“You are rude,” I hissed in trade dialect. Even if the man was too thick to understand the words, the meaning was absolutely clear. “Shut up and listen, or die!” Jones had a bolt nocked in his spear launcher and wore a murderous look that was unmistakable.
Leonglauix jabbed with the haft of his spear, never hitting anyone, but coming close enough to force the encroachers to start backing away. When they were safely cowed, he cleared his throat.
“Listen and I will tell you a story!”
Fact and blatant disinformation were woven into a tale that once again provided an interesting look into the creativity and downright deviousness of Leonglauix’s mind. He told them we were headed northeast, circling the hills to reach the wide river, then follow it downstream to the volcano’s great lava flow. Of course, everyone has heard about the liquid stone that is now flowing into the river between the Baby and Mother mountains, he said, but did you know a clan with a tame white mammoth is giving people rides? The mammoth lets anyone sit on his back. For just a small trade!
Once he had exhausted his exaggerations about the mammoth, he started on the volcano and lava flow. He told them how fun it is to sit at the rim of the caldera and watch the lava bombs fly overhead. He described how people near the river scoop up handfuls of the cooling rock and make snowballs of liquid stone. “You must throw one someday,” he said.
To help him sell his con, I pretended to be peeved.
“Father, you give these men too much information,” I interrupted. “They will ride the mammoth before me. You promised, I will ride first!”
“Don’t worry,” they shouted. “We cannot leave these pools until the time of snow is over. We have no warm clothes to protect us from the cold, and have no women to make us new clothes.”
In their story, the hunters discovered the hot spring/cave complex the previous fall while pursuing a wounded pig. They enjoyed several fine, naked days at the pools, consuming the pig and building up their strength for a fast run to rendezvous with their clan in the south. They claimed, with straight faces, that when it came time to leave, they found that porcupines had eaten every stitch of their leather clothes. Efforts to make new clothes from the few deer they could kill were met with moldering failure.
“You are dumber than musk oxen,” Leonglauix scoffed. “What is your clan name? Who is your father?”
“We are the Salamanders,” the hirsute leader replied, rolling a long wooden cudgel in his hands. Where did that come from? “My father is clan leader, his name is Onoloo, which means–”
“I know what Onoloo means,” Leonglauix said with a shake of his head. “My wife was the one who pulled the spear from his neck and nursed him back to health. Onoloo is not a very bad man, he certainly deserves better hunters than you.”
Leonglauix took a swipe with his spear shaft to back away a trio of hunters who had assumed positions near his feet.
“We are in a hurry to see the white mammoth, but will stop just long enough to help,” he said. “There is a large herd of deer less than one finger (a fifth) of a day away. The people of the Bee Clan will drive the herd to this valley. If you are quick, you should be able to kill enough animals to make shoes and capes for your journey. Prepare for the slaughter!”
Leaving the Salamanders to set up an enfilade in the valley, the storyteller led us at a trot up the main trail, over the ridge and on a line directly west. When I asked where we were to find the herd of deer, he offered a wry smile. “Do you believe everything that passes through your ears?”
He explained the Salamanders would need to find their own deer, and expressed doubt that anyone could be so dumb as to let porcupines eat their clothes.
“No, they were waiting for a chance to kill our men, rape our women and eat our dogs. It gives me pain to leave snakes like that alive, but we could not have fought them and not suffered injuries, maybe even lost lives. Those men are not as dumb nor as afraid as they appear.”
When I asked what sort of man their leader Onoloo was, he didn’t answer for perhaps 10 minutes. I had forgotten the question when he turned to me on the frozen pond we were crossing and said, “Onoloo had a tough neck. I tried, but he was a hard man to kill.”
“Why did your wife save him?”
“He was her sister’s husband’s brother-in-law.”
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Are they still trailing us?”
Jones: “Yep, couple miles back.”
Bolzano: “Wearing clothes?”
Jones: “Some, not a lot.”
Bolzano: “The porcupines must not have eaten their buckskins after all.”
Jones: “Bet those fuckers did lose their shit. Think they been stealing from travelers who swing down to take a soak. We were next. Let me ask ya something, corporal, when ya launched that yoyo off the cliff, ya know there was water under him?”
Bolzano: “I cannot say.”
Jones: “What I thought.”
Bolzano: “It was a blur, he grabbed at the dogs, he was too near the women, I went temporarily insane.”
Jones: “If ya killed that guy, fightin’ woulda started right then. And by then, we had let ’em get too close. Way too close. But he splashed down on his back, stood right up. Buddies thought it was funny as hell. Then ya got all kung fu with that big-ass club, climbed right up in that guy’s grill.”
Bolzano: “Your mood has lifted. You are feeling better, are you not?”
Jones: “Just saying, I think ya might have some anger issues ya need to work out. What’s with the ‘You are rude’ shit? Hear that in a movie or something?”
Bolzano: “Who knows where our lines come from in moments of high stress? At least I didn’t stutter, or worse yet, have nothing to say.”
Jones: “No, Sal, ya done good. Real good.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Fell through a patch of thin ice today. Lucky for me, pond was shallow and day not too cold. Broke channel through ice to wade to shore and Gray Beard called a halt for the day. Women built a fire uphill from pond, in patch of willow that turned out to be a decent camp. From where I sit, can spot all sorts of game grazing the plains. It’s all animals and trees and lakes and rivers as far as I can see. Game includes usual giants like mammoth, rhino, auroch, elk and red deer, well as some of the first herd animals like bison and horse. Lots of ducks and geese flying north stop to feed in melted wetlands. Looks like spring is finally here.
Old man milked as much distance from iced-over lakes, ponds, rivers and swamps as he could. Sets a mean pace, but hard to argue with his logic. Gonna be a lot of muddy swamps and cold rivers between here and coast.
Looks like we’ll rest for a week or so. Gray Beard says we need new boots. If I understand right, we’ll use leather from our winter coats to make ’em. Makes sense to me. Coats getting pretty hot on trail. We’d sweat to death.
Feeling better after a rough month. Were times coming down out of hills when all I wanted to do was give up. Crawl up in a ball and be the fuck alone. This crew is all right. Gives me space to work it out on my own. Fralista is a good woman. Could see how much she wanted to do something to help me, but she accepted it when I brushed her off. Times I feel so sad, worry I’ll pass it on to others like a disease. Can’t say what triggers these spells of depression. Feel ’em comin’ a day or two out–me already knowing how bad they’re gonna be–and not one damn thing I can do to stop or change the dark clouds headed my way. My lot in life.
Corporal Bolzano once again distinguished himself on this trip with fast thinking and decisive action. Once again, while I had my thumb up my butt. Never shoulda let those hunters get so close to our personnel and property. It was close, damn close to a disaster. Sal’s training kicked in and he saved the day. While I stood there in a depressed fog wishing I was somewhere else.
Sal’s threats and the old man’s story bought us a couple-hour head start. Took nearly five days of hard travel to lose those boys jus
t where old man wanted to lose them. Whenever they got too far behind, Gray Beard ordered a halt to build a signal fire and let ’em catch up. Finally gave the Salamanders the slip in a maze of watery channels. Gonna be a bitch to find their way out now that ice is going.
After week off, old man wants to make a final push to the coast, start building signal fires for Duarte and Kaikane. Hope those two are OK.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “The outskirts of Paris will be no more than 50 kilometers away. It is a shame we don’t have time to pay a visit.”
Jones: “Be a swampy hike.”
Bolzano: “Yes it would. I wish I had the opportunity to experience the sights and sounds of Paris. Too bad they didn’t send us back 300 years instead of 32,0000. It is said to have been one of Earth’s three greatest cities of all time.”
Jones: “Heard that.”
Bolzano: “My father studied in Paris and lived on the Left Bank in his youth. Papa had some grand stories about its food and art and architecture.”
Jones: “Your father? How’s that fucking possible? Paris was nuked off the map in 2118.”
Bolzano: “Mi papa was 134 years of age when I was born. Didn’t I tell you? Father had the life extension treatments. Though he never divorced, my mother was his third wife.”
Jones: “She get treatments?”
Bolzano: “No, the wives never did.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
The storyteller charted the transit of my eyes as they followed Lanio and Greemil into the trees.
Before I could leap to my bare feet and do something brash, like charge into the forest and challenge the lad to a spelling contest, Leonglauix tempted me with an invitation.
“Do you wish to ask anything about your northern clan mates?”
This overture, as intended, was nearly impossible to let pass. For the past nine months, we have been coaxing him to elaborate on the tale that inspired this junket to the north. His outright refusal to answer our questions has become quite a bone of contention between us, one that has carried over to affect all facets of our relationship. His defensive strategy of, “I’ll tell you after you tell me,” has proven to be a winner. I must admit, being out-debated by a Cro-Magnon makes me gnash my teeth.
Whether Leonglauix’s reticence to share was due to a promise made long ago (his stated reason), his concern for our safety, or just the old bugger worrying we would back out of the journey once the going became difficult, I could not discern.
“The truth?” I asked.
His reply came by way of a curt hand sign. “The truth.”
“How many questions may I ask?”
“As many as you wish.” Two palms held upward.
“Where are we going? How far?”
For the next 90 minutes, interrupted only by breaks when he wandered into the bushes to urinate, the storyteller did his best to answer every query I tossed his way. The language barrier remains a bit of an obstacle at times, but even more of a challenge for me is placing words and meanings in proper context. As a relative newcomer to Cro-Magnon society, I find I often lack the lifetime of experiences, education, and the clear understanding of clan histories to accurately comprehend the nuances of what is being conveyed. That leads to more questions and sometimes frustration on his part. Leonglauix is not accustomed to his stories being interrupted every few minutes by requests for clarification.
He explained we have at least six more months of hard traveling before reaching the home river of the Fish-Eaters Clan. We will walk northward for four or five moons and eventually reach the land where ice and snow never melt–where days are long in the summer and brief in winter. We will follow the ice along its southern edge westward toward the setting sun. In two or three moons, depending on the firmness of the ground, we will reach an amazing utopia where warm ocean waters keep a sliver of coastal land green all year around. The trees in this land are tall and covered in moss, growing in a narrow island between the foggy coast and icy, boggy tundra.
Two fingers (fifths) of a day south of the ice pack live the Fish-Eaters Clan. At least that is the spot where the Fish-Eaters called home 30 or 35 years ago.
Some parts of his story jibed perfectly with the reports he gave to Dr. Duarte and me last year. Other sections differed in ways that begged the question, exactly who or what he is protecting? For instance, when he first related his story in the hills above Ventimiglia, he claimed he was the one who rescued three lost hunters, who repaid him by taking him to their home village as an early-winter storm approached. In this latest version, he was the one who was found wandering hungry and lost by the three boys.
I did not press too firmly on these discrepancies, for they were not really the gold I was mining for. My primary interest was learning everything he knew about the surviving crew of the Einstein IV time travel ship.
Leonglauix said it appeared as if the strangers had been expecting him. No, they were not waiting when the brothers led him into the Fish-Eaters’ riverside camp. They just knew he would come eventually. The three tall men were de facto members of the Fish-Eaters Clan. They had informed its people to be on the lookout for a traveling boy named for the red otter. “Bring this young man to us and we will show you favor.”
When wayward Leonglauix arrived nearly starving and wearing tattered clothes, two of the powerful outsiders resided in camp with their Fish-Eater wives. The aging men enjoyed the comforts inside their high-domed tents. The third stranger, youngest and most adventurous by far, chose to live alone, away from camp, inside the “great drum” that washed up on the gravelly banks the day the newcomers arrived.
Leonglauix said he was treated kindly while a runner was dispatched to the great drum to fetch the outcast stranger. He was led to the home of a blonde-haired woman and invited to stuff himself on smoked octopus and fish stew. Warmed by her fire, Leonglauix became groggy and fell to sleep. When he awoke, three enormous men were sitting on furs, studying him.
The Fish-Eaters’ language was not too different from the trade dialect Leonglauix had been speaking since he was a child. Once they found common ground, the men surprised him with questions they should not have known to ask. They asked things like, “Is your mother named for the spotted horse?”
Fearing these men must be spirits, Leonglauix answered honestly, “Yes, my mother is Spotted Horse.” At the first opportunity, Leonglauix tried to excuse himself. “Sorry, but speaking of my mother, that reminds me, she and my father are waiting for me to return home.” That was not to be. Not yet.
It seems the strangers enlisted the assistance of the entire camp to cajole the boy into staying for a season. Never before, or since, he said, did so many nubile women offer their bodies so willingly, or with such rousing endorsements from their parents. The fishing and feasting, the opportunity to hunt strange, new animals, exceeded all past expectations. He said this feeling of being “special” and the perks of fame played roles in his becoming a storyteller. He liked the attention.
Every now and again, the strangers would summon Leonglauix to a tent to converse, or ask him to accompany them on a hunt. Starting off, they shared little knowledge, not nearly as much as the rest of the Fish-Eaters. It seemed they were interested in getting to know him better, to gain his trust. It was not a bad plan, for, in truth, Leonglauix was just as intimidated by the strangers as everybody else in the territory. These were powerful men with powerful weapons.
The most hospitable of the three men was named Tam-Tam. Though shorter than his compatriots, gray-haired Tam-Tam was still at least one handbreadth taller than Leonglauix, or anybody else in the Fish-Eaters’ camp. He was also much, much stronger, with stout legs and a thick neck. The man’s skin was the color of oak bark, his eyes squinted like slits. He sprouted almost no facial hair, but he did have very straight hair on his head. His wife braided it into a single ponytail that reached his waist. This was the stranger who most
often took Leonglauix hunting. He knew this man best out of the three.
The second stranger in camp, Herr-Franz, was the largest by far. Leonglauix claims I am the only man he has yet seen who may equal Herr-Franz in height. Even at my heaviest, however, I would not weigh as much as the man who reigned as the camp bully, its alpha male. Leonglauix said the man may have dispensed justice with a heavy hand, but he kept peace within the populace. He said he learned a lot about leading a clan, both the right and wrong ways to do things, from keeping a close watch to stay on the giant’s good side. Only once did he receive a cuff to the ear for losing a smelt net to the tide.
By the end of the spring season, Leonglauix had fallen in lust with a dark-eyed girl. Many clan members were so impressed with his strength and work ethic they lobbied him to stay. Eventually, he was formally invited to become a member of the Fish-Eaters Clan. “What is your hurry to leave?” the delegate asked.
When word of this invitation reached the strangers, Tam-Tam and Herr-Franz took Leonglauix by the arms and escorted him out of camp. Walking inland along the river, they led him up a weed-strewn path to where the great drum wedged upon a gravel shore. Taking seats atop well-placed logs arranged around an elaborate fire pit, they invited him to do the same.
“You cannot join the Fish-Eaters Clan,” Tam-Tam said with a smile. “You are a Green Turtle, you need to go back to your home range and become leader of your clan.”
“The Turtles may not have me,” Leonglauix replied. “My father stripped me of clothes and weapons for my journey north. He said he does not want me back.”
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