Our heart rates took their time resuming to normal, but the excitement did nothing to curtail our appetites. Between handfuls of berries, I chanced to query if they had yet selected a name for their anonymous bambino. It was a simple question, asked innocently, but I also know how serious these two Cro-Magnons are about selecting the perfect moniker. My inquiry removed the lid on a debate that must have been simmering just below the surface. Judging by the terse whispers and strained silences, it appears Tomon has settled on a name that Gertie does not approve of.
“Your uncle Leonglauix is named for the red otter,” Gertie hissed. “Do you claim he was already swimming across wide rivers at this age? Not even two hands and two fingers of moons since birth? What is your hurry?”
“I am the man.”
“Yes. The stupid man.”
Tomon’s beseeching eyes and wan smile prompted me to steer the conversation toward happier directions. Weather is generally a safe topic to introduce, and once again that proved to be so. Sniffing the air, studying the trees and sky, Tomon muttered this could be the last balmy day of the season. “Snow soon,” he sighed.
Though we attempted to regain the magic of the day, it had been lost. Long before shadows would have chased us from the glen, we gathered up the picnic and commenced our return march to camp in silence.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “What kind of an answer was that?”
Duarte: “Looks like I hit a nerve.”
Kaikane: “I’d say.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Eight days have passed since my last journal entry. Private moments are rare in this land of winding valleys and flinty hills. Our once-private cave has become the hub of Green Turtle life now that Gray Beard has moved in with Paul and me. Not only do our clan mates arrive unannounced day and night, the Sons have taken to dropping by as well. One evening we welcomed three of the more friendly hybrids to share food by our fire and that invitation somehow opened the floodgates for unexpected visits.
They are curious about us, and, like everyone else on this green planet, thirsty for information and amusement. Our shaggy guests yearn for stories of dangerous hunts and great storms. They beg to hear the same tale over and over and complain loudly should a single detail change. We trade story for story, and in so doing have learned many interesting details about the Hunter. Some may even prove to be true.
We barely see the man. Except for one brief stop to drop off a stack of thick pelts to be scraped and cured, he has been absent from the scene for nine days. He and his Sons are said to be prowling the western highlands in search of hides for winter clothing, as well as slabs of loin to make pemmican.
Mitch has been in a pissy mood since we backed him into a promise to lead us north to Galway. We insisted upon proof there are no other survivors, as well as the right to confirm the wreckage of the Einstein IV timeship. If there is a wrecked ship, let us see it.
To start, I didn’t really care which direction we traveled. Gray Beard’s the one who’s been hot to visit the “Big Drum.” I began to notice, however, that when someone mentioned Galway or going north, Mitch was quick to protest. “It’s too cold,” he grumbled. “It’s too far. There’s so much less to see when compared to the south.”
If he had his way, we would have already floated log rafts across the Rhine and headed for the boot of Italy where we would revel in “sunshine, dates, coconut milk and fresh fruit.” I wasn’t the only one who sensed the lie. He was hiding something. No doubt he’s hiding many things, but this is something big.
It was a spirited debate, one that grew quite heated at times. In the end, he reluctantly agreed to take us north to the ice shelf and across to the Atlantic coast. In return, we agreed to not seek charges for any crimes he may have committed.
Mitch isn’t accustomed to compromising. Shaking hands to seal the deal, his youthfully handsome face looked–as Jones put it–as if he had taken a “big bite of shit sandwich.” Lips clamped together, refusing all further attempts at conversation, he steamed in silence for 35 minutes, then stood to bark a series of calls that brought his Sons running.
“If you insist on crossing the ice, we will need warm clothes–capes, boots, the works. Excuse me, I have a job to do.”
Turning to his troops, illuminated by the firelight, he gave the Sons their marching orders in a short speech that was perhaps 60 percent sign language. With a clap, he sent them running to gather their traveling gear and weapons. In just 13 minutes, Mitch and nearly all of his troops had trotted up the main valley trail and vanished into the night.
Left behind is a security detail made up of the injured and insulted that numbers seven. Their instructions are to provide us with protection, firewood and fresh game. Thus far, they have lived up to the task. Unfortunately, the Sons’ concept of personal boundaries and respect for other people’s belongings are not highly evolved. The Hunter has taught them proper camp behavior, how to sit calmly and listen when they are in his presence, to eat slowly and chew with their mouths closed, but this male-dominated pack is still incredibly rough around the edges. It’s not quite Lord of the Flies, but nearly. Between their thievery, flatulence and bold stares, they’re becoming a pain in the butt. That’s why I sit hiding in a tangle of Manzanita bushes while Paul stands guard outside, gigging fat autumn frogs from a creek.
European Manzanita will long be extinct by the time man thinks to catalog such things, but in this warm epoch between ice ages, the tall shrubs grow quite densely along the edges of burnt meadows, and wherever gaps in the trees allow sunlight to reach the forest floor. Manzanita was a common plant in the area of California where I grew up, though I don’t remember those dried-out bushes ever being so pretty.
Pruned by countless animal nibbles, shaped by wind, stunted by brutal frosts, the trunks surrounding me are a serpentine puzzle, a brilliant, convoluted swirl of red and purple bark. Bonsai masters of the future could spend a succession of lifetimes trying to duplicate the many twists and turns and never approach the beauty. Where healthy, the colorful bark is smooth to the touch. Cool. Above me a canopy of silvery, oval-shaped leaves shimmers amid clusters of red, ripe berries. Birds and rodents seem to enjoy the berries, though they taste awful to me. Gray Beard claims the bitter fruits once kept him from starving during a long snowstorm. With so many tastier alternatives available, Manzanita fruits are generally passed over by humans.
Though his grief has subsided, our clan leader is quite lost without his faithful dog. I had come to take the bitch for granted. Now that she is gone, my appreciation for her superior training and abilities grows. These other two mutts, Sal’s Izzie and Lanio’s male, are nothing more than stupid pack animals–primed every moment to run off to get lost, eaten or stolen.
The storyteller took great pride in the bitch’s breeding and training. He claimed she was a blend of wolf and fox, with a small pinch of hyena. I was never able to nail him down on the percentages, but whatever the mixture, she was blessed with a much sharper intellect than other domesticated canines of this age. Our remaining dogs are not cut from the same cloth.
The bitch did far more than keep the old storyteller company and tote his medicines, twines, sleeping fur and bag of sea salt in her twin packs. After years of living with the man, learning his ways, she became an extension of his eyes, nose and ears. She had a different growl for every intruder, one that meant a harmless muskrat was passing in the dark nearby, and one that meant, “lion on the hunt, get ready to protect me!”
Leonglauix knew every signal, and every night he slept through the ones that didn’t warrant his attention. With her keen sense of smell and hearing, she was better than any motion sensor. The poor guy has barely slept since the shooting, complaining he can’t relax like he used to. He and Jones make quite a pair, up all night feeding wood to the fire.
Jones has fallen into one of his deep funks and there’s nothing we can do or say to lift him. Though she’s an aw
ful scold, Fralista has my sympathy. The handsome native woman yearns to help her man, but must accept she cannot. Must not. Fralista, with her straight spine and matter-of-fact attitude, has endured enough of his swan dives into depression to understand the only thing Jones wants from her is peace and quiet, or as he puts it, for everybody to leave him “the fuck alone.” He can snarl that phrase in Green Turtle dialect, trade dialect and three different styles of native sign language.
Jones’ mood will be better when it is better. Until then, he’ll sulk and mope and answer every question with one-word answers, or just give us one of his trademark stares. But he’ll also do his duty, guard his people and see that we do not lose another member, whether they walk on two legs or four. That is what Jones does.
For the past five days he has rarely left the old man’s side, even accompanying him when he goes off to pee. Jones won’t say it, but he’s more than depressed, he’s worried. Our sullen captain monitors the approaches, keeps tabs on where all visitors’ hands are in relation to their weapons, and scans for changes in posture or inflection that might precede an attack.
During calm times when threat levels are low, he has been shaping a new, longer atlatl. This is his fifth attempt since losing his first launcher, a finely crafted Green Turtle heirloom that vanished the night he was overwhelmed by Martinelli’s Tattoos on the cliffs of Nice. He claims the original sported a quality of balance and long-range accuracy he has, so far, been unable to match. His bolts seem to fly plenty straight to me. Jones rarely misses a shot. With sideways glances, Gray Beard keeps tabs on the process. The lifelong toolmaker has not been asked for advice, and thus, will not offer any.
The boy Greemil kick-started the process by finding the rough plank, a well-shaped yew burl, jutting from the gravel bank of a nearby stream. What made this nearly petrified root special was a curl at the tip which caused the grain to flare and turn back upon itself to form a divot-shaped hook. Even at first glance, it appeared perfect for nocking and launching an atlatl bolt. The boy recognized the potential, wrestled the five-foot-long burl free and brought it back to camp. Greemil and Lanio made a show of gifting it to Jones after the evening meal. The boy handed over the present, while she explained, “Do not burn. Look closely. My man found this for you.”
Our resident warrior inspected the root for a long while, turned it methodically in his hands, tested the weight, before nodding his appreciation. The approval put a wide smile on Greemil’s face as he and his blue-eyed wife strode back to their seats on the opposite side of the fire. They tell me Salvatore had a brief fling with the quiet girl before she and Greemil became an item, but it is hard to imagine those two young lovers apart. Rarely are Lanio and Greemil out of each other’s reach. They tend to the dogs, make sure Gray Beard has everything he needs, then scamper off to the back of the cave or behind trees to make love about 40 times each day. That last part may be an exaggeration, but not by much. Those two can’t keep their hands off each other.
Young love is such a wondrous and sometimes amusing thing to behold. Many a Green Turtle eye has been rolled over Lanio and Greemil’s handholding and long sighs, the way they think they are fooling us when they sneak away for 15 minutes and return with leaves in their hair and silly smiles smeared across their faces. In comparison, the rest of the couples of the clan are old fuddy-duddies–Tomon and Gertie, Jones and Fralista, Bongo and Conga, Paul and me. I bet Lanio and Greemil screw more times in two days than the rest of us do in two weeks, hell, two months. Thinking about it, if Paul had his way, I bet we would make love more often. Maybe I should do something about that.
This pairing-up reflects the Green Turtle Clan’s overall focus on commitment. Each of the unions listed are monogamous and solid. I’m sure Fralista would appreciate more hugs and attention from Jones, but knows his affections, limited as they are, will return sooner or later. I believe this coupling allows a clan to function at a higher level. The purpose of clan is to provide safety, food, shelter and entertainment. These two-person teams amplify the positive impacts. There is more to it than the simple rubric that says two can accomplish more than one, that two fighters with spears stand a far better chance in this world than an individual. There is great power in knowing your mate has your back, that he or she will be there to share the load. Paul brings harmony to my world, a serenity long absent from my life.
Gray Beard and Sal are the only clan members who do not have a significant other. As a revered elder, healer and storyteller, Leonglauix does not need to lift a finger. Despite that, on the trail, when it comes to hunting food, collecting firewood, mending clothes and making tools and weapons, he more than pulls his weight. Sal used to worm his way out of chores like nobody’s business, but has been more helpful of late. At least, he was helpful when he was around. Cpl. Bolzano left three days ago to accompany his father on the hunt and has yet to return. That leaves me to do Salvatore’s chores, one of which is keeping tabs on his foaming leather bags of plum grappa and Manzanita-berry gin. In two days, Sal says we’ll be ready to sample our first taste. Forgive us, Team leaders, we are thirsty.
As the autumn sun dips low and the time to deliver our stringer of frogs to camp draws near, I must wrap this up. We wasted far too much time this afternoon searching for the four outcasts Paul and I have been assisting. Disabled and disgraced by combat, shunned by their brothers as worthless cripples, the quartet had been living in a shallow cave downstream of the main camp and basically drinking our piss, shit and all other waste that goes into the water. Seven days ago, we helped them move two valleys over, to a deeper, warmer cave with a clean water source. Fa, Da, Ga and Ha-Ha accepted our gifts of rabbit, honeycomb and picked fruit with sullen resignation. I tried not to let it bother me, but they never said thank you. When we arrived today, they were gone. Part of me was glad.
The other hybrids have been quite frank in assessing their outcast brothers’ prospects. They expect them to either freeze to death or be eaten by wolves.
Isn’t that a cozy thought to finish on? Hmmm. I can’t believe I’m going to write this, but I’ll add one last tidbit to exit on a brighter note. When I turn off this machine, I plan to invite Paul in to spend some time with “the girls.” He enjoys it so when I let him fondle my breasts. “Take it out for me,” I’ll say, tugging at the strips of deer hide that hold his leather breeches. “I want it in my hand before you kiss them.” It never takes long.
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “You don’t utilize your jumpsuit. Why?”
Bolzano: “Dreadful garment makes my skin crawl.”
Duarte: “And yet you carry it all over Europe. Put it on and you won’t feel its weight. It will carry you.”
Bolzano: “No thank you.”
Hunter: “You people wear your helmets, use the optics and readouts in your visors.”
Bolzano: “Yes.”
Hunter: “What’s wrong with the jumpsuits?”
Bolzano: “As if you did not know.”
Hunter: “Why carry it then?”
Bolzano: “The exercise helps maintain my boyish figure.”
Hunter: “Sod off.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Before his death by drowning, Cpl. Andre Amacapane used the most counterintuitive methods to rise through the ranks of the Green Turtle Clan to become its capo di capi, the big boss. Such leapfrogging would not have been possible if the old storyteller had been with us. Leonglauix would never have tolerated Andre’s management style, nor the other shenanigans of those crazy months following The Team’s arrival in the Paleolithic–Lorenzo’s crusade and magic shows; Turtles mingling with Tattoos; daily hunting contests for everything from vole to rhino; nightly church services; ritualized executions.
Leonglauix, the Gray Beard, was presumed dead after being bashed senseless by Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli and thrown into the Garonne River. How were we to know the Americans would be downstream to fish
the old man out?
In Leonglauix’s stead, his three sons formed an ineffective ruling troika far overmatched by the allure of the sergeant’s disappearing jumpsuit and flaming pistols. The Green Turtles put aside differences with their bitter rivals, the Tattoos, to travel with modern Martinelli’s traveling circus. Lorenzo soon claimed the warrior Tattoos as his personal clan. Not surprisingly, as there were already great rifts developing between Lorenzo and us, Cpl. Amacapane and I began taking our meals with the more civilized Turtles.
While Andre did not have a gun or magic suit to enthrall his adopted clan, he was athletic, highly trained and quite competitive. The short, cocky bastard had a strangely effective technique of lifting himself up by putting other people down. Even back in pre-jump training, the former attacker for Bologna was always quick to take offense, or accuse others of cheating. He had an uncanny knack for identifying the zeds he could safely mock, and the alphas best left alone. Though I was nearly twice his size, Andre picked on me unmercifully throughout training and most of our time together in the Paleolithic. I may have loathed his style, the way he needled my weaknesses, but there was no denying its effectiveness.
Awash in the Sons’ testosterone-fueled killing spree across the English countryside, pondering how best to earn my proper rank in the pecking order, Andre’s bluster came to mind. Brains and wit could carry me only so far. There would come a time when I must prove myself physically. I was determined to be ready. The moment arrived sooner and in more startling fashion than expected when two of Father’s junior Sons attempted to cause me grave bodily harm.
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