He led us to a sandy rise at the edge of the camp. Grabbing a handful of sticks, the old man marked out four corners of a rectangle about five feet by eight feet. He motioned us to stay, be patient, while he scampered off to the dinner table to retrieve my four new turtle shell bowls. Jones cracked his first decent smile in a month when Gray Beard turned my new bowls into shovels. “Furn,” he said, going to his knees to scoop dirt out of the rectangle.
He and I dug down about two feet to expose a log storage pit covered by a thick leather tarp. Gray Beard pantomimed that the tarp was waterproofed with bee’s wax. He motioned for us to fold it up and lay it to the side while he levered open a lid made of lashed poles. Stacked neatly inside were the leather covers for the huts. The clanspeople didn’t take them after all. There were also fur ground coverings, woven mats and small leather pillows stuffed with ferns and feathers.
Duarte showed up to help us lug a pair of coverings to the toothy skeletons of the two biggest huts. With the clan leader running between us, showing each of us what to do, we used poles and ropes to lift the heavy mammoth skins into place. Even with one arm, Jones was a big help. We probably couldn’t have done it without him.
The foundation of each hut is made from heavy stones placed in a circle about 10 feet in diameter. The butts of five mammoth tusks, each at least 10 feet long, are buried just outside the perimeter. They taper and curve inward to form a stout tent frame. Wooden crossbeams are lashed to the top of the tusks to tie the whole thing together and serve as a good place to hang wet clothes, packs and weapons.
The sky darkened as the ringleader directed his roustabouts how to set up and outfit his tents. No rest was allowed until we had the openings at the tops folded away from the wind, furs and mats on the floor thickly placed, stacks of dry wood laid up, circles of embers glowing in each hut’s fire pit, and our arsenal of spears at the ready.
Both huts got a bundle of small poles about three feet long. Warning us not to burn them, the old man showed us how to use the poles to prop up the bottom of the tarp to allow air to flow through. And to give clear sightlines of the surrounding terrain. A final, smaller tarp was rigged for the dogs midway between the two huts. The bitch and her pups had dry beds and a 360-degree view of the camp and its approaches.
Under his orders, we returned to the pit to peel back the stack of hides so he could grab several rolls of soft, cured leather. He unrolled one and held it up to Jones’ chin. The leather, light brown, supple, extended to the ground. The old man seemed pleased as he wrinkled his eyes and muttered.
Duarte asked for a roll and he gave her two. Digging to the bottom of the storage bin, he searched before coming up with a short plank of wood and a leather tool scrip similar to the one he always carries at his waist. Passing them up to Duarte, he motioned for me to give him a hand out of the pit.
We replaced the lid and were using stones to weigh down the waxy cover when the first fat raindrops pelted from the sky.
“Furn,” Gray Beard said looking up. He gently pushed Duarte and me toward the hut on the right side of the camp. He and Jones would bunk together in the one on the left. They ducked in their hut while Duarte and I ran around in the rain, gathering our belongings, preparing to settle in for our first lazy afternoon together.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Wow, it’s really raining.”
Duarte: “What did the old man call this storm, ‘Furn?’”
Kaikane: “Yeah, that’s right, ‘Furn.’”
Duarte: “I must include it in a report.”
Kaikane: “What do you make of this hut? Pretty cool, huh?”
Duarte: “It doesn’t leak, it’s comfortable, the smoke isn’t too bad. I’d say it’s pretty damn cool.”
Kaikane: “What do you want to do?”
Duarte: “I thought I would catch up on my reports, maybe read a few pages of a novel I started before the jump. How about you?”
Kaikane: “Some of these spear points are coming loose. I guess I’ll square the gear away.”
Duarte: “Good idea.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
The old boss is out roaming in the rain, so I’m taking this time alone to peck on the computer. With two hands.
Was second day of the big storm. Not much to do but kick back, stay warm and dry inside. Gray Beard was fitting me for a leather sling–guy’s always busy making something–when he started feeling and moving my left shoulder. Hurt like hell. Man has a long willow switch he uses to swat the muddy dogs when they sneak in the hut. He put the handle between my teeth, motioned for me to bite down. Not an inspiring start.
He folded my left arm across my chest and crossed my right arm under it to hold it in place. Stepping in front of me, he looked me straight in the eye. Confident. Reassuring. He took a few exaggerated deep breaths, motioned for me to do the same. By my third deep breath he was behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest and arms. On the fourth breath, he squeezed. Pop! My shoulder went off like a gunshot as he lifted me off my feet.
A rush of intense pain gave way to a tingling. My hand worked and so did the elbow.
Must have shouted out because Kaikane and Duarte busted naked through the folds of our hut with spears at the ready. Driving rain hadn’t washed the sex off them. Kaikane’s dick was still hard and Duarte’s lips were puffy, her nipples swollen. Seeing them like that dampened my mood a little, but what did I expect? I waved my left hand.
“My shoulder, must’ve been dislocated. Old dude fixed it.”
“That’s great, Jones.”
Gray Beard’s eyes were drinking in every part of Duarte’s body and I was having trouble not staring myself. She sketched a little wave. Not as modest as I’d expected.
“Well, if you’re OK, we’ll see you later,” she said. “Dinner in here like last night?” They turned and sprinted back through the rain. Giggling on the way to their hut. Lucky guy.
Managed to sleep a few hours at a stretch over the past two days. The dreams aren’t so bad.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “You’re beautiful.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Rain pounds down for the seventh straight day. Fog which floated in two nights ago remains, muffling the sounds of the forest and putting a damp chill in the air. Gray Beard predicts two or three more days of precipitation and increasingly colder weather.
I am curled up alone in the hut, having just finished updating and writing my last botanical report. A small fire crackles in a stone circle placed in a downwind corner of the hut. Smoke sweeps out the opening where the hide is propped open by sticks. Paul is off with the boys. If I understand correctly, Gray Beard is showing them how to rig harpoons to catch a sturgeon or some other great river fish.
I put off writing this personal journal entry until my chores were done. All told, I have filed 18 reports on this area’s botany, as well as preliminary discourses on my studies of Gray Beard, his tools, culture and language. Having all of my notes and snippets of information organized feels like a mountainous weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
To claim it has been all work and no play would not be accurate. Perhaps it is only the contrast of the previous month, but this past week has been the most relaxing stretch I have had in years. Forced indoors, it has been a time of naps and going to bed early, and sleeping in late. Paul spends most of each afternoon hunting, fishing or wandering. Hiking in the rain isn’t my idea of fun. I tend the fire and write while he gallivants about.
He returns with stories. I stoke the fire to give him warmth and for better light to study his face as he recounts his day in the Pleistocene. Paul’s appreciation for the beauty of the world inspires me. It may be the bright spots on a salamander, or the way a patch of clouds parted to allow a ray of sunshine to light up the pond where he stood spearing frogs. Noting things big and small, he savors life like no one I have met. I told him he w
as an aesthete and he wanted to know if that meant he didn’t believe in God.
When I’m busy at night, he does his own thing, usually reading fiction on his computer, working leather, or listening to music on his ear peas.
We have spent long hours getting to know each other and I guess it is fair to say our relationship has grown quite close. Perhaps that is another reason why I have put off writing this entry. It feels like I should begin with “Dear Diary.”
I wonder, will anyone but me ever read these words? In 32,000 years, will my colleagues be titillated, or my family scandalized by the fact I have fallen head over heels in love with a Recreation Specialist? Do good girls kiss and tell? I guess this one will.
Like all of my long and boring stories, this one starts at the beginning.
I first saw Spc. Paul Kaikane in the Minnesota training facility. It was the same day I met Jones. We division heads were up on a catwalk observing as a group of recruits worked on self-defense skills, spear fighting and hand-to-hand combat. A line of recruits stood below us waiting their turns to face off against a Polynesian-looking fellow who wielded a long wooden cudgel to knock one after another on their ass. Cpl. Jones had been assigned to conduct our tour. He shared insights into the rigorous conditioning and training the recruits were undergoing.
He paused when anthropologist Susan Webber interrupted with a question. “Who’s the soldier with the wavy hair, the one beating those boys and girls up?”
The instructor now had the attack coming in waves of two, but Kaikane retaliated with such efficient brutality, the tandems fared no better. At 6-foot-2, 200 pounds, he was rangy and far stronger than he looked.
“He’s not a soldier,” Jones replied. “That’s Kaikane. He’s a civilian recruit, job designation, Recreation Specialist.”
“Man’s one hell of a fighter.”
“Not even why they recruited him. He’s a crackerjack sailor and navigator, a real waterman from Hawaii.”
“I think he’s cute. Almost as cute as you, Corporal Jones.”
“We’re both single, ma’am.”
“Call me Sue.”
I miss Susan. A tall drink of water from Oklahoma, she was a flirt and a heck of a scientist.
The commandant cleared his throat. We moved on with our tour.
It was more than a year later when Paul and I first spoke. It was at the bon voyage party. He stood behind me in The Team photo. The photographer was having trouble with his lights and we were ordered to stay in place while the fool monkeyed with his gear.
“Is that ginger flower shampoo?” said a voice behind me. I turned to see Paul’s smiling face. “In Hawaii we call it awapuhi, grows wild.”
Perfect white teeth, long wavy hair tied back, mocha skin with thin white scars above both eyebrows and across the bottom of his chin. I mumbled something about being a botanist and knowing where ginger grows. The photographer called us to attention, snapped his pictures and we all split up into our different cliques like boys and girls at a seventh-grade dance. Scientists toasted champagne while sailors and soldiers guzzled their last beers ever.
The next time we spoke, it was on the beach after the wave. Somewhere amid the bodies washing ashore had come the realization I was the last modern woman alive. Five men and one female. The Italians grasped the complexity of the situation immediately. Not only was I female, but by rights, I was the ranking officer. The menace in their voices was obvious as they discussed me on the com line. Anarchy in a power void.
The counterthreat posed by Jones and Kaikane held them off long enough for us to separate. I wonder how many times Martinelli has kicked himself for not killing the two American men right there. Surprise Jones and finish off Paul. He blinked and we escaped.
It wasn’t long before my saviors were both casting puppy dog looks my way. My determination to remain romantically neutral set off an unhealthy competition I didn’t know how to stop. Jones’ wounds cooled the tension for a while, but it wasn’t long before he was again jockeying for romantic position. Add to all that a native man staring at me while I ate. I never told Paul, but the reason I think Gray Beard was faking being comatose is he became erect when I cleaned his messes. Dirty old bugger.
Even though Paul and I were already pretty well smitten by the time Jones rallied, I went back to my old standby for big decisions in my life. I made a list. I even listed the pros and cons of the clan leader, though he was certain to finish a distant third. I realized Jones and I are too much alike–prone to seriousness, and driven to accomplish as many tasks in one day as possible. We would quietly work ourselves to death. Jones is a handsome man. At 6-foot-3 and about 230 pounds, he has lost 20 pounds of muscle which is sure to return once he regains all of his strength. Thick chest, lean waist, tree stumps for legs, curly black hair which turns reddish in the sun. Rare smiles reveal a pleasing gap in his white teeth.
Paul is also a good looking guy, but it was his positive attitude and playful sense of humor that carried the day.
I was prepared to make my decision known when Gray Beard announced it for me. He made Paul and me roommates. I wonder if he too sensed trouble brewing, and thrust us together to head it off. He shows, time and again, a knack for leadership. I see him building Jones up each day and realize it is something officers have been doing for shell-shocked soldiers throughout time.
The first nervous night in our hut, Paul treated me as if I might break. I worked on my notes and he read fiction before falling asleep beside me. The next morning, we were discussing our favorite books of all time when Jean M. Auel’s “Clan of the Cave Bear” came up.
“That book bugged me,” Paul said.
“I thought it was an interesting look at one woman’s view of ancient mankind.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“We in the science community knew you could always get the zoologists’ blood boiling by bringing up the cave bear scene. They would rant and rave about how the animals were herbivores, not likely to attack a little girl.”
“I saw a big bear in the wave. Both of us were being pushed upstream. It was trying to climb up on top of a clump of grape vines when I passed. The bear’s eyes were rolled back in terror. It looked right at me, kind of like it was asking for help, or at least an explanation. And then it was gone.”
“So, what didn’t you like about the book?”
“Oh, the star-crossed lover bit, I suppose. I mean, why didn’t they just fuck and get it over with?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing about you.”
Did I really say that?
Reclined on a wolf pelt, hands behind his head, he offered a sheepish grin. “For that to be possible, somebody needs to take off her jumpsuit.”
So there it was, the ball back in my court. After nearly a month, with only brief, daily exposures to do my business, I wasn’t sure what smells and sights we would find when I finally climbed out of my jumpsuit. It sounds stupid, but I had spent hours and hours worrying about how long it had been since I had shaved my legs. I knew they would be thick with the dark legacy of my Portuguese heritage. A silky black forest.
“I wish I could shower.”
“You can. Come with me.”
It would be impossible to say which was pounding faster, my heart or the raindrops hitting the walls of the hut as he took me by the hand and led me to the door. “Wait,” I said as I scrambled over the furs to retrieve a reed basket full of herbs and hanging moss I had collected. “I want to use these to wash with.”
The weather had not yet turned cold, and the raindrops felt like heaven on my skin as he helped peel off my suit. I sat on a log bench out of view of the boys’ hut and lifted my legs as Paul worked it free of my ankles. My undergarments were an embarrassment, stained and reeking of sweat. I stood and started to shuck them off, but Paul stopped me, slowly lifting off my shirt and hugging his bare chest against mine. He gently lowered me back on the bench and scooped a handful of moss and herbs from the basket.
“Le
t me scrub your worries away.”
“You sound like a commercial.”
“You’ll have to see if I’m as good as advertised.”
“Big talker.”
He shut me up with an awkward kiss. I thought I would fall backwards, or he would strain his neck, until he pulled me up to once again stand in front of him. Hugging me close, we kissed again. Much better this time. Rubbing gently, he used the soft plants to scour a month’s worth of dirt and sweat away. The rain engulfed us as I surrendered to his ministrations, turning my body, lifting and lowering arms as instructed. He scrubbed my back and neck and feet and paid special attention to special places. I closed my eyes and shuddered as he slipped one and then two fingers inside me.
Scooping me up in his arms, Paul carried me across the threshold to lay me down on a bed of soft wolf pelts. It wasn’t until later that I grasped the symbolism of that! Our first lovemaking was intense and filled with fire. The second was long and slow. The third was, well, none of your business.
We were climbing to another climax when Jones unleashed a blood-curdling scream next door. Adrenalin pumping, we gathered up spears and sprinted for the door.
“Oh, you motherfucking son of a bitch!” Jones wailed as we ran pell-mell across the muddy camp. “Oh, man!”
We burst into their hut to find Jones testing the movement of his repaired arm. Dislocated! I guess he was right, I suck at being a medical doctor. Once we figured out no one was being killed, I resisted the urge to cover myself and run out of the hut. As long as we are going to travel together, these men will have to get used to occasionally seeing my tits, and do so without getting all hot and bothered. I hope our impromptu visit made one thing abundantly clear. I’m out of the dating pool.
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