Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  There was certainly no time for co-mingling as the battle with the sturgeon raged. The struggling men shouted and splashed, vied for valor, while women observed with an air of hopeful skepticism. Along with its bounty, the fish presented a lot of work for them. They took in the show, cheered and hissed, and didn’t commit to hauling firewood in earnest until the big fish was tiring and nearly on dry land. I didn’t see who gave the signal, but it was like kicking over an anthill. The women and children went to work at once, and with great urgency.

  Boj-Koj and the kids and I were dragging a tangle of driftwood from the former high-water mark when I caught Paul doing something really stupid. He said he wanted to stay out of the Fishers’ way, let them handle the big sturgeon. But there he was, darting into the river and cracking the fish between the eyes with his meteorite club. I admit, he attacked with his usual grace and escaped without a scratch. His blow stunned the giant fish long enough for him and two others to wrap a noose around its head.

  He takes these risks and the same questions roll through my mind every time. What happens to me if he dies? What happens to my heart?

  Oh boohoo! After such a wonderful night of dancing why do I continue sinking toward despair?

  I haven’t even mentioned the strangest sight of all. After the fish was landed and split open; after the men had eaten their fill of roe and guts and the women and kids were allowed to descend on the carcass like a flock of ravens; after the men had gone to ground to rest and relive the successful hunt while the women broke into teams to cut the flesh into strips, feed the fires, load the curing racks and shoo away the thieving birds, foxes and rats; the fishing clan was visited by another solitary giant.

  This one arrived in the middle of the big dance, a number featuring nearly all the women, buck naked and dripping mud from the river. We wet ourselves in the shallows downstream from the sandbar, where it created a sheltered place to splash and bathe out of the current.

  All the women rose from their places around the fire after supper and began marching for the river. Boj-Koj took my hand and said, “Come, we must join them.”

  “Join them?”

  “Come, it will be fun!”

  Amid the cascade of girl talk, the teasing and giggles, I waded out into the cool water to rinse the dust and smell of fish off my body. Even two hours after sunset the night was hot and sticky. The women began to splash and kick water onto the banks to create a slurry of gray mud. They chanted and laughed as the first brave souls emerged dripping from the river to lie in the mud and wriggle like beached trout.

  As more wet bodies were added to the mud pit it grew wider and deeper. Boj-Koj and I weren’t the last to slide in to the rolling, heaving mix. What an odd sensation, like crawling into a bowl of muddy worms. Although there was nothing overtly sexual about this ritual coating, there was no escaping the press of warm bodies or the hands rubbing mud over my breasts and shoulders and gently cupping my neck.

  Wait until Sal and Jones hear what they missed. Back in the future there were men who would have paid big Norte Americanos to witness such a thing.

  Once again, I don’t know who gave the signal, but at once the women rose out of the mud and assembled in one long line for the walk over to the men’s camp. I’ve done the Bird Dance, the Mammoth Dance and the Dance of Butterflies. Cro-Magnons mimic what they know, what they seek. The Fishers are all about fish. Their dances are fishy.

  We stroked with our arms, pretended to swim up and down, to leap as if we were pike exploding from the water. Though it felt silly and embarrassing, our antics were greeted by reverence rather than catcalls. The solemn manner in which the men studied us as we circled their fire caused me to consider the dance might be a ritual offering to the sturgeon or the almighty river that provided it.

  The dance evolved into schools of four and five women each, spinning and darting as we swam in formation, mirroring each other’s moves. I was passing close to Paul, getting a big kick out of the confused look on his handsome face, when howls and shrieks of death brought our dancing to a sudden halt.

  The clan’s men grabbed their weapons and charged uphill toward the trees where the dog pack was tethered for the night. I was glad to see Paul stayed behind. He had his club in one hand and spears in another as he strode to my side. His intrusion into the women’s zone induced sour faces on some matrons and curious, come-hither looks on others.

  “Shaddowt,” a woman watching the children hissed. The call brought forth a wave of murmurs and whispers.

  “Shaddowt. Shaddowt. Shaddowt. Shaddowt. Shaddowt!”

  The massive red wolf emerged from the darkness and made straight for what was left of the sturgeon carcass. Passing within 20 feet of the closest cluster of women, the male exhibited no fear. He circled the fish twice before choosing the midsection, where there was still meat to be had. Burying his head deep in the body cavity, he gorged.

  “He’s bigger than Jones described, almost as tall as I am.” I said to Paul, taking his arm.

  “Should I try a shot or wait for the guys?” he asked. “This could get ugly.”

  “Cool your jets, Paul Kaikane. Can’t you see the people know this animal? Can’t you hear them calling his name?”

  “Shaddowt? What’s that mean?”

  “’Blood.’ His name is Blood.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Holy shit.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Casual as can be, the wolf kept right on eating as the men sprinted out of the trees yelling their war cries. A half-second before they hit spear-throwing range, he turned and walked to the river’s edge. Rounding, licking the pink smear from his snout, he watched 25 guys charge like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Come closer if you dare, motherfuckers,” said his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  By the prick of his ears and set of his legs, the wolf was angling to take somebody down. He could have munched on the women or kids, or me for that matter, but wasn’t interested. The shouting men were prey.

  Maria took my hand and whispered, “Let’s stay out of this, see what happens.” I don’t think she was the only woman in camp rooting for the wolf.

  At the first flight of spears whizzing into the air, the beast they call “Blood” waded into the river and let the current sweep him into the darkness. That’s some wolf.

  Maria asked the women why they call him “Blood,” and it took more than an hour to get the skinny. She hasn’t had time to share all of it, but it sounds like it’s because of his reddish coat. They say he was raised as a pet by a clan south of here. He got too big and too mean. The clan liked the wolf though. Instead of killing him the people cut him loose. He became a loner. You’d think he’d join up with a pack. For some reason he hasn’t.

  Speaking of joining packs, Boj-Koj and her kids have hooked on with the Fishers clan. We saw a few guys fighting this morning and didn’t think much about it until the winner walked up and offered his hand to Boj-Koj. Coated in dust and blood, missing patches of hair from his head, the middleweight scrapper showed up carrying a ratty fiber bedroll.

  What was left of his jet-black hair was tied into a greasy ponytail. Average height, muscular build, good strong teeth, he was one of the guys who helped loop the rope around the sturgeon’s head. I don’t know exactly what he said to her, but it was along the lines of, “How would you like to carry my stuff for me and do my chores from now through eternity?”

  It seemed like a pretty crappy deal to Maria and me, but that didn’t stop Boj-Koj from tucking his bedroll under her arm and following him over to the men’s side to build him a fire and nurse his wounds. She glanced back with a look that was a weird cross between acceptance and worry–with maybe a little smile thrown in. Maria did her best to fight back tears as the kids followed only as far the edge of the women’s area before stopping and watching their mom go. They’ve been hanging out with the other little kids. They know the rules.

&nbs
p; “She could do worse,” one of the women called in trade dialect so we would understand. Others chirped in with opinions. “He is strong.” “He is respected.” “His last wife died in childbirth.” “He was good to her.” “He showed tears when we buried her.” “Maybe he will be good to your friend too.” “Don’t worry, our men only care about fishing and hunting. He’ll put a child into your friend and leave her alone.”

  Boj-Koj can handle herself. I’m more worried about Maria. The kids ran back to her crying. After a long hug, she spent the rest of the day singing them Green Turtle songs and letting them help her work on a new grass skirt she’s weaving. Maria’s really going to miss those little ones.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “There they go. What do you want to do, go home or head over to the Palatine, see what the guys are up to?”

  Duarte: “I don’t care.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Each time we paddle past the sandbar camp I wonder how Boj-Koj and the kids are faring. My beautiful blue shell necklace serves as a daily reminder of our friendship. Rarely an afternoon goes by that I don’t slip the necklace off and study it in the sun’s light. Its shimmering colors conjure warm memories.

  They left for the north a week ago and may have gone hundreds or tens of miles. Who knows? The clan’s men said they planned to cover ground quickly, but if they happen to rope another sturgeon those plans could go downriver fast.

  Though I know it’s foolish, I keep hoping we’ll float by and see Boj-Koj and her new clan have returned to the Tiber. I’d give anything to see those kids again.

  Odds of that grow slimmer as the mass exodus to the north continues. No clans are traveling south this dusty, suffocating summer. All are headed north. Sal and Jones and their odd little clique may well be the only people left in the south when we return from our voyage to Syria.

  I sat down intending to file a report on our preparations to set sail but my heart just isn’t in it.

  We’re ready. That will have to do for now.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Did you see the size of that turtle?”

  Kaikane: “Naw, I missed it.”

  Duarte: “You’ve got to turn this canoe around right now. You won’t believe it.”

  Kaikane: “Ah, come on, Maria.”

  Maria: “Paul Kaikane, this is important!”

  Kaikane: “All hands on deck!”

  Hunter: “Is something amiss? Why are we reversing course?”

  Kaikane: “Maria saw a turtle she wants to check out.”

  Hunter: “For soup?”

  Kaikane: “Not sure yet.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Just when you think you’ve seen it all, something new blows your mind.

  We swam with a blue sea turtle today that must have been a leftover from the dinosaur age. No lie, it was as big as a commuter air car, at least 30 feet in diameter and eight feet thick down the middle. Maria spotted it off the starboard hull, resting just below the surface as we sailed past. The turtle’s size got her so pumped up we had to go back to find it–which wasn’t easy since its shell was colored the same aqua blue as the entire Mediterranean.

  The breeze was behind us and we were making good time after a couple low-wind days leaving Italy. I hated to trim the sails and turn around, but she was so jazzed I didn’t even bother arguing. Hunter and the old man jumped (crawled) out of their bunks and came running (walking and scratching their nuts) when I called for all hands on deck. If nothing else, it was good practice as we carved a search grid for a half hour. We didn’t spot the turtle until we were right on top of it.

  Maria swore we wouldn’t believe the size and she was right. Almost half as long as the canoe and probably weighing twice as much, the turtle was the center of an ecosystem. Thousands of red and yellow fish lived under its belly, wandering topside to nibble seaweed and barnacles off its shell. Schools of bigger fish, including lazy rays and sharks, patrolled the perimeter.

  Back in Hawaii, we had green sea turtles that were tiny by comparison, only going maybe 200 or 300 pounds. Hawaiian elders taught us kids to leave the turtles alone. I never speared one until the jump.

  This turtle would have been impossible to kill with a spear. Maybe Hunter could have used a stunner, but what would have been the point? You could feed an army and still waste half. Plus Maria probably would have thrown his ass overboard.

  The blue giant was on the move when we found it, swimming a steady three knots.

  “Look at the head!” Maria pointed as she held on to a line and leaned far out over the water. “Wow, it’s a filter feeder!”

  Sure enough, its giant maw was spread wide like a whale shark’s to filter plankton and krill. Gill slits lining its fat neck wobbled like overcooked noodles as seawater escaped. We stayed with him for at least a mile before he slowed to a stop.

  “Let’s go swimming,” Maria said, pulling on my arm. Every once in a while, great minds do think alike. It was way too deep to drop anchor and the breeze was sure to drift the canoe even if the sails were down, so I passed the rudder off to Gray Beard and told him to keep close. The old dude’s gotten pretty good at steering the boat. He’s got a natural feel for it. We waited for him to bring us alongside the turtle to climb down the rope ladder and slide into the water without splashing.

  At first we kept our distance, checked him out as we swam around the edge of his shell. I can say “he” with confidence. The guy had a dick on him that must have been 10 feet long. We could see the leathery gray pole tucked close to his shell when the schools of fish under his belly parted. The turtle knew we were there; we could see him checking us out with his massive black eyes, but he didn’t seem worried about us. Everything in his world was calm. Even the sharks were fat and happy.

  Next thing I know, Gray Beard’s swimming past us naked as a jaybird. Turning to tread water, he gave us the Green Turtle clicking noise that means, “Come on, what are you waiting for?” I didn’t even stop to wonder who was steering the boat as Maria and I breaststroked with him into the shallows of the turtle’s back. The shell was smooth and slightly warm to the touch. His cleaning crew took off for a minute, but it wasn’t long before the fish were back doing their jobs clearing seaweed and parasites. After a while, they started cleaning us too, nibbles that tickled a little, but mostly felt great.

  When the turtle flapped his long front flippers and started to swim again, the old man and I followed Maria’s lead by grabbing the front rim of his shell. Did he know we were up there, is that why he stayed close to the surface? So we could keep our heads out of the water? Every once in a while he’d dive, but he always brought us back to the top. It was one of the coolest ocean rides of my life, and that’s saying something. It lasted 10 minutes or more, long enough for Hunter to almost lose us.

  He doesn’t man the tiller very often–more like never–and we put him in a tough spot, handing off the boat just when the winds picked up and seas got choppy. We were having too much fun to notice, didn’t see he was having trouble until the turtle tucked a shoulder and shed us with a surprisingly agile roll. Flapping front flippers big as airplane wings, trailing schools of fish, it disappeared into the deep blue. Looking up, we saw the sailing canoe was more than a mile away and headed in the wrong direction.

  It took the better part of an hour, long enough to put a healthy scare into the three of us shivering in the chop and watching the sun drop toward the horizon. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one wondering when the unfriendly sharks would show up. But Hunter got her turned around and tacked close enough to toss a line so we could haul ourselves to the ladder.

  I didn’t even bother drying off, just set course downwind, due east. Once her sails are trimmed right, Leilani seems to just fly. Apart from a few leaks here and there, the canoe has been holding up like a champ. The newest batch of marine cement Maria made seals
cracks and holes better than I had hoped. Right from the launch everything has gone better than expected, except maybe for the puppy dog looks Hunter keeps giving Maria, and the way he sits so close when they talk science.

  Hunter, Sal and Jones paddled out the morning of the launch to help lower the canoe down the sandy beach at high tide. I had it sketched out pretty good. Once the guys were sitting in the shade eating a breakfast of Maria’s morning cakes, I ran down everybody’s duties. They were too busy chewing to interrupt with the usual jokes.

  Maria’s cakes are kind of a cross between a pancake and tortilla that glues your mouth shut until you get it down. She makes the dough from stone-pounded grains and shredded swamp roots mixed with water and nut oil, patting them out with two hands, flat and round to cook on rocks along the edge of the fire. Spread with honey, chased with lots of water, they’re dense but tasty. Let’s just say the guys never leave leftovers.

  Once we loaded the last of the firewood, food supplies and cooking stuff, Maria and I did one last sweep of the campsite and work areas to make sure we hadn’t left anything useful behind. Of course, she was all about erasing our tracks. She doesn’t want some egghead in 1900 digging up pieces of her broken pots and making wrong assumptions.