Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  With some friends, you do not need to spend great amounts of time together to be close as brothers. You may not see each other for nine or more moons, but when you do reunite, it is like you have never been apart. The conversation picks up where it left off. There is no need to sniff each other like dogs to know you like the same things.

  That is how it was for Goingpo, Jennrey and me. Since we were little ducklings learning to walk, we were best friends. Our friendship endured even though I saw them only two or three moons a year, always late in the season of change between summer and winter.

  In those times, like today, the Owl Clan was a sedentary clan. The Owls have hunted these valleys, fished this stretch of river, and conducted trade from these caves for as long as this valley has been free of ice.

  Many hands of hands of generations ago, the ancestors of Goingpo and Jennrey wandered up from the south, found these hunting grounds and put down strong roots. In those long-ago days, all of the mountains wore hats of ice, and the river was so deep and wide you could throw a stone from this spot and hit water. You doubt me? My words are true, for those facts are in the stories. Take my word for it, life was hard back then. The Owls survived.

  My father led the Green Turtle Clan when I was a boy. He and Mother developed many close friendships among the Owls, but they looked down upon their friends for staying put. They claimed it was our clan’s duty to follow the herds, to time the harvests of ripe berries and melons, just like their parents. For as far back as the stories of the Green Turtle Clan go, my people have always circled the baby mountains.

  Do the Owls call these mountains above us the “Babies?” Green Turtles and many other clans call them by that name. The tall, steep mountains far to the winter sunset are the “Fathers,” and those giants across the river, the rocky summits which stretch to the sunrise, they are the “Mothers.” In the middle are the Babies.

  My clan circled the Babies, followed the herds and timed the seasons, for many, many generations. Right up until I became clan leader and convinced my people to try something different. I told them I had become dizzy from so much circling! I talked the clan into crossing the wide Rhine one summer and took everybody on a great adventure for which they never forgave me. But that is a story for another fire.

  Every time Goingpo, Jennrey and I renewed our bonds of friendship, we were one year older. As toddlers, we wrestled and made mischief under the watchful eyes of the women as they did their gathering and cooking and gossiping. The penalty for wandering out of their sight was the sting of a willow switch across our backs. We took a fair number of thrashings until they finally gave up trying to keep the three of us close to home.

  Maybe knowing that our time together would be short made us squeeze every drop from every moment. From sunrise to sunset, whenever we were free from family chores and obligations, we were always off on a hunt, exploring new caves, climbing the tallest trees, swimming in the river, scaling the mountains or doing any dangerous thing that popped into our little heads. Oh, to be young and have so much energy again.

  As we grew older, the games evolved. The hunts grew more serious and for bigger game. Though her mother hated it, and would beat her with the switch when she returned, Jennrey often accompanied us on adventures that took us far away from camp for handfuls of days. One year, we followed an ibex trail up and over this mountain and the next and the next, far down into the valleys beyond. We were halfway to the sea when we realized we had a long way back home.

  Jennrey’s mother knew more than we thought. Her daughter was becoming a woman. No matter how much she liked to wrestle and hunt, things were changing. One fall, I returned to find Jennrey no longer dressed in the clothes of a child. She told me she had her first menses and we could no longer play as we once did. Then, when I wasn’t looking, she tripped me into a mud puddle and sprinted for the river, shedding her adult clothes along the way. The three of us swam and splashed like nothing had changed. But things had changed. Goingpo and I began to find more things to argue about. It is a wonder we didn’t kill ourselves trying to out-prove who was growing into the bigger, stronger man.

  The beautiful huntress began playing with us boys the way a raven toys with a bright shell. When the three of us snuck away from our duties to hunt, she would take turns dragging one of us off to the side for quick kisses and explorations inside her leather tunic. Jennrey’s body was ripe and firm.

  She played coy, however, leading us forever close, but never allowing either to rut with her. All young male animals love to rut with the female of their dreams. Yes, it is true! Rutting is one of only two things all young men think about. The other thing is their penis! Yes, I admit, even I was afflicted by the desires of the flesh. If you were to see Jennrey as she was in those days, you would understand. She had all of her teeth, and a smile so beautiful a man would do just about anything to see it. We were not the only men in this valley determined to be her mate.

  When Jennrey was three hands and one finger old, her father announced she was of age to marry. The announcement came during a big gathering along the river for the autumnal equinox. It had been a sun-filled summer and the herds kicking up dust on their way south were as plentiful as the berry and grape harvests.

  Out of all the men who delivered antlers to Jennrey’s father to declare their intentions, only Goingpo and I were deemed worthy to become his daughter’s mate. Her father was a good hunter and proven in battle against the Tattoos and other rogue bands. None of the rejects dared challenge his decision. And, I do not think any of them wanted to challenge Goingpo or me. Though young, we were both tall, strong and enjoyed nothing better than a good, bloody fight.

  He and I spent the night together, talking and waiting for the blare of the ram’s horn to call us to her family’s cave and receive our challenge. Sleep was hard to come by as we piled wood on the fire and shared the latest stories. While we talked, I came to realize how very different we were. All of his tales were about things other people had seen and done. Goingpo and his clan stayed in this valley and let entertainment and news come to them. My stories dealt with things that I myself had experienced and seen with my own two eyes. Perhaps being there gave my stories no more value than his told secondhand, but I felt like they did. As I curled up to sleep, I felt confident that I was the better man. And then a little squirrel of doubt chattered inside me, “What does Jennrey think?”

  Her opinion became clear the next morning. All the clans were there to listen as her father set forth his challenge. It was to be a swimming race, which made Goingpo and me both happy. Neither of us was looking forward to beating the other into a pulp.

  He explained the race would start at the top of the river’s horse leg bend, where the water was widest, and finish down by the hoof, at the narrows just above the rapids. “My daughter will give you each something to carry on your swim,” he said. “If you do not carry this thing the entire way, if you do not deliver it to me, you cannot win the race. Do not interfere with each other, do not harm each other. This is a swimming race. First man to the hoof will be my daughter’s mate.”

  Ferns and feathers braided into Jennrey’s hair made her look like a different person when she stepped before us. Around her neck, wrists and ankles was the best of her family’s jewelry. I imagine the strings of pearls, purple shells, teardrops of amber and carved ivory beads were quite fine. All I remember is how beautiful she looked, so clean and pretty, grown up.

  My question of “What does Jennrey think?” was answered when she handed me a heavy stone to carry on my swim. To Goingpo she gave a light, dry piece of pine trunk about as long and wide as my leg. The jeers of the crowd made my ears burn. They made fun of the Green Turtle boy, the nomad who was not of the valley.

  I remember nothing of the hike up to the start. Several adults walked with us and made sure we started at the same time. They must have carried our clothes back to the finish line, for we both raced naked, as all competitive swimmers do.

  I tried my harde
st to swim with one arm, hold the rock in the other, and still keep one eye on Goingpo as the current quickly carried him downstream. Goodbye, Goingpo. Don’t worry about me just because I’m drowning! Aha.

  There comes a time in every person’s life when he comes to the conclusion he just cannot win. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how bad he wants it, this is not his day. That is when I always turn to cheating. Oh yes it is!

  There are other stones, I reasoned, I will find a new one at the finish line! Dropping my load, I began paddling and kicking as fast as my arms and legs could go. In the helpful current, I felt as if I were a great trout swimming fast. As I approached Goingpo, I saw he was no longer casting looks backwards to see if I was on his tail. He was holding onto his piece of wood and lazily kicking, no doubt thinking about his wedding night. I had other plans for that night. Diving underwater like a trout, I swam directly below him. Looking up, seeing the way his little worm hung down, I could not help but reach up and give it a tug, not hard, just maybe the way a great river catfish would. I left him sputtering and swearing as I streaked away.

  I have always been a very good swimmer. Why else would my parents name me Leonglauix, which means “red otter?” Even so, my efforts to carry the rock and then catch up had tired me. Each time I looked back, Goingpo was closer. My friend swam with a determination that did not surprise me. We were always closely matched.

  Where the river bends before the finish, the current loses much of its power close to shore. When I saw Goingpo swing wide into the fast-running deepwater current, I knew I had to either do the same or lose. Lungs burning, arms aching, we sprinted side-by-side around the horse’s knee and headed for the hoof. The banks were lined by cheering people. Even strangers from across the river had taken notice of our race and shouted their encouragement. One voice stood out from all the rest.

  “Swim, Goingpo, swim,” Jennrey screamed it again and again. I believe her words carried Goingpo to victory. Somehow, he found the strength to stroke to shore while cramps in my legs forced me to ride the building current at an angle to land downstream just short of the rapids. Thankfully, some of the men who mocked me earlier had regained enough of their courtesy to grab my hands and drag me out in time.

  When I made the short walk upstream to the finish line, I found Jennrey nestled happily under Goingpo’s arm. A thing I have learned through my many years is this: If cheating doesn’t work, try to be a good loser. Nobody likes a spoilsport. I congratulated Goingpo and Jennrey while wearing the best smile I could fake. During the wedding celebration, I found myself with at least two hands of young maidens offering to bring me plates of food and horns of honeyed water. Some offered to massage my tired muscles and some offered to massage much more. What is it about a wedding that makes other women so interested in finding a mate to take home?

  Out of respect for the bride, I did not share my sleeping furs that night. Something inside me had changed. I knew that settling down, committing my life to another person, was not the way for me. At least, not yet. That summer I defied my parents and set off alone on a long adventure to the north, up to the ice pack and beyond. Add up all the journeys you have heard of and they would still not equal my trip north.

  Sometimes when you lose, you win, and sometimes when you win, you lose. I think things worked out for the best. I would not have taken my great trip if I had married Jennrey. She would have been unhappy so far away from her beloved valley. I could not have settled down, which is what she needed to do to be happy. These are all things I had yet to learn.

  Life is odd. It is never as long as we expect it to be, nor does it regularly follow the course we intend. I think Goingpo, Jennrey and I had it right as children. We hunted and explored, and never worried about tomorrow.

  My throat is dry and this story is ended. What is that? Oh yes, Jennrey. Who is Jennrey? I bet she is not who you expect. I will leave it up to her, Jennrey if you are here and do not mind, please stand. Aha! There she is. Her back may no longer be straight, but she still has one of her beautiful green eyes. Treat this woman with the respect she deserves next time you seek her out for a poultice to put on a snakebite. She was a mighty hunter.

  I expected Jennrey to be Goingpo’s current wife, but the one who stood was a bent-over woman that I had mistaken for a male hunter. Somewhere along the line, poor Jennrey had been kicked by a horse, or perhaps a bison, for the left side of her face had been rearranged in an unkind way.

  Goingpo leaped to his feet at the end of Leonglauix’s story to embrace his old friend in an appreciative hug. The storyteller is not one for public displays of affection, but he endured with a sheepish grin upon his face.

  “He tells my story better than I do!” Goingpo shouted. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Though many seasons have passed since the two gray-haired gents were young Adonis and Apollo, two lions poised to conquer their worlds, it did not take much imagination to see how it may have been. Goingpo’s injury to his left leg (he told us he broke his femur stepping into a badger hole while running after a wounded red deer) has left him shorter and off-kilter. But he still has the ropy muscles and keen eyes of a hunter. Having endured Leonglauix’s forced marches, and seen firsthand the bursts of energy and strength he is still able to put forth, I know better than to doubt any of his claims.

  Picturing Jennrey as a beautiful seductress took a bit more imagination. The woman now known as Klymng still turns heads, but for all the wrong reasons. I am sure there is a very interesting story there. Do Cro-Magnons divorce? I never thought to ask. If so, I wonder, who gets the silverware and who gets the dog? My divorcing friends always fought harder for beloved pets than they did for their apartments. I never understood that, but vowed if I were ever in a marriage headed south, I would purchase my soon-to-be ex a cute little puppy. What a dandy bargaining chip.

  Speaking of divorce, I have surrendered my comfortable cave this evening to help Captain Jones and Fralista smooth over a rough spot in their relationship. It seems Fralista did not appreciate her man taking a night off to visit the big city with his fellow warrior. It may seem a stretch to refer to a dozen habitable caves and 30 semi-permanent residents as a city, but this place has more than a hint of metropolises to come. The way these cliff people surrender personal space in favor of shared group experiences, the way living together in a collective has allowed them to develop expertise and special tools to serve narrow fields like leatherworking and medicine, and the way they have adapted their clan mentalities to be more appreciative of outsiders and new ideas, it all reminds me of home in Milano. There is an electricity, a hive mentality. It may be in zygote stage, but I feel it nonetheless.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Paul? What is it? What’s wrong? Paul, get up!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I have never felt more alone or helpless in my life.

  Everything had been going so well, but Paul knew. He knew something bad was going to happen. I even had the audacity to make light of his premonition as we sailed from Gibraltar. How bitter those mocking words taste now.

  My husband, my world, my love clings to life by his fingernails and there is nothing I can do to help. I have no idea except to keep him warm and out of the wind and rain, protect his body from the carrion animals so anxious to lay claim. The roars of big cats echoing down to the marsh tell me a pride is hunting in a nearby valley. I’ve been sitting here thinking about what it would be like to sacrifice myself to the lions if Paul doesn’t pull through. What an awful way to die. Deep down, I know I couldn’t do it willingly. Who but the suicidal get to choose the means of their death? I’m sure Paul would never have expected to be laid low by a spineless worm.

  The winds were in our favor as we sailed our new and improved catamaran through the Straits of Gibraltar. Warm and dry, they swept over the cliffs of Morocco to carry us toward the muddy, green Atlantic Ocean. In the narrows, the seas became
increasingly turbulent. Choppy waves buffeted the boat and strong currents tried their best to carry us off course. Paul had the answer for every challenge the sea presented. Though I expected him to turn and follow the coast north once we made our exit, he kept the boat pointed due west until we had cleared the headlands to leave both the continents of Africa and Europe equally about two miles behind. Out in deep water, the boat stopped rocking. Carving a graceful arc to the north, we picked up speed as Paul opened our biggest sail fully to the wind.

  “First mate!” he called. “I need you on the port side.”

  Sketching a salute, I scooted over to station my ass on the kayak rigged as the catamaran’s left pontoon. My feet were propped against deck as I hung onto a shroud line and leaned back out over the water to serve as a counterweight. Once I was in place, Paul aligned the boat with the wind so it was streaking across the water. Slowly, my side lifted at least five feet above the surface as we raced toward our rendezvous with our friends in the north.

  With his smiling face lit by afternoon sun, it was easy to see how glad he was to be back at sea. The Hawaiian waterman was once again in his element and moving forward. Dressed in native leathers, clean shaven for the occasion, just glad to be free of the tingles, pulses and hyper-awareness brought on by the jumpsuits, Paul was as happy as I had seen him in months. I was thinking about the report I was going to write about his seafaring ways when he reached back to dip his hand into the water.

  Though I have no idea why he does it, it is a movement I’ve seen him do a hundred times. Was he checking the water temperature or feeling for currents? Or was it just a way of sharing a touch, a caress with the sea he loves so much? Whatever the reason, this time when he reached down to drag his hand through the sea, he yanked it out quickly with a pained look on his face.

  “Ouch,” he said before crumpling over the tiller and nearly falling overboard. Leaping for the deck as the boat heeled over, the breath was knocked from my lungs as I landed belly first. Crawling to Paul’s side, pulling him away from the edge of craft, I saw his face was contorted in agony. Rolling him onto his back, I was casting about for a plan of action when he looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.