Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  It took Gray Beard and me three years to make all the sennit ropes and weave them together to make our two hawsers, but they were worth their weight in gold as we wrapped the fat lines around trees and used them to lower the canoe slowly down a series of log rollers all the way to the water’s edge. The main hawser is thicker than my forearm and strong as hell. They both live coiled on deck and have become favorite places for my crew to sit and kill time as they watch the sea go by.

  I thought I might get emotional leaving our island home for probably the last time, but there was so much going on I didn’t think about it until we were two days out to sea. I guess I’m still too excited and, yes, worried, to dwell on the things I’m going to miss. Some day we’ll look back and appreciate how good we had it on our Italian island.

  Jones and Sal talked about living out there part time while we’re gone, but that plan went out the window once we decided to bring all four kayaks with us. They serve as emergency lifeboats and stow perfectly below the deck that spans between the two 80-foot hulls. I’ve got three kayaks lashed tight, up and out of the way. We keep the fourth close and tow it when we want to filter water for drinking, cooking and washing. It’s one of the boats we buried early on, along the Garonne, and it’s hardly been used. The water that flows from its tap is a helluva lot better tasting than what we get out of Maria’s and mine.

  I like this hot dry wind. If it keeps blowing from the west like this, we could reach Syria by the end of next week. The full moon is in 11 days. If we hustle, we’ll have good tides for beaching the canoe and a month to work before the sea rises again. I keep telling these guys we gotta hurry, but all they do is bitch. Hunter’s been trying to talk Maria into stopping for a week in Greece. “You’ll never have a chance to see it again,” he says. Goof even asked if we wanted to put on our suits and go for a long run with him. As Jones would say, “Fuck, no!”

  If I have my way as captain, next time we unlash those kayaks we’ll be using them to paddle to shore to scope out Hunter’s tar pits. I have a feeling it’s going to be an awful job. We’re bound to get tar all over ourselves. How are we going to wash it off? Maria’s been working on some ideas, tar-carrying skins, reed brushes and cleaning salves, but there’s way too many unknowns with this mission.

  None of us know what to expect.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I already told you, twice in fact, this isn’t a ficus.”

  Hunter: “Looks like one, the leaves do at least.”

  Duarte: “Mitch, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hunter: “Pray tell, is this what passes as a big discovery in your line of work?”

  Duarte: “Could be.”

  Hunter: “A new species altogether?”

  Duarte: “More like a whole new genus.”

  Hunter: “Going to name it after yourself? Floating treeus duartus?

  Duarte: “I haven’t decided on a name yet. I must collect a few more specimens to confirm this is not a random event.”

  Hunter: “Random? What, 10 trees growing out of 10 different masses of driftwood floating smack in the middle of the Mediterranean aren’t enough to convince you? For Christ’s sake, Maria, I’ve been having you on. This is a momentous occasion. I’m proud of you. Too bad we don’t have a cask of Salvatore’s wine to celebrate.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Apart from snaking our way through the rocky islands of Crete in the grip of a sudden, unexpected fog, we’ve spent most of our 24 days at sea far from land. Borne by steady, westerly winds, graced with bluebird days and star-splashed nights perfect for celestial navigation, we could not have dreamed of better sailing conditions for our fast, 1,600-mile run down the length of the Mediterranean.

  Knowing the following seas couldn’t last forever, and no doubt spooked by our close call in Crete, Paul kept us out to deep water where the woven sails could be unfurled an average of 22 hours a day. Our only stops were reluctant pauses to mend fraying lines or, several times, to go overboard to apply concrete patches to wormy wood.

  Today about noon, less than 100 miles from Syria, the race finally stalled. Westerly gusts have slowed to barely perceptible breezes. In place of whitecaps we drift lazily across a sea as flat and silky as a lake.

  I’m enjoying this break from the salty wind and incessant flapping of sails, tarps and lines. If you don’t count the squawking of the seabirds and the occasional bumps of tuna grazing the hull, it is quiet as we drift along the picturesque northern coast of Cyprus. Paul milks the light onshore breezes caused by the winds rising off the chalky cliffs and rounded white mountains. Among the groves of ceratonia siliqua evergreens, herds of dwarf elephant graze and kick up dust. No more than five feet tall, the elephants have been scaled down by evolution to suit their rugged island home. What a pretty place. I can’t wait to go ashore.

  White sand beaches are littered with sleeping seals and sea lions, thousands of nesting birds, and not a wolf or wildcat in sight. Cyprus’ sparkling sea is of a blue-green shade that nearly defies description. Our resident aesthete, Paul Kaikane, became tongue-tied while trying to compare it to diamonds and emeralds this morning during breakfast. Hunter had a good chuckle.

  On a boat so small, conversations like this often take on lives of their own. Cobalt? Lapis? Cornflower blue? Gray Beard said the color of the shallows reminded him of the pupil of a dead aurochs’ eye. Paul and I finally agreed crystal was an apt word as any–as in crystal clear.

  Having tossed and turned in our hammocks, baked in the morning sun, we’re back on shift. Paul mans the rudder and I’m standing watch in the front of the left bow. Hunter and Gray Beard unwind in their bunks. This close to shore it’s prudent to keep an eye out for floating logs, sleeping whales, submerged rocks and other obstructions. We hold course about 250 yards offshore, coaxing forward movement from the thermals and looking for an inviting spot to anchor for the night.

  “Standing watch” is a stretch. Lost in the fog of Crete, sounding with poles to gauge the rocky depths, worried out of our minds we would crash, that was standing watch! On this lazy day, I sit comfortably in the shade of a woven fiber tarp. Stripped to my leather bikini and perched atop a coil of rope, I’m tired of watching giant schools of fish pass beneath the boat. Spotting no rocky points ahead, confident in the water’s uniform depth of 200 feet or more, I divide my attention between typing this entry and scanning for whales and logs.

  One good thing about being a watchman in the Paleolithic, there’s almost always something interesting to watch. Prior to the jump, we had no context to imagine the density and diversity of the wildlife we would encounter. When Team trainers dared describe the chaotic bounty, falling woefully short in their approximations, I pegged them as dreamers and exaggerators.

  Fish of every size, shape and color, everything from giant bright red grouper to tiny, rainbow wrasse, play their parts in the endless, merciless food chain. Porpoises, sharks, seals and tuna dart like shadows at great depths. Octopuses release clouds of ink to confuse enemy and prey. Translucent cuttlefish nearly as long as the boat streak past at incredible speeds, going where I do not know. The water is so free of particulates you can see forever. That goes for the dry air as well. Far to the north, at least 86 miles away, the snow-capped peaks of Turkey’s Taurus Mountains jag the horizon atop the blue-green sea.

  You’d think endless days afloat would be tedious and boring, but they rarely are. Granted, life moves at a slower pace, but we keep busy with our chores and turns on watch. Six hours on, six hours off. And there is always daily PT to look forward too. Besides keeping us sharp, the captain’s mandatory physical training builds unity by giving his crew something to gripe about together. We’ve all nearly fallen overboard in wavy conditions. Paul says it’s building our balance.

  The day got off to an interesting start. Gray Beard speared a fat goose that made the poor choice of landing on deck next to where he stood tending the rudder. I aw
oke to a commotion of a goose honking madly and then the splash of an old man diving overboard to save his favorite throwing spear. Hunter was there to grab the tiller, while Paul and I scrambled out of bed to trim the sails and throw out the rope ladder for Gray Beard as we came around. He was quite proud of himself

  The goose has already been plucked, sectioned and stuffed into a clay crock to marinate in one of Paul’s blends of herbs and citrus. My mouth waters knowing we’ll have something different than seafood and jerked meat for supper.

  And it’s movie night. Once we eat and Paul gets his crew settled on shore, he and I plan to watch one of the Japanese language flicks we haven’t seen too many times. We’ll view it curled together in his bunk, or if the night is too sultry, naked on deck.

  A well-sheltered, deep-water bay has come into view and Paul has turned us toward shore. Rimmed by sheer cliffs, the natural harbor is dominated by a tall, feathery waterfall cascading down through ferns and gingers to a wide, crescent sand beach. There’s not an elephant or hippo in sight. I’m not the only one looking forward to a long soak in freshwater.

  “All hands on deck!”

  Time to go to work.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “You really knew the UberMind?”

  Hunter: “I made his acquaintance, yes.”

  Duarte: “How did you communicate? What did you talk about? Do you have a favorite memory?”

  Hunter: “Slow down, please. One question at a time.”

  Duarte: “Sorry. The UberMind has fascinated me since I was child. I read everything on the subject I could lay my hands on, which wasn’t much. Even as a kid I could tell most of it was human propaganda.”

  Hunter: “The UberMind also knew the power of disinformation and used it well. Perhaps he is the one who concocted the stories you read.”

  Duarte: “You say ‘he.’ Why is that?”

  Hunter: “That is how I always perceived him, a man with a deep voice who was older and wise, yet still capable and strong.”

  Duarte: “Perceived him? What did you do, write each other letters?”

  Hunter: “No, we weren’t pen pals.”

  Duarte: “How then?”

  Hunter: “Our relationship was completely untraceable. We conducted our long conversations inside the confines of my brain.”

  Duarte: “You imagined it?”

  Hunter: “There you go, mocking me. That’s why I avoid the subject.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I expected the doctor to be more distraught over seeing her grand theories burst like soap bubbles on the shores of Cyprus. Duarte’s floating tree islands were to be bright feathers in her cap.

  What a shame when we helped her drag a few of the islands up on shore this afternoon and she found every one was the domain of an industrious, color-changing octopus with arms as long as Duarte’s legs. The tree islands aren’t the result of botanical processes as she surmised while studying them at sea. Oh well, it’s not her fault her husband refused to stop for more than a few minutes at a time.

  No, we now believe cephalopods weave the floating ecosystems stick by stick. Are these octopuses smart enough to know which pieces of driftwood are able to sprout in salt water and thus grow into trees to serve as sails? Why do those green sticks always seem to be woven to the top of the islands? Is it random?

  Judging by the size of the creatures dropping out of the nests and slithering to the water, the voracious buggers have not been wanting for food. It seems they’ve got quite the racket going.

  By the time their boathouses are finished, aquatic ecosystems have formed within the submerged undersides. The tangles host everything from seaweed and small fish to crabs, urchins and clams. Attracted by such bait, schools of medium-size fish take up residence in the cool shadows beneath the would-be vessels. Larger fish, as well as squid and rays, drop by to feed. All the sustenance the octopuses will ever need swims right to their trap door.

  One day, a stick atop the mound sprouts into a leafy bush that grows into a spindly tree. More spindly trees take root to bind the ever-expanding, ever-improving nest tighter. At some pivotal moment winds shift to dislodge the mass, or flooding carries it beyond the mangrove. Destiny.

  Suddenly floating on the open sea, snug in their mobile homes, do the crafty octopuses keep adding sticks and grow old dining from their great spiraling larders? Or do they bolt for home as their palaces drift away? We didn’t spot any octopuses in the tree islands we examined at sea, but that doesn’t mean the slippery buggers weren’t hiding.

  The way the wind’s been blowing, we’re bound to see even more of the floaters as we near the Med’s eastern end. I’m sure Duarte is keen to find an answer to this question. I wonder how it will make her feel if we find the octopuses were there all along. Will it add salt to her wounds? So far she’s shrugged the setback off quite admirably. I’ll have to see what I can do about that.

  It irks me to no end that I’m stuck on shore listening to an old man snore while she’s out there with him. What a waste. Maria was after me to share details about the UberMind again this evening. That’s always a good way to ratchet up my anxiety levels. I swear the belt called to me while she was yapping. All the way from the middle of the bay where it is locked around the canoe’s forward mast, it purred, “Put me on.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Just sayin’, ya gotta stand up to those punks.”

  Bolzano: “Would you speak to the clan again? A firm scolding should quell the nonsense.”

  Jones: “Not me they’re buggin’. Gonna keep messin’ with ya until ya either hit the bottom of the peckin’ order or ya lose your damn temper and kill somebody. Don’t feel like going to war with the Mammoth Killers.”

  Bolzano: “Do I detect concern over whose side Flower will take?”

  Jones: “Sal, don’t count on her picking you. Over her clan? Flower might be the one to put the spear through your liver.”

  Bolzano: “Perish the thought. What would you have me do?”

  Jones: “Use your goddamn training.”

  Bolzano: “To do what?”

  Jones: “Put those suck-wads in their place once and for all.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Wasn’t more than a week after the boat crew sailed before Flower’s in-laws moved up to the Palatine. They tracked Flower to the hill or she led them, not sure which. Do know she bragged one too many times about our sweet water stream.

  Springs down by coast that ain’t dried up or gone brackish are swarmed by animals. Herds and predators that can’t cut it along the river just naturally drift down to the sea. Camp where Mammoth Killers were living is overrun.

  Most of the clan, the young bucks and their wives and kids, took off before the last moon. Supposed to be scouting to see if the lakes to our north still hold water. Gone too long. Don’t think they’re coming back.

  Clan leader and inner circle stayed–nobody with the balls or gumption to defend their water source from lions and aurouchs. So they’re mooching off us. Leader is a stout, square-headed guy in his mid-30s we call Dirt Bag. His native name sounds close enough to make sense. Compared to other clan leaders we’ve dealt with through the years, he’s bottom of the pack. Dirt Bag sets a poor example for his troops, maintains very little discipline. Killers are lazy, at least the menfolk. They blame the heat.

  Dirt Bag’s wife is Mudghenn. Something like that. At first Sal thought they were saying “Mud Hen.” That name’s stuck. Part pet, part pack animal, she’s dumber than a stump. If I’ve got this right, the stringy-haired, snaggle-toothed woman is Flower’s sister-in-law.

  Taller and 20 pounds heavier than her old man, Mud Hen takes a long time to process orders. Thought she was just quiet, but way she sits breathing through her mouth staring into space is no act. As Sal puts it, she’
s “missing a few forks from the drawer.” That don’t stop Dirt Bag from puttin’ her on her hands and knees and having a go a couple times a day.

  Our main beef with the Killers is sanitation. Dirt Bag never bothered to potty-train his troops. It’s a wonder he and his people haven’t died of dysentery the way they shit and piss right in the middle of their camps. Apart from Flower and maybe Dirt Bag’s mother, Summer Wind, the Mammoth Killers stink.

  I’d say Summer Wind’s the brains of the outfit. She makes sure their fire’s going and there’s something to eat. Her and Gray Beard should have hooked up. They’d make a good couple. At first he was courting Yellow Dove, and then he was too busy gettin’ ready to sail away.

  Hard to put a finger on Summer Wind’s age. She won’t say, but I’d guess early 50s. Short and thick through the waist like her son, but with a sharper mind, Mrs. Wind doesn’t take guff from her boy or anybody else. Flower says the woman’s dead husband, Dirt Bag’s daddy, was a great leader who took the clan on mammoth hunts all across the north. I gather the clan’s waiting for Dirt Bag to grow into his father’s moccasins. Probably why Summer Wind henpecks him the way she does.

  The other three dudes in camp haven’t done squat to distinguish themselves. Not in hunting, gathering or helping police the area. Greasy hair, yellow teeth, lean builds, Sal and I call them “Shitter,” “Pisser” and “Wanker.” Leave it to you to guess why.