had been new to Lorenzo’s campaign back then, a healer and crafty trader Lorenzo lured away from a den of witches up in the hills.
Though it was her duty to keep an eye on my activities, Esther proved to be rather lax in her role as jailer. She did her thing and was generally content to let me do mine. The thought never occurred to me, as I was scooting off to go drinking and playing music with my friends, that she could rob Lorenzo blind and frame me for the crime. I stole a small bag of items. Judging by what remained in Lorenzo’s kayak, she must have taken much more. I realized this fact on my third day on the cross. Her rise in Lorenzo’s hierarchy was a mirror image of my fall.
And now, here she was, leaping about the beach, leading a tribe of bandits in the quest for more plunder. The Tattoos had pitched their camp in an easily defensible circle. Between the circle and the river was the clan’s herd of 48 pack dogs, a veritable fortune by Cro-Magnon standards. Tethered to stout bushes and driftwood trees with braided leather cords, the valuable dogs howled as the Tattoos began distributing leftovers from the night’s meal of roasted horse and goats.
The nausea caused by my suit had passed, only to be replaced by a growing anxiety. The guttural Tattoo dialect and familiar faces brought back many loathsome memories. Seeing the penne pasta in action had been particularly unnerving. Despite the discomfort, I forced myself to remain in place long enough to conduct a firm assessment of the clan’s fighting capabilities.
They will not be easy to surprise, for they continue to maintain Lorenzo’s diligence for security. Following protocols learned at Lorenzo’s knee, Kloick has divided his group into three squads. Each squad contains three Tattoo warriors, one witch and an equal share of whoever is left. They rotate in shifts about four hours in length. One squad, perhaps 12 people, performs guard duty, while one cooks, hunts and does chores and the third rests. The tactics are straight from Martinelli’s manual.
The clan numbers at a tad less than 40. I counted 19 fighting men and older boys and 11 Tattoo women. The wenches cannot be discounted, for their lust for bloody mayhem is as strong as the men’s. The troops are well-armed with spears, clubs, throwing stones and flint knives. Full-fledged Tattoos carry the short stabbing spears their master based on Shaka Zulu’s design.
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