Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

Duarte: “Oh, my, look at these two.”

  Kaikane: “What are they carrying, snakes?”

  Duarte: “Dead ones. Must be friends of the old man.”

  Kaikane: “Guess they share his appreciation for stomped snake.”

  Duarte: “Oh, yes indeed, look at that? The hunters do know who he is. Gray Beard must be some kind of big chief. Look how he greets them, like a king meeting his subjects.”

  Kaikane: “A king with his balls hanging down. Speaking of snakes, guy’s got quite a package there.”

  Duarte: “Stop it.”

  Kaikane: “Ever notice, when it’s cold out, his dick looks like a grub.”

  Duarte: “Paul!”

  Kaikane: “I see his parents elected not to have him circumcised. No Sir Ree, the man’s intact.”

  Duarte: “Stop, please.”

  Kaikane: “Why?”

  Duarte: “If I laugh, the hunters might take it the wrong way, whirl around and attack.”

  Kaikane: “Those boys have not failed to notice there are three men pointing spears their way. Besides, look at ’em, they’re about ready to kiss Mr. Beard’s feet.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  We have visitors.

  The dogs held a pair of gnarled hunters off to the edge of camp until Gray Beard stood up from the water, wrinkled and steaming, and called them in. The hunters recognized the old man right away and showed him a lot of respect. Groveling is a word that comes to mind. He took it all in stride, finally ordered them to relax downhill out of sight until his daughter finished her bath.

  When they left, Maria asked him why he called her his daughter.

  “You are my daughter, and these two are my sons,” he said. “That probably won’t keep you alive in these hills. It may help. Take your time in the water. They will wait.”

  We could have stayed in that warm spring all day. Jones and Gray Beard hadn’t been out for more than a minute before we climbed right in.

  “This is luxurious,” Maria said.

  “I was going to say it was un-fucking-believable.”

  “That too.”

  We sat with our backs to the flow, letting the current splash over our aching muscles. Every once in a while, a spurt of hotter water would bubble over us and make us wish for more. Maria and I used her herbs to wash each other’s back and shoulders and hair. Jones and Gray Beard were cool. They wandered out of sight to give us a nice quiet hour together.

  We often hold hands on our long marches, but there’s never time alone for intimate moments. The old man insists our safety depends on staying together. He keeps a close watch on us. Even if he didn’t, he sets such a grinding pace there’s no time to sneak off for a little hanky-panky.

  I thought I had sworn off love when my Doreen died. A celibate life is what I expected from the jump. My head was wrapped fully around the concept.

  What a mistake it would have been.

  My feelings for Maria run deep. I watch her hips move beneath the beaded leather clothes, and the way her wavy black hair gets longer and more tangled each day. She has a little mole on her left cheek that somehow makes her face complete.

  She starts asking questions and I wonder where the conversation is headed. Maria rarely does a thing without forethought. Eventually we’ll get around to the point she’s been building toward. Sometimes she uses what I’ve seen to verify her own observations, other times, she’s just being nosey.

  “Tell me about your ex-wife,” she said a few days ago as we slogged through a muddy field along the river.

  “She’s not my ex-wife. Doreen died of cancer. You knew that.”

  “I guess I did. Sorry. Truthfully, I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous of her.”

  “There’s no need to be. I love you. Doreen has been gone for more than four years. Sometimes, it feels like our time together was a dream. Doesn’t seem real.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “We were kids who met on a pro surfing tour. She was Irish and a pretty good little surfer. In small to medium waves she could really do her tricks. The big surf on Hawaii’s North Shore kinda freaked her out.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Some web-magazine guy once wrote, ‘Doreen Kaikane is a bonny lass. She may have a Hawaiian last name, but she’s got the map of Ireland printed across her face.’ I thought it was a perfect description. She had red hair, freckles and bright green eyes. She was thin, not quite your height.”

  “Your file says you took her death hard. It was cancer, right?”

  “Melanoma. She joked it was what she deserved for being a fair-haired surfer. We were living in Spain, Nuevo Palmar, near the ruins of Cadiz. She thought she had a new freckle, went to the doctors to have it checked out and they gave her a month to live. We wanted to take a final trip, go out in style, but her strength faded too fast. Although she lasted a month longer than predicted, it was a month full of pain.

  “When she passed, I couldn’t shake my depression. Family and friends all told me I had to move on with my life. I couldn’t, not for a long time. They all gave up on me, told me to call when I was done wallowing in self-pity.

  “I took off, began searching for the biggest challenges I could find–the gnarliest waves, tallest mountains, steepest ski slopes, wildest rapids. Crazy stuff. Flipping the bird to death’s nose was all that made me feel alive. Two years ago, I heard about The Team. Sounded like a hell of an adventure.

  “I’m here with you, and now, for the first time in 32,371 years, my heart feels complete.”

  “They probably won’t give us much more time alone,” she purred while slipping a hand under the water to bring me firmly back to the present.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Up for a round of spear golf?”

  Jones: “What about Duarte?”

  Kaikane: “She’s with the old man and the dogs. There’s a medicinal herb or something growing around here. They’re off looking for some.”

  Jones: “OK, what’s the first hole?”

  Kaikane: “See that log, over there by the oak? The orange mushroom, looks like President Lincoln. You gotta hit that.”

  Jones: “Why so close?”

  Kaikane: “Not everybody has an atlatl that can throw spears two miles. You win a hole, you can pick the next one. Until then, shut up and play.”

  Jones: “Like that?”

  Kaikane: “Man, nice shot.”

  Jones: “See the burned pine tree sitting by itself, way down in the valley? You gotta hit it at the base of the trunk, no higher than three feet. Not like last time.”

  Kaikane: “That was a fair shot and you know it. Nobody likes a sore loser. What is this, a par 10?”

  Jones: “Not for me. What’s for dinner?”

  Kaikane: “Bugs, unless we come up with something better.”

  Jones: “Looks like the 18th hole will be moving again. Have any ideas?”

  Kaikane: “I was thinking pork.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  My appreciation of Gray Beard grows as we meet other early humans. Some may have the brains to one day aspire to his level of knowledge and understanding. Most sport Intelligence Quotients equivalent to a box of hammers.

  Our first experience came when a pair of travelers shared the Warm Spring thumb camp with us five days ago. Dirty, with rotten teeth, they eschewed our invitation to antelope roast in favor of snake meat. With no finesse or care, or concern how we might feel about clouds of acrid smoke, the men dumped a pouch full of vipers into the coals and let them sputter until they were charred black. The stench chased our party of four to an upwind corner of camp, where we dined on chewy antelope and watched them use spears to roll the snakes out of the fire and into the dirt. No doubt burning their fingers and tongues, they promptly split open the smoking skins and scooped steaming, bone-filled goop into their mouths.

  Once they had eaten their fill, and left a big me
ss, the travelers approached Gray Beard to request he tell a story. Looking up from his seat in the ferns, he quietly rebuked them for their rudeness with the fire. Though they were spoken to calmly and without anger, his words shamed the two men so completely I thought they might cry. Blubbering apologies, they lay like chastised dogs at his feet. Later that evening, once the visitors had done more than their fair share of chores and gathering wood for the night’s fire, he finally obliged with a tale about a sea maiden who causes storms and eats whales. Mesmerized, covered in dirt and leaves and pine needles, they squatted by the roaring fire and reveled in his every word. At the thrilling conclusion, they leaped up and danced about, implored him to repeat the tale. He sent them off to bed.

  Since that day, we have passed other hunters, several families and a whole clan headed west. Most recognize Gray Beard and acknowledge him as a leader and great storyteller. Mindful of our pace, he stops only for a few minutes to share and collect news. Westward travelers tell tales of unspecified trouble to the northeast. The bits and pieces we fit together–great fires, tattooed warriors killing and raping, a powerful witch and a glowing ghost–confirm the Italians are sowing their chaotic seeds.

  With each story, Gray Beard grows ever more anxious to reach the mountains where he expects to find his eldest daughter. Her husband’s clan gave up following the herds years ago, content to hunt a network of valleys near the base of one of the Massif’s tallest peaks. Though no one has shared news of his daughter’s sedentary clan, he has convinced himself something is wrong. We pushed on well after dark last night to cover more than 20 up-and-down miles.

  As this Thumb camp is less than one day’s march from his daughter’s valley, we are going to forego our customary day of rest and push on today after the morning meal. Paul and Jones speared four rabbits at daybreak and those are now cooking on a spit over the fire. Gray Beard thinks he remembers a patch of yew trees growing near here. He has taken Jones off to see if they can find the makings for a few more bolts for the atlatl.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Move right, bad guy on your left. Behind you. Ommppphh. Got him.”

  Jones: “Die, you mother fuckers, die. Huh, huh, huh You like that? You like that? Huh huh. That’s right, you’re next. Take it like a man, motherfucker.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  My hands are shaking so badly I can scarcely type. Life in the Upper Paleolithic comes at you fast. One minute you are writing about rabbits for lunch and the next moment large hairy men are doing their best to kill you.

  Oh, my.

  I was working on my journal, and Paul was tending the rabbits on their spit, when a hunting party of seven men burst into camp to dump a gutted deer into the flames. As Paul backed up to stand by my side, they spilled our rabbits into the dirt. Casting taunts and threatening looks our way, they challenged us to do something about it. Once the rabbits had cooled a fraction, the men devoured them in gulping bites. They barely took time to chew. Snapping bones, sucking loose the marrow, they gawked at me in ways which left little doubt what was going through their minds. When one of the younger hunters made a grab for my crotch, Paul coolly intercepted with an aikido hold that dislodged his fingers from their sockets with a sound like celery breaking. The boy’s cries for mercy brought a good laugh from the other hunters. The leader made a few hand signals and they quickly spread out to circle us. All heads turned at the piercing notes of a bone flute cutting through the trees. They held their ground as the notes grew closer.

  Smoke and the stench of burning deer hide filled the camp as the old man and Jones strode through the middle of the circle to join us. There were no dogs in sight. He nodded to the hunting party’s leader and received a scowl in return. Gray Beard turned in a slow circle as he surveyed the intruders. The men wore an assortment of matted furs, cracked leather jerkins and well-worn moccasins. Their faces were covered in soot and sweat and animal grease. Long fingernails caked with half moons of black dirt. Scars crisscrossed their faces. Necklaces of teeth, claws and human fingers hung around their muscled necks.

  Gray Beard cleared his throat and launched into an amazing bit of oratory. I may be taking some liberties with my translation, but to the best of my ability, this is what he said and mimed.

  “You asked me why I kill snakes,” he said, looking at me and then to each of the men. “It has been a family tradition to kill snakes since the time of my grandfather’s grandfather seven hands (35 generations) ago.

  “When this grandfather was a young warrior, he married a beautiful black-haired girl from an Iberian clan. She was the prettiest woman in the world and he loved her very much, even though she could not give him a son. Girl after girl, every child she bore was female. That is, until they were both very old. One last time they attempted to sow a baby, and this last time she gave birth to a fine boy.

  “The birthing was hard on the old woman, however, and she died. The old man, who was now leader of the clan, grieved her death mightily. Only the presence of his healthy son allowed him to recover. The man had many daughters. The girls fought to care for the boy. The son never wanted for anything. His life was full of love and affection from the whole clan.

  “In those days, snakes were so plentiful they nearly covered the land. They hung from trees and shared people’s caves. It was hard to walk down a path without stepping on them. People were careful not to harm the snakes because they had an agreement. Man would not hurt snakes and snakes would not hurt man. They lived together in peace.

  “The boy was playing with one of his sisters when a hooded cobra slithered silently through the grass to a spot where it could watch their games. The snake was in a foul mood. A clumsy human had stepped on his tail as he sunned himself in the middle of a path.

  “The seven intruders stood with their mouths open, listening to the fable. I noticed Jones had knocked a bolt in his atlatl and Paul had unsheathed the meteorite club. I slowly reached for one of our spears from where it leaned against a tree. Some of the men turned my way. Gray Beard startled his listeners by raising his volume.

  “Suddenly, the boy broke into loud screams of anger. His sister had snatched up his favorite toy, an ivory bird. She laughed as she pretended to fly it above his head, just out of reach. The boy’s shouts upset the snake. It watched intently as the boy’s jumps brought him closer and closer to the hiding spot in the grass. Its tail twitched back and forth and its head swayed as he observed the commotion.

  “Not thinking of the consequences, the snake shot out of the grass and buried its fangs deep in the boy’s chest. Ahhh! As the sister turned to run away, the snake struck again, puncturing her calf before she could take two steps. Ahhh! The toy bird tumbled from her hand as she fell dead.

  “The father returned to camp that night to find the grieving clan gathered around the bodies of his two beloved children. Examining the two-hole wounds, the culprit was easy to determine. A snake!

  “In his anger, the father stood before his clan to dedicate himself to destroying all snakes. The man spent the remainder of his life wandering the hills and valleys killing snakes. Once the pact was broken, the true nature of snakes was revealed. They prove time and again they are foul and cannot be trusted.

  “So, you ask me, why do I kill snakes?”

  The question was aimed at me, but his eyes remained locked with those of the hunters’ leader.

  “Snakes are evil beings who take what does not belong to them. They lie and cheat and steal. I kill all snakes wherever I find them. Some snakes have legs. Oh yes, they do! There are snakes with two legs and no tails who roam this land. When they cross my path, I kill them, too.”

  Gray Beard turned to give each of us a purposeful look, made sure we were ready, before returning his attention to the leader.

  “Are you snakes? Do I need to kill you? I give you one chance only. Take your stinking deer and leave us now. If not, you will be stomped like snakes. Choose!”

 
Things happened so fast it was a blur. The leader of the hunters unleashed a snarling growl as he jabbed his spear toward Gray Beard’s face. The old man dodged slightly, grabbed the spear and yanked it forward. The leader’s momentum carried him onward where Gray Beard crushed his testicles with a knee to the groin. In a flash, Gray Beard wrenched the spear away to plunge it into the man’s gut. A pair of atlatl bolts whistled past my head to bury in the chests of two foul-smelling hunters closing in on Gray Beard’s flank. Paul had his club out, swinging it with calm precision. An overhand stroke broke one man’s collarbone, then Paul leaped and spun to avoid another’s spear thrust. Parrying the spear, he caved in the attacker’s skull with a backhanded blow which made a hollow, sickening sound.

  I stood there, frozen, as Jones launched himself at three men, jabbing with a spear and hacking the atlatl as a club to relentlessly drive them backwards. The hunter with a broken collarbone circled behind Jones and was about to thrust a spear one-handed into his back when Paul leveled the man with a flying tackle. The meteorite club delivered a trio of sharp blows which turned his head to pulp.

  Jones made quick work of the remaining hunters, killing one with a spear thrust and battering two into submission with blows from his ivory-headed atlatl. Gray Beard moved in to dispatch the incapacitated men with spear thrusts to their hearts.

  “Never leave an enemy alive,” he explained as he turned to our astonished faces. “They would hunt us down for revenge. Like snakes, they must be stomped.”

  In less than two minutes, seven men lost their lives. We did not suffer a scratch.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Good work, surfer man. Thanks for having my back.”

  Kaikane: “Huh? Yeah, no problem. What’s he doing?”

  Jones: “Looks like there will be no survivors to tend to.”

  Kaikane: “Man, that’s brutal.”

  Jones: “You think they woulda showed us any mercy? You saw how they looked at her. This is serious shit, Jack.”