By the time the rhino resumed its search for humans to kill, the Green Turtles had all climbed trees or found other high spots where we were safe. During the commotion, the Sons crossed the frozen river and gathered in a pack to watch the carnage from atop the far bank. The heaving, slobbering beast’s frustration was taken out on the bodies of the parents. It tromped them over and over, hooked their bodies to fling them into the air and grind them against trees.
Paul and I had ended up in the broad branches of a mature oak. From my perch, I spotted Fa, Ha-Ha and the three boys that were with Cpl. Bolzano when he slew the lion. Off in the distance, up on a barren hill, I swear I caught a shimmer of a human-shaped force field. There turned out to be no tracks–we know what the Hunter’s footprints look like–but that does not change my mind. I believe Mitch Simmons may have directed the attack. I tried hailing him on the com line. There was no response.
If not for her misplaced love of the dogs, Lanio would be alive today. The barking mutts slipped their leashes and did not have the good sense to leave the rhino alone. It was obvious the giant was taking their measure, waiting for the dogs to grow careless on their daring runs. Sal’s Izzie sprinted in close to snap at the rhino’s back feet and fell victim to another of its spin moves. The rhino caught her broadside with its lower horn with an impact so violent her limp carcass ended up wedged in a tree. The awful sight and sound made Lanio lose her mind.
The blue-eyed girl was no friend of mine, but it was heartbreaking to see her dart into the open ground in an attempt to save her black and white pup. Spotting her on the trot, the rhino swerved her direction as we shouted warnings. “Get back. Don’t go! It’s behind you! Run! Look out!” Nothing we said could keep the rhino from mowing them down from behind–first a bump and smash of Lanio and then a major stomping on the dog. Before it could make another run on Lanio, Greemil risked his life to rush in and drag his terribly injured mate up into the rocks for safety a split-second ahead of the charging beast.
Thwarted by the steep precipice, the rhino slowed to a halt, lifted its head into the wind and bellowed its agitation. There were black scorch marks under its eyes and along its haunches. Picking up our scent in the trees, it gave them a few tentative bumps before ambling downstream to begin foraging in a snow-covered berry patch.
With the show over and Green Turtles dropping from the trees, the Sons disappeared into the dense pine forest on the opposite side of the river. The jerks had no interest in a fair fight. Jones and Paul conducted a brief search as we helped Gray Beard tend to Lanio and gather up our dead. The boys said the hybrids’ tracks headed straight for the hills. I can’t say it was a surprise when they were back to harass us the next day.
Lanio lived nearly seven hours before succumbing to internal bleeding in her abdomen and skull. We arranged the cadavers in a line, with Tomon and Gertie together side by side, and Lanio flanked by the unruly dogs she loved so much. Gray Beard looked to have aged another dozen years as he performed his burial chants and directed the stacking of the pyre’s wood. Traditionally, Green Turtles prefer burial, but with the ground frozen solid, that was not a viable option. The pine forest had many dead trees standing, easy to rock and break off at the base. Fire Starter worked like a beaver felling and towing combustibles. As I think about it, the funeral was the last time I was warm. Paul and I recently discussed climbing into our jumpsuits–they would certainly give us a leg up in our battle with the Sons–but the embargo stands firm. I don’t know why I lug the damn thing around. I will never wear it again.
It took four hours and 25 minutes for the massive funeral pyre to burn low. In his eulogy, Gray Beard described the many times the young couple shared with him their hopes to become stars in the sky upon their deaths. With the smoke of their bodies rising into the night, he concluded by wishing them good hunting on their long journey. If the tableau wasn’t sad enough, the poor baby, strapped inside his papoose, propped next to the fire, cried the whole time.
The coals were still glowing when the distraught clan leader ordered a surprise all-night march. I picked up the abandoned baby and fell in line. Navigating by the moon, we kept to the winding, frozen river and tried to get a jump on the Sons. At daybreak, we veered off the river and crossed over two hills to begin traveling atop a different, wider river. Gray Beard tried every trick he knows, but so far it has been impossible to break free of their scrutiny.
Finally this afternoon, Gray Beard and Jones found a hilltop they judged suitable for making our stand. Once I was in place amid the trees and boulders, I removed the shivering, blue-lipped kid from his carrier and warmed him inside my cape. The efforts only made him cry louder and harder. Such frustration! I wanted to scream. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one. We’re all feeling a bit testy. Typing on this machine may be brutal in the cold, but at least it takes my mind off the ringing in my ears.
Sounds like it is time to wrap this up, my clan mates have elected to toss in the towel on our silly, would-be trap.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Kaikane? Let’s bring it in.”
Kaikane: “Roger that. You see any?”
Jones: “Yep. Way off.”
Kaikane: “Me too.”
Jones: “Like hunting yu-yu-tu. Never get close enough to take a shot.”
Kaikane: “Shitheads.”
Jones: “Been wonderin’. Living with Hunter all their lives, have they figured out how to avoid detection? Ya notice how hard it is to get a clear look–or even a heat reading?”
Kaikane: “Yeah, I suppose so.”
Jones: “They stay low, do a good job keeping behind cover. Probably been sneaking around behind daddy’s back their whole lives.”
Kaikane: “Trying to keep from getting shocked.”
Jones: “Hate gettin’ zapped. I swear, he does it to me again, I’m gonna ram my fist down his neck.”
Kaikane: “Talk like that’ll get you killed.”
Jones: “Time to settle up will come. I aim to be ready.”
Kaikane: “You think he had anything to do with the rhino?”
Jones: “Wouldn’t put it past him. Man, my feet are soaked.”
Kaikane: “Mine too.”
Jones: “We need a fire.”
Kaikane: “And dinner. See any game?”
Jones: “Gray Beard’s got it covered. Saw him and Fralista dragging a couple dead goats back to camp.”
Kaikane: “I’m gonna check my snares. Hope I got a squirrel for the kid.”
Jones: “Fralista says he won’t last a week.”
Kaikane: “Know she’s your lady, but I don’t appreciate talk like that. If she’d help, he’d have a lot better chance.”
Jones: “Asked her. She won’t do it.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Old man piped a few notes on his bone flute to recall the troops. Judging by the slumped shoulders and grim faces, morale was low as we converged on the puffs of smoke that Fire Starter was working hard to turn into flames. As long as that Neanderthal is playing with fire, he’s happy.
Daughters complain they have been roped into this fight, but bad blood between them and their half-brothers goes way back. Used to have the Hunter’s protection. Now they’re not so sure. To my mind, they need us as much as we need them. Works to our favor since they know this land better than any of us do. Old man and me have already discussed offering to pay them in trinkets if it looks like they might ditch. Doubt it would help. I expect we’ll wake up some morning, or arrive at the end of a trail some afternoon, and they’ll be gone. That’s what I’d do.
We positioned the two women at the peak of the hill, along with their pet Neanderthal, the drummer boys and all our spare throwing spears. Their spot was well-screened and only about 50 feet above where Duarte sat at the base of a tree and tried to feed the baby scraps of meat. Kaikane wouldn’t stray far from his wife, which was understandable. I stationed him and his meteorite club in the tree limbs abov
e her. That left Gray Beard, Fralista and me to patrol the perimeter. We did it in a way that looked like hunting deer, but the game we were really after was hybrid human.
Saw the suckers a few times. They poked around, made a few feints to get within a mile or two, but they must’ve smelled trap. Last I saw, they consolidated ranks and were six miles away, heading east by northeast. Most I could count at one time was 17, but I’m guessing there was more. Maybe up to 30 fighters. Reinforcements? Where the fuck from?
Cold-blooded thing to use Duarte as bait. “They won’t kill me,” she said during operational planning. “For what they want, they need me alive.”
Dumb fucks ever get their hands on Duarte, she’ll wish she was dead. Fact was unspoken, but she’s no dummy, knew what was at stake. I expect she’ll put her neck on the line again next time we ask. Those boys have had the hots for her since the Thames. And, they’ve been super interested in that baby from the get-go. What’s that about?
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “I’ve been thinking of names.”
Kaikane: “Careful Babe.”
Duarte: “Careful?”
Kaikane: “We talked about this.”
Duarte: “He needs me.”
Kaikane: “What if he breaks your heart?”
Duarte: “What if he doesn’t?”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
From my tree limb I could see the confusion on the baby’s round, wind-burned face. He stared up into my wife’s eyes and seemed to ask, “Who is this stranger keeping me from my mother? Why won’t you take me to my mommy and daddy? I want milk! Why won’t you give me any?”
I don’t know how Maria put up with the crying so close to her ears. The nonstop bawling was driving me crazy, and I was 10 feet up a pine. The kid does pretty well on the trail. There’s not much fuss as long as he’s moving. He sleeps or watches the scenery. When the winds were up, we kept him totally covered in furs and he was quiet as can be. Too quiet. I’d be carrying him strapped to my back and start wondering if I should stop to see if he was still alive. Then I’d get a little kick in the ribs or feel him change position and know he was OK.
Growing up, I always had plenty brothers, sisters, cousins and neighbor kids around. We never called it babysitting–nobody ever got paid–but us older kids ended up watching out for the young ones. I cleaned more messes and washed more diapers while mom and pop were off getting high than I care to count. Hard to believe, but some neighbor kids had it way worse than us.
Maria, on the other hand, was the baby of her family. The Duartes may have fallen on hard times, but they were still squared away. She didn’t grow up with toddlers pissing in the middle of the living room floor because they didn’t know any better.
Whenever Maria and I talked about kids–about how we could never have any–she made it seem like no big deal. She told me she never wanted them in the first place and wasn’t shy about listing her reasons. Offspring would drain too much of her time and energy, she said. The world was already too populated. She could never have taken a one-way jump 32,000 years backwards through time if she had a child. A lot of her horror stories were about former friends who popped out babies and suddenly turned into “boring, single-minded, sleep-deprived morons.”
That’s what makes it so strange to see how wrapped up she is in taking care of him. Over the past months, I could tell she missed rocking the baby, getting to be part of his life. She only had a couple weeks of being able to hold him before Gertie cut her off. Everybody else could play with the boy, but not Maria or me. This started back down along the coast of France and carried right through to the rhino attack. Being excluded like that must have hurt Maria more than she let on.
We had sailed into Bretagne on a wing and prayer, nearly dead, and the clan made a big deal about welcoming us. The people were great at first, but it wasn’t long before things went back to how they used to be with the women picking on Maria and the men all pissy because she considered herself their equal.
I don’t want it to sound like I’m speaking ill of the dead. Tomon and Gertie may have treated Maria badly, but they were the heart and soul of this clan. Their love for each other and for their baby brought brightness and hopefulness to our world. Gray Beard is the respected elder, but Tomon and Gertie were the future of the Green Turtle Clan. Gertie was polite to me sometimes, and Tomon was always a good hunting and fishing partner. When there was a big job to be done, they were always there to help.
Lanio never had a kind word to say to Maria or me, but she was probably this clan’s hardest worker. She doted on Gray Beard, tended the dogs, repaired gear, cooked meals, cleaned camp and kept her man satisfied. Maybe the girl was just too busy to be friendly. No, it was more than that. Lanio would spew negativity all over us then turn around and giggle and gossip with Gertie and Fralista. It was grade school shit, which we learned to ignore.
Oh well, good, bad, warts and all, they’re gone. It would seem like a fitting tribute for this clan to pull together and raise the baby in their honor. That’s what Gertie and Tomon would have wanted, right? Even Lanio, she loved the boy. She never would have left him to the animals. I can’t figure out why nobody even looks at the kid. What did he do, except survive? He deserves a medal, not the clan’s scorn.
Maria never does anything in half measure. She has accepted responsibility for the kid and is determined to keep him alive. That worries me. It takes more than maternal instincts and good intentions to feed and raise a baby. He’s so small, so weak, what if Fralista is right? What if he does die? That would cut Maria to the bone. I can see it in her eyes, she’s fallen in love.
TRANSMISSION
Duarte: “Squirrel is his favorite.”
Kaikane: “Long as a mink or fox doesn’t raid our traps, we’ll probably have a couple more in the morning.”
Duarte: “That’ll be nice. What do you think about Rhino?”
Kaikane: “Rhino?”
Duarte: “For his name.”
Kaikane: “I heard Tomon was pushing for ‘Little Salvatore’.”
Duarte: “He was, but Gertie hated the idea.”
Kaikane: “How do you know?”
Duarte: “The fact they wouldn’t speak to me didn’t preclude a little eavesdropping.”
Kaikane: “What name did she like?”
Duarte: “She hadn’t settled on one yet. Gertie said the proper name would come in its own time, and when it did, they would know.”
Kaikane: “Rhino.... I like it.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
To calm my nerves at the close of today’s deadly afternoon, I used a piece of twine to measure the circumference of the baby’s skull, forearms and thighs. Lacking a set of scales to weigh him, I’ll use these three measurements to chart his growth. I wish we could find some bugs. His parents used to feed him squished locust and grub all the time. The only insects we see are winter moths and they taste horrible.
His favorite is squirrel bone marrow, but there is only so much marrow in a squirrel. We’ve been mashing things up, including squirrel liver, deer pemmican, muesli, dried berries and charred goat intestine to see what else he will try. A big problem is, the poor guy only has 10 little teeth and his gums seem sensitive. I think he may be cutting more.
As we settled into camp, I claimed the prime, upwind spot by the fire to lay our family furs. If the clan wanted to ignore us they could sit in the smoke and sparks to do it. Pearl was the first to wander over. I had just finished changing his fur diaper–it was a mess, no wonder he was crying–and Paul was using his fingers to feed him bits of squirrel liver when she sat down and held her hands to the fire to warm. When she spoke, it was out of the side of her mouth.
“What do you know about babies?”
“Not much.”
“This is what I thought.”
“Tell me, Pearl, what do you know about babies?”
Her eyes nev
er left the fire as she pulled her arms tight to her chest and heaved a raspy sigh. “They die. That’s what I know. My babies died. Lucy’s baby died.”
“My body aches for your loss, friend Pearl. Please, as a friend, help us.”
“We’ll see. Rest. My sister and I will bring you goat meat when it is cooked.”
There were no fancy culinary techniques on display. The clan didn’t even bother skinning the goats. Gray Beard just cut away the musk sacs from the hind legs, and made small incisions to remove the lower intestines and their smelly loads of feces. The rest of the guts, including choice livers and kidneys were spilled into the snow to be eaten raw or lightly browned over the fire. The goats were skewered on felled saplings and propped over a downwind bed of coals. We cooked our three squirrels in similar fashion, but close by, over the community fire, to make sure no scavengers made off with them.
The stench of burning hide and flesh is a part of life on the trail you just get used to–like mosquitos and flies in summer. Compared to other campsites we had visited, this one wasn’t all that bad. At least we had food and fire and the wind had finally stopped howling.
Speaking of howling, the wolves have been in full chorus every night. On our first night out of Hunter’s Valley, we listened to a pack bring down a moose not more than 116 yards from where we huddled by our fire in the trees. Rarely an hour goes by that we do not intersect with a pack along the trail or spy solo wolves slinking through the trees. If they seem aggressive, Gray Beard toots on his flute and the Turtles shake their spears and shout as they assemble for battle. So far, thank goodness, no alpha wolf has had the balls to test our mettle.
Once he was re-diapered and warmed by the fire, the boy rediscovered his appetite. The kid was shoveling it in with both hands, consuming nearly everything we put in front of him. As I said, bone marrow is always a big hit. Though I worry he might swallow a bone, or poke himself in the eye, he loves sucking out the marrow. Squirrel thighbones are just the right size to work his sore, teething gums upon. I hold tightly to one end and he just goes to town, moaning at the blend of pleasure and pain.
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