Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Watch your fingers, flint’s sharp.”

  Duarte: “The leather keeps shifting. Hold it for me, will you?”

  Kaikane: “Here, how’s that?”

  Duarte: “Much better. A few more cuts and this will be complete.”

  Kaikane: “No offense, but the natives wear far better clothes than these.”

  Duarte: “They do look like they were made by children.”

  Kaikane: “Small children. On drugs.”

  Duarte: “What else are we going to do? We can’t walk around in our underwear forever.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  We landed far more than we bargained for today. It’s been a good eight hours and I’m still on edge. Tingling, with a hot flush that can be called up at any moment. All I have to do is think how close we came to disaster.

  Gray Beard had been showing us how to lash slips of hardwood to the tips of spears to make barbs for fishing. The barb folds in on impact and spreads wide once it is through the skin. He has been telling us stories about giant fish in the river. I understand less than a quarter of what he says, but his meaning is clear. It’s good hunting.

  After an hour in a driving rain, crouched on the muddy shore watching the muddy river, a giant sturgeon floated close enough to poke. My spear took the 15-foot-long, half-ton fish just back of the head while Gray Beard and Jones struck the body. Flexing, thrashing, the sturgeon fought the points for a couple seconds then straightened out for a run to deep water.

  Through mime and hand signals the old man had predicted it perfectly. We slowed the fish, but didn’t try to stop her, playing out leather ropes tied to driftwood floats about five feet long. Each float had a secondary rope which we held on shore. There was plenty of shouting, splashing and finally laughing as we slipped along the banks in the rain, fighting that hefty fish for more than an hour.

  When the sturgeon finally tired, we towed it upstream to the beach fronting camp. So far, I had been careful to clean my game away from the huts. This was Gray Beard’s party. It never occurred to me to mention the dangers. We used long poles to roll the sturgeon up the beach to where the old man split it open to reveal a gullet full of fresh roe. I called Maria down to the sand and we were sitting there, stuffing our faces with warm caviar, when a monster male cave bear crashed out of the brush across the river.

  The wind was blowing his way.

  “Those things are herbivores,” I said. “They don’t generally eat people.”

  Gray Beard’s dog went absolutely bonkers on the beach, barking and dashing around, working her pups into a lather. The old man grabbed the bitch up in a hug and took off to the high ground above camp where he used the five-foot rope to tie her to the stump. His worried face got us thinking. The look in the bear’s eyes as it jumped in the river and swam our way got us moving. Sprinting up through camp, we found the clan leader arranging spears near piles of rocks. Our fallback positions appeared to end with the dog.

  The bear gorged on the fish for a while, but the memory of us would not let him eat for long. He was nearly twice the size of the grizzlies we saw in training back in Manitoba. His muscles rippled under a yellowish brown coat that carried a rank scent of musk. Waxy stains oozed from the corners of its eyes, his black claws were more than twice as long as my fingers. The bear paced toward our hiding spot by the drowned fire pit before returning each time to worry on the sturgeon, taking great bites of bones and skin, flesh and roe.

  And just like that, he raised his head and charged.

  Shouting, Gray Beard led the counterattack, expertly timing his spear throw so his follow-through allowed him to dodge and roll under a camp table as the bear roared by. Jones and I cast for the eyes as we were trained. His spear lodged in the beast’s left socket while mine glanced off the cheek. Circling wide, we threw again, scoring hits between ribs Nos. 3 and 4. Our darts to the body seemed to have little effect.

  While the giant bear sat down to work with its front paws to dig Jones’ spear out of its eye, the old man motioned for us to fall back to where the dog lunged at its rope near a cluster of heavy spears. The pups showed more sense than I expected. They were nowhere to be seen. Maria ran beside me. Gray Beard mimed battle plans too quickly for me to understand. I gathered we were to lure the bear towards the dog and then slay it before it ate Fido.

  “Get up in the tree,” I shouted to Maria.

  “You get up in the tree,” she shouted back.

  We both turned at the bear’s rumbling bellow.

  Flinging slobber and blood, filling the air with a guttural howl, it charged uphill like a hurricane hitting the Florida panhandle. Spread out, loping, it covered ground at incredible speed, heading straight for the dog and the four of us. Gray Beard had chosen his spot well, however. Rows of low benches and stone-working areas forced the bear to stumble and then leap a series of jumps. On each jump we poured spears into the beast’s exposed chest. I fought the urge to run. Nothing could halt the force of nature thundering our way. On the last jump, less than 15 feet away from where we stood, a spear butt caught in the ground on landing. I thought the shaft must surely break, but it was one of the yew spears from the willow pond. The shaft held as momentum forced the antler point deep into the bear’s chest.

  That may have ended up being the killing stroke, but the son of a bitch was far from dead. He searched us out with one dark yellow eye. Growling deep in the back of its throat, wobbling slightly, bobbing its head where blood poured out each nostril, it bunched its hindquarters for another charge. Gray Beard angled off to the side, issuing a war cry as he launched a spear, burying it deep at the top of the bear’s neck. The beast kept coming. Too close to throw now, Jones, Maria and I jabbed our long spears in the bear’s shoulders and neck, mere feet from savage yellow teeth and wicked claws.

  “Watch those paws!” Jones shouted. “Don’t let him stand!”

  There was no way to stop him. Batting away our spears, the beast raised itself to its full, towering height, standing on back legs, bellowing. He swatted our spears as we dodged in a circle around him, thrusting and jabbing. Through his legs I saw Gray Beard trotting up from camp with a stone-tipped digging tool. Keeping to the bear’s back, he ran up silently to bury the stone pick in its spinal column. The bear gave a croak and dropped like a building demolished by explosives. Maria dodged out of the way as it collapsed with its bloody nose inches from the furious momma dog’s reach.

  Gray Beard was happy enough to dance a jig. He stood atop the carcass and made a highly demonstrative speech to the world. I imagine it was something along the lines of “I am a great hunter! We are alive and the bear is dead!”

  Bear meat must taste horrible, because we didn’t eat a bite. There was no resting until the carcass was cut into sections and dragged wide of the camp to the river to be thrown in the current along with the rest of the fish. We saved only a few of the bear’s claws and teeth.

  Gray Beard says he will make us necklaces and I believe him. He stitched up Jones a new leather traveling outfit. I never would believe it was made with stone tools and bone needles unless I saw it for myself.

  The rain stopped tonight. Gray Beard insists we let the tarps dry out and stow them before we leave. It will be a few days. Maria and I are in no hurry to abandon our cozy hut. Forgive me, Doreen, I’m in love.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Come on, 10 more. Ah, huh, ah, huh, ah, huh, that’s it. One more. Good.”

  Kaikane: “Whooo…. OK. Your turn, back kicks to front kicks, roundhouse, ready? Go.”

  Jones: “I’m–gonna–kick–your–ass–in–spear–golf–today.”

  Kaikane: “Watch your form, extend the leg. Huh, huh, huh. Finish strong. Two more. And done. Jones, you got no chance. I added a new hole.”

  Jones: “I gotta see this.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

&nbs
p; Feeling good today. We must have passed some kind of test with Gray Beard. By not running away. Stood up to the bear with him and that must mean a lot. There’s a new feeling of brotherhood between us.

  Before, I had a feeling the old man was just observing things, waiting to be rid of the strange people who fished him out of the river. Been expecting to wake up and find him gone. Seen plenty guys like that in the military. Most were on temporary assignment. Didn’t want to make friends, learn a bunch of names and then leave in two weeks. Just watched and listened and kept their opinions to themselves.

  Gray Beard’s mind works overtime trying to figure us out. He putters on his projects. Makes things all the time. One eye and both ears are tuned into what we are up to. If this was combat, I’d peg him as a spy, or busybody.

  When Duarte and Kaikane were still wearing their suits all the time, he must have made the connection between Martinelli and us. He never broached the subject until today.

  Old man and I were sitting in the shade of the hut. Duarte and Kaikane had paddled off with the kayaks to search out tonight’s farewell dinner. My jumpsuit was folded up on my bed. Been using it as a pillow. Never be able to repair it. Was working on building up my own kit bag of flint blades when Gray Beard picked up the suit to check it out. Closely. He fingered the rips where Martinelli’s bullets creased my shoulder.

  Jumpsuit was a good tool, but I don’t miss it much. Radio and optics in my helmet still work, so that’s cool. The uniform was a tight fit anyway. Doubt I’ll wear it again.

  What followed was a long and convoluted mishmash of a conversation. Gray Beard had many questions and I wished Duarte, or “Doo-Art” as he calls her, was here to interpret. She’s way ahead of us on the language thing.

  I got that he wanted to know about Martinelli, but how do you say “piece of shit” and “jerk-off” in Cro-Magnon? I told him the guy’s name was Martinelli and tried to convey he was our sworn enemy. We hated him. I stuck out my tongue and made a loud farting noise. That seemed to delight Gray Beard.

  “Oh yeah, you like that, huh? Well, Martinelli’s a real jerk-off.” I circled my fingers and pumped my arm in an age-old motion the old man recognized immediately. He circled the exterior of the hut a few times making farting noises, pumping his arm and saying, “Mertoon-Ely, Mertoon-Ely.”

  Satisfied, he gave my left shoulder a gentle squeeze and headed off for the tree line. This morning he convinced Duarte to let him borrow one of her magnifying lenses. Saw her using one. Bugged her until she let him take a look. She said it opened up a new worldview for a person so at one with nature. Guy has been playing with the thing all day, lying in the dirt watching bugs, looking at tree bark, leather stitching, and the structure of leaves. He gave the jumpsuit a particularly thorough inspection.

  When he finds something amazing, he brings it to me to take a look–including the bloody head of a dead snake. One thing about Gray Beard, he kills every snake he sees.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Look at all the bluebells sprouting on the banks.”

  Kaikane: “Why do they call them bluebells? They’re green.”

  Duarte: “We missed the flowering season. They bloom with blue flowers in the spring.”

  Kaikane: “It’s good to see the landscape bouncing back along the river.”

  Duarte: “What was it like on the river that day? You never talk about it.”

  Kaikane: “Oh, you know, you get to thinking about the other guys, the scientists. Those three were so smart. Just listening to them, I knew they were going to do great things.”

  Duarte: “Hackett, DePalma and who else was with them?”

  Kaikane: “The Chinese guy, Chang.”

  Duarte: “All three were solid. Frank Hackett was one of my mentors.”

  Kaikane: “You guys date or something?”

  Duarte: “No. Just lots of late nights drinking coffee, making plans, dreaming up this mission. Back to you. Do you want to talk about it? The river?”

  Kaikane: “I get to worrying that I didn’t do enough for the guys, you know? They flipped so fast, and I kept going. I saved my skin and never once thought to stop and help.”

  Duarte: “Could you have stopped?”

  Kaikane: “Not at first. I don’t know. There was nothing I could do, deep down I know that. It just bugs me. Master Sergeant Leonard, he was the last guy afloat. I thought he would make it, but he didn’t. I was right behind him. A tree root rolled in the wave and took him right out of his seat. Had his eyes closed when he went under. It coulda been me.”

  Duarte: “I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  Kaikane: “Deep down, that’s what scares me the most, the thought that I never woulda had the chance to be with you.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Paul talked me into paddling to the sea one final time before our departure inland tomorrow. We sat side by side in our kayaks and let the current carry us downstream, knowing it would be a long paddle back.

  We still haven’t officially made up our minds on what to do with the kayaks. One day it is decided to bury them in a safe place and head overland together to intercept the Italians, and the next day we are poring over our modern maps trying to find a way to float, paddle and drag them to the Rhone River or Mediterranean Sea. France’s hilly Central Massif worries me. For all the advantages the kayaks offer, I don’t want to drag them hundreds of miles through forest and hills. We have made our leather outfits and are ready to hike if needed.

  It has been 33 days since the tsunamis. The ocean is once again free of the debris which choked it so completely after the waves. The high-water mark of every shore and beach is littered with twisted piles of bleached trees, stumps, limbs and animal skeletons of all sorts. There are no signs of the crosses, or bones of the burial fire. All have been swept away by the sea.

  Low tide was approaching. We dragged the boats up the sandy beach and tied them off on the roots of an old oak which hadn’t been mighty enough to withstand the tsunamis. We walked hand-in-hand as fluffy clouds scudded across the bright blue sky to create patches of shade which raced down the beach toward us. Shells of every shape, size and color littered the sand along with little scraps from the ship. The bits of rope and plastic we found were brittle and powdery to the touch. We collected a handful of beautiful shells which Gray Beard may consider including in his necklaces.

  Pods of humpback whales cavorted in the bay along with dolphins and what I think was a huge school of tuna. We could see the splashing, but they never got close enough to know for sure. Dark, triangular shark’s fins also plied the waters, cruising back and forth not far offshore.

  “I hardly recognize this bay,” Paul said.

  “It seems like a different place,” I agreed.

  “There were so many animals that first morning. The riverbanks were just thick with them. I watched a pride of cats kill a walrus right over there.”

  “I saw the aftermath. We must have witnessed the peak of the migratory herds. I can’t imagine much more wildlife crammed into one place. Gray Beard has told me as much. He says they have a series of camps like ours. The clan gets out in front of the herds, and then hunkers down and enjoys the hunt for the month or so it takes the migration to pass by.”

  “Do you think we can trust the old guy?”

  “I do. At first I didn’t. No way. But now, I think he sees us as his best chance to find his clan. He’s not stupid. He knows we’re connected with the Italians in some way. I’m waiting to figure out how to say it in his language before I explain the situation to him.”

  “Check out that wave.”

  An ocean roller had kicked up off a shallow spot about 100 yards off shore to form a clean face eight feet high. So thin it was translucent, the wave peeled a long way, finally tumbling to white foam on the rocks.

  “Mind if I ride a few while you hit the tide pools?”

  “Don’t get hurt.”

  “Child’s play.”
/>   And that is how he made it appear. He rode the first few waves seated and then began showing off, standing up, and on the biggest wave of the day, walking out to the tip of the kayak to perform a maneuver I believe he called “hanging 10.” All I know is, it scared the hell out of me. Hands clasped behind his back, leaning backwards like a bronze god, all 10 of his toes dangling over the front of the boat, he disappeared as the wave broke to form a tunnel of water over his head. He emerged hooting and waving his paddle.

  Hair dry, smile a mile wide, he raised the paddle over his head again as he neared the tide pools where I had found enough lobsters to be selective.

  “Did you see my tube ride?”

  “Is that what you call it? I thought maybe it was called ‘Showing Off,’ or better yet, ‘Risking Your Life For No Good Reason.’”

  And then I was crying. I didn’t think I was in such a fragile state, but I sobbed buckets. It had been a melancholy ride downstream. The bay held so many reminders of friends and colleagues. The thought I could have lost one more pushed me over some sort of emotional edge. I couldn’t stop. Paul scrambled up on the rocks and held me tight as I shuddered.

  “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He said it over and over. “I’ll never leave you.”

  “You b-b-b-better not.”

  “I won’t.”

  “W-W-W-Will you give up surfing?”

  He didn’t even flinch. “No.”

  “You need to be more careful.”

  “That was being careful.”

  “The sharks. If you fall.”

  “I don’t fall, babe.”

  We hugged each other close and watched the whales play. My tears finally dried as he helped me collect the rest of our dinner in the afternoon sun. We stowed a nice basket of lobsters, clams and limpets in his kayak and a pouch of sea salt in mine, then headed back upstream.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “What’s so important about finding those dipshits?”