The equipment becomes a crutch, a throwback to a lifestyle that has no appropriate place in this epoch. The functions are supposed to be thought controlled, but the diabolical buggers always seem to turn that around. They end up controlling our thoughts, turning them dark and violently self-centered.
Father and I discussed the jumpsuits’ many flaws during our time on the trail. I explained how they ratchet the intensities of life to a breaking point and nullify our ability to feel minor, but truly important, human emotions such as empathy and compassion. Every hour we wear the cursed devices we become less human. And yet, I still intend to keep the heavy security blanket in my pack when we head north.
I shared with Father how Andre and I returned to sanity only when we had our equipment forcibly taken away. Suddenly freed from the bonds of technology, from the mechanical octopi clamped over our brains, we saw this world for the beautiful place it is. We began adapting. Andre and I found peace within ourselves and within our adopted clan, the Green Turtles. Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli wore his jumpsuit 24 hours a day, seven days a week and it transformed him into a raving, power-crazed madman.
Father did not bother to apologize, but did admit it was egregious sending the prototype jumpsuits back with The Team–and also off to war. Not long after we launched, their use led to a string of atrocities during fighting in Brazil. He didn’t offer details, except to say the results were quite unsavory. The jumpsuits were recalled and banned worldwide, though roughly 50 percent were never accounted for.
“The technology wasn’t ready,” Father sighed. “We were rushed. If machines still ruled, building this sort of equipment would have been easy as pie, and there would not have been mistakes. Humans have such high opinions of themselves, but civilization began stumbling headlong into the abyss once the machines were defeated. Believe me, it gets bad. Salvatore, my son, you got out when the getting was good.”
The rant was one I had heard many times before. Our conversation touched upon many topics that day, but the overarching theme revolved around men, machines and humanity. He did not believe it when I insisted that although I would like to own a pair of guns and a jumpsuit that does not drive me batty, I am better off without them. We had quite the debate. Hopefully, my compelling arguments are not the reason Father had his armor dialed to its lowest defensive settings when the lion pounced.
Bursting from a crouch behind a shoulder-high shrub, the tawny blur knocked Father to the ground and sent his Sons scrambling for cover. The boys receive partial credit–they did not flee, but they didn’t immediately do anything to help either. Pinned beneath the weight of the 1000-kilo cat, Father could not reach his weapons or think clearly enough to adjust the power of his force field.
The field was set strong enough to frustrate the lion’s efforts to eat Papa whole, but not enough to halt its claws from piercing through to rake his face and shred his leather tunic. I arrived to pandemonium. The Sons were barking, the cat was yowling, growling with a strange sort of guttural purr as its canine teeth probed for Papa’s skull. “Attack!” I shouted, launching my first spear.
Our missiles did little, except provoke the lion into a seething rage. It was too big, its coat too thick. I imagine in the cat’s mind, Father was some sort of turtle whose shell was difficult to breach. The rest of us were mosquitoes. After my last spear sailed high, I unslung the club from across my back and ducked into the trees. Leonglauix always seems to disappear from the scene of a battle, only to re-emerge to deliver a telling blow, often a death thrust into a foe’s back. Why not me? Why me? The urge to run and hide burned strong. Goddamn, those lifetime habits are hard to break.
Scaling atop a boulder above the cat, I witnessed my brave half-brothers attempting to distract it by throwing stones. The interior of Father’s force field was rapidly filling with blood, while the quartet of spears lodged in the lion’s haunches, two of them mine, generated barely a trickle. The monster snarled and swatted at the boys, refused to leave its hard-to-crack kill.
Before sanity and 27 years of cravenness could prevail, I hoisted my oaken club with its heavy stone crown over my head, tiptoed to the precipice and launched myself onto the beast. Swinging downward with every ounce of strength I possess, I smashed the club’s head into the cat’s skull a millisecond before I tumbled like a flying squirrel atop its five-meter-long body. When Duarte told her tale of the lion hunt of Gibraltar, I never once thought I would be employing similar tactics. In both cases the risks were astronomical, and in both cases they succeeded. The lion gave one final spasm, one final rake of his claws across Father’s face, before sagging into oblivion.
My brothers showed me a newfound respect as we rolled the cat off Father. Already, the nanos in his body were closing his wounds, healing his bruises. Just as we Bolzano kids did whenever Father cut himself back in the 2200s, the Sons and I leaned in close to view the mending. It was like one of those time-lapse videos where flowers sprout and bloom in 30 seconds. His recovery was not that fast, but within 10 minutes, Father was able to sit up and bark instructions as we skinned the cat and scraped its coat clean.
Of all the beasts we slaughtered during our march through the hills of England, this one’s brains were the easiest to reach. Its massive head had been split open as if it were a melon dropped from a cliff. Father had a small limp and complained of a headache as the three Sons and I rolled the lion skin up like a carpet, lifted it upon our shoulders and toted it down the trail. Reaching camp, we found the rest of my half-brothers already settled around cook fires, eating the Green Turtles’ supper.
There is so much more to tell. First on that list would be the fact that I have sisters, who are witty and fun! Unfortunately for you readers, the hour grows late and there is wine to savor. I have just enough time to listen to Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major before bed. Ciao!
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Paul, what’s that on your shoulder?”
Kaikane: “What the... Where’s that Pearl? I’m gonna pound her.”
Duarte: “You will do no such thing, and you know it.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
I had forgotten how much silly fun it is to gossip with girls, to help fix each other’s hair and laugh together over nothing at all. Today’s leather-tanning chores seemed to fly by thanks to the conversation and camaraderie of my two new pals, the Hunter’s daughters, Pearl and Lucy. While Paul, Jones and Gray Beard are my closest friends and family, they are all male. Without knowing it, I was starving for female company.
The Green Turtle women refuse to accept me. Despite following protocols with how I speak to Gray Beard, limiting my eye contact with natives and biting back all unsolicited advice, I remain an outcast–one who draws catty remarks when they think I cannot hear.
Lucy and Pearl picked up on the friction right away. It’s hard to miss Paul’s and my standing at the bottom of the pecking order. So what did they do? They played a practical joke on us within five minutes of our first meeting. Paul and I were heating up our first batch of brains, rotating hot rocks into a leather cook bag and trying to keep the gray goo from splashing into our eyes each time we dropped the stones. The two strangers in their furs, ivory bracelets and wolf-tooth necklaces surveyed our operation for a moment, sniffed the mixture, then very politely suggested adding a squeeze of musk. They had recently traded for a bag full of goat sacs and would be happy to share. Gray Beard gave his consent and Paul and I ended up with the smelliest hands on earth!
Evidently, the scent exits the hides during the smoking process, and the squirts from the musk sacs do play a beneficial role in keeping hides from slipping, but we were the only ones dumb enough to spend eight hours with the stuff leeching into our skin.
The Green Turtles thought it was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen, especially the women. Fralista and Lanio made a big show of holding their noses or coughing whenever we were close. Paul and I tried every trick to wash away the
stench, but none of the soaps or alkaline pastes I made worked. The clan thought my failures were also a riot.
At some point, the joke lost steam with Lucy and Pearl. They appreciated our attempts to be good sports, and that we knew better than to take the bait and become angry. This morning the sisters volunteered to join us on the brain-rubbing crew. We tried to let them off the hook, told them we were already tainted–they wouldn’t hear of it. Lucy is the eldest and sweetest, while Pearl is the one who cracks jokes and pulls most of the pranks. I would judge their ages to be somewhere in the mid-40s, but they could be pushing 60 for all I know. It’s hard to tell with early modern human. Once they reach middle age, they just chug right along. Both women have equal portions gray and black hair, their backs are straight, their arms are strong and they have most of their teeth. Like Gray Beard, both have worn v-shaped gaps in their front four incisors from lifetimes of using them as their “third-hand.” I have no doubt they are skilled in many diverse native handicrafts–you don’t live in this environment for so long if you are not capable of protecting yourself, gathering food, making fire and constructing your own sturdy tools and clothing.
These two convey a level of thinking far above the basic hunters and gatherers we usually encounter. Lucy and Pearl have a zest for life, and lust for good conversation. We were tanning a stack of quite fine fox furs when Lucy said of all the animals in the world, she wouldn’t mind being a fox. “Not this particular one,” she cackled. “A different fox, one that is living.”
I pointed out that fox are such small creatures when compared to wolves, bears and lions. “Even hyena chase fox away from kills,” I said.
“And the fox is smart enough to go hide and wait his turn,” Lucy said. “Have you ever seen a skinny fox? Not me. Ever seen one eaten by a wolf or bear? I haven’t. Hyena? Huh! No hyena could catch a fox. Fox may be small, but they are clean and smart–ravens are probably the only smarter animals. When a female fox is having a good time, she knows enough to enjoy it. They understand happiness. Wolves do not. Wolves spend their lives fighting, looking over their backs to see which brother is going to kill them. Wolves battle to reach their place in the pack and then fight every day until it is taken away. Bears? Who knows what bears think?”
“And who cares? “ Sister Pearl added.
Leonglauix is the only other native we have encountered who is capable of such a complex argument. Ask any other Green Turtle what animal they would like to be and there would be no shortage of answers. Some would be birds that fly, and some would choose to be mammoths or whales, things too big to be hunted. Although they know clearly what animal, they would be hard pressed to explain why. Their birds would fly off to find the best herds for hunting, or the best fields for gathering berries and honey. These Turtles would be unable to separate themselves, or their personal needs, from the fantasy.
Lanio walked by with her nose in the air and Pearl caught the nasty glance she directed my way.
“Did you steal her man?”
“No.”
“Did you shame her?”
“No.”
“Beat her?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I do not know.”
“Come on. Tell us!”
“They hate that Leonglauix calls me ‘daughter,’ and that he seeks my counsel when he needs advice. They hate the way I look, the sound of my voice and the clothes I wear. They hate my hair and my teeth and my skin. Gertie no longer lets me hold her baby.”
The last revelation brought forth an unexpected sob from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Boogers on them,” said Lucy with a harrumph. After a while, Pearl walked over to her bag of tricks and removed a small gourd stoppered with a birch cork. She could have been a foreman or supervisor as she made her way around the project area, inspecting everyone’s work, giving pats on the back. In the middle of each visit, she made sure to dip a reed in her gourd and leave a generous dab of brown tar in each woman’s hair. Within minutes, moths began dive-bombing Fralista, Lanio and Gertie. I thought all the dragonflies, bees and mosquitos were gone for winter, but a fair amount of those were also attracted to the scent.
No amount of waving, or even standing in the middle of a cloud of smoke, could dissuade the insects. Upon inspection of their scalps, a sticky, brown tar was discovered. The three women tried dunking their heads in the stream to wash it away. Following Lucy and Pearl’s lead, we feigned ignorance. Tears were pouring down our cheeks as we struggled to keep straight faces while they splashed and frantically rubbed sand into their scalps.
The kinship made my heart swell. Nobody but Paul has been on my side in a long, long while. Gray Beard and Jones used to tell the women to knock it off, but they have grown so tired of the petty conflicts they’re blind to them. Blind in the same way that my teachers in intermediate and high school ignored the crap the California girls used to give me. As an immigrant who talked funny and wore strange, unfashionable clothes, I was the target of bullying and harassment nearly every day. The teachers gave up trying to halt it, told me stupid things like, “Be careful.” Excelling in the classroom was my only way of leveling the playing field. My classmates shunned me, called me “Porta-gee” and “teacher’s pet,” but I used all the alone time to outstudy and outwork every stupid one of them.
Please don’t get me wrong, I have had wonderful friendships with women through the years. I waste more time pining for my close girlfriends than I care to admit. How I would love to get the old gang together again. I don’t know how long we will travel with Lucy and Pearl, but something tells me ours will be a worthy friendship, one that stands the test of time. I feel it in my gut.
It is time to scurry from our Manzanita hideout and get dressed up for the big party. I have been saving bright feathers and Paul has agreed to help tie them into my hair. We’ll probably wear our bear claw necklaces, the ones Gray Beard made for us so long ago. I have been debating on whether to sample Salvatore’s hooch, and have decided to have one glass of wine and none of the other stuff. We’ll see how that goes. I’m thirsty.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Hey Sal, you don’t look so good.”
Bolzano: “Not so loud please.”
Jones: “You sick?”
Bolzano: “That would be one way to phrase it.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Be warned from the opening movement, my mind is apt to wander during this symphony, sloshing with broken glass as it is. If, in midsentence, I begin interjecting recipes for aperitivi or punch lines to ancient jokes, do not be alarmed. It is only the Mount Vesuvius of all hangovers short-circuiting my brainpan.
Mamma mia! If there were such a thing as an ice pick in this ancient world, I would swear a pair of them are jabbing the backs of my eyes. My kingdom for an aspirin! Hair of the dog, you ask? Tried it. My enemy the stomach rejected the notion quite dramatically. Santo cielo! I feel absolutely wretched.
What a day to be asked to babysit my favorite nephew. The handsome lad is usually quite a peach, but one-year-old No Name is cutting new teeth and rather cantankerous today. Despite the waves of pain it caused me, I was forced to sing his two favorite German arias twice over before he finally curled up on my fox fur bed, stuck a thumb in his sore mouth and whimpered slowly off to sleep.
He truly is a superior lad. Strong and smart and...and...I haven’t the energy to list his many fine qualities. If Lanio had not stopped by to help care for Mr. Precious, I fear the scavengers may have spirited him away while I knelt face-first in the bushes heaving. Have you ever noticed that dignity and hangover are two words you rarely see in the same sentence? There was certainly nothing dignified in the way I stumbled and groaned, tried to wipe the vomit from my beard when Gertie and Tomon crawled through the narrow mouth of my cave not long after daybreak.
It would have been rude to refuse the birch bark tray of food
they presented. I politely picked through the late berries and grubs, entertained vague hopes that sustenance might still the cannons in my skull. Once the proper time for pleasantries had elapsed, the anxious young couple explained they wished to accompany the old man on a search for roots that become ripe this time of year. I have heard of this produce before. “Lok bok,” or something. When masticated, the roots produce a mild narcotic. My stomach lurches at the very thought of mastication in any form.
The couple lamented that the goods grow in a swamp a long walk away. To procure them and return in time for tonight’s party, they would need to move too swiftly to carry junior. “Would you mind watching the baby?” They asked in duet. How could I say no? It transpired that nearly everyone enlisted in the old man’s snipe hunt. The Hunter and his Sons were as keen to lay their hands on loony roots as our people were. Botanist Duarte acquiesced at “tuber.”
Left behind were only Lanio, the baby and me.
I have never allowed my blue-eyed ex-girlfriend to sample grappa, but she’s seen me get potted in the evening and pay the price the next morning enough times to have zero sympathy. Mine is a self-inflicted wound and she knows it. Perhaps that is why she made so much noise, banging around the cave and snapping limbs to feed the fire I nearly let die. Our lives are filled with chores. Take a day off to settle the explosions atop your shoulders and soon you find yourself cold and–I was going to say hungry, but fear food and I have a ways to travel before we renew our longtime love-fest.
Perhaps Lanio was angry because I rebuffed her attempts at seduction. She and Greemil are perceived as such soul mates, it took me quite by surprise when she straddled my leg and began grinding her crotch on my thigh. With my palms clamped over my eyes and thumbs pressed against my temples, I never saw her approach. My startled reaction, followed not long afterwards by a mad dash for the puking bush, put the kibosh on her romantic schemes.
Galway Page 12