From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Maria and I can’t get the smell of brains off our hands. Scrubbed my mitts with sand so many times in the cold stream they turned blue. Never realized how often I touch my face or put my hand up by my nose. Maria’s sitting with a flat rock between her legs, pounding out a paste of leaves and berries she says might take the scent away, or at least mask it. I hope she figures something out, because we have a bunch more hides to do tomorrow.
Not sure how, but she and I have become the clan’s official brain rubbers. I thought the old man was bullshitting when he said we would use animal brains to cure the stacks of hides the Sons have been dropping off, but sure enough, each pile came with a tied-up bundle of gray blobs. The Hunter and his boys must have harvested the brains when they did the skinning and scraping. The skins have had a couple days to dry and the next steps, the braining, smoking and stretching, are left to the Green Turtle Clan. Dirty work.
We did the big ones today, mostly bobolox, elk and bison, about 20 of those. Tomorrow we’re going to tackle the smaller furs–fox, wildcat, rabbit and klyptops, which are kind of a cross between muskrats and badgers. Picture fat, 40-pound rabbits that swim, with needle teeth and cranky attitudes. In summer their pelts are gray-brown, but in winter they thicken up and turn pure white. The pelts we’re using are somewhere in between, but pale enough to make Gray Beard happy.
“Good in storms,” he signed. “Waterproof, warm, light. With these we will make good foot clothes for the Green Turtles.”
I asked him if we would be making anything for the Hunter and his Sons and he pulled a face that said they could freeze butt naked in a snowdrift as far as he was concerned. The first time we worked with Gray Beard on a big tanning project was back in the Massif Central, the hidden valley where we killed the bull mammoth. Thing must have weighed 20 tons. We had to move all the meat and bones before we could get to the hide. It was a race to get it scraped and clean before it went over. “Children of the blood,” that’s what Maria called us, or something like that. Everybody was covered in it, along with flecks of fat and hair, like we were spray-coated in red rubber. Old man and Fralista did most of the cutting, basically dissected that giant. We ended up putting up about a ton of meat to cure in the salt cave–more than the valley clan will ever eat. Jones says it turned out salty.
I forgot to ask Jonesey what happened with that mammoth hide. We used salt and our own crap and piss to start the curing. I wonder if the valley clan stuck with the job or blew it off as soon as we split town. Except maybe for Fralista, that bunch didn’t strike me as the hardest workers. Far from it. They liked their soaks in the hot spring too much to be gone months at a time tending a stinky hide, guarding it from porcupines and all the other chewers who’d love a crack at that thick skin. Now that I think about it, I bet varmints ate the whole thing.
I take it this brain treatment is a quicker way of doing the job, one that lets you harvest your warm clothes close to when you’ll need them–just as cold weather sets in. Which is now. We had our first good freeze last night. Woke up early this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep so I tiptoed my way through the snoring clan–they’re all shacking up with us now–to watch the sunrise.
Frost crunched under my summer moccasins and the eastern sky was lightening from black to purple as I followed a switchback trail up to a high point on the valley rim. The Hunter and his boys use fire to keep a couple acres right at the summit clear of trees. They have a tidy little observation post in the rocks that gives them a 360-degree view of the plains of Doggerland to the east and the rolling hills to the west. Whether you are looking due north or due south, the views are weirdly similar. As far as you can see, there are flat lands with rivers and swamps to one side, and valleys and hills on the other. It’s like we’re sitting on a line on a topographical map, a coastline that hasn’t happened yet.
Maria says the hills to the west will be more or less flattened by the next ice age. I believe her when she says there’ll be big changes. When I was here in the 2220s, Doggerland was the North Sea! I competed in a few tandem kite surfing events somewhere near here. All I remember is the place was choked with solar arrays and wind turbines. Massive polymer-concrete dikes rimmed the coastline, protecting millions of buildings built below sea level, a cityscape stretching inland as far as you could see.
During our ascents in the launch balloons, we could see London’s skyscrapers way off on the horizon. We joked about the London Hive, tens of millions of people living underground, but didn’t think much about it as we prepared to give the fat cats their thrills by risking our lives. I took first place a couple years in a row, had to go to the winner’s parties, chat up the sponsors and guests. The main thing that stands out is all the food and wine that was wasted, just left behind when the party moved to the next hot spot. I learned to scavenge by watching the crew. They always swung by the tables to check out what was left over. Every once in a while we’d score some really good chow or full bottles of booze.
It’s a helluva lot colder than I remember. My teeth were chattering when I started up the trail this morning, but by the time I reached the summit my cape was open and I had worked up a little sweat. There were no lookouts on duty. The hilltop meadow was deserted except for a couple dozen deer pawing at the ground, digging under the frost to reach their feed. I expected them to hightail it for the trees, but I guess they weren’t ready to quit breakfast. Or maybe they could tell I wasn’t hunting. I went to the top and they hung by the tree line, popping their heads up every 30 seconds to make sure I hadn’t changed my mind.
Sunrise was as pretty as they come. Frost and a dusting of snow made the trees and grasses look like they had been coated lightly with flour. The instant the sun crested the horizon the plains began to glimmer. Icicles on limbs, skins of ice across puddles, everything sparkled like diamonds in the orange sunlight. Warmed by the sun, the world grew softer and quieter as all the diamonds turned to water.
The show didn’t last more than a half hour, but it was beautiful. I’ve given up trying to tell people about stuff like this. Halfway through, I’ll see their eyes glaze over and their minds start to wander. You either are there in the moment to see it and appreciate it, or you aren’t.
I found a comfortable rock and lay flat in the sun. There wasn’t a lot of heat, but enough. Waves of v-shaped flocks of geese honked high overhead, all headed south. Maria estimates we see about 50,000 flocks of geese, duck, cormorant and what-have-you fly over each day. It’s been going on for weeks. Multiply that by 60 to 80 birds per flock and your head begins to spin. Their calls are so constant I don’t even hear them anymore. There’s times on the big river when there’s so many birds paddling around you can hardly see water. By mid-morning, all the long-distance travelers have split, and by dark, their replacements have arrived. Where are they all going? Africa? I’d like to see the swamp big enough to hold so many birds.
I envy those suckers. They’re headed where its warm and we’re going where it’s gonna be colder than a witch’s tit, and dark for all but about four hours a day. Why am I the only one who thinks there’s something wrong with this picture? Well, maybe not the only one. The Hunter and his daughters agree with me, they say we’re crazy to start for Galway this time of year.
I suppose The Team’s writing instructors would grade me down for not mentioning the daughters earlier in this entry. Why is everybody in such a hurry for my stories to finish? The two women showed up with their Neanderthal fire starter early yesterday morning. Maria and I were tinkering with our first mixture of brains when Lucy and Pearl walked right up and introduced themselves in the Cro-Magnon way. They asked for permission to enter our camp. Maria welcomed them in the proper style, inquired how their hunting has been and offered to share food.
Pearl leaned close to Maria and took a long look at her cloak–or at least what’s left of her special coat. The ceremonial gear once belonged to Gray Beard’s
mother, the shaman Spotted Horse, but it has seen some heavy wear and tear since the old man presented it to Maria. Fingering the last strand of beads still left on the jacket, Pearl called Lucy over to have a look. Lucy was more interested in me. Pointing to the meteorite club tucked in my belt, she said, clear as day, “Leonglauix.”
Right on cue, the man himself arrived, staggering with a trio of helpers under the weight of two bobolox furs. “Tell us a story!”, they shouted in unison. Looking up, Gray Beard let out a hoot and smiled his first real smile in a long time. The moment he, Tomon, Greemil and Lanio dropped the furs, the two women gathered the storyteller in a long group hug and paid their respects. I gather it was the first time they had seen him since his wife died because she was mentioned a lot. Gray Beard told them about his dog and they wailed in sorrow.
They jabbered for 20 minutes, while we shamelessly listened in. Everybody around here’s starved for new information, new conversations. These are two of the happiest natives we’ve ever seen. I took a liking to them right away, and so did Maria. My wife had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and was looking pretty fine for somebody about to cook up a bag of brains, but they didn’t hold her beauty against her like most native women do.
To our surprise, they pitched in and spent the whole day working with the Turtles. Early on, they asked Gray Beard for his permission to show us a couple tricks with the brain sauce. With his approval, they added some goop they said would keep the fur on the hides from slipping. To tell the truth, I think their stuff is what made our hands smell so bad. I notice they didn’t rub brains. Those two spent most of their time helping Gray Beard hang and stretch the finished hides.
In the past year Maria and I have learned a few things about Neanderthal and also hybrids. We don’t think Lucy or Pearl have a drop of Neanderthal blood in them. But they do have yellow eyes and wavy hair like the Hunter. They said they were his daughters, and Gray Beard backed them up, so I guess, even though it makes my wife stomp her feet, Sal has a couple sisters to meet.
Their fire starter, on the other hand, is probably 100 percent Neanderthal. He reminds me of one of those old, silver-backed males in Gibraltar. Sloped head, powerful hands and forearms, big teeth, the guy would squeeze you to death if he ever got you wrapped up tight. They call him “Fire Starter” and treat him like a favorite pet–a very independent pet that loves to feed wood to flames.
The Sons greeted their half-sisters with groans and farting noises.
“Hello you dumb, stupid, ugly, smelly brothers,” Lucy shouted while Pearl stuck out her tongue. “Have you no manners? Where is our welcome after so many moons? Where is the Father Who Does Not Grow Old? Did he finally cut the hazel nuts from between your legs and leave you behind?”
The Sons had nothing to say. Within a half hour, every one of them had gathered up their weapons and cleared out. None of us were sorry to see them go. It gets old guarding your stuff and busting your ass working while a bunch of strong men sit by the fire and watch. We asked them to help with the hides. They fed us some bullshit about only taking orders from the Hunter, or only working leather with the Hunter. It was hard to make out. If those punks only get leftovers, and their capes and boots turn to shit, that’s too bad. They shoulda pitched in.
We set up an assembly line without them and though the work was hard, time seemed to fly by. When the day’s business was done, Maria and I ducked out of camp to visit our hideout in the Manzanita bushes to see if she can figure out how to get this smell off our hands.
Guess it’s time to go. The boss thinks she’s found a cure. Aloha for now.
CHAPTER FIVE
TRANSMISSION:
Hunter: “If you were wearing your jumpsuit, you would not even have been in danger. Why don’t you put it on?”
Bolzano: “How many times must I repeat myself? I despise the infernal device with all my heart and soul.”
Hunter: “One time. Once. So I can see how you look in it. Who knows, we might take a long run together.”
Bolzano: “Non, grazie.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
As much as I hate to trumpet my own horn, someone must. Salvatore saved the day today. Father even said so. “You saved the day today, Son.” He said it.
In honor of the occasion, I have been toasting myself with sample draughts of my latest vintages. The snail shell dipper I employ makes quite the dandy drinking cup, holding three jiggers at the very least. The result of my Manzanita berry experiment is currently labeled as a gin, though “eye-blinding wood alcohol” is still on the table. In comparison, the fruit wine turned out rather exquisite. It is neither too sweet nor too tart, and its finish is much smoother than the gin–you don’t shudder and flap your arms as if smoke is coming out your nostrils. Dragon Juice! There is an apt name for my lethal elixir if ever I heard one.
Thankfully, we have two bags of the wine against one of the gin–enough to supply tomorrow evening’s soiree, and leave a fair amount to sustain us along the trails ahead. Rumor has it we may well freeze our tushies off. I am determined to hold onto mine, as I rather like my derriere. I cannot imagine sitting down without it.
Perhaps this wine should be named “Cat Killer” in honor of today’s hunt. Oh, how I wish you readers were here to pull the story from me, to force humble Salvatore to begrudgingly admit he is nothing less than a hero. “No, I cannot,” I would bemoan, but of course, once the proper pressure had been applied, I would eventually relent, regaling you awestruck listeners with an honest accounting of my glory. Gloating is not generally in my nature. Macho men gloat. I was a thief. Thieves who brag eventually find themselves in jail.
Sadly, I learned that lesson the hard way. The resulting six-month incarceration in Milano Prison Block 19 left me an anti-braggart. Upon release, my specialty became poking fun at loudmouths who dared bore the party with long accounts of their adventures. Friends would often invite at least one colossal bore to their events just so I might ridicule him or her for the crowd’s enjoyment. Like a long-ago bullfighter, the secret was to skewer them face to face, in ways they did not expect–maybe start with hollow flattery and then crack jokes just at the edge of their hearing. I was a master of the double-entendre, uttering scandalous, salacious lines that left the loophole of claiming, “surely you mistook my meaning.” As if I would ever refer to someone’s dead mother as a money-grubbing cow. Even Father enjoyed the cruel barbs, particularly when they were not directed toward family members.
Nothing I have ever said or accomplished generated even a close approximation of Father’s heartfelt approval today. All it took was singlehandedly slaying a colossal snow lion to save his life, as well as the lives of three of his Sons. Why didn’t I think of doing such a thing earlier? Sitting in the glow of my computer’s screen inside my drafty cave, high on booze, yet not lubricated enough to quash the tingling of this afternoon’s adrenaline surge, I recall only fragments of what transpired. Everything happened quite fast. My goodness, my heart still pounds!
We had closed to within several kilometers of the main camp. Smoke rising from my comrades’ many leather-curing fires made the destination easy to pinpoint, even for someone like me who has a tendency to get turned around in these repetitious hills and valleys. We were traveling in a loose pack, most of us trudging on top of a wide game trail through the muddy forest, when Father called us up short. Kneeling, he pointed to a platter-sized mark in the earth.
“Salvatore, take a gander at these.”
“Bear?”
“No, count the toe prints, see the shape left by the heel pad?”
I tallied four toes, not five, and the heel pad was round and uniform, not human shaped. Feline.
“If these are cat prints,” I murmured, “that must be one hell of a tiger.”
“Snow lion, a big male on the hunt.”
“How can you tell?”
“The way he’s dragging his tail, the len
gth of his stride. He’s tracking something, or somebody. I know you’re anxious to get back to your friends, but we must make sure he’s hunting a ‘what’ and not a ‘whom.’ This lion might be after one of our people.”
Father whistled the call of a wood thrush and the boys guarding our flanks came running. Not running, actually, for they have been trained far better than that. The Sons may not slip through the woods as quietly as Leonglauix, but they do exhibit quite adequate woodcraft. Within several minutes, our hunting party had assembled around the great Hunter. Pointing and shoving, he divided our two dozen into three groups. Seasoned veterans were assigned to the two flanking parties and sent off to circle wide on both sides of the cat’s projected path.
That left Father, and me, standing with three of the junior Sons–including the two boys whose brains I bashed. How typical of Father to place me in an uncomfortable position, and also shame me as a member of the lower class. Before I could protest, he motioned us to follow as he commenced tracking. Heeding Father’s advice to watch myself around Ma and Na, I took the rear as we veered off the trail and into the dense pines.
As the forest closed in around us, for the first time since I locked my jumpsuit in my pack back at camp, I wished I had the damn thing. The protection of armor combined with the ability to blend seamlessly into the bushes and trees would have been quite reassuring. But it was not oversight that caused me to leave the extraordinary gear behind. In spite of their powerful functions, we find ourselves wearing the suits less and less. Each time we enter full suit mode with helmet and jumpsuit together, the negative impacts arrive faster and with more intensity. Dr. Duarte nearly killed the love of her life in the fit of jumpsuit rage. The incident has left her quite apprehensive. I do not know if we will ever see Maria Duarte fully geared up again.
Galway Page 11