Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  Once our guts were filled near to bursting, we waded through the crowd to warm ourselves by the fire. I absorbed the sights, straining to see signs of Neanderthal amid the camp. There were none.

  “There she is, look at those tits,” Andre said.

  The auburn-haired girl did indeed have an immense bosom, twin peaks her leather tunic did nothing to hide. She reclined with her head on the lap of a young Tattoo warrior. Their eyes lazily followed our movements.

  “She seems quite content with the young man whose hand she holds,” I pleaded. “Please find one who is unattached.”

  Andre, of course, would hear none of my reason. Trailing a pack of curious, yet wary, children, he walked boldly up to the couple and leaned down to cup one of the surprised woman’s breasts in his hand. The warrior recoiled with a puzzled expression. His eyes searched the camp for Sgt. Martinelli. Lorenzo leaned against a tree in plain sight, observing the exchange from a spot near the front of his circular hut.

  Amacapane took the startled girl’s hand, stood her up and motioned toward the huts. Nothing subtle about this paisan from Bologna. Jeers from the edge of the crowd incited the warrior to action. His eyes wide with fury, and perhaps fear, he leapt forward to grab the girl’s waist and spin her away from Andre. Whisking her to the back of the throng, he returned with a two-foot-long club in his hand. As he closed on Andre, ready to turn his head to pulp, a pack of compatriots moved toward me. Hate was etched across their furious tattooed faces.

  Amacapane assumed a classic karate defensive posture as the fit young man raised his club to deliver a downward stroke. The red circle on the poor man’s forehead registered before the thunder of the gunshot reached my ears. The impact knocked the warrior backwards, blowing away the back of his skull and showering the onlookers in a wretched spray of blood, brain and bone.

  I expected the mob to flee, but it retreated only a few steps before stopping silently as one. Morbid curiosity pulling them back, the natives stooped to make sure the warrior was indeed dead. Rather obvious, I’d say. Who lives with their skull smashed open like a melon?

  As my adversaries had suddenly made themselves scarce, I turned my attention to Lorenzo. I wanted to see how he would handle this crisis. Taking Wallunda’s hand, Lorenzo led her to where the auburn-haired girl knelt crying over her lover’s warm body. He put his hand on the girl’s head and turned toward Andre.

  “Leave her alone. She is off-limits.”

  Amacapane strutted like a rooster deprived of a fight, his adrenalin rush slowly draining away. Even so, there was no mistaking the sergeant’s tone. “Yes, Lorenzo.”

  Martinelli motioned for us to stand beside him. Putting his hands on our shoulders, he reaffirmed his support. The meaning was clear. “These men have my protection.”

  Over the next seven days, I apparently logged enough good behavior to earn the right to use my computer and ear peas. Now, even if Lorenzo returned my jumpsuit, I am not certain I would use it. The people need another ghost, another specter, in their lives as much as they all need holes in their heads.

  Though I know this madness must stop, I find myself powerless to apply the brakes. Lorenzo and Andre shed layer after layer of their inhibitions each day. They immerse themselves in the clan rituals and humdrum of ordinary, everyday life. Both claim to relish the thought of going completely native.

  Dancing and singing, bedding the women, dominating the men, they become increasingly savage in their mannerisms. I remain the brunt of their jokes, an object of ridicule. While they hunt, I am relegated to traveling with the women and children, observing their daily search for provisions as we meander northward. Still no Neanderthal sightings for me, though Lorenzo claims to have seen several bands.

  It became my job to monitor the crews of porters toiling under the weight of our three kayaks when the clods misplaced the boats not five kilometers from the start of our journey. We had crossed the river headed north and were navigating animal trails through swampy marshland when they dropped the kayaks to run off and join hunters who had flushed a herd of giant red deer.

  Admittedly, the deer were worth the effort to witness. I arrived after the men had already slain the alpha male. Though its horns were still in felt, each of the wide, spiked antlers was longer than a man. Moose horns from hell. The warriors assured us we’ll see many more deer with far larger racks. I believe that was the gist of their grunts and gestures.

  It was about that time Lorenzo queried as to the location of the kayaks. Nobody had a clue. We searched and searched, backtracking through a swamp full of squawking, dangerous wildlife. The porters were in far more peril from Lorenzo than the lions and hippos. When one of them stumbled onto the dull gray boats in a tall patch of sedge, he let them off with a stern rebuke administered through his interpreter Wallunda.

  She pointed my way as she spoke, the eyes of the porters turning to lock on me in a mix of awe and loathing. Lorenzo sauntered up to grip my shoulder in his gloved hand.

  “You are now leader of the boat carriers,” he said. “They answer to you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Make sure they don’t get lost, or wander off.”

  “If they were to suddenly launch the boats into one of the streams and drift away, there is not much I could do.”

  He nodded his agreement. “I’ll give your helmet back. You can call Andre or me on the com line. Just keep track of which direction they go. We’ll find them.”

  “The ear peas and computer?”

  “Yes, OK.”

  I admit, I felt a bit like a child begging a parent to return his toys. Passive aggressive is the best I can do for now. As my comrades immerse themselves in the culture, even pick teams for hunting competitions, I do my best to remain a clinical observer. This cautious approach may help protect the continuity of historical time, but I am finding it is not the optimum way to learn about a society.

  Lorenzo stuns me with how fast he learns the language. While I continue to be baffled by the odd combinations of verbalizations, hand gestures, facial expressions and copious amounts of pointing, he already can give instructions to his hunting partners and listen to their stories. If ever his grasp fails him, Wallunda is on hand to explain. The black-eyed mouse rarely leaves his side.

  Andre’s foothold with the clans’ words and ways also far surpasses mine. He and Lorenzo swim freely in tribal waters, while I remain aloof, observing quietly from shore, quite often wondering, “What the hell are they talking about?”

  Following our fateful introduction to the clans, we spent nearly five days in the Green Turtle camp before Lorenzo gave the natives his blessing to pack up and leave. On the day of departure, we were coaxed into taking part in a mammoth hunt that brought down three of the giant beasts. Vanquished for sport and nothing more. Not one bit of meat or ivory was harvested.

  Upon our return to camp, we found it transformed. Leather coverings were removed from the huts to leave behind great toothy skeletons, ivory mammoth tusk supports arching skyward. All of the sleeping skins, cooking tools and other accoutrements of camp life were absent. Not packed up for travel, just gone. I assume they cache their goods in underground storage bins. Though I explored the grounds, I found no evidence of where those hiding places might be.

  With our paddles stowed and locked securely in the kayaks, Andre and I have adopted native weapons provided by our traveling companions. We carry three spears. Not one, not two and certainly not four or above. Our spears are tipped with sharpened antler and designed to fly straight. We also carry flint knives and obsidian-headed clubs tucked into the cords knotted at our waists.

  There is so much more to tell, but alas, it grows dark in this tree.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Hey, Salvatore, look at this.”

  Bolzano: “What a beautiful piece. Magnificent. Where did you find it?”

  Martinelli: “We met a traveling clan off to the east today. I gave them a little song and dance, they gave
me this. What is it?”

  Bolzano: “The material is petrified walrus tusk, I would guess. It may be hundreds of thousands of years old. But in the recent past, anytime in, say, the past 1,000 years, a Cro-Magnon craftsman turned an old tooth into a functional work of art.”

  Martinelli: “Must you always lecture? What is it?”

  Bolzano: “A moon calendar. You compare it to the cycles of the moon to chart the passing of the seasons. See the dots? This must be summer here. We are probably right about this spot on the calendar.”

  Martinelli: “Are you sure it’s not Neanderthal?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, positive. I do not think that branch of mankind has the capacity to create a tool of this complexity. It is truly a rare find.”

  Martinelli: “Valuable?”

  Bolzano: “As long as our computers work, not very. I don’t think we need it.”

  Martinelli: “Don’t play the fool. You know what I meant. Will it be valuable in the future?”

  Bolzano: “Insanely. Look at the way the bison in the corners are carved with such simple precision. Let me count. Twelve lines to form the beast on the top right, yet there is no mistaking what it is. You could name your price.”

  Martinelli: “The man who gave it to me insisted it was Neanderthal.”

  Bolzano: “I doubt it. Neanderthal use more simple tools and take less time making them. I wonder where they all are. I have been hoping to run into a band I might study. I wonder why we never see them. Do you know?”

  Martinelli: “No.”

  Bolzano: “Why the sudden interest in Neanderthal artifacts?”

  Martinelli: “You ask too many questions. I will tell you a thing when you need to know it. Not before.”

  Bolzano: “Go on then, what are you telling me?”

  Martinelli: “My sponsor expressed interest in artifacts, the older and more rare the better. I realize as we pass through this area, I must keep my eyes open for treasures. I want you to show me what to look for, help grade the examples I find.”

  Bolzano: “You could do far worse than this. I give it an A-plus.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Oh Antonio, il Prete Rosso, did anyone revive the human spirit with more simple elegance than you? If only The Team had jumped back 500 years and not 32,000. Yours is a Venice I would have loved to experience. The golden light of candelabras, rich spices wafting from the docks, notes of a harpsichord cascading out of open windows as a long, black gondola slips by, it’s gondolier singing, “Ciao, Venezia, ciao, Venezia, ciao, ciao, ciao.” Perhaps the Red Priest and I could have taught school together by day and played music and entertained mistresses by night.

  Maestro Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” floats from my ear peas as I recline in a quiet glen in the lee of a jumble of large boulders. Glacial debris amid the pines. My despondent crew of kayak porters lounges a pine cone’s throw away, taking their morning rest. After negotiating on their behalf with The Great Lorenzo, I have instituted a break schedule and also a system of rewards for each time they successfully deliver the heavy boats to rest beside the evening’s signal fire.

  Two petulant men to a boat, they muscle the seven-meter-long craft up and over every sort of punishing terrain, all the while chafing at the yokes with which we burden them. Each boat is assigned a spear carrier/guard who keeps watch for predators and joins in to help lift, push or pull when the going becomes particularly rugged.

  Women and children traverse the countryside with us. Heads rhythmically, habitually, scanning for danger and food. The females cackle and gossip as they search the changing environment for everything from slinking lions to fat grubs. One eye is always on the children, who run and play as all young animals do. When faced with an immense tangle of deadfall or steep ravines, they all pitch in to shuttle the boats. Everyone helps, right down to the little kids, even me.

  Not that they understand why they do it. Portage is an alien concept to Cro-Magnon nomads accustomed to roaming the world with just their spears and gathering bags, talisman necklaces and layers of clothes upon their backs.

  Carrying large, heavy objects great distances does not equate.

  Left to their own devices, they would travel unencumbered and let the dogs do the work. If a household possession is necessary on the trail, a dog generally packs it. Pouches slung across the canines’ backs hold essential camp supplies, utensils and rolled sleeping furs. Items too big for the black and brown beasts to tote are left behind. I imagine the feeling is, there will always be more food to hunt or gather, more natural resources to exploit along the way.

  Anyway, back to the dogs. I have learned enough of the language to understand the porters when they wonder aloud why they must “work like dogs.” No joke, Wallunda confirmed my translation. They said it.

  We ford streams several times daily. I sit in one of the boats as they hang onto the sides and swim it across. There’s always the temptation to extract a paddle and float away. But the waterways are rarely headed the proper direction, and even if they were, who knows what rapids or great waterfalls lurk downstream?

  The Green Turtles’ fire starter has taken to traveling with us. The strange, stooped man’s presence proves handy after river crossings on cold days. I allow the crews to stop and build a fire to dry off. Older than his years, eyes blood red, he maintains a never-ending glow inside a bison horn wrapped with deer skin. Even when wracked by spasms of coughing, he steadily feeds the smoking horn with clumps of dried moss and twigs from a pouch slung over his shoulder. Huffing and puffing, he blows to keep the embers burning through the heaviest rain. All day, he searches for dry kindling to stuff in his bag.

  The fire starter informs me there is also a honey collector. I have yet to enjoy that man’s wares.

  I could blather on and on about my current employment. Supervising a dozen angry natives who would gladly fight or flee if not for the fact my modern friends will hunt them down and slay them (as they have all others who dared bolt) has provided many interesting anecdotes.

  Fortunately, there are other topics which need covering. I took the time this morning to reread all of my previous journal entries. I am embarrassed by the paltry glimpse they provide of our kaleidoscopically diverse, frenetic, terrifyingly bizarre adventure.

  How do you begin to record everything which is new and amazing, when EVERYTHING you see is new and amazing? As a small example, from where I currently sit with my back leaned against a flat, 20-kiloton rock impaled like a tombstone in the earth, I face an even bigger titan, a granite egg larger than a Milano ground bus. Untold centuries of ice and wind have worn its oblong surface smooth.

  Though we pass many giant stones, this one stands out. Brilliant orange and yellow lichen covers it in feathery circles like rings caused by pebbles tossed in an alkaline pond. The lurid loops and swirls remind me of the Ukrainian Easter eggs our housekeeper and his wife created with hot wax and porcelain cups of dye each spring.

  A trio of praying mantis patrol the wooly lichen. One has an orange head and yellow body, another is completely yellow, and the third is exactly half orange, half yellow. The mantis are a handbreadth long and seem to know exactly where to position their bodies to match the background. Wicked spikes sprout from cocked front legs. Tiny green pupils dart about the corners of their triangular craniums.

  That is just one glimpse in one direction. Imagine that on a gigantic scale. Our every step, every turn, presents similar oddities which shout, “stop and gander!” For the record, the yellow mantis has just caught an unsuspecting vole and deftly scissored off its head. His two mates scamper forth to contest the prize.

  I wonder why I haven’t mentioned the way the birds flock to the trees each sunset to settle in for one last chaotic, chirping, squawking crescendo. The evening chorus is so loud, the natives resort to hand signs for they cannot hear each other without shouting. Lorenzo says they call it “quiet time.” Sleek mar
tins dart through the dusk before giving way to swarms of bats so thick they make the flying rodents of Toledo seem like mere pikers.

  How did I neglect to point out that every step you take has a 50-50 chance of landing on a snake, rodent, plover nest, salamander or pile of shit? Or the way raptors plummet from the sky so often you almost, but not quite, stop watching to see what poor animal they captured this time? Or how the awful racket of owls and ravens fighting draws ravens from miles around to join the fray?

  And how about the terrain? I believe the camp where we first joined up with the Cro-Magnons is sited along the edge of some sort of geologic or climactic line of demarcation. Though we have traveled north less than 70 kilometers, the changes have been dramatic. Each day we see fewer deciduous trees, grape vines and hippopotami.

  This has become a land dominated by stone pine forests and meadows stretching as far as the eye can see. The dark green lollipop trees are spread well apart in the lowlands, providing patches of shade in a rolling countryside full of waist-high grasses, thistle, goldenrod and a hundred thousand species of delicate, flowering plants unknown to the world from which we came. In the afternoon sunlight, the flowers blend into purple waves which shimmer in the wind.

  Megafauna dominate this environment. Mammoth, auroch, rhinoceros, cave bear, lion, red deer, musk oxen and other giants trundle through the meadows like outsized children’s toys. Gigantic and powerful beyond measure, most are on the move north, trailing in the wake of the main body of the herds.