Kaikane: “Maria says they could disrupt the future.”
Jones: “Your girlfriend is a conspiracy nut.”
Kaikane: “Noticed that, did you?”
Jones: “Wouldn’t mind having one of those pistols.”
Kaikane: “We catch ’em, you can have both.”
Jones: “You’ve really gone native, haven’t you?”
Kaikane: “If you could see yourself right now, you would know how stupid that sounds. Look at you, naked, coated in dirt and leaves, swinging a Cro-Magnon pickax.”
Jones: “Didn’t want to get my new duds all dirty. Help me with this rock.”
Kaikane: “I hate to leave the boats behind.”
Jones: “You don’t want to hump these fuckers up and down hills for hundreds of miles, do you?”
Kaikane: “I still think it would be better to paddle them as far inland as we can, see what it is like. We could always bury them there.”
Jones: “Yeah, well you’re a waterman. Duarte and I don’t dig fighting the current like you do.”
Kaikane: “They would be staged for a nice ride back.”
Jones: “I concede the point, but ya also have to think about Gray Beard.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Jones and I snuck off with Gray Beard’s digging tool to bury the boats this morning. No easy chore. We chose a sandy bank about 100 yards inland from the river’s high-water mark, and took turns carving away at the hillside, making a 22-foot-long trench wide enough for three kayaks.
The old man is one of the main reasons we decided to stash the boats. I thought he could just hitch a ride with me, but Maria hated the idea. I think the stuff Jones said has got her thinking.
It is hard to say what he knows about us and what we have managed to keep secret. We flip computers off when he’s around and try not to speak English in front of him. Even so, he absorbs a lot. The kayaks are always stashed a good distance away, and he was in a coma when we used one to haul his ass back to the camp. We’re hopeful he is still unaware of them, but he doesn’t miss much.
“Why didn’t they send us back to a time when boats had been invented?” I asked Jones as we walked back to camp.
“Why did they send us back at all?”
We took a dip in the stream along the way home to rinse off the dirt that covered us head to toe like characters in an old movie about chimney sweeps. Maria took a break from hauling wolf furs to the storage pit to fling her arms around me and kiss drops of water off my chin and lips. She is excited to start moving east.
“The boss has been looking for you two. He wants to store the hides before it rains.”
There were a few clouds in the sky. Nothing looked threatening to me, but I knew better than to doubt the old man. It was easier yanking the hut covers off the frames than it was putting them on. Gray Beard insisted on perfection as we folded and laid them into the storage pit. He had cut bows of cedar that he placed with the furs and bedding. When everything was perfectly stowed, we lowered the lid, covered it with the waxed leather tarp and replaced the sandy soil, tamping it down firm and smooth.
Gray Beard spread sticks and leaves over the area until it was well camouflaged. Jones gave me a wry look. We had been doing the same thing on another sandy hillside not long before.
Once he was finished, Gray Beard studied us for a while and seemed to come to a decision. Picking up his pick, he waved for us to follow him up into the trees. He led us 50 yards before stopping between a pair of large rocks. Using twigs, he marked out a space about four feet square. He handed the pick to me and motioned for me to dig.
We had to go down more than three feet to unearth the storage bin. While the other pit was communal and used by the whole clan, this one must have been Gray Beard’s private stash.
“He says some of these items belonged to his father and grandparents,” Duarte said.
There were feather capes and ceremonial duds along with some sweet stone tools and weapons.
Gray Beard handed Maria a finely-stitched leather outfit. The beaded gear included a dress kinda like a toga only a lot better, with tall moccasins and a cape. Tooled into the fine, lightweight leather were pictures of running aurochs and bison, flowers and butterflies. He waited for her to examine the gifts and then added a small leather scrip like the one he carries tied around his waist. She opened it to find a set of narrow blades, bone needles, circles of gut and an ivory moon calendar far more fancy than his own.
Maria leaned down to give him a kiss that made him blush.
To me, he handed a wicked-looking club, complete with leather belt and holster. About two feet long, it was a stout oak shaft topped by an oblong wedge of shiny metal. The skull-cracker is firmly secured to the shaft by leather loops. Maria checked it out later and said it looks like solid nickel. Her theory that it is the melted remains of a meteorite sounds possible to me.
He dug to the bottom of the pit to come up with a well-worn outfit similar to Maria’s. Climbing out of the pit, he unrolled it and held it up to my chin to see how it would fit.
“He says it was his father’s,” Duarte translated. “He was a big man. About the same size as you.”
She stopped to listen to a little speech and then translated the bare bones of it for us.
“He says his father was a great clan leader. You can wear this with pride even if it is old.”
He grunted in surprise as I lifted him up in a hug. Pushing me good-naturedly away, he returned to the pit to dig out a long coil of rope and a leather bag that contained an odd tool of ivory and wood. He handed them up to Jones with a smile. Jones slipped the coil over his shoulder then hefted the tool. Its wooden handle was three feet long with a loop of leather at the bottom. Lashed to the top was an ivory-carved mammoth. The back of the mammoth was notched below a protruding hook.
Jones turned it over in his meaty hands, grasped the handle and tested its weight as a club.
“What is it?”
“I think I know,” Maria said, “but let me ask him to be sure.”
They jabbered back and forth at least a minute.
“He says this weapon was used to slay many members of his grandfather’s clan before they killed its owner and confiscated it from a rival tribe. The enemy used this to cast spears much farther and harder than his grandfather’s people could. No one has figured out how to use it, but he thinks you may be able to. Do you know what it is now?”
Jones shook his head.
“It’s an atlatl. You would have had to learn about them on your own. The Team was never trained in their use. We knew ancient man used atlatl all over the world, but we weren’t sure how long ago they were invented.”
“It’s a spear thrower?”
“A very powerful one. I imagine it will take some getting used to. Let me see your rope.”
While we examined our gifts, Gray Beard sorted though his junk, pulling out just a set of clothes and a few small things. He’s packing light for this trip. Jones offered his hand to help him out of the pit and we were careful to place the lid and tarp on properly before covering it with dirt and camouflage.
Maria and I were relieved to ditch the oversized clothes we had made for ourselves. They were crap. Our gift clothes fit pretty much perfectly. She looks the part of fair Indian maiden and I’m her brave.
Our modern packs will stand out a bit, but what are you gonna do? We can’t leave everything behind. Each beige pack contains a computer, jumpsuit and helmet. Mine also has sea salt, four turtle shell bowls and a few other things I’m not ready to let go of. Jones left his jumpsuit locked in his kayak and is carrying one of the smaller packs. I bet its a good 15 pounds lighter than mine. Lucky guy.
Gray Beard examined our loads and shook his head.
“He says we look like turtles,” Duarte said.
The man had one more ceremony before we could head out. Calling us over to the camp table, he opened his cape to reveal four new necklaces s
lung around his neck–leather thongs strung with cave bear teeth and claws and colorful shells. He slipped one over each of our necks. Climbing atop the table, he delivered a final speech. Maria waited for him to finish then translated.
“Wow. He says we are now members of his clan and members of his family. Having proven ourselves worthy against the bear, we honor the mighty beast by wearing its teeth and claws. These necklaces show we are brave warriors who did not retreat. We are now brothers and sisters who will protect each other and fight all enemies together.”
“I guess the Italians and Martinelli are at the top of the list,” I said when she was done.
Gray Beard cocked his head at the sound of the name.
“Mertoon-Elly, Mertoon-Elly,” he cried, circling the tabletop, blowing farts out his mouth and performing a lewd gesture.
Maria stared darts at me and Jones before breaking into a smile.
“Which one of you taught him that?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “There’s no difference between whether you like it or not. She is going.”
Bolzano: “This was to be a time for the three of us to be away from the clans. To converse.”
Martinelli: “So, we’ll converse.”
Amacapane: “She don’t like us, called me and Sal ‘Smelly Green Turtles.’”
Martinelli: “It was a joke.”
Amacapane: “You know the bitch wasn’t joking.”
Martinelli: “Watch your mouth.”
Amacapane: “You watch your mouth. And watch her. I don’t trust you, Wallunda. That’s right, we speak about you, skinny woman. Blemngth, blemngth, klatch gooonbm.”
Bolzano: “Such a face. There she goes. You’ve pissed her off now, Andre.”
Amacapane: “Look at him chase her. What is this guy’s story? In love with a scheming monkey. First chance she gets, mark my words, Sal, she’s gonna drop a rock on our heads as we sleep.”
Bolzano: “Sadly, I have the same thoughts. She is a Tattoo, through and through.”
Amacapane: “I’m not waiting for those two punks. Let us launch our boats now, start upriver. They can follow when they get their calzones together. Help me with this one first.”
Bolzano: “Got it.”
Amacapane: “You know something, Sal, I been giving you a hard time for too long. You and me, turns out, we gotta look out for each other. That Lorenzo, I think maybe the macaroni are overcooked. You know what I mean? He makes no sense half the time.”
Bolzano: “Half the time? You, sir, are generous indeed.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
I miss my porters far more than I ever expected. Andre mentioned the Green Turtles a few times tonight as we watched the ducks land on the river. I think he feels the same way. Maybe we suffer from Stockholm Syndrome. After living nearly a month with the clanspeople, counting on them for our very survival, it seems too quiet without the commotion. I never imagined I would long for the flutes and drums, fights and farts, yammering women and bragging men, but I do.
The two of us recline in the gathering dusk as a pair of trout speared from the river bake on flat stones at the edge of our small fire. Water fowl pour in by the thousands from all directions, splashing down in search of places to nest for the night.
If duck was on the menu, I could spear one without standing up. Unfazed by our presence, an entire flock of mallards waddled ashore at dusk, tucked heads under wings, and went to sleep. The trees along both riverbanks reverberate with the chatter of a billion birds settling in. Above the din, a pride of lions roars to announce it will soon be on the prowl. The cats are close enough to keep us casting expectant looks to the northern shore.
“Good idea to camp on an island,” I say as I catch Andre’s eye in the firelight. It never hurts to fuel his fragile ego. His black hair is now well below his shoulders, showing flecks of gray which were never there before. Are we aging at an accelerated pace? As the ship’s equipment did? I do know that each night I toss and turn on damp ground, I awake feeling older.
We are lucky to have ignited a fire. It has been a month since we’ve built one, and I think we both just expected to pull out a magnifying glass and focus the sun’s rays on birch bark scraps. We left it until too late, however, and the sun was obscured behind a bank of clouds as we set up camp.
Abundantly aware of just how miserable we would be without a blaze for the night, we spent the next hour scrambling to light one. We scurried about collecting the makings, then set to the task as they taught in training. Working together, Andre rubbed one dried piece of driftwood on another, as I blew like mad on a pile of dried moss and wood shavings. We achieved smoke several times. No flames. When all seemed lost, the sun came out.
I wonder if Lorenzo will have any troubles tonight. Electing not to give Wallunda an easy go at our throats, we bid them adieu this afternoon as they set up camp along the river. The sergeant wasn’t happy as we paddled away, but what could he do, pack up and follow us like a scared kid?
“You’re the one brought a dame to a men’s holiday,” Andre said over the com line as we headed upstream. “You lovebirds have a swell time.”
Our camp is situated in the middle of the Loire, on the high ground of a sandy spit of island too tiny, or too prone to flooding, to support trees or bushes. Ferns and sedge grow sparsely in the stone-littered soil. Following Green Turtle custom, we have gathered piles of sweet ferns to cushion our night’s slumber. Who doesn’t appreciate a soft place to sleep? How I wish! By morning, my bedding will have been thrashed to the sides and I will be curled up on solid ground. Again.
Andre and I find we have little left to discuss after our long paddle upstream. Conversation rarely lagged during the leisurely six-hour sightseeing tour of the French countryside. Passing through what will one day boast some of the world’s finest farmland and most luxurious castles, we experienced it at its primitive best.
The kayaks allow a new perspective of the environment. For a welcome change, we feast our eyes on a world which is not obscured by dense forest and shoulder-high meadow. Traveling with the clans, with their flutes and whistles and penchant for hunting, most large mammals I have observed have either been deceased or running for their lives. Today we glided by countless beasts, big and small. I felt strangely at home, calm, as if I actually belonged in this place.
TRANSMISSION:
Amacapane: “It seems like we fly.”
Bolzano: “Easier than walking, that is for certain. The porters’ mighty effort pays off now.”
Amacapane: “For a dunce, you’ve done a good job with them. I never expected it to work out.”
Bolzano: “What did you expect?”
Amacapane: “Maybe that they would all run off, or lose the boats someplace where we could never find them. Truthfully, I don’t remember much about those first days. It’s a blur to me.”
Bolzano: “So much was happening.”
Amacapane: “It was more than that. After the waves, I think I was in shock, you know? To see everybody pulverized? The equipment was failing, the Americans disappeared, I was ready to give it up. In my mind, we were doomed. I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before we would die also. Lorenzo seemed to have a plan. I figured, what the hell, let him do the thinking. You spotted the problem long before me.”
Bolzano: “Somehow, Lorenzo stays one step ahead of us.”
Amacapane: “He has the guns.”
Bolzano: “Speaking of the man and his guns, here they come now.”
Amacapane: “Look at her hold on for dear life.”
Bolzano: “She is permitted a modicum of unease. Wallunda may very well be the first Cro-Magnon to ever ride atop a boat.”
Amacapane: “It won’t be the last thing she is first to do.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English tra
nslation)
The river is home to millions upon millions of animals, everything from water bugs to mammoths that trumpet and threaten to charge our kayaks as we rush past their young. The lazy brown water teems with fowl, snakes, turtles, otter and leaping fish. Willow and white birch dominate the high grounds, while the lowlands are marshes of cattail and bramble which stretch as far inland as the magnifiers of my helmet can see.
Our trout have begun to sizzle, skins golden brown and filling the air with a wondrous scent. Andre listens to music on his ear peas, some sort of Icelandic pop nonsense that was all the rage before we jumped. I sit here with my computer, obsessing about my faithful band of porters. I hope they are safe.
We kept the porters idle at the starting line, waited for both racing clans to be well on their ways up the Loire River valley before setting them loose. The portage squad includes nine young misfits and their retinue of five women and three children. The adults sat in the mud, slumped with their backs against moss-covered logs, watching the children feed worms to a turtle. There was little conversation as they awaited my signal to pick up the boats and resume the utter nonsense of carrying them cross-country. The old fire starter sat wheezing on a downed birch. His Green Turtle brothers judged him too slow to compete and too valuable to lose along the trail.
I cleared my throat to gain their attention, then explained they too were included in the race. A small cheer erupted when they finally grasped their journey would not include the infernal kayaks. I signed that the same rules laid out for the racing clans now applied to them. It was a group contest, they all had to make it safely upriver to where a signal fire will be lit.
As the finish is at least 110 kilometers away over swampy ground, I told them to expect the journey to take more than a handful of days.
Tomon interrupted with native sign language to ask how we would get the kayaks to the fire without them. I tried to explain we had a way to make the chore easy. There was quite a bit of back and forth as I attempted to use my limited vocabulary to lie convincingly. Listening in, Lorenzo became so frustrated he gave Tomon a shove eastward.
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