Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  Twenty minutes later, we were gliding across calm, shimmering seas on the four-mile paddle from the island to our usual hiding spot in the bay. The contented smiles hidden behind our visors matched the unseasonably warm Indian Summer weather. East-facing flanks of hills and ridgelines were bathed by the sun in muted yellows and orange, golden halos shining where tendrils of morning fog floated up from the shadows of gulches and bottomlands. Casting the longest shadow of all was Gibraltar Rock. Its shade stretched across perhaps a mile of forest, sand dunes and marsh, almost all the way to Grammy’s camp. Wispy columns of smoke also picked up the light, curling into the air to mark many hundreds of habitation caves and open campsites as the Neanderthal occupants rose to meet a new day.

  The mass migrations which filled the sky with millions upon millions of birds–everything from hummingbird to stork–for the past few months have finished. I guess that means the pelicans, ducks, gulls, terns, frigate birds and countless other species spinning and squawking in the morning sky were all local. High above the fray, with wingspans longer than our kayaks, a pair of giant raptors carved lazy spirals.

  Traveling in full stealth mode, we matched pace with a colony of fast-swimming, warm-water penguins as it herded a massive school of anchovy toward shore. Paddling parallel to the rocky ledges below Europa Point, Paul spotted Hercules and several dozen other men and women taking advantage of low tide to collect their daily fare. Broad-shouldered Hercules was easy to locate, standing nearly a half-head taller than all the others working the tide pools and crags of the coast. Letting the penguins go, we stopped to drink in the scene as we bobbed with the sea turtles feeding on seaweed about 60 feet offshore.

  The behavior on display bore many similarities to other social groups I have experienced, whether it be the Cro-Magnon of Bordeaux or my own school dances in the 2200s. The boys worked hard to impress the girls, who in turn did a poor job pretending not to notice. Fueled by the girls’ glances and giggles, the boys jostled and competed for their spots in the pecking order. Old men shook their heads, longing to still be part of the ritual courtship, while the old women really did pay no attention, preferring instead to gossip and cackle, search for the day’s prettiest shell or juiciest clam.

  The penguins continued harassing the anchovies until the school was compressed so close to shore the surface rippled and then turned to a froth where the bottom shelved upward and the school ran out of room. Breaking off their searches for eel, scallop, sponge and urchin, the Neanderthal women began heaving stones where they could not help but bash handfuls of tasty, hard-to-catch fish. The men were quick to join in, turning it into a game to see who could lift and bomb the largest rock into the silvery mass. Hercules drew laughs and shouts as he raised a veritable boulder over his head. Walking with shaky legs to a rock ledge, he flung it a good 10 feet from shore where it cannonaded with a geyser of salt water and shining fish.

  The way they slapped him on the back, roughed up his hair, stopped to listen when he spoke, left me with the impression the people of the community have a genuine affection and respect for the young hunter from Grammy’s clan. The anchovies’ plight attracted all sorts of predator and scavenger. Birds filled the air, dolphins and porpoise worked the offshore perimeter to help keep the school penned in, and foxes and otters converged on the spot to investigate. (As noted in Report GM#197: these two animals, the fox and otter, have carved niches for themselves in Neanderthal life unlike any other mammal we have seen in the region. They could never be called pets, but these two are tolerated, even welcomed with morning leftovers, in a land where all other competitors in the food chain are generally harassed or killed.)

  The women were beating the water with driftwood poles when the school broke the penguins’ barricade and departed the cove as suddenly as it had arrived. Without anyone giving an order to do so, the Neanderthal quickly set to the task of collecting the thousands of dead and stunned anchovies which littered the shore and surface of the sea. When some fish began floating away, Hercules and several other young men dog-paddled out to splash them back toward shore. I was thinking about what strong swimmers they were when Paul startled me with an amplified bark from the speakers of his helmet.

  “Shark!”

  Turning to the strange, blaring noise, the Neanderthal were presented with the tall dorsal fin of our friend the tiger shark bearing down upon them. I could not believe Paul broke silence, but admit I may have done the same had I seen the shark first. We were both relieved when, without a cry for help or shout of alarm, Hercules and the other swimmers quickly paddled for the rocks. Most climbed up safely with ease, but one of the younger lads was slower than the rest. He was being pulled out by the tug of an outgoing wave when Hercules jumped back into the water to snatch the boy’s wrist and whip him up onto the rocks. Tottering for a second, Hercules gained his balance and clambered atop a mossy boulder just as the shark struck. Turning itself sideways, just missing the hunter’s leg, it bloodied its snout and gums, and apparently shed a few teeth as it chomped down upon the rock itself. As the shark righted itself, I noted its dorsal fin sported a ragged notch where Paul’s spear had been ripped away.

  I expected the Neanderthal to rain their own spears upon the monster as it knifed back and forth along the coast, or at least hurl more stones, but they surprised us with their deferential treatment. Gathering in a line facing the sea, the people repeated a chant that sounded like “Vra-ba-go-lanjo” five times. Turning back to their individual or shared piles of foods, they each selected an offering and returned to pitch it into the sea as the shark swam by. I didn’t see the shark actually take any of the dead penguins, seals or octopus thrown its way, but the Neanderthal hooted and shouted each time it swung close to investigate.

  Hercules offered the guts of two young seals he must have killed before we arrived. Slitting a small opening at each animals’ throat, he dug deep with his powerful arms to scoop out the entrails and toss them into the water. I don’t think the shark ate any of the bits usually reserved for Grammy and her clan, but the crabs and small fish had a bonanza. One of the giant eagles made a low pass to investigate, but the Neanderthal had been charting its whereabouts and quickly gathered into a group to raise their spears in defense.

  Once emptied of entrails, Hercules dragged the 150-pound seals to the pile of anchovies and stuffed their body cavities with so many of the small fish they bulged as if pregnant. Several of the younger women paid particular attention to his efforts, and despite the fact that he was covered in blood and gore, they seemed quite impressed by his ingenuity and strength.

  The shark appeared to be long gone when Hercules lowered himself back into the water by the big rock to feel around with his toes. The girls screeched and swooned on the beach, scanning the water for shark fins, until he came up with one, two and finally three bright white triangular teeth. The girls didn’t stop fretting until he was safely back on shore.

  Gathering up the seals, making ready to go, he evidently thought better of it and set them down to drift over to where the women had returned to comb the tide pools one last time before the area flooded with the incoming surge. The serrated shark teeth were nearly as long as his fingers as Hercules sought out the three girls and handed each a prize.

  Again gathering up his heavy loads, he started across the rocks, only to be stopped by a trio of boys that emerged from the tree line to shout, “Meh, meh, meh!” Dropping the seals once again, Hercules cast his eyes to the far hills. Following his point to the east along with the rest of the seaside hunters and gatherers, we spotted a plume of dense smoke rising into the distant air.

  “Meh, meh, meh?”

  “Meh, meh, meh!”

  Whatever the news meant it was quite upsetting to the entire group. Forgetting the anchovies, men and women stopped only to collect their bare essentials–weapons, tools, capes and gathering bags–before picking their way across the rocky flats back to dry land. Hercules began sprinting for home, but wasn’t gone long before he
trotted back to grab his two stuffed sea lions by the scruffs of their necks and steadily drag them over the rocks and into the trees.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Can you see the tall caves from up there?”

  Kaikane: “Wait a second, I need to climb a little higher. Yep, now I see ’em.”

  Duarte: “Zoom in and tell me what’s going on.”

  Kaikane: “Why don’t you shinny up and check it out for yourself?”

  Duarte: “You’re the tree climber, not me.”

  Kaikane: “A lot of people on the move. Carrying their stuff. Looks like most of the Neanderthal up there are evacuating.”

  Duarte: “Is the fire threatening the area?”

  Kaikane: “No, it’s a long way off. Smoke’s not so bad now. I think it’s going out.”

  Duarte: “Any sign of Hercules?”

  Kaikane: “Yeah, still on the way. He’s past the big S turn now, be here in about five minutes.”

  Duarte: “Come on down then. Let’s get ahead of him. I would like to be in place before he arrives in camp.”

  Kaikane: “You’re niele, you know that?”

  Duarte: “What’s that mean?”

  Kaikane: “You’re a snoop.”

  Duarte: “Look who’s talking, Smarty Pants.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We paddled straight to Paul’s preferred parking place for visiting Grammy’s cave. The tiny slip of sand is bracketed by a pair of fallen pines overgrown with thorny brambles. It is less than a half-mile walk from the Neanderthal woman’s home. We glided into our private cove, secured the kayaks to one of the trees and watched them fade into the background. Crawling on our stomachs, we emerged from the tangle into a grassy clearing bisected by several well-worn human trails.

  To avoid leaving tracks where they can be seen, we generally keep to one of the fox trails that invariably parallel human paths. On our way inland, we passed several heavily-burdened individuals and families apparently fleeing the area. Paul climbed a conifer to confirm that similar disruptions were being played out in camps all around the bay.

  We beat Hercules to camp by about 15 minutes. Taking our usual places in the sedge behind the crest of a low dune overlooking camp 67 feet from the mouth of Grammy’s cave, we witnessed a scene of anxiety and confusion. Nearly all of the sub-families were in attendance, keening and dashing about as they failed to reach consensus on what to do. Amid the turmoil sat Grammy by the fire, calmly chewing berry bush stems to release the sugary juice from within. Occasionally, one of her children would squat by the fire to ask questions in handsign and short vocalizations.

  “Meh, meh, meh?”

  The female elder’s concise answers did not seem to placate anybody. The only other seated person was Grammy’s young granddaughter, who remained by the old woman’s side, using her thick fingernails to split berry limbs for them both to chew.

  The arrival of Hercules and his bounty from the sea seemed to take some of the edge off the clan. Once the ritual sniffing and greetings were completed, and the day’s dire news shared amid many glances to the smoky, eastern horizon, Hercules used a flint point to slit open a seal belly and reveal its silvery contents. The anchovies may not have lifted all of the clan’s worries, but that didn’t stop everyone from grabbing a fish to chomp. Several of the women, Grammy included, skewered fish onto limbs and lightly cooked them over the fire before sharing them around camp. Most folks ate with their eyes focused on the east.

  We observed a surprisingly uneventful evening and were about to head back to the boats when our eyes caught a ball of flame bobbing through the dunes. From our perspective it was easy to see, but the clan was situated too low and thus caught unawares when a burning, pitch-soaked limb pin-wheeled through the air to land in the heart of Grammy’s camp. In seconds, shouts of “Meh, meh, meh!” filled the air. From the darkness shuffled an elderly couple draped in wolf furs, the two leaders from Boquete de Zafarraya. They were escorted by five burly hunters. The tallest of the hunters, with the loudest chants of “Meh, meh, meh,” was the light-haired male we had nicknamed “Blondie.”

  Grammy extended her arms as she strode toward the visiting elders. Gathering them in a group hug she offered the most formal greeting we have yet seen from Neanderthal. A long chant ensued as she seemed to go on and on about first the man and then the woman. Paul said it sounded like a Hawaiian lineage chant which details a person’s ancestors and exploits. Maybe he’s right.

  During the recitation, Blondie and his boys let their eyes roam the camp. Without bothering to disguise their scrutiny, they carefully studied the people, their weapons, the layout of the camp, and the seals filled with prized anchovies. Blondie’s gaze returned time after time to Grammy’s granddaughter.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Of what did you and Fralista quarrel?”

  Jones: “None of your business.”

  Bolzano: “Everything is my business. I am an historian, am I not?”

  Jones: “Never sure what the hell ya are.”

  Bolzano: “I have spent a lifetime harvesting gossip in every form. From the time I was a wee lad growing up in the family’s Milano compound, I collected dirt on the family and household staff the way other children collected metal coins.

  “Stray talk was nectar pumped directly into the Bolzano veins. I became an expert at studying people, observing interactions, and then predicting outcomes. Possessing the inside skinny can be valuable beyond measure. I have made, and unfortunately lost, fortunes based on the veracity of information. You would call it ‘intel.’”

  Jones: “Salvatore, you planning to run a con on me and Fralista?”

  Bolzano: “Back in Italy, I loved attending weddings. There were so many cousins and friends getting married that barely a weekend went by that I did not receive at least one invitation to attend a betrothal. I graced the extravaganzas with my wit and charm as often as I was able, for it was an excellent opportunity to enjoy free food and champagne, and also to make book on the longevity of the union. As tacky as it sounds, you would be surprised, quite often the bride and groom would place their own bets on how long they would remain hitched. I found the women to be far better predictors than the men.

  “Such is the way of life. It is true now and always will be. Men bound through their years like Golden Retrievers. Keep us fed and scratched and loved, and we are generally pleased as punch. The purpose of a man’s life is to cut the middle from the watermelon and gorge on its sweetness. Carpe diem.

  “Women, on the other hand, are born worrying about details. From the youngest age, they are attuned to every little thing happening around them. They run the data through their computer brains and collate how it all affects them personally. Women sweat the small stuff because they are hard-wired to do so.

  “Blend two such disparate entities into one espresso macchiato and what do you have? No guesses? A human relationship. Happy, sad, murderous, doomed, melancholy, glorious and every other kind of union you can imagine depends on just one thing. Do you know what that thing is?”

  Jones: “Don’t suppose you’re gonna say blow jobs.”

  Bolzano: “Although fellatio does play a role in a fulfilled sex life, that is not the correct answer. The key is communication. Communication, Captain Jones! Try it.”

  Jones: “Bolzano, get that finger off my chest before I break it.”

  Bolzano: “Communication, Jones, is the key.”

  Jones: “Key to what?”

  Bolzano: “My studies of the interactions between you and Fralista may not be exhaustive, but I have a spent a fair amount of time in the company of you both. I see how you respect each other’s space, almost to the point of silliness. I know I am not the only one who has wished to cry out, ‘Go ahead and hold hands, for goodness’ sake!’

  “Captain Jones, you accept your flaws as fatal when they are not. Fralista tells Gertie that she accepts the
long silences of your depression. She also says she has long considered leaving this lonesome valley. Our brouhaha has just moved up the timetable.”

  Jones: “She has?”

  Bolzano: “Allow me to qualify this by saying that Fralista is a strong-willed woman who might put a spear through your neck if you anger her sufficiently. Having said that, if I was setting the book on your chance of a successful union, I have a feeling you two could go the distance. It may be a pensive and oftentimes sulky ride, but Captain Juniper Jones could do a lot worse than Fralista. She is, after all, the daughter of Gray Beard. That is superior stock.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  As I sit in the middle of my comfortable cave wrestling with what to keep and what to leave behind, I wonder, why do our possessions possess us so? Ja’ja’ja owned many wonderful furs, turtle shell serving bowls, carved Venus necklaces and other doo-dads which vie for space against my belongings. As an experiment, I tried to see just how much I could stuff in my pack and the dog’s twin bags. Surprisingly, it all fit. Not surprisingly, it was far too heavy.

  Though the cornucopia of belongings were each important by one criteria or another, the pack weighed nearly as much as I did, and that is only a small exaggeration. This was far more than Izzy and I could possibly hump over hill and dale. What was the old adage? A gram in the pack is a kilo on the trail?

  My shaky resolve to lighten the load is fortified by the fact that Gray Beard and Tomon will not be schlepping one unnecessary item from camp. To a modern mind, it is difficult to process their willingness, without a moment’s regret, to walk away from a considerable fortune in trade goods. I know they enjoy comforts as much as I do. Long soaks in the hot spring, beds of furs, well-crafted fire pits, wooden ladles and other cook tools too cumbersome to be found in the average nomad’s campsite, all will be lost to us, perhaps forever.