Wind, weather and the population of the coastlands pretty much set our schedule. If it was blustery and rough, we stayed ashore, hiking the inland hills or finding a dry safe spot to hunker down and relax. When the sea was flat and calm, we could, and did, paddle 20 to 40 miles of coastline in a day. Mostly, we rose early, launched at sunrise and poked along northward until the breeze picked up. Taking our time, paddling along cragged sea cliffs, snooping in and out of bays, and swimming in aqua-blue coves.
On the Riviera de Levante, we camped for three naked days on a white sand beach I bet has never been seen by man. Our vacation. We had passed the white marble cliffs of Carrara and were stroking north on a sunny afternoon, about a half mile off the coast, sightseeing, when Maria spotted a dark crack in the face of the cliff. Every few seconds, light would sparkle from inside the crack to light up its sides.
“Is it a cave?” she asked. “Let’s go see.”
I love that about this woman. Maria is always so curious about what’s going on around her. Dr. Duarte does not drift through this world daydreaming.
The crack turned out to be a narrow channel about 10 feet wide. It was flanked on both sides by sheer rock walls about 300 feet tall. They curved gently to the right to disappear into the rock hillside.
“It must end somewhere,” I said. “You want to see, don’t you?”
“Need you ask?”
“I’ll lead.”
I studied the sea behind us, looking for waves, hoping a rogue wouldn’t sweep in to catch us in a bad spot. Nothing but flat water. The sound of our strokes echoed off sheer, vertical walls plastered with mud bird nests and hanging bats. We passed through the gloom, toward increasingly brighter light, to paddle into a circular bay about 75 yards in diameter. Its crystal blue water was at least 100 feet deep at the channel end, and shelved upward to a white, crushed shell beach on the far shore. Black outlines of fish, rays and sea turtles filled the waters beneath us as we paddled to the beach.
A roof of sparkling granite cantilevered over the sand to shade it from the afternoon sun. It also protected us from a cold rainstorm that blew off the mountains on our second night. We built a raging fire out of driftwood and made love in the firelight as a curtain of rainwater dripped into the waters just offshore.
The bay was where I figured out how to rig up one of Martinelli’s bone fish hooks with feathers and a length of twine. The feathers attract attention, but more importantly, protect the line from the sharp teeth of fish. Lost two hooks right off the bat before I figured it out.
I lash a pair of feathers along the line and over the hook to make it look like something, it doesn’t take much, then paddle my boat out to a promising spot for trolling. Toss it overboard, paddle around for a while, and never fail to get a bite. The key is to keep the tail end of the line fastened to the kayak, or you might get your arm jerked out of its socket. Some of these guys are real fighters.
When we’re on the move, I only troll near the end of the day. It usually only takes a few minutes to hook up. I work along the rocks and all of a sudden, a streak of silver will dart up from the bottom and hit the lure. Fish have stolen four hooks, but I have replaced two with ones carved from pieces of ivory from Malmud’s stash. New and improved.
The coast is also thick with octopus, lobster, crab, shrimp and scallops. We’ve been eating like royalty.
Maria put together an awesome bouillabaisse for our final night in the bay. Simmered in one of Martinelli’s leather cook bags, she had lobsters, clams, shrimp and seaweed gathered from the bay, along with greens plucked from the hillside, all cooked in a sauce made from wild onions, garlic, herbs, diced dates and sea salt.
We lay back after the meal, gazing through a circular view of the star-filled night and its quarter moon.
“Do you think we’re the first people to see this place?”
Maria thought it over for a few seconds.
“We may be the only two people to ever see it.”
“Why’s that? Someone around here will eventually invent a log canoe or something. Somebody’s bound to find it.”
“Maybe. All I know is, when I visit Cinque Terre in 32,000 years, there will be no place which looks even remotely like this. We’re sitting on a volcanic vent. Notice how round this bay is? One day, maybe soon, these walls will be blown to kingdom come. I’m pretty sure this will be where one of the Five Sisters, the five hill towns of Cinque Terre, will be built. Vernazza would be my guess. It had a natural harbor which was round like this bay. We’ll know tomorrow.”
“How so?”
“If Neanderthal Beach is right around the corner, a few miles up the coast, then this is Vernazza.”
A swell kicked up overnight to add some excitement to our exit through the channel the next morning. We waited for set after set of waves to rumble through before I timed a brief lull to ride out with the returning surge. Picking up speed as I curved through the narrow canyon, I popped out just as another set was arriving.
“Stay put, do not go now,” I shouted over the com line as I met the first wave head on, knifing through the top. One after another, the waves thundered behind me, smashing into the rocks, funneling through the channel with a frothy river of white water. Either the swell was growing, or I had misjudged its power from inside the bay. I floated offshore for a good 20 minutes before another window of opportunity presented itself.
“Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“After this wave comes through, you go. OK, it should be passing right about now. Paddle, babe. Paddle hard!”
On the horizon, a series of bumps showed another big set was on its way. My head swiveled back and forth from the crack in the cliff to the onrushing set.
“Go, babe, go!”
The leading wave was about 50 yards from shore when she darted out of the channel, paddling for all she was worth.
“Stroke, stroke, straight into it. Don’t turn. Take it head on!”
She disappeared for a few seconds and then the bow of her kayak breached the top of the wave to splash down on the back edge. She crested the top of two more waves, then paddled up beside me.
“My heart’s pounding,” she said.
“You did great.”
I silently cursed myself for putting her at such risk. We should have waited for the swell to die down. A day, two days? Who cares? Instead, we let a planned meeting with Jones rush us into a bad decision. Jones doesn’t mind if we’re late or don’t show up. I vowed then and there to make better choices.
Except for a few charred poles, we saw no sign of Malmud’s precious raft an hour later as we paddled the length of the long white sand beach.
“What do you think happened?” Maria asked.
“Looks like they were attacked.”
A flock of crows strutted the beach, picking over what was left of the dozens of bodies half-buried in the windblown sand. Bones and hair, bits of leather. We teamed up to pull the kayaks one at a time up out of the swell, then joined hands to walk around the destroyed Neanderthal camp of Monterosso al Mare.
“Do you think one of Martinelli’s patrols did this?”
“Could be. See the broken spear over there? That’s a Cro-Magnon flint.”
Broken skulls, smashed arm and leg bones. The Neanderthals had put up a fight. Their last stand appeared to be at the mouth of the main cave, where most of the bones were. We found some empty bundles and the rotting sealskin sails from Malmud’s raft. Everything was all torn up, left to the wind and sea.
We hadn’t been friends with the Neanderthals, in fact, on the day we landed, they seemed set on killing us. If Maria hadn’t acted so quickly, our bones would have beat their bones to the beach. But still, something about the massacre put us in melancholy moods that lasted for several days.
When the wind picked up, it was at our backs, pushing us north.
“Let’s keep going,” Maria said. “I don’t feel like stopping.”
“Me either.”
&nbs
p; We covered more than 20 miles that day. Two days later, we were following the coastline southwest toward France when we pulled in to a quiet bay at sunset to wait for Jones.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “You guys see many hostiles?”
Jones: “A few.”
Kaikane: “How you getting along with Tomon and his people?”
Jones: “They’re not sure what to make of me. See me as personal protector. Hauled their sorry asses out of trouble a few times. Now they expect it. Boys picked a fight with a band of Neanderthals up in the hills north of here. Refused to lift a finger. Watched those male Neanderthals just about rip them apart until Tomon organized an effective counterattack. Everybody assumed my atlatl would mow the Flat Heads down. For sport? Fuck that.”
Kaikane: “Bet it went over in a big way.”
Jones: “Two young bucks tried to call me out for not helping. Roundhouse kick followed by a back kick knocked them down spitting blood. They have learned to leave me alone. Found it’s best to communicate through Tomon.”
Kaikane: “Seemed like there was an extra woman or two traveling with the clan. You got a girlfriend yet?”
Jones: “You asking if I got laid?”
Kaikane: “Sure, why not?”
Jones: “None of your damn business. That’s why not.”
Kaikane: “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Jones: “Where we going?”
Kaikane: “Maria wants us to check out a den of snakes in this bay up ahead.”
Jones: “We gonna watch a movie on my computer?”
Kaikane: “Later, maybe. I hope so. I miss that stuff more than I thought I would.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Depression circles like a shark. Each pass closer. Close enough to feel the vibrations, to taste it. A bad one’s coming.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Look at her. Isn’t she the cutest thing you have ever seen?”
Kaikane: “Hybrid?”
Duarte: “Most certainly. See the difference in the skull, how it is rounded in shape? She stands more erect.”
Kaikane: “They are kind to her. Those Neanderthal cubs could break that girl in half if they had a mind to.”
Duarte: “Do you realize this is only our fourth hybrid since the burial service for Gray Beard’s wife? More than a year ago. Back then, I thought they might even be commonplace.”
Kaikane: “How do you suppose they got her?”
Duarte: “The usual way, I imagine. Gave birth. Gray Beard says sex between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon is not entirely unheard of. Some young Cro-Magnon make it a sport. A rite of passage.”
Kaikane: “Rape.”
Duarte: “Many times, yes. Leonglauix claims the Flat-Headed conquest of his youth was quite willing. He says he kept his eyes open the entire time, fearing she would bash his brains with a rock.”
Kaikane: “I thought we would see more Neanderthal.”
Duarte: “I did as well. It’s sad, isn’t it? We’re witnessing the extinction of a species.”
Kaikane: “Yeah, and our cousins are the ones knocking them down for the count. You ever think about that?”
Duarte: “I think about it all the time. There’s no love lost between the Green Turtles and Neanderthal. Gray Beard included. There is nothing we can do about it. Or should do about it. That’s just the way it is.”
Kaikane: “We never talked about the afternoon back at the beach.”
Duarte: “What afternoon?”
Kaikane: “You know what afternoon I’m talking about. The day we wiped out an entire clan. Remember?”
Duarte: “They were not Neanderthal.”
Kaikane: “So what? That was a bad day. We should talk about it. I worry about you.”
Duarte: “I’m not ready yet.”
Kaikane: “When are you going to be ready?”
Duarte: “I don’t know, I can’t even write about it.”
Kaikane: “Maybe it’s better if you don’t.”
Duarte: “That’s what Jones says. What kind of people are we?”
Kaikane: “That wasn’t us, babe. It couldn’t have been.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Leonglauix insists we wait through the night to let the Tattoos stew over their missing hunting party. Having moved into position about a kilometer upstream, we are close enough to see clouds of gray smoke rising from the riverside camp’s many cook fires. He says the clan will keep the fires stoked through the night. If you asked them why, he says they would tell you the fires were intended to light the way for the lost hunters. In reality, it is because they are afraid.
I know the feeling. Oddly enough, I worry not only about my personal safety. I fret Esther will slip away. She is not a base human Tattoo. She is a wily survivor, a rat who is far too smart to go down with a sinking ship. If we lose the witch, and she knows we are in pursuit, it could take years to find her again. How much trouble could Esther stir up in two years?
That is why Leonglauix and I are preparing our troops for a pre-dawn raid. We will rest while the Tattoos tire themselves with a hungry night of chanting, dancing and tooting on flutes. As the morning sun lights the eastern sky, we will sweep down like eagles to deliver our wrath.
It has been an evening of mental jousting. Should I use the suit? Should I not? Back and forth, the argument tugs at my brain as I struggle to update my notes on this area’s fauna, climate, human population, and one million other details which so occupy my limited time. Will anyone ever know, or care, that I saw a two-headed toad yesterday? It was bright red and must have weighed at least a half a kilo. With two functioning tongues to reel in flies, beetles and crayfish, it had grown to nearly twice the size of his non-birth-defected relatives.
For now, I have elected to leave the suit in my pack and face this danger as a man. Having witnessed Spc. Kaikane’s personal struggles in the aftermath of his night of slaughter, I think it is the proper course.
In the event I do not make it through alive, Dr. Duarte, please edit my notes with a hawk’s eye and tender hand.
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
History books do a less than adequate job capturing what a messy, stinking, pulse-hammering experience battle is. They list casualties and heroes, mistakes and turning points, but say little about the intensity of the emotions the participants feel. Combat is a rollercoaster of fear, hate, panic, rage, passion, heroics, and for the lucky few, exaltation. For others, it is darkness. The End. Combat is utter confusion interspersed with moments of absolute clarity. Kill or be killed. Is any human dilemma more basic? With life in the balance, glands discharging copious amounts of adrenaline to fuel our flights, the brain steps in and says, “FIGHT.” The rush is as powerful as any drug. Strong enough to make a pacifist loudly hum the prologue of Monteverdi’s “L’Orfeo” while a mist of blood and dislodged teeth splashes across his cheek.
Forgive me if I ramble. I do not imagine I have totaled more than 10 minutes of fitful sleep in the last 24 hours. It has been one hell of a day.
I sit in the dust at the mouth of a hillside cave listening to George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” for the fourth time in a row. Not the sort of music one generally considers sleep-inducing, however, it fits my tumultuous mood.
Leonglauix led us to this well-used camping spot at sunset. We are tucked under an overhanging strata of red sandstone formed by glacial erosion. The long, shallow cave, a groove at least a kilometer long scratched from the valley wall, sports numerous habitation sites, both Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon. During my twilight reconnaissance, I spied fire pits, stone working areas and more than a few cave paintings, both doodles and hand prints. Though threatening all day, the dreary skies were kind to hold off until we were snugly settled in. A solo clap of thunder signale
d the deluge to begin.
When I returned from my brief exploration, Gray Beard and his dog were curled up on a pile of dry ferns at the back of the cave fast asleep. Though the rest of our crew took a bit longer to wind down, it wasn’t long before they too were snoring and farting.
The foul aromas are not all that keep me awake. When I dare close my eyes, the battle rolls through my brain in an endless loop, a disjointed montage of bashed skulls and severed limbs, doomed men and women begging for mercy.
The tableau starts in the dark, as still-grieving Jok and his crew of six fighters prepare to set off on their silent march to the Tattoo camp. I studied each of their faces in the wan moonlight as we clasped forearms to bid farewell in the formal manner Cro-Magnons save for portentous leavings and comings. Intense, deep-set eyes, weathered faces, long hair pulled back with leather strings. Six men and one woman, thirsty for revenge. Jok’s surviving son kept his head ducked low as we patted him on the back. He tried hard not to let us see the tears rolling down his freckled cheeks.
Leonglauix gave them approximately one hour to get into position. We spent the time without conversation, gnawing leathery deer jerky and listening to the night animals going about their nocturnal business. With a tap on my shoulder, he motioned me down the riverbank to help nudge our pine log boat out into the swift current. Though we make similar launchings quite often, the bitch always fights the leash for a moment before she calms down. This time was no exception. Once she was stationed with her front legs over the log, it was a fairly uneventful, though certainly chilly, float downstream.
Emerging from the darkness of a steeply walled canyon, we spied the smoldering fires of the peninsula camp bobbing in the distance. As the current picked up speed in the shallows, we utilized powerful scissor kicks to keep the log about five meters from shore, directly on course for the peninsula’s upstream bank. The river fought hard to sweep us out and around the point. We kicked like demons to break free from its spell, and were finally spit out into a calm eddy rimmed with cattails, reeds and willow bushes.
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