Bolzano: “New York wines were some of the best. The problem is, we will never find time to ferment any. Do you not understand? Industrious Doctor Duarte is intent on exploring it all. She will not stop until we have ranged the continent and stood upon the shores of California.”
Jones: “Fair assessment.”
Bolzano: “Father says the Americas are ruled by saber-toothed cats, giant wolf packs and cranky mastodons.”
Jones: “What about women?”
Bolzano: “What women?”
Jones: “Exactly.”
Bolzano: “Now you get my point! I am going to miss meeting new people, sharing stories, making love to pretty madonnas. What about Flower, does she know you will be leaving?”
Jones: “No, and don’t you fucking tell her.”
Bolzano: “My lips are sealed. More wine?”
Jones: “A little.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Too hot to hold a meeting on the hill. Left Gray Beard to hang out at my place while the four of us paddled to the coast. Did the early morning thing, turned south from the Tiber in the dark, stroked to a private little bay we use not too far away. A tall ring of cliffs keeps natives and wolves out. As usual, we squared away the campsite and meal first, waited until after breakfast to hold the meeting. This crew relates better on a full stomach.
Probably took an hour to build a fire in the middle of the pebble beach, shoo away the puffins and seals, scrape the guano out of the sea cave and collect our grub. Bird eggs and king crab, thimbleberries and mint leaves. Kaikane caught a big mackerel trolling on our way south. It was filleted and hung over a smaller fire to smoke for supper.
Day was gonna be another scorcher. We plated up and retreated to the top of the beach to sit on the sandy floor of the damp cave. If you don’t mind bird shit or bat nests, it’s not a bad place to cool down.
Surprised me when Kaikane spoke first. He usually sits back and lets Duarte get briefings going. Sounded like she had been coaching him. Or maybe he takes this ship’s captain thing extra serious. Told us about a new hole in the boat, how none of the crap they treat the hulls with keeps the bugs out for long.
Sad news. We’ve had some good times, seen some cool shit from that boat. Even in high seas, like both times we rounded the tip of Africa, I never felt afraid. Kaikane told us how fucked up the canoe was, then made his case why we should sail for the states before it’s too late.
“What about my father?” Bolzano beat me to the question.
I expected Duarte to weigh in, but it was her husband who said, “He’s never been gone this long. You guys ever consider he might not be coming back? Sal, wasn’t he pissed at you when he took off?”
“Father is always a bit peeved with me. It has never prevented him from returning, and I do not expect it to this time.”
Figured I ought to say something to back Sal up, so I pointed out how Team regulations forbid abandoning a living Team member. Said Hunter may be a prick, but he has also helped through the years. His guns could come in handy in the Americas.
Again, I was ready for Duarte to chime in, but she held her tongue. Sal noticed too. “Maria, are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.”
Kaikane went on to say he plugged the new hole with cement made from crushed coral, but he won’t know if it holds until he gets back to the island.
“We just passed the summer solstice,” the Hawaiian said. “I wouldn’t want to cross in mid-summer anyway. Winds will be sketchy. Best time will be in about two months, no later than three. Hopefully Hunter will be back by then, and hopefully he’ll be willing to join us.”
I threw out maybe we should go looking for him. We kicked that around for a while, but decided he moves so fast we’re better off staying home.
“Gray Beard says he expects Hunter back soon,” Duarte said. “He feels him coming or something.” She put her head in her hands for a while then continued, “I move that we table this discussion for one month, until our next full moon meeting. If Hunter is not back by then, we will hold a vote on whether to leave without him on August 1.”
“There is a motion on the floor,” Kaikane said. “Can I get a second?”
I flicked my hand to second and the vote carried 3-0, with Sal abstaining. Kaikane kept the ball rolling.
“Let’s move on to agenda item number two,” he said.
Didn’t know there was a second item, but wasn’t surprised when he addressed my plan to move Flower to the hill. I saw Sal and Duarte with their heads together during the paddle over. He must’ve told her. Fucking Italian couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. At least not somebody else’s secret. I’m sure he keeps his own secrets just fine. Son of a bitch.
I reckoned Duarte would piss and moan about the promises we made, but it was Kaikane who ragged me for breaking my oath. Easy for him to say, he’s got pretty Duarte all to himself on that fucking island.
Sal made a case for me, and it surprised me when Duarte took my side. Maybe she was thinking the same thing I was. Sal can get by with his music and booze and one-night stands, but not me. She knows that even though my last lover, Fralista, drove me crazy half the time, the other half wasn’t bad. Not saying I’m ready to get married. I like the company.
“Juniper,” Duarte started. Like my grandma, when she uses your given name you know you are in trouble. “I understand. Flower is a nice person. During the brief time we have spent together, I have come to like her. I know that you will do your best to shield her from Salvatore’s modern intrusions like pottery, wine and fresh, cold-pressed olive oil. Both of you will need to change your ways when she is around. I’m also sure you both will do your best to keep her clan away from the Palatine, and if they do visit, they will have no idea of what goes on inside Sal’s miracle-producing cave.
“I have just one stipulation. Agree to this and I will voice no complaints about you and Flower living together. Are were clear?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“She’s not coming with us to America. And you will not jump ship or insist on staying behind because you’ve fallen in love. Agreed?”
We didn’t have a Bible handy, but I swore my oath and we moved on to making lunch. Paddling back upriver in the dark, I couldn’t help wondering, will I be able to keep that promise?
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Is that another one?”
Kaikane: “Yep. Bombs away!”
Duarte: “Look at him go! And stay out, you bastard!”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
It’s probably our hottest day on the island yet. With no clouds or wind to cool us, we wait for low tide so we can jump in the lagoon and take a swim. I count at least three mako sharks hunting my fish, but they’ll be gone soon. We throw stones to drive the long-finned suckers over the reef and hold them off until it gets too shallow to get back in. I’d already be swimming, but we’ve had some close calls with those sharks lately. I don’t want to freak out Maria.
She’s been working on a report all morning. I was on a break from oiling the canoe and was watching drops of sweat roll down her neck and disappear between her glistening boobs when she suggested I make better use of my time. I guess you could call us nudists. We pretty much never wear clothes or shoes around the island anymore, not since early summer. It’s too hot and uncomfortable in leathers. We have some new mantles and robes of woven reeds, but they need a couple more months to get broken in. They’re scratchy.
All this sun and healthy living has turned my wife into a bronze goddess. Her smooth skin is so tan it glows. The whites of her eyes and beautiful smile shimmer like pearls. In this Stone Age world, we’re used to farmer’s tans, scratches and bug bites. We haven’t seen a mosquito in months, not since the last of the island’s standing water dried up. Now that there are dusty paths everywhere we want to go, we don’t get scratched up picking berries or walking up to
the crest of the central dune to watch a sunset together.
The filtration systems in our kayaks still turn seawater into drinking water. Even if the taste is a bit off, it’s a helluva lot better than paddling over to the mainland every other day to fill water skins. Decent water is getting harder to find over there. The natives have overrun all of our “secret” springs along the coast.
Maria says it has been 173 days since the last rain, and that was only a drizzle. The pines have a silvery-gray, withered look, like they suffer the heat just as much as we do.
Hold that thought. I was about to call over to Maria, tell her it was time to start chucking rocks at the makos when she turned and caught my eye with a sultry look I do not see often enough. She’s walking this way, untying her long mane.
Aloha for now.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “I wish we had rubber gloves.”
Kaikane: “How about ventilator masks?”
Duarte: “We could wear our suits.”
Kaikane: “Nah, it’s not that bad.”
Duarte: “You may have to accept it cannot be done. It may be impossible to preserve wood in a sea environment at this time in history.”
Kaikane: “What?”
Duarte: “Think about it. There must be millions of tons of organic material coming to the sea every year from the Tiber and neighboring rivers, at least in a normal year. Add up all the rivers and streams and coastal erosion around the Med and you’d think it would be choked with trees, sticks and leaves. Sure, most beaches are covered in driftwood, but not as much as you would expect.”
Kaikane: “And most of the stuff is full of wormholes and turning powdery.”
Duarte: “Exactly.”
Kaikane: “You’re saying that since there’s lots of wood floating in the water and washed up on the beaches there’s more critters to chew it up.”
Duarte: “Nature balancing things out. It always does and always will.”
Kaikane: “Maybe out in the middle of the Atlantic it won’t be so bad.”
Duarte: “Maybe.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner
(English translation)
You readers are lucky I am alive.
Hours have lapsed and still my hands quiver like nervous Chihuahuas. Whether this palsy is the result of unspent adrenaline coursing through my veins, or because I need a goddamn drink as badly as any man will ever need a goddamn drink, I cannot say. Madonna mia! That was close.
Jones, Flower and I spent the sweltering afternoon collecting the makings for my special Roman jambalaya–crabs, shrimp, clams, spicy roots, greens, whatever was still alive in the rapidly desiccating swamp. As the wetlands dwindle and water oxygen levels spike, shorelines grow littered with dead pike, bream and perch. Here it is only mid-summer and these environs are drier than anyone, even the oldest local, has ever experienced.
Caked with dried mud, bone-weary and nearing heat stroke as we climbed Palatine Hill, all I wanted to do was soak in the shallow depths of my personal stream. Upon reaching the patio, Jones helped me hang the collection bags where they would be safe from rodents and ants while I bathed. We mumbled our goodbyes and agreed to meet for dinner an hour before sunset. Taking Flower’s hand, the dusty Captain led his girlfriend to the shade of their personal residence.
My initial misgivings about Jones inviting the native woman to “shack up” have faded. Flower has won me over. My worries now center on her halfwit clan mates and their overwhelming curiosity about our operations up here on the hill. After a week of negotiations, we agreed to give them a brief tour last week in exchange for promises they will leave us alone. One would think they would be content to keep to the coast where the drought has nominal effect on the hunting. The sea is still quite wet and its bounty endless.
The Green Turtles and the Mammoth Killers swore to be friends, to share in the hunt and to respect each other’s territory. Taking her usual cynical view of the proceedings, Dr. Duarte was unimpressed by the spitting to the four winds and linking of arms that sealed the agreement. When I spoke on behalf of Flower and her clan, I assured the doctor that Jones and I would police the Palatine, particularly my cave, to assure no native ever ogled our revolutionary tools like red clay olive oil crocks, vats of wine and beer, clothespins, bocce balls and chess board. I put my reputation on the line for them.
Thus my temper hit the roof as I approached my cave and found its entrance flaps shredded. I had been on my way to pour a horn of wine to enjoy with my bath. Unsheathing my heavy club from the sling at my back, I slipped soundlessly through the ruined doorway. Shuffling along the wall to a dark alcove, I knelt in the charcoal-littered sand and allowed my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Straining to listen, I identified a wheezing coming from the dry, well-ventilated chamber where my bed and distillery are situated.
Ignoring an urge to retreat and seek reinforcement from Jones and Gray Beard, I let the rays of sunlight filtering through the rents in the tarps illuminate the way as I ducked into my bed chamber.
The sight that greeted me was worse than I could have imagined. Demolished crocks and overturned vats, my entire wine and olive oil operation was wiped out. Gone were my buried cheeses, hanging prosciutto and salame. Ravaged.
Consumed by a white-hot rage, striding through the carnage to the nook where most nights I lay my head, I struggled to contain my fury. The crimes of theft and betrayal are not necessarily capital offenses in the Cro-Magnon world, but in the moment, I was livid enough to kill. Roaring, spotting a lump in my furs and assuming it was a cluster of overfed, intoxicated Mammoth Killers, I banged the club against my prized log drum so hard the instrument smashed to bits.
“Is that the grunt of a bear?” The question skittered through my brain like a stone across lake ice. The beast rose with a start, growling deep in the back of its throat. Well past the point of no return, already lunging forward with my club cocked in two hands, I aimed for its massive head and swung with all my strength.
Rising to attack, the female bear gave a surprised “oopff” as my club’s granite head clobbered her right ear. The blow forced her to take a step backwards. Glowing in a slanted ray of sunlight, her yellow eyes assessed me.
Compared to many of the great bears we encounter in this prehistoric world, this female would not stand out as above average. Weighing no more than 500 kilos, drunk on wine and beer, gut bursting with rich, peppery olive oil, cheese and salted meat, she still had the faculties to flick her left paw toward my face with the speed of a lightning bolt.
Tapping the great Bolzano will to live, I jerked backwards as black talons whooshed a half centimeter from my Italian nose. The next swat was met with another haymaker from my wickedly heavy club. The impact would have shattered the forearm of a lesser animal, but did nothing more than cause her to retreat to once again consider her options–eat me in one gulp or bite-sized portions?
When presented such dire circumstances, we modern Turtles invariably ponder the same question: “What would Leonglauix do?” We never ask, “What would Team wildlife trainers Richie and Kawabata-san do?” I am sure those modern fools would suggest something by the book, such as “radio for support.”
Actually, radioing for Jones and his atlatl would have been a stellar idea. Too bad my helmet was turned off and hanging on a wall peg directly behind the bear. All I had to rely upon was my club and Green Turtle training. Quieting my fear, I realized I was positioned between the bear and her only exit. Jabbing with my club, vocalizing with roars and shouts, I tried to make myself look formidable as I edged around the chamber’s perimeter to where the fire pit still exuded tendrils of smoke. With a kick of my summer moccasin, I managed to unearth a few meager coals. Whether it was her innate fear of fire or the fact that her pathway to the exit was now clear, I could not say, but she turned with a disgusted grunt and wobbled to the door.
In hindsight, I see it was a mistake to push my authority and chas
e her to the cave’s mouth. “Never come back!” I shouted right up until she turned and fronted me once again. Taking two fast strides, foaming at the mouth, she delivered a parting shot I just barely parried with my club.
“What have you done, you idiot?” I chastised myself. “She was leaving!” With one final roar, she turned and wriggled her distended gut through the door frame.
Poking my head out five minutes later, I found Father sitting on my stone bench. He had one leg crossed over the other. Leathers dirty and torn, he appeared to have been traveling hard for a long while. The bothersome belt that darkens his moods to the point of murder was absent.
“Are you shagging bears now?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Is the bar open? I’ve a powerful thirst.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “When do you expect Duarte and her surfer boy?”
Jones: “Moon’s almost full. They’ll be along in a day or two.”
Bolzano: “He has a name.”
Hunter: “Who?”
Bolzano: “Her husband, Kaikane. His name is Paul Kaikane.”
Hunter: “Bloody waste on such a fine woman.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
The Tiber is down another 13 feet since the last full moon. The formidable river that regularly surpasses a width of a mile in spring flood is now a clear, serpentine snake never more than 100 yards wide. Both shorelines have become vast washes of gravel and dried, cracked mud. Every animal in southern Italy seems to be lining the banks or making their way to and from the distant forest.
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