Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  I held Maria in my arms as we lay in the narrow chamber, bodies tingling and heads rushing as the effects of the jumpsuits short-circuited their way out of our bodies. Pressed tightly against her back, nose in the woodsmoke of her hair, I listened to Maria replay all the highlights. It was an important day, and she didn’t want to forget any part of it. She can be so serious.

  My lover can also be seriously passionate when she sets her mind to it.

  We had been in the cave for at least a couple hours. The tingles were just about over, and we were figuring out how to get turned around so she could give me a foot rub to pay off a bet we had made. I forget what the bet was about, something about the rain. Anyway, I never got that foot rub. Maria reached between us and asked, “Why don’t I rub this instead?” I said it sounded like a good idea.

  When you read about sex, or see it in a movie, there always seems to be a lot of gymnastics involved. There’s so much grunting and thrusting, maybe “wrestling match” is a better term. This time, for Maria and me, tucked in our little tube of a cave, there wasn’t room for any of that. Even so, it was one of the best…oh man, how does Maria do this? I can’t call it something crude like a lay or a fuck, because it was so much more. Intercourse? It was one of the best intercourses of my life? Maybe Sal would call it that, but not me. Actually, Sal would probably know just what to say.

  It was one of the best nights of my life.

  She guided me in slowly, inch by sweet inch. It had been so long, I was as hard as a spear shaft. Harder.

  “Don’t move,” she purred. “Let me do the work.” Placing her hand on mine, sliding it upwards from her waist to her gorgeous breasts, she ordered, “Pinch them. Softly.” Her nipples were hard as little pine cones. Maria did a slow grind backwards, stopping every time she sensed I was ready to finish. Eventually, she stopped altogether, and for a moment, I thought the tingles of the suit had come back. Then I realized she was contracting her muscles deep inside to give me a massage like none other. I never wanted it to end. I held her tight, unmoving except for my kisses to her neck and ears and the tops of her shoulders.

  “Where are you surfing right now? Come on, tell me.”

  There’s no fooling Maria. Some guys think about baseball, I go surfing in my head when I need to pace myself.

  “Off Waikiki, the reef where all the shoreline hotels collapsed,” I groaned. “It’s a nice left.”

  “This feel good?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Her breathing turned to gasps.

  “Come with me, baby.”

  That’s what I did.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “About time. Where ya been?”

  Bolzano: “Why, I do believe a certain captain missed me. I have been working on my reports, exercising, and finally, coming to grips with solitary confinement. I apologize for not donning my loathsome helmet more often. Do you wish to have a word, Captain Jones?”

  Jones: “More’n one. Ya better come on over.”

  Bolzano: “The mud.”

  Jones: “Keep to the high ground, you’ll make it.”

  Bolzano: “Is something amiss?”

  Jones: “One way to put it. Plan on staying for supper. Meeting planned.”

  Bolzano: “A meeting for whom? Are we starting a representative form of government? A book club? A Masonic Lodge?”

  Jones: “Quit fucking around. Two of the new boys ate Pinky.”

  Bolzano: “Pinky? The Hunter’s wife?”

  Jones: “Yep.”

  Bolzano: “Cannibals!”

  Jones: “Whole clan’s in a tizzy over here. I’d meet ya halfway, but gotta keep an eye on our people. Ya still got that big club?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, of course.”

  Jones: “Bring it. And look sharp on the way over. Who knows what these fuckers are up to.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  A heavy downpour chased our fractured social dynamic under the winter cook area’s cantilevered roof. Puddles from the splashing rain compressed everyone against the back walls of the wide limestone portico and into the darkness of the three tunnels. Gray Beard emerged from the habitation chamber he has commandeered and tooted two sharp notes on his bone flute to bring all nattering to a grudging halt. Using hand sign, his instructions were clear: Find a place to sit.

  The contingent slumped into an uneasy triangle. Dressed in far finer clothes than their new husbands, five of the Valley Clan women had already laid claim to the camp’s prime seating area on the dry side of the fire. Babeck and the bachelors quickly commandeered the next best place, which left Karloon, Fralista, Gray Beard, Tomon, Gertie, their as-yet-unnamed baby, Lanio, Captain Juniper Jones and yours truly to sit with our backs to the cold evening, just out of range of the expanding puddles.

  Tension coursing around the fire was palpable enough to cut with a flint blade. If not for the great storyteller’s oath to share an important tale from the frozen snows of long ago, I imagine they all would have slogged off to their personal caves directly after the evening meal. Or slit our throats. The promise of entertainment, the opportunity to absorb quality information, held such power it was enough to induce an unruly group to set aside issues grave as murder and mutilation.

  We had all been shaken by the revelations that the woman Pinquinfidenjosn had been killed and eaten by two men. The unrepentant cannibals were seated together right by the fire, at the head of a knot of tough fighters that included their ringleader Babeck. One culprit held a club across his knees and the other had three spears close at hand. Their friends each held a stabbing weapon or club tucked into the braided leather loops cinching their waists.

  Gray Beard strode close to the fire and tossed a handful of small pine cones into the flames. Crack, crack, snap! It was a trick I had seen him use before. As always, it caught folks off guard and sent a tingle through the central nervous system that said, “Oh boy, a story!” He turned a slow circle at the front of the fire and spread his arms. To the best of my recollection, this is what he said.

  Listen and I will tell you a story!

  You are fortunate this evening, because this is not just any story. It is a very important story, very important indeed. It is the oldest tale I know. Handed down by my grandfather’s grandfathers many times over, it comes from the bitter cold days of endless winter. In those days, the sun was a cruel trickster who shone down without heat. The oceans were so cold they shrunk the way a man’s testicles do when he steps out of a warm cave and into the snow to urinate.

  Where this tale takes place, I cannot say. I have searched and searched, but have not yet found the landmarks which my long-ago grandfather describes. Towering mountains and dry plains without end. Salty lakes and pretty oceans with coastlines where mighty waves do not surprise with surges to destroy the shoreline.

  When this long-ago grandfather was a young man, he led a clan of more than four hands of members. His name was Dughsarag, and he was the finest leader the clan had seen. Due to his guidance and decision making, it was a large and healthy clan for those cold times. Four hands is many mouths to feed. Following the herds through summer snowdrifts, traveling south to the salty seas in winter to keep from freezing solid, it was difficult hunting. Back then, there were more Flat Heads than civilized people. Finding habitation caves that were not already full of Flat Heads or sleeping bears was difficult.

  This clan felt lucky to have laid claim to a comfortable set of caves along the coast. Each year, when the heavy snows would chase the Green Turtle Clan south, they would return to the caves to root out the Flat Heads and spend the winter in comfort. Fighting the Flat Heads was good hunting. The clan enjoyed all the firewood and supplies the two-legged animals collected for winter. It took more than two hands of years to convince the Flat Heads to leave the area forever. It was a good location, protected from the wind and close to the sea for harvesting oyste
r and seal and turtle and all the other foods of the shoreline.

  But the oceans were shrinking like testicles. Each year the clan returned, it was a longer walk to reach the sea. The clan insisted on returning to the caves anyway. Changing tradition is not easy. There are always people who worry or complain, drag the clan down.

  As a boy, Dughsarag despised the long treks to the coast to search for shells and otter pups and all the other things that boys enjoy hunting. “We should find homes closer to the sea,” he complained.

  The replies he heard were what you would expect. “When you are clan leader, you can find new caves. Until then, shut up!”

  One autumn, Dughsarag did lead the clan south for its first winter under his command. He led them past the caves, down to the coast and out along the spine of a narrow ridge far out to sea. Water splashed on both sides of the frightened clan as he led them out to what used to be an island but was now the tip of a peninsula. At the base of a craggy hill, the clan found a fine campsite, with a wide-mouthed cave bigger than this one. The cave had once been underwater, but was now exposed. Hardy ferns grew by a freshwater spring that never dried out and never froze over.

  Though Dughsarag had won his mantle of leadership honorably, there were three jealous cousins who wanted his power for themselves. They cut at the young man’s authority and challenged even his smallest decisions. In truth, the cousins were afraid of living so far at the end of a peninsula! They wanted the clan to return to the old ways, to return to the hill caves. “Perhaps the Flat Heads will come back to give us sport,” they said.

  Dughsarag weathered the criticism. Most of the clan stood by him, even when a terrible storm pounded the coast for many days and swept away the lives of two youngsters. The children stood too closely to the waves and were knocked down, pulled into the sea. When the storm cleared, the clan found a miracle had happened. A great toothed whale had become wedged headfirst into a nearby cove and could not get out. The clan saluted its new leader as it feasted on whale tongue and blubber. At the whale’s tail, gorging sharks turned the sea red.

  One at a time, Dughsarag invited his troublesome cousins to accompany him to watch the sharks in their frenzy. “The sharks are my friends,” he said to each of the troublemakers. “Your friends?” they asked. “How can sharks be your friend?”

  “I will show you,” Dughsarag said. “Do you see the large white one with big teeth? He has a long scar on his snout. See him?”

  As each cousin leaned close, Dughsarag gave him a mighty shove that sent him falling, waving his arms, into the riot of sharks. After feeding the final cousin to the hungry fish, the young clan leader returned to the head of the whale to tug on one of its giant teeth until it pulled away from the flesh with a pop!

  That tooth has been handed down to the leaders of the Green Turtle Clan since the time of Dughsarag. It has changed appearance many times, and was once as long as my club.

  This precious tooth is rightfully Tomon’s. He is the new clan leader. But it is a functional piece as well as pretty. I am still in need of this moon calendar, and that is why I have not yet given it to him. By following these dots, I can tell when the days will be long and when they will be short.

  Here, you two, look closely at the craftsmanship that–

  So riveted was everyone, not one soul noticed that Tomon had gathered up my stout oak shillelagh and circled behind the New Green Turtle contingent. When the two cannibals leaned in to examine Gray Beard’s moon calendar, Tomon delivered a downward chop that caught the taller man across the back of his neck. When the accomplice turned, Gray Beard delivered a backhand with his club that made spaghetti of his vertebrae. That hunter remained seated upright, his head lolling at an angle not intended by nature.

  Though I do not remember seeing the others rise, we quickly formed a defensive wall in front of Gertie and the baby as Babeck and friends erupted from their seats. Tomon thrust the handle of my club back into my hands in the same instant as he collected three spears from his wife. Karloon and Fralista both wore fierce faces standing with their spears by Gray Beard’s side. My associates must have made a plan–one they neglected to share with me–for each was armed and primed for battle. Though outnumbered, we had the superior firepower.

  Babeck growled as he paced back and forth studying the standoff through narrowed eyes. Leonglauix and Tomon held light throwing spears cocked and ready to fling. Jones’ atlatl was also armed. All three were legendary spear throwers. At this distance there would be no misses. Babeck was a dead man if he attacked, but his standing in the pack required him to save face. The simple gears in his simple head turned until his feral eyes settled on Jones. Dropping his wooden cudgel into the dirt, he motioned a challenge for the captain. “I dare you to do the same.”

  “Ugly toad!” Jones said in Green Turtle dialect. “You’ve been itching to try me for a long time, haven’t you, Flat Head?”

  The insult hit home, for Babeck balled his hands into fists and pumped them in the air.

  “Give us room!” Jones shouted as he handed his atlatl to Fralista. Never losing sight of Babeck, Jones strode out into the rain to find a piece of solid footing amid the puddles. Showing no emotion in the firelight, the tall man with mocha skin and kinky afro hair began to stretch his shoulders and twist his neck back and forth to loosen it.

  Babeck thought his dreams had come true–hand-to-hand combat without worry of the dreaded spear launcher. Every person in the clan knew about Jones’ balky shoulder and creaky back. All Babeck had to do was get the soldier wrapped in his powerful arms and he would squeeze the life out of him.

  The bull of a man ripped the long cape from his shoulders and cast it aside. Stark naked, his bulging arms nearly matched his stout legs in girth and hairiness. Pounding his granite chest like a chimpanzee, the Cro-Magnon watched Jones calmly warm up his legs with several front kicks and roundhouse kicks that snapped into the air at half speed. Many of the behavioral corrections Jones has dispensed to misbehaving New Green Turtles over the past year have come by way of kicks to the teeth or back of the head. I hoped they had not been practicing defensive maneuvers.

  We kept our weapons trained on Babeck’s people and nearly launched a salvo when he grabbed a spear from one of his men and turned toward Jones. Babeck held the thick willow spear with two hands, then screamed out a war cry as he snapped it over his knee. Dropping the halves in his wake, splashing through the puddles with his long hair streaming behind him in the pouring rain, Babeck feinted for Jones then pulled away. Laughing at the way Jones’ kick missed well short, Babeck circled.

  The next time Jones tried to deliver a front kick, Babeck was ready. Letting the kick miss short, waiting for Jones to recoil his leg for another try, Babeck rushed forward with both arms protecting his face. All he needed was to get Jones in his grips and the fight would be won. Both hands reached Jones’ neck and began to squeeze it to pulp when every milliliter of air whooshed from Babeck’s lungs. The captain’s uppercut caught the brute squarely in the solar plexus and nearly lifted him off the ground. Two more quick pistons to the abdomen bent Babeck at the waist.

  Lifting the heaving man’s head by the point of his chin, Jones set himself to deliver the coup de grace. His arm was cocked for a punch that would have certainly shattered Babeck’s jaw, and may well have killed him, but a spear flying out of the darkness forced him to pull away. Jones flattened himself to the ground, rolled twice to take cover behind a birch log bench, looked up to see Leonglauix and Tomon’s return fire. A howling cry of pain confirmed their aim was true.

  Babeck’s supporters took advantage of the disruption to rush forth and drag him to the back of their lines. To my surprise, all of the valley’s newlywed women sided against us, holding their spears, clubs and burning sticks by their men. The scowl on the old snake killer’s face betrayed his displeasure at seeing Babeck escape with his unworthy life, but Leonglauix raised his hands to sue for peace. While the man with two spears in his gut moaned his way towa
rd death in the background, the storyteller continued his tale.

  Sit down, sit down, rest your spears. Listen and I will finish my story. These two men who died tonight by the club are no different than the cousins Dughsarag fed to the sharks. They were troublemakers with no manners. As guests in this valley what did they do? They strutted and took advantage of an elder because he only had one leg. A young woman was invited into their cave, to share food and fire, and they violated her in the worst possible way. By their own boasts, the men admit they behaved no better than hyenas. “She talked too much and fucked not enough,” they said. “She was a poor cook, so we ate her.”

  Do you see this tooth? When Dughsarag pulled it from the whale’s mouth it was as long as a man’s arm. Through the years, it has been decorated and sanded smooth many times. I am glad that it is light now and I do not need to carry such a heavy tooth everywhere I go. Perhaps Tomon will learn a thing one day that is so important, he must rub this moon calendar away and start anew.

  Since the time of Dughsarag, the Green Turtle Clan has been dedicated to moving forward, to forever finding better ways to hunt and gather. How do we learn things? Some, we discover on our own. Good ideas. New ideas. Others we learn from the people we meet. If we see they have a different way of doing things, a better way, we copy them, whether it is hunting, or speaking, or ways of making shoes.

  You newcomers who have traveled with the Green Turtles for 10 moons now, look down at your feet. When I made you those foot clothes, they were the best you had ever seen. Now, nearly a full turn of the moon calendar later, you are still using them and they do not have holes where stones or sticks may enter. Unless you step directly into the river, they remain dry in wet weather. This is an example of how you learn new things from new people.