Fur was flying, literally, as they tore into each other like a pair of wildcats. Pulling each other’s hair, locking arms around torsos, snarling, sinking teeth into necks and faces, clawing with the long toenails on their feet, they rolled through the dirt in search of the same goal: destruction.
Nobody lifted a finger to stop them. And nobody seemed interested in joining the fight. This was a show, a heavyweight championship bout.
The two men savaged each other with bites and head butts, raking scratches, pinches and pummeling knees. They were tough beyond my imagination. But locked together like magnets, neither had room to land a killing blow. One would get the upper hand, roll on top and start pounding the other guy’s head into the ground only to find himself flipped on his back and receiving the same treatment.
Hercules was putting the bite on Blondie’s big nose when the older man got his hands around the young hunter’s windpipe and pushed him arm’s length away. Hercules clawed for the man’s eyes, tried to summon the will for one last counterattack, but his strength quickly faded. Maria let out an “Oh no” over the com line as his legs began to twitch and his eyes rolled back into his head. Out of the hush came the voice of the old guy from Cueva del Boquete de Zafarraya.
“Let him up! Stop, now!” It must have been something like that, because Blondie let go just as soon as his boss told him to. Dropping the local boy to the ground, casting a mean look toward the girl huddled under her grandmother’s arm, the champion found a seat by his friends. The brawl must have released some steam, or set the pecking order, I don’t know, but it surprised me how everybody just settled in for a late-night dinner, devouring the rest of the food, right down to the bones, like nothing happened.
Though both guys had taken incredible beatings, it was amazing how well their bodies stood up to the abuse. It took Hercules an hour or so to revive himself, most of that time spent sitting in the middle of the stream, but he was soon back by the fire eating anchovies that he must have had stashed somewhere. Blondie had a slight limp and a bloody nose to go with his swagger as he and his guys escorted their old folk through the moonlight back to the tall caves.
These are some rough dudes.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Off goes another family packed up and headed down the coast. The folks who remain, I fear they’re headed for a train wreck.”
Kaikane: “Was thinking the same thing.”
Duarte: “Whatever happens, we must not interfere.”
Kaikane: “I told you I was sorry about the shark thing. The word was out of my mouth before I knew it.”
Duarte: “Not just that. I saw you flinch when Blondie had Hercules in his chokehold.”
Kaikane: “I didn’t flinch.”
Duarte: “You were contemplating helping him, and helping the girl, weren’t you? Admit it.”
Kaikane: “Maybe I was…a little. How about you?”
Duarte: “You bet your ass. I felt like dashing over and cracking a spear over Blondie’s head. I care about Grammy’s people in almost equal measure to how much I dislike the interlopers. Into this idyllic, self-sustaining, peaceful world have marched a clan of warriors who worship fire and violence. Of course the injustice and depredations tick me off, but that doesn’t mean we can do anything about them.”
Kaikane: “Take off your helmet.”
Duarte: “Why?”
Kaikane: “I want a kiss, that’s why.”
Duarte: “Not until you promise.”
Kaikane: “I promise.”
Duarte: “No rescues, no butting in to stop fights, no interference of any kind.”
Kaikane: “Just like in training.”
Duarte: “Yep, just like in training.”
Kaikane: “I have a feeling it won’t be easy, but OK, I promise. Where you going?”
Duarte: “Follow me. I found a quiet place.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
I am reassessing my notion that the Fire Starters are unwelcome interlopers to Gibraltar. After watching them settle in, seeing their elders receive delegations and host dance parties, I’m beginning to wonder if the two geriatric leaders might not be Neanderthal’s version of the King and Queen of Spain. That may be overstating things a bit, but they certainly do command the people’s attention and respect. They’re also keen on keeping the peace. So far, it’s working, as their fractious kin have yet to set the whole place on fire, or declare war on the population.
What we first assumed to be a mass exodus of Gibraltar’s people actually turned out to be a reshuffling of living quarters. The Fire Starters laid claim to what could be considered the prime digs in the area, a collection of eight tall caves tucked on the west-southwestern flank of Europa Point. The traveling clan of 47 people displaced about 93 people who had been living in the caves. Most of those 93 walked around the point and uprooted all the bachelor seal hunters living in Gorham’s Cave and two other caves nearby. Those single men cast themselves back into society, moving in with families, joining other campsites, or dislocating people lower down the pecking order from their homes entirely.
It was an interesting look into the class structure of Gibraltar society. I estimate that 25 percent of the population has settled into new and different living quarters within the last three days. Most amazing is the fact that nearly all evictions were handled without conflict. Across the board, refugees had a resigned acceptance, like, “I had a feeling you would be coming.” It reminded me of a ritual or dance.
How is this hierarchy established and codified? Who or what backs up the law? Social mores? An innate sense of propriety? Every time I think I understand these Neanderthal, something like this reminds me how much I do not know. I don’t even know the questions, let alone the answers. On the plus side, my suspicions that Grammy holds some sort of leadership role in the community were bolstered when she and her people emerged from the upheaval unmoved and unscathed. Her grandson Hercules has been knocked down a few pegs in the social order, but he continues to provide sustenance for his clan.
After heated negotiation, Paul has granted me one more week to study this interplay. By the time we head through the strait of Gibraltar and out into the wild Atlantic, I plan to have answers to as many of the questions rattling through my pea brain as I can. Paul’s uneasy, hot to get moving, but it has been too stormy to sail anyway. And truth be told, I think he enjoyed today’s lion hunt as much as I did.
As I have mentioned in numerous reports, Gibraltar and environs are surprisingly devoid of alpha predators like wolf pack, big cats and bears. We also do not see many mammoth and auroch. This absence of threat to the resident hominid population is unlike any other place we have visited. Everywhere else, prey-predator ratios remained fairly constant whether Cro-Magnon were present or not. This lack of competition could be a quirk of the environment, but my hypothesis points to Neanderthal.
It was an hour before sunrise when I first heard the cats. The sounds of mating were common enough. Paul and I have heard the cries many times over past year and a half. Yowls of females, and roars of at least two competing males, echoed from several miles inland, out of one of the valleys running almost due north from the center of the bay. Paul and I had spent the night in a familiar hiding spot, rotating sleeping next to the kayaks and pulling guard duty. The rain had tapered off to barely a drizzle and the wind had finally ceased when I first noticed the sounds. There was no mistaking them in the still morning air.
It wasn’t long before the Neanderthal began to rouse themselves to the threat. A single long blast on a conch shell was answered by toots all around the bay.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “What’s all the racket?”
Duarte: “Not sure, but I think there’s going to be a hunt.”
Kaikane: “What else do I hear, lions?”
Duarte: “Yep.”
Kaikane: “And you were going to let me sleep through?”
Duarte: “It’s probably n
othing.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
By the time we reached Grammy’s camp, the place was deserted. I had been curious about the cave, but not curious enough to tiptoe through a camp full of leg-breakers to find out. The coals of a fire smoldered just inside the entrance, well-behaved smoke rising to the flat ceiling and following the upward slant to vent outside. This place was really different. I’m glad we took the time to snoop.
Most of the caves around here, like Gorham’s Cave, were carved by millions of years of pounding waves. Those are round-topped sea caves, eroded little coves, really, like we see being formed by wave action on the rocky shoreline every day. When sea levels drop, the sea caves become dry caves with sand floors.
Grammy’s place is out in the rolling dunes about a quarter mile from the bay. The cave overlooks a pretty brook. It is tucked low enough on the southern flank of a tall dune to escape the winds, but high enough that I don’t think it would ever flood. What makes the place special is the thick mantle of limestone that forms its roof. The limestone sits on top of softer sandstone and is tipped upward like the deck of an old aircraft carrier with lead in its ass.
Morning sun was at our backs as we slowly stepped through the cave’s square mouth. About eight feet tall and eight feet wide at the entrance, the space opened into a nearly perfectly circular chamber about 40 feet in diameter. Erosion may have helped hollow out some of the compressed sand under the limestone shelf, but there was no mistaking tool marks where Neanderthal had dug to make the place bigger. The floor was powdery sand, perfect for sleeping. Spread out helter-skelter around a central fire pit were the belongings of five families. Dips in the sand made by shoulders and hips showed where people had been crashed out before rising to answer the alarm.
Neither of us saw any cave paintings or petroglyphs on the walls, but there were a few pretty things here and there–bird feathers stuck in holes, lines of pretty shells, a pile of big antlers, that kind of stuff. Off to one corner was a stone-working area with all the flakes and chips you would expect, as well as a few surprise materials like shark teeth, abalone shell and porcupine quills. A few spears were under repair, and it looked like somebody was thinking about making a new club from a driftwood limb. Or maybe not, who knows with these guys.
Following their trail through the dewy grass was easier than tracking a rhino. Their prints led us across two streams then turned inland along the banks of a swift-running river up into a gulch. Along the way, we passed a couple huge herds of animals that look like a cross between camels and hamsters. Maria says they aren’t rodents, but they sure look like 200-pound rats to me. She claims the teeth and feet are all wrong. We walked through a dozen of those round divots made by moa birds but didn’t see any of those tall buggers. It being wintertime, there weren’t any snakes, turtles, lizards, frogs or toads either, but if you look hard enough, there’s always some critter sneaking around.
We were making good time through the thinly-spaced pine trees, hustling up the bottom of the valley, when I almost walked right into the middle of a hunting party of at least 80 Neanderthal. Men, women and children, everybody had gone to ground. Lying motionless in the weeds and pine needles, they were almost impossible to see. Thankfully, Maria picked them up with a routine thermal scan and called me up short. But not before I stepped on a stick. A few guys turned heads my way, while other hunters muttered oaths, assuming the head-turners were the ones who made the noise.
At least now we know when a Neanderthal whispers “talakaff, talakaff” it means “Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!” Maria and I retreated behind a fallen log where we had a clear view of the ambush site.
To their credit, the Neanderthal sprung a dandy trap. They placed themselves below a choke point where the gulch narrowed into steep, sheer walls and the river’s rapids began. Along the east bank of the stream, our side of the water, there was a muddy path about 20 feet wide. With all the different kinds of tracks in the mud it was easy to see it was heavily used.
In less than a half hour, light winds drifting down the valley carried the smell of smoke. Not long after that, faint shouts and whistles echoed above us. As the chants grew louder, we realized that the Neanderthal had sent a force of hunters above and around the lions to chase them to this particular gulch. Unless I miss my guess, the cats were two gulches to the east when we first heard them this morning. I imagine the Meh-meh-meh boys would have set the whole hillside afire if they could’ve, but after three days of rain, everything was way too wet for that. As it was, they used conch shells full of embers to start smoky fires that drove those giant cats to the exact place they wanted.
Without any sound of warning, an alpha lioness rounded the bend in the trail and padded through the mud to stop within 20 feet of where the front line of hunters were hidden. Earlier, while we were waiting, Maria had pointed out Hercules and Blondie, Grammy, Beno and Bette, and others we recognized. The two primary clans were well represented. Catching a whiff of something she didn’t like, the lioness stopped dead in her tracks and put her nose in the air. Tail twitching, she turned back to watch as three more females and two males also stopped.
The cats were as big as any we had seen up north in Bordeaux or Tuscany. My guess for the weight of the biggest male was 1,000 pounds, but Maria says more like 800. Whatever. They were huge. With tawny coats wet from the leaves, or maybe sweat, they stood panting, deciding whether to go on or turn back.
The Neanderthal showed excellent control as they waited like seasoned troopers for their fire-starting brothers and sisters to seal the trap upstream. In minutes, the sound of pine cones cracking and the smoke of a wet fire billowed around the corner. The lions had taken their first cautious steps to escape the smoke when the old leader from Cueva del Boquete de Zafarraya barked out an order and the Neanderthal rose from their hiding places as one. I expected pandemonium, but the hunters had a plan. Ignoring the females, letting them gallop right through their lines, the people concentrated their attacks on the two males, somehow knowing they would be the last two cats to face the danger.
Grammy’s crew was tasked with bringing down the younger male. A scrapper with torn ears and scarred snout, the lion wasn’t as big as the alpha, but if the old dude was 800 pounds, this one weighed at least 700. Waving long spears and heavy clubs, Hercules and the men of Grammy’s clan led the Gibraltar locals as they headed the beta male off and tried to surround it before it reached the river. But the cat was too fast, too spooked. Raking a young hunter across the face to clear an opening, the cat sprung up onto a fallen tree and ignored the flying spears and stones to reach a spot where it jumped into the fast-running stream and let the current carry it away.
Turning to the older lion, Grammy’s clan saw the Fire Starters were having better luck. Jabbing with long spears, repelling swipes of wicked claws with bashes from wooden clubs, the clan had backed the cat up against the sheer wall of a cliff. Ears laid back, snarling, the lion shook the earth as he tipped back his angry head and roared. Blondie was right there at the front jabbing his spear, and then he disappeared, darting away from the group to search for something along the stream bank. Hoisting an oval stone about three times bigger than a football, he roared as loud as the lion as he loped back toward the pack. The clan leader saw what Blondie was up to and banged a few of the boys on the back to make them open a space for him to pass through.
I wasn’t looking at Hercules or Grammy’s clan, but I’m sure they were as impressed as we were when Blondie sprinted straight through that gap with the heavy stone over his head. Leaping into the air, he delivered a two-handed bomb that smashed the lion smack dab in the face. The lion was dead before the last of his teeth hit the ground. I’m not kidding, they were picking up teeth and pieces of teeth a good 20 feet away from where the lion fell in a heap. Blondie’s momentum carried him right on top of the cat. If he had missed he would’ve been a dead man for sure.
The hunter did a strange th
ing once it was over. I expected him to act like the asshole he is, but he showed the cat great respect. Gathering the animal’s giant, bloody head in his arms, Blondie pressed his forehead between the cat’s eyes and held him in a long hug. After a while he started to pat and talk to the cat, stroke its neck. Maybe 10 minutes later, he broke off and let the other hunters have their time. Finally, once all the guys who were in on the kill had paid their respects, the elders directed how they wanted the cat skinned. The people didn’t harvest one ounce of meat, but did carry a heavy skin, four paws and a couple handfuls of broken teeth back to camp.
Blondie could have run for mayor of Gibraltar and won in a landslide. He was everybody’s hero. Everybody excepting Hercules and his shamed clan. They kept to themselves while the rest couldn’t get enough of pounding the fair-haired hunter on the back. It wasn’t just the children who lifted stones over their heads and mimicked his courageous coup de grace. One member of Grammy’s clan, the granddaughter with yellow-green eyes, didn’t return directly to the cave in the dunes. The girl joined up with a pack of other young lasses which followed Blondie’s crew all the way back to their caves. Though we waited a long time, we never did see her again that night.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “This is our last day.”
Duarte: “I know.”
Kaikane: “Well, what do you want to do?”
Duarte: “I’m not sure.”
Kaikane: “If you’ve got nothing planned, we could finish rigging the boat, leave in the morning and steal a day back.”
Duarte: “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Don’t you dare rush me, Paul Kaikane.”
Kaikane: “Geez, calm down.”
Duarte: “There are a million things I need to do, but don’t worry, I’m not going back on our agreement. Today is our last day no matter what.”
Gibraltar Page 17