Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  The man drew all of our attention as he began jumping about like a dervish. Leaping and spinning with his eyes spread wide, he screamed at the top of his lungs. Glancing to a movement at my left, I found there was a nervous young man with a spear pointed toward my gut. Across camp, I saw Jones surrounded by four heavily armed New Green Turtles. Fralista and Gray Beard had each drawn the attention of two spear-pointing women.

  “Worry not, enjoy my dance,” Babeck shouted. Rushing straight toward the parents and their startled child, Babeck pretended to retch over the child’s forehead. Once, twice, three times, he stuck out his tongue and made the noxious sound. To the infant’s enduring credit, he did not cry or fuss.

  Babeck laughed loudly as he backpedaled away from the nervous little family. Circling the fire with his arms outstretched and his eyes spread as wide as they could go, he chuckled aloud, “Their baby has the courage of an auroch!”

  And then he was sprinting back toward the baby. With one lightning quick downward stroke of his palm, Babeck made as if he was attempting to smash the newborn out of his mother’s arms. At the last moment, his hand stopped short.

  Spears be damned, we were all on our feet by then.

  With a broad, malevolent grin, Babeck broke through the excited shouts with a hearty laugh. “Your child shows no fear. He will be a warrior, if he lives long enough.”

  Babeck motioned his boys back to their seats and joined them by the fire with a defiant look upon his broad face. The woman we have named Pinky watched the show through slit eyes. I had the impression she was waiting to see how things played out, to see which way the winds were blowing before casting her lot. Babeck was back to snapping duck bones for their marrow when she rose to throw a pine limb on the fire.

  This time there was no dancing. Tipping back her head, she warbled one of the oddest chants I have yet heard. It was rather like a strange owl call, quite high in pitch and extremely loud. Her performance was cut short by a shout from Leonglauix, who was off in the dark assembling his weapons.

  “Stop!” His objections started in the shadows and grew louder as he waded into the firelight to stand before the young woman with three spears slung over his shoulder. “Stop, stop, stop!”

  Grabbing her by the shoulder, he demanded, “Who are you?”

  With a withering scowl, she replied, “I am Pinquinfidenjosn of The Hunter’s Clan.”

  “You are of The Hunter’s Clan?”

  “I am The Hunter’s favorite wife in the south. These men killed my poor sister and stole me from my home cave. The Hunter will not be pleased.”

  Babeck leaped to his feet. “We did not steal this woman. She is the one who killed the cross-eyed girl. She begged us to take her away.”

  Leonglauix’s eyes, along with those of everyone else, turned to see what the red-haired temptress would say about that.

  “My husband will find me! He will find you too! All of you have heard the stories of my husband–the most powerful warrior of all time! I am his favorite. He loves my white flesh and healthy stomach. Threaten me at your own peril!”

  Lowering her voice, looking up into Leonglauix’s face, she said, “I grow tired of these men. They make poor conversation. Will you return me to my husband? You are Leonglauix, correct? He has spoken of you.”

  “If we take you back to your cave, will The Hunter be there?”

  “He was in the far north, but he is coming.”

  Putting his arm around the woman’s shoulders Leonglauix said if it was conversation The Hunter’s wife was looking for, she was welcome to sleep in his cave. Who is better at conversation than a famous storyteller?

  “You are too old for me,” she scolded with a smile. “And your young wife, she seems jealous. She might kill me.”

  Looking back toward where blue-eyed Lanio remained respectfully seated to his left, Leonglauix scoffed.

  “Lanio is not my wife. She is my student. One day she will be a great healer and shaman.”

  “Good for you, storyteller.”

  “Tell us more about The Hunter.”

  “I am hungry and tired. I promise to tell you later.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Found some tracks today.”

  Duarte: “You did? Well, let’s hear it, canine or feline?”

  Kaikane: “Neither.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We are not alone.

  Paul returned from a paddle today with tales of another butchered goat carcass. I was about to launch into my carrion bird theory when he opened the front hatch of his kayak to produce two soft clay molds of footprints. They were short and wide and obviously made by a primate. Not Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal, though. We have both seen enough of those prints to know these are truly different.

  “Where did you find them?” I asked.

  “A lot closer than last time. Maybe three miles east.”

  I wanted to paddle back for a look around, but Paul would have none of it. His mind was on safety and security for his precious outrigger canoe. Sometimes it is hard to tell which he loves more, his boat or me. Muttering as he strapped the meteorite club to his waist, he left for a quick reconnoiter around the camp. Once assured we were not under siege or being spied upon, he returned to kick apart our two fires and douse them in seawater carried in our cook bags. Finally, he took a seat beside me at the worktable.

  “I wish Jones was here,” he said. “Our security stinks.”

  I pointed out that we didn’t think we needed it.

  “We do now.”

  “You assume they are aggressive. I’m more worried about introducing boat-building technology to natives.”

  “Thought you’d say that. Monkey, caveman, whatever, we can’t have somebody slamming coconuts on our heads while we sleep. Or sneaking in to steal our stuff when we are out exploring.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “There are tracks all over camp.”

  Kaikane: “Curious little fuckers. They touch anything this time?”

  Duarte: “Hell yes, they touched things. Look at the mess. All of my pots, broken.”

  Kaikane: “They’re still close. Have to be. We were only gone for a half hour.”

  Duarte: “Not even. What are we going to do?”

  Kaikane: “That’s what I usually ask you.”

  Duarte: “I’m fresh out of ideas.”

  Kaikane: “Like hell. You’re waiting for me to say it.”

  Duarte: “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Except for several fleeting glimpses of hairy backs as they slipped into the brush, I have yet to see the primates who live without fire in a series of caves high in the tropical cliffs on the windward side of Ibiza. Paul tracked them to their lair three weeks ago. And then they tracked him to ours.

  Paul describes the island’s residents as “short and wiry little fellas” with faces closer to chimpanzee than modern human. He says coarse hair covers their bodies from head to toe. Our computers have quite a few artists’ renderings of what modern paleoanthropologists think our primitive ancestors may have looked like. After careful study, Paul proclaimed they were all “basically full of shit,” but conceded that the plate of Homo ergaster was the closest match.

  Dressed in his jumpsuit, no doubt hating every minute of the data barrage and queasy feelings the garment induces, Paul was invisible as he spent an afternoon shadowing a clan of at least 27 men, women and children. Trailing right in their midst as they returned from the forest floor with the day’s gatherings, he stationed himself at the edge of the simple camp as they prepared and ate a meal of raw goat, fig, coconut, freshwater shrimp, watercress, and a dozen other fruits and greens for which we have no name.

  Sharpened sticks, oyster shells and bone fragments are the raw materials for most of the clan’s tools. The women used a flake of obsidian to butcher the goats. He said th
e work was conducted far from camp, with only the choicest pieces of loin and haunch harvested. Paul and I are guilty of the same wasteful practices. With so many goats, so tame and easy to kill, why chew on gristle? Why transport food that will go bad before you can consume it?

  There are certainly more of the blue-haired beasts on this scarred island than places to harvest good tool stone. Our dwindling supply of flint, and utter inability to find a source for more, has nearly slowed production of the sailing canoe’s hull to a halt. Paul’s frustration led him to wait for the four-foot-tall people to settle in for naps. He then tiptoed in to steal a stone blade for me to examine to see if I could figure out where to find more. I told him he overestimates my abilities, and then gave him a generous ration of nagging for risking his life with me sitting alone back in camp weaving a spare sail.

  We shouted it out until he started to giggle when he caught me arguing his point against his defense of mine. I placed the blade with the rest of my tools atop my worktable, then slipped my arm around his waist as we hiked uphill to camp. Skipping dinner, we made up in the proper way, finally drifting off to sleep like babies in pine-needle beds. The next morning, we walked hand-in-hand down to find the work site had been visited by the people we now refer to as the “Little Fellas.” The pilfered blade was gone, along with our best stone adze.

  How they tracked Paul around the island as he paddled home in his kayak is a mystery to us both. Unless they have been watching us all along. That seems unlikely, however. These are the first tracks we have found within miles of camp. Paul thinks they smelled our fires.

  However they accomplished the feat, Paul was determined to retrieve his precious adze. Before setting off, we locked our tools and coils of new sennit rope in stealth packs high in a pine tree. We also lashed our rolled-up mats and sails to the kayaks and paddled them out to a rocky islet several hundred yards from shore. Everything was hidden but the 40-foot log that was halfway to becoming the hull of a sailing canoe. Paul has worked so hard. For the canoe hull, all we could do was douse the fires eating away at her belly and hope for the best.

  The habitation caves were deserted when Paul led me up the rocky hillside to examine footprints and leavings on sand-covered floors. We searched all day. They were near. We knew that. We could hear them with the audio receptors in our helmets, but the jungle was too thick and they had become wary of the sounds of our passing. Or maybe they really can smell us. We returned to find a few more tracks through camp.

  Calling a temporary halt to all fires and boat-building chores that create loud noises, we spent 11 days scanning the ridgelines and looking over our shoulders as we concentrated on creating coils of sennit rope and finishing the spare sail. I think we both knew it was only a matter of time.

  On the morning of our last full day on the island, Paul accompanied me to a creek bank to help gather more of the red clay that is showing promise in my quest to create an airtight glue pot. Though it was a fast trip, we paddled back into our bay to discover my worktable floating away with the tide. Towing the lashed poles to shore, we found the place in shambles. Pine needle beds were strewn about, my woeful collection of pots smashed, ropes draped through the bushes. Thankfully, we are not so sloppy as to ignore our security protocols. Our packs and essential gear were safely locked high in the canopy. Our precious woven-mat sails were still out on the island, growing stronger in the salt air and sun.

  It took Paul a few hours to accept the inevitable. I let him reach the conclusion in his own time. He stood for a long while studying the blackened tree trunk that was months, maybe years, from becoming a navigable hull. When he returned to my side, in a somber voice he suggested we re-rig our little catamaran and “get the heck out of here.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “We must turn back.”

  Kaikane: “Nope.”

  Duarte: “What do you mean?”

  Kaikane: “Nope. No way. We are done with those little pricks.”

  Duarte: “Such a remarkable find. Truly historic.”

  Kaikane: “Not worth getting our necks wrung for.”

  Duarte: “I didn’t even see one properly. Paul Kaikane, I say–”

  Kaikane: “Maria! Enough! It doesn’t matter what you say!”

  Duarte: “It doesn’t matter what I say? Doesn’t matter? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Kaikane: “It means I will not turn this boat around.”

  Duarte: “But–”

  Kaikane: “No buts, babe. I promise, we’ll go back someday–with proper support. We’ll bring Jones and Bolzano and it’ll all be cool.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Maria sits wrapped in a leather blanket against the night chill, studying the driftwood fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Still not talking to me, still beating herself up over our quick split from Ibiza. We weren’t more than 10 miles out when she tried ordering me to turn around. “It is an amazing find,” she says. “We must study those fellows.”

  She didn’t watch those fellows kill goats with their bare hands. Teams of strong monkey arms rushing in to snap legs and dislocate shoulders, laying on crippling wounds for a slow death. Chattering little fuckers kicking ribs and dropping rocks on braying goats, huddling in close to watch the end. Laughing it up.

  It would be the same for Maria and me if they caught us off guard. Little shits knew where we lived and weren’t tricked by the jumpsuits–at least not like other animals. Whether they could see us or smell us, I’m not sure, but they damn well knew where we were and what we were doing. I am sure of that.

  The way they tore up our camp convinced me they would return in force. Once I started thinking about it, my mind just couldn’t shake visions of all the fucked-up ways the battle for Ibiza could go down. Exposed and completely outnumbered in enemy territory, we would have to play defense–forever looking over our shoulders, waiting for the attack to come, then hoping we had the guts and strength to survive.

  I suppose we could have launched a preemptive strike and tried to kill them all off, but that idea didn’t sit well with either of us. In the end–at least as I saw it–our only option was to sail away. Funny thing is, at the time, I figured I was giving up more than Maria. Our poor canoe. How many hours did I spend hacking on that log?

  I pulled ship’s captain on her and said some things I shouldn’t have. Stupid. We fought for a day while I kept the catamaran pointed southwest toward the coast. Once she realized she couldn’t talk me into turning back, she stopped talking to me altogether.

  Now we travel in silence along the coast Spaniards will someday call Valencia. Not really silence, as the air is always filled with the cries of gulls, terns, frigate birds, pelicans, eagles and cormorants. Seals snort, sea otters yelp and leaping fish slap the water on landing.

  This is pretty country. Lots of green mountains and long white sand beaches. Thick with game, and some mean-looking mammoth, lion and tiger, too. Not many Cro-Mags or Neanderthal along the coast, and none on the little island we sailed to this evening about an hour before dark. The half moon of basalt offers no trees or fresh water, but its black cove forms good shelter from the north wind’s nonstop whistle. The place is littered with plenty of driftwood for a fire, and the round pebbles of the beach feel good on our bare feet.

  We pulled into the bay and beached the cat at high tide. This new boat is OK. It’s the same basic design as the first catamaran, and made from many of the original components. The big improvements are our fiber ropes and sails, which are about a hundred times better than those old leather lashings.

  Our two 20-foot-long kayaks serve as twin hulls and storage lockers. The hulls are about eight feet apart, with the span covered by a pole deck topped by a pair of woven fiber mats. The mats make the 7-by-16-foot deck so much more comfortable than it was with just the poles. The mats are also our spare sails and can be rigged as shelter from the sun and rain.

  The
old mast was too flimsy. Since I had already busted ass cutting and smoothing a narrow, 45-foot pine trunk for the bigger sailing canoe’s mast, we used that. With Maria standing guard in her jumpsuit, I burned the mast in half and was good to go. We had more than enough twine to lash the deck together, and rope to rig the mast. We were underway less than one full day after making up our minds to go.

  For me, even though it was hard to leave the canoe behind, it was also kind of a relief. I had bitten off more than I could chew. Next time, I want Jones and Bolzano there to share the load. We’ll start with a mountain of good stone for our tools, and we’ll make sure to pick an island without any monkey men running around.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Old dude really think that croaking’s gonna work?”

  Bolzano: “Care to place a wager on the outcome?”

  Jones: “Nope. No chance. Know better than to bet against him. Ya gotta admit, his shit don’t sound like no goat you ever heard.”

  Bolzano: “I shan’t disagree, however if you care to turn 30 degrees to your left, you will see a veritable herd of billies leaping pell-mell down the ridgeline.”

  Jones: “Was watching the ones over your shoulder. Damn, time to look alive.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Gettin’ ready for winter march north. Old man says snow and cold make travel easier, not harder. Sounds like we’ll be walking frozen rivers and lakes until spring. “Flat and easy until you fall through ice,” he says with no laugh. Guess we’ll be traveling hard until world turns to soup. Bit more than three months.