My wandering thoughts were interrupted by shouts of joy echoing from the hot springs. Whoops and whistles grew in volume as the black-haired little inspiration for all the excitement arrived in the arms of his proud mother.
Tomon and Gertie beamed as women and a few men rushed forth to exclaim over the prized baby boy–the first child born in the valley in three years. Swaddled in a blanket of the softest fur, the little cherub took everything in with unblinking gray eyes. He really is quite precious. Spying me by the fire with the old man, Tomon and Gertie both sketched small waves. I had prescribed two more days of rest in the birthing cave and planned to be there when the patients were swum out–in case of difficulties–but evidently they had had enough of sequestration. My wide-armed gesture let them know their disobedience had not made me angry.
One-legged Karloon stomped over with aid of his homemade crutch to greet the grandson of the great storyteller Leonglauix. As the Valley Clan’s eldest male, Karloon officially welcomed the boy with a speech that traced the baby’s family lineage, wished him a long life, and predicted many productive hunts. I admit the litany of ancestors did drag on a bit, but that does not excuse the poor behavior exhibited by several new members of the Green Turtle Clan.
Showing absolutely no respect for Karloon, a handful of men continued conversing by the fire, laughing and roughhousing throughout his litany of names and deeds. This was not a list of Karloon’s family, but of the Green Turtle ancestors of Fralista and her father, Leonglauix. It must have taken great effort to learn and memorize the chant, but the new boys were not interested.
As their disrespectful chatter grew in volume, a burly lad named Babeck leaped up and began to mock the speaker by hopping around on one leg. This prompted several other boys to stand and hop themselves. Karloon, unwilling to show weakness, but also unwilling to challenge the increasingly aggressive newcomers, closed his eyes and droned on to the end.
As clan leader, Tomon knew it was his job to halt the nonsense, but he evidently did not wish to show disrespect to Karloon by making a scene during the chant. He waited for him to finish, then strode over to the New Green Turtles’ fire to chastise the troublemakers for their discourtesy.
Most of the new people are fellow survivors of Lorenzo Martinelli’s mad march to Tuscany–slaves set free by the empire-builder’s explosive death along the Arno River. In the aftermath of Martinelli’s fall, after all other clans and individuals had departed to the four winds, we Green Turtles found ourselves aligned with members of a fractured little clan from the Rhone River Valley. Leaderless and lost in a strange land, the survivors solicited membership to the Green Turtle Clan. The hardy newcomers proved themselves to be hard workers.
Somewhere between Italy and France’s Massif Central our new compatriots’ attitudes began to sour. For the sake of maintaining their shares of the community dog pack and trade goods, they continued to travel with the clan, but they also began to build their nightly cook fires apart from ours. We did not bother to complain or even notice things were amiss. The schism provided a welcome break from their loud talk and poor table manners.
The disconnect also made it easy for Leonglauix to cull the veteran core of his clan when it came time for us to sneak over the mountain wall into Fralista’s valley. We left the newcomers to become lost in a cluster of hills to the south and followed him up into the mountains to the valley and its uniquely evolved society.
The leaves on the trees that resemble aspens had not yet begun to turn saffron when the old storyteller tooted on his bone flute to alert Fralista of our approach. There were five of us, with Jones lagging behind, hidden somewhere up in the shadows making sure no new Green Turtles had followed us up and over the canyon rim.
A tall woman with wide shoulders, Fralista was the first to meet us along the main valley trail. She was dressed in a tan leather tunic and knee-high moccasins. Feathers and tendrils of colorful lichen had been braided into her auburn hair. Several wooden Venus statuettes swayed from the leather cords around her neck as she put one hand on her hip and viewed our approach in a manner that made it impossible to determine whether our invasion made her happy, angry or sad.
In lieu of sweeping his daughter up in a hug, Gray Beard dropped a trio of fat rabbits by her feet.
“There are many berries this year,” he said.
She studied us closely, wordlessly, spending a long time gazing at worn-out Gertie’s swollen belly. “I’m done burying babies,” she sighed in Green Turtle dialect. With that, she hefted the rabbits and marched off to spend the rest of the afternoon out of our sight.
Though Leonglauix is rarely at a loss for words, his daughter’s poor manners left him speechless. We shed our packs, stretched our muscles and watched the dogs mark the territory unchallenged by any other mutts. Jones eventually wandered in to report our back trail was clear. He and the old storyteller were discussing a walk down to the salt cave to sample cured meat from the mammoth they killed last fall, when a freckled woman with curly brown hair and green eyes edged down the path to offer Fralista’s apologies.
In hand sign, she formally welcomed us to the valley and motioned for us to please continue on to the communal eating and cooking area. Cook fires smoked to life in several nearby caves, but the people remained reclusive for the first hours of our visit.
We kept busy on our own. The hike over the mountain pass had featured several bouts of heavy rain. We took advantage of the afternoon sun to spread our soggy gear on wide stone tables and benches, hang things from wooden pegs driven into tree trunks. Tomon discovered hot coals deep in the fire pit and we soon had a fire of our own to chase away the coming evening chill.
A half hour before sunset, Fralista emerged carrying a large wooden platter with three spit-roasted rabbits arranged atop a mash of cooked fruits, grains, greens and nuts, all liberally salted and garnished with mountain herbs.
Gray Beard motioned for his daughter to place the platter on a flat limestone table while he made his introductions.
“My daughter, unless you have grown feeble since we last spoke, you will remember this man as the warrior Jones. He has traveled long with the memory of the pregnant girl in his heart. This girl has not welcomed us. Did she die in childbirth?”
“The girl he called Soo-zee followed you up the trail one day after you left. I warned she would not catch my father when he travels fast. I see she did not. Welcome, Jones.”
She touched her right hand on his wrist then turned to me as Gray Beard made a sweeping gesture.
“This is the storyteller Bolzano.” He dipped into a bit of dialect I did not understand, but I would like to think he said, “Salvatore Bolzano has a magnificent singing voice, is incredibly handsome, intelligent, and a pillar of virtuosity.”
Whatever the true meanings of the words were, she gave a me an appraising look before moving on to the blue-eyed Lanio, a girl dedicated to serving as Leonglauix’s helper and student. The young woman has come to rely heavily upon the old man since we found her last spring, camped alone, barely in grasp of her sanity. Lanio’s tribe had been decimated by a regiment of the Tattoo Clan, wiped out in a sneak attack near the River Po. With her assistance, along with that of other angry survivors, we were able to exact revenge for her clan and deliver a death blow, we hope, to Sergeant Lorenzo Martinelli’s outlandish ministry of domination.
Back along the Po, when our ragtag brigade disbanded, Lanio asked if she could travel with Gray Beard. So far resisting all advances by amorous men across Italy and thus far into France, Lanio remains content to walk in Gray Beard’s shadow, to make his fires and cook his food. She is his pupil and right hand. I expected sparks from the excitable Fralista, but she welcomed the girl with a hug.
Tomon and Gertie had unrolled their skins and were lying on the ground, heads propped against a fallen tree when Gray Beard led his daughter over to meet her cousin and his pregnant wife. Despite her earlier protestations, Fralista squatted low on her haunches to stroke Gertie’s hair
and make cooing noises.
Inviting the tired couple to join us at the central table, Fralista gave a crow caw that brought the rest of the hard-luck Valley Clan tromping down the hillside carrying bowls and platters and cook bags laden with food. What a charming and delectable potluck dinner. We had our first taste of the cured mammoth and sampled many other valley delicacies.
The talk was kept small through the meal. Once the feasting was complete, however, we retired to the fireside where Gray Beard shared a litany of events that had transpired since he and the Americans had left the valley a year earlier. He described Sergeant Martinelli’s rampage down into the uncharted lands of the Italian peninsula. The Green Turtle Clan of our family is no more, he cried with a wail. Only he, Tomon and Gertie remain from the original family clan.
Fralista shed a few tears, but the rest of her adopted clan was impervious to the woes of strangers. If they were to retort, “We had a pretty bad year ourselves,” could anyone blame them?
Gray Beard found their attention when he explained the role the new Green Turtles played in reviving the clan, and how they are good at accumulating trade goods and dogs. In a long disclaimer, he also said although they may be rich, they also possess poor social skills.
Jumping up on a table, he said with a shout, “Fralista and Karloon, your clan needs new men if it is to survive. You have six women, one old man missing a leg, and no babies. Where are the fine dogs I gave you last year? Probably ate them. Ah-ha, I see that it is true.”
“Those dogs also had poor manners,” Karloon retorted with a shake of his makeshift crutches.
“Who hasn’t wanted to eat an unruly dog?” Gray Beard asked with an impish smile. “These new people joined the Green Turtle clan, and in so doing, made it something else. They are wandering the hills to the south. We left no trail to follow and they will not find us.
“There are two hands of strong men and one hand of fertile women. They will never find your valley on their own, but my nephew Tomon is their clan leader. If you want him to, he will bring them in.” He once again explained the people were wild and would need some taming to find happiness in this remote warren of caves and steep-walled canyons.
Weary faces lit by the glow of the fire, the people listened intently. When it came time to vote, five women, all widows, nodded their heads in ascent. Karloon also voted to inject the population with new blood. I bet he now wishes he sided with Fralista, the only valley resident to vote no.
With his pregnant wife less than two weeks away from giving birth, but not yet showing distress, Tomon was sent to fetch the rest of his clan. Perhaps the soon-to-be father was distracted, or maybe it was an arithmetic problem, but when he brought his charges up the jumbled scree of boulders and down the twisting switchback trail, he failed to notice a few ringers had been added to the mix. Amid the hubbub of settling in, the new recruits managed to keep from sight. It took several days to discover the additions, and by then it was too late to do anything about it.
The most brash of the interlopers is the disrespectful hopper Babeck. A bruising hunter whose body type reminds me quite a bit of Neanderthal, Babeck is stout and unbelievably strong. The other day, I saw him carry a pig carcass into camp that must have weighed 200 kilos. He had the bloody thing slung over his shoulder and stood there talking to his friends before finally setting it down by the fire with ease.
This evening, following his shameful behavior during Karloon’s chant, the strongman endured Tomon’s lecture with a stone face, then stuck out his tongue and made a farting noise when my friend turned to walk back to his wife and baby. Galled, I began to rise and voice my own displeasure with their antics, but Leonglauix signaled me back down into my seat with a tap of his spear.
“Not yet,” he said in hand sign.
Surveying the camp, I saw that both Jones and Fralista had weapons at the ready. The captain’s atlatl was nocked with a bolt, while a row of missiles were arranged point-first in the dirt before him. When had he done that?
The tension slowly dissipated as another infiltrator, this one a rotund woman with flaming red hair, elicited the yowl of a female panther in heat. With surprising nimbleness for a woman her size, the vixen leaped to her feet and began gyrating around the fire in a sensuous dance. It is a rarity in this age to see people carry extra weight on their bodies. Older men might have a little paunch, or women a layer of fat through their hips and thighs, but it is a simple matter of calorie ingested versus calories expended. These people are far too busy to pile on the lard.
Yet, somehow, this woman was pleasingly plump.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Duck’s tasty.”
Bolzano: “Yes it is. You are welcome to sample some of my dipping sauce if you like.”
Jones: “Naw. Looks like puke.”
Bolzano: “You certainly are finicky, though it is fine by me. I barely have enough for myself.”
Jones: “Things got a little hairy tonight.”
Bolzano: “More than a little. If not for you and your spear launcher, I am not sure how far events may have dissolved.”
Jones: “Had a feeling. Jerks were looking for trouble.”
Bolzano: “Babeck was the instigator. He is spoiling for a fight.”
Jones: “Yep, he’s a real asshole. You and me, we gotta protect our people.”
Bolzano: “What about ourselves? Each other?”
Jones: “All of the above.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Couple times, I reckoned we were headed for civil war. Got my battle gear ready, then Pinky started wiggling her butt around the fire, swinging that red hair. Babeck distracted us with a show of his own and everything almost went sideways again. Everybody’s calmed down for time being, but it’s an uneasy truce.
Traveling north, figured I had beat enough sense into New Green Turtles, the NGTs, to make them worthy of this clan. They didn’t like me, I didn’t like them, but the dummies knew better than to fuck up where I could see ’em. Tomon was the leader and I backed him up the way a good sergeant rides herd over the troops to protect a greenhorn lieutenant.
Then these new boys slipped in and tipped balance of power. Now find we’re outnumbered in our own clan. Why didn’t the old man just let the jerk-offs stay lost? Knew they were trouble, but brought them in anyway. Gray Beard’s not prone to mistakes. Makes me wonder if this is one of his plans, or if he blew it. My head’s been on a swivel trying to keep track of where they are and what they’re doing. Can’t let the dipshits get any of our people off on their own.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “And then the redhead did her dance.”
Jones: “Pinky.”
Bolzano: “Pardon me?”
Jones: “Pinky. My new name for her.”
Bolzano: “Do you have a problem pronouncing Pinquinfidenjosn? Is it difficult for you to say?”
Jones: “Long for my taste. You notice her skin, how red she gets when she’s eatin’ or dancin’? Looks like a Pinky to me.”
Bolzano: “It does fit.”
Jones: “Ya see how she bellies up to the trough?”
Bolzano: “If you are referring to her eating habits, yes, I have noticed her penchant for fine food.”
Jones: “Fine food, crap food, hell, bet she’d eat crickets. Look at her. Shoveling it in with both hands.”
Bolzano: “There she goes for another serving, reaching in deep. Is that her fourth or fifth?
Jones: “Lost count.”
Bolzano: “I believe the time has come for me to dredge the bottom for a final dollop of duck and tubers. The oily fowl is nearly finito.”
Jones: “I’d steer clear of Pinky. Might wanna wrestle ya for it.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Gorged to the point of exhaustion, we rested by the fires in relative silence. It is never completely quiet in this wild world
. Even when the clan stills its collective tongue, there are always far-off echoes of predator and prey, or nearby croaks of winter toads, crackling of fires, hooting owls, and the flutter of hairy bats hunting the sky for moths. Even should the animals grow silent, tall trees creak in mountain winds and leaves rustle in darkness above.
We drowsed with our own thoughts, enjoyed a surprisingly peaceful interlude until one of the Valley Clan women worked up the nerve to throw an armful of pine boughs upon the fire nearest to a group of unattached New Green Turtle men. Illuminated by flaring light, the winsome widow performed a ritualized mating dance. I imagine Jones would call it a “bird dance,” for that is what it resembled.
Dressed in tanned leather cape and goatskin shift decorated with snail shells and wooden beads, the woman kept her eyes downcast as she scratched at the ground with her bare feet. Flapping her arms slowly like a rutting quail, she made three full circuits of the fire. As a finale, just before returning to her seat and giving way to the next dancer, she lifted her green eyes to give the boys a clear view of her freckled face.
Fralista was the only female member of the Valley Clan not to do the dance. It is no secret that she and Jones have become an “item.” Once the fifth woman had finished, Babeck threw his own armful of combustibles into the fire. From the center of the camp’s outdoor eating area, in guttural trade dialect, the burly man apologized to Karloon and also to Tomon. Dipping his head, slapping one hand down upon the other, he made a show of paying his respect to both men.
“Clan leader Tomon and wife Gertilkgs, to honor your new baby boy, I will perform a dance from my former clan,” he proclaimed. “This dance drives away evil traits like fear and poor vision.”
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