It was rocky travel as we traversed several dry gulches, steadily gaining altitude on a narrow goat trail winding through patches of European laurel and stone pines. The old man set a dizzying pace. At a point when my lungs felt nearly ready to burst, we crested a ridge, and there below us was the Cote d’Azur. I distracted myself from the pain in my side by studying the narrow stretch of coastline dividing the towering Maritime Alps from the slate blue Mediterranean Sea. Even with the storm bearing down upon us, it was a beautiful sight. Long beaches, swamps, forest and grassy fields, all so virgin without the urban sprawl I remember. There were no lines of wind turbines marching up mountainsides. No solar arrays glinting in the valleys. No air cars or buses filling the air with their whirring sounds.
Seabirds of every sort continued to float by, heading out to sea, as we hiked high above a bay which will one day be bracketed by the city of Antibes to the west and Nice to the east. Each step took us higher and more in line with Nice, the city where I had so many good times as a college kid.
Bolzano was right about Nice. The hill, the narrow plain and stone beach. I could just picture where everything will one day be. The Cote d’Azur Airport is now a broad salt marsh. Old Town resembles some sort of English garden with tall oak trees dotting a green field that Bolzano says is burned every few years to keep down the brush and saplings. The parkland slopes toward a large pond.
Columns of smoke marked the location of hundreds of campsites spread out along the seaside, dotting the length of the eight-mile-long bay. Lean-tos with pine thatched roofs, people tiny as ants scurrying around battening the hatches as a horizon-blotting curtain of purple marched in from the south.
The cumulonimbus clouds began stacking not long after Leonglauix made his dire forecast. Billowing twice as tall as the mighty mountains, the flat anvil cloud at the top was pointed our way. A bad sign. We observed the storm’s growth with increasing trepidation as Gray Beard guided us higher and deeper into the hills. The coastline was nearly obscured by clouds when he led the way to a house-sized strata of sandstone cantilevered over the mouth of a cave tall enough for Jones to stand comfortably inside.
After quickly tying the bitch to a rock inside the cave, he motioned Jones to set down his pack and bring his atlatl. Pointing to Paul and me, he made the signs for “Gather wood, much wood,” and showed us the exact spot to build our fire.
At Paul’s suggestion, we left all the deadfall and dried bushes close to the entrance where they lay and climbed above the mouth of the cave to roll and hurl down every fallen limb and bit of flammable debris we could find. I tucked a pair of fallen birds’ nests into a fold in my cape while Paul rocked a pair of long-dead pines until they snapped at their base. We carried the trees through the growing fog to a launching pad where we yelled, “Look out below,” then heaved them down the hillside.
The first fat drops of rain began to fall in earnest as we hustled the dry wood under the shelter of the cave’s rock ceiling. It seemed like we had enough to last a month, but as the fire consumes our supply at a Herculean rate, just to keep us alive, I fret we should have gathered three times as much. I do not relish the idea of digging through four feet of wet snow to find additional fuel.
The wind was really beginning to howl down from the mountain, and the rain had given way to a driving snow, when Jones and Gray Beard returned with a pair of fat doe slung over their shoulders.
“We have a fire!” I announced in native dialect. Paul and I had quite a difficult time coaxing flames from the damp birds’ nests and tee-pee of sticks.
Jones slammed his deer against the wall of the cave, shook the snow from his hair and slumped down next to the fire.
“Could you possibly make more fucking noise?” Jones fumed as he held shaking hands to the growing flames. “Sounded like cannons going off over here.”
“Didn’t even think of it, man,” Paul said as he rose and offered his hand. “Sorry.”
Jones remained seated, staring into the fire. “Ain’t shaking your fucking hand. Had to chase these deer to hell and back. Coulda killed them in the first 15 minutes, helped gather wood. Ain’t near enough wood, by the way.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry.”
“I’d already gave up. Was all turned around, beyond lost. My deer slid down the hill after I shot. Had to fetch it. Me ‘n him got separated, wind’s so loud, can’t hear shit. Convinced I was gonna freeze to death with a bloody deer wrapped around my damn neck all because of you two. Old man found me sittin’ on a log. He led the way back through snow and fog. Never know how he did it. You can stick your sorry apology up your sorry ass.”
We let the angry words roll off our backs like rainwater off ducks. We’re tired of walking on pins and needles around the man every time he falls into one of his “blue moods.” I’m not sure if his depression is triggered by physical or emotional stimuli. Stress certainly plays a factor. Jones has been off his game since our rendezvous with Bolzano.
The old man settled down to the sandy floor of the cave with a roll of the eyes which said, “don’t worry about him.” He seemed pleased to see we had a fire going next to a veritable hill of wood. While he and Jones warmed themselves, I helped Paul remove the loins and back haunches of both deer.
Paul took the time to knap a few flakes off the leading edges of our flint blades to sharpen them before we set to the task of cutting the meat into strips and chunks. The chunks were tossed in our leather cook bag with several big handfuls of snow. Leonglauix showed us how to suspend the bag near the fire by tying off a rope over one of the natural stone hooks in the cave’s ceiling. Once the cooking rocks were hot, we began plopping them into the bag, rotating them two at a time.
Loaded with goodies, it was our best stew yet. Paul has developed a keen eye for gathering. Before the storm clouds became ominous, we stopped regularly along the trail to dig for garlic, onion and even several fat truffles. We also picked bunches of sweet, late grapes, two handfuls of barley stalks, assorted edible greens including kale, an odd form cabbage, and a dozen fat morels growing from the trunk of a rotting log not two miles from Kolettelena’s lake.
As we sliced and diced the entire lot, the cave became filled with the scent of garlic and onion. We added the ingredients to the simmering snowmelt along with a generous dose of sea salt. I must procure more salt when we reach the coast. The long strips of meat were rolled in salt and spices and skewered on pine sticks, which Gray Beard suspended over the fire to smoke.
I’m afraid we too will have taken on a smoky flavor by time we leave this cave. We dodge around trying to escape the swirling clouds of wood smoke, but it’s nearly impossible. The cave has no flume or convenient place for the smoke to vent.
When the wind is blowing in the proper direction, or not at all, the smoke rises to the ceiling and hugs it to the exit. You stay low and everything is fine. Gray Beard says it is how it should be. When the wind swirls and howls as it did most of last night, however, the cave fills with so much smoke, we must occasionally flee outside to gulp clean, cold air.
With its high roof, the cave does not hold heat well. The part of our bodies which face the fire remain toasty warm, while the back half freezes. We turn slow circles, sip warm stew from turtle shell bowls and stay low to avoid the smoke. Paul and I plan to wear our jumpsuits to bed.
Jones hasn’t said much since he dressed us down for spooking his deer. We give him as wide a berth as we can while huddling around a fire four-foot-wide and getting smaller by the minute. Our supply of dry wood dwindles.
Gray Beard tells us not to worry about finding more. He says the storm is nearly finished. He promises we’ll wake to sunshine in the morning. I gaze out into the snow and fog and wonder what he’s been smoking.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “What a beautiful day. I can see forever.”
Kaikane: “Going to be a cold, muddy walk down off this hill.”
Duarte: “Paul Kaikane, are you turning sour on me?”
Ka
ikane: “I had the thought while watching Jones slide 30 feet on his ass.”
Duarte: “I’m glad they left early. He’s starting to get on my nerves.”
Kaikane: “I don’t think he can help it. Guy’s in a sad state.”
Duarte: “I know he is. I wish he would let me try. If it’s depression, there are herbal remedies which might help.”
Kaikane: “He hasn’t let go of the shoulder thing yet.”
Duarte: “I did my best!”
Kaikane: “I know you did, babe. He’s an idiot not to appreciate how hard you worked to keep him alive.”
Duarte: “Oh, I’m over it. I don’t need a thank you note from Jones to feel good about myself.”
Kaikane: “All this sunshine, snow’s gonna melt pretty fast. Mud might even dry up by afternoon.”
Duarte: “What are you getting at?”
Kaikane: “I was just thinking, you know, since we’re all alone, you might want to fool around a little.”
Duarte: “Just a little?”
Kaikane: “What about our meeting with Corporal Bolzano?”
Duarte: “Corporal Bolzano can wait. Let’s spread a skin out here in the sun.”
Kaikane: “You smell like smoke.”
Duarte: “Complaining?”
Kaikane: “Not when you do that.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
It’s a bad one. Worst yet. So sad I feel it in my toes and the tips of my fingers.
Why did she choose him? What’s wrong with me? Questions roll around my brain until I want to shout. Haven’t slept in days. No real sleep. Quick naps until the dreams, the faces, the people I’ve killed. They’re all with me, dragging me down.
These guys expect me to protect them, be the big soldier, when all I want to do is run away and be alone. Soldiers who swallowed their gun, maybe they weren’t so fucking stupid after all.
Gonna try to stick it out long as I can. Long enough to see what kinda plan Bolzano’s cooked up. It stinks, I’m outta here. Fuck these guys. Don’t care about me.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Where’s Jones?”
Duarte: “Leonglauix says he’s over in those trees. No doubt securing the perimeter, scouting for hostiles, protecting our ‘sorry asses.’ Where have you been?”
Kaikane: “Took a swim to get the mud off.”
Duarte: “Must have been freezing.”
Kaikane: “Makes a man feel alive.”
Duarte: “Is that what it takes?”
Kaikane: “Well, it’s one way. Not the best, by a long ways. Looks like the old man’s heading over to join up with Jones. Let’s follow.”
Duarte: “He moves so quietly, never steps on a stick or bends a branch.”
Kaikane: “He’s a real product of his environment.”
Duarte: “Now you’re quoting me?”
Kaikane: “I quote you all the time. That’s what Coach Donohoo used to say. ‘Find the smartest kid in class and do what they do.’ We used to change it around to, ‘Sit next to the smartest kid in class and cheat like hell.’ Either way, it’s a solid strategy.”
Duarte: “Jones wants us to be quiet.”
Kaikane: “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day. Do you see ’em?”
Duarte: “If you mean two Cro-Magnon men sitting on a bench holding hands and kissing, then yes, I see.”
Bolzano: “Think those are Bolzano’s drummer boys?”
Duarte: “That would be my guess.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
We wandered off the mountain in time to surprise two of Bolzano’s porters locked in tender embrace. Sal couldn’t make the meeting himself, so he sent his favorite drummers. The shorter of the two looked as if he had recently crawled out of bee hive and into a mud bog. We walked through the ferns to join the men at the edge of a muddy little pool at the base of a waterfall.
The drummers dropped to their knees when they saw Leonglauix. “We thought the Great One killed you with a spear and threw you in the river,” they wailed. Something like that. They were blubbering, and it was all spoken pretty fast for my limited abilities. “You have come back to life like the man in the Great One’s stories.”
“I never died, and your ‘Great One’ is a steaming pile of mammoth shit,” is what I would like to think Gray Beard said. Eventually, he ordered them to stand and show us the proper respect.
Though the old man called them by different names, they introduced themselves at Bongo and Conga. Under the mud, Conga’s face was swollen and lumpy. He peered at us through misshapen slits. I could follow most of his grandfather’s questions and the boy’s answers.
“What happened to your face and arms?”
“Bee stings, Grandfather.”
“What do you know about bees?”
“I went with Hanstle.”
“He knows bees, did you not use smoke?”
“We did. I was below, catching honeycomb. The hive broke and fell on me.”
“Mud is good for bee stings.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
They showed no inhibitions about their homosexuality as they held hands and answered the old man’s questions.
I could see their news hit him hard. He seemed to age ten years right there in front of me. When Maria finally cut in to ask if the men had a message from the fat man, they did a curious thing.
Both men slipped off their leather capes, tunics and tall moccasins to wade knee-deep into the freezing water. Bongo splashed water on Conga’s back and began to rub the mud away.
“This is a bunch of bullshit,” Jones scoffed. But when the bee-stung man stood with his shriveled dick pointing away from us, we saw Bolzano had indeed been busy. In fancy, cursive handwriting, from his neck down to his waist, was a note in brown ink. It read:
Dear Friends,
Regrets. Can’t get away. I place myself in great danger by sending this message. Make sure to reapply mud after reading. Henna lasts long time. Do not copy. Notes endanger them, us. Drummers must return. Must.
Alert–L modified jumpsuits. W wears one. Other suit, guards split time. Fully functional. Do not activate your suits or helmets. They will see. 24-hour watch.
L knows we met. Forced confession. Told him I invited you to Christmas Eve Service. He says peace guarantee still in place through Xmas. Do not believe him. Never. Will try to contact you.
More worshipers than expected. Go to Xmas Eve Mass. Blend in. Tell Jones and Kaikane act small, short. Starts sunset, lasts 2-3 hrs. Meet after, base of Castello Hill, oceanside.
Passage arranged via Capt. Malmud. If I don’t make it, go with him in boat. Yes, boat. Wait ’til you see.
Good luck,
S
Maria promptly did the opposite of what Bolzano said. I love that woman. Flipping down the visor of her helmet, she quickly dictated Sal’s message word for word.
“Maybe we should send these lovebirds up into the hills,” Jones said, his eyes scanning the tree line for enemy. “Somebody finds this note, we’re fucked. Boys’ll blab to everybody that they saw the old man.”
It sounded like a good plan to me, but Maria insisted we talk to Leonglauix first. Jones was getting antsy out in the open, so we left Bongo to smear mud on Conga’s back while we found a secluded spot in a thicket of birch saplings.
Maria sat there in the weeds and afternoon sun, trying to pump the old man for information. He wouldn’t utter a peep until she shared the meaning of the bird tracks on his grandson’s back. It pained her to divulge that information. We haven’t introduced him to writing for obvious reasons–he soaks things up like a sponge.
She sighed and took a few minutes to explain the gist of the message. When she was done, he said the grandsons had more or less told him the same thing. They complained life is hard for the six remaining Green Turtles. And also for their new clan leader, Bald-zano.
They are slaves owned
by the great one, “Lord-enzo,” and his Tattoo clan.
The men confirmed Wallunda now does indeed have the power to glow and disappear. She scares the piss out of them and everybody else. Some claim there is a specter, a human-shaped glow, that follows Lord-enzo wherever he goes. Most times you can’t see it, but sometimes you can. I’ll bet you can.
Until recently, their lives had been dedicated to carrying Bald-zano and heavy items over mountains and around forests. Mass, they said, was the best part of their day. It was a time to sit and relax and, as long as you were quiet, not be harassed by the troublesome Tattoos. Their favorite part was playing drums and singing with Bald-zano.
Lord-enzo, they insisted, has great powers. He makes thunder and lightning with his hands and has killed many people. In spite of the danger, the clans love him for the entertainment and excitement he brings.
The boys cautioned the old man repeatedly, do not fidget or make noise during Mass. “He will reach out and touch you in a way that makes a small hole in one side of your head, and breaks the other side open like a melon dropped from the branches of a tall tree.” They claim to have seen it happen many times.
When Maria suggested the boys might be safer starting the long walk back north early, Gray Beard would have none of it. He said the fat man needs them. They told him Sal would be killed if they did not return. In the end, it made no difference. Bongo and Conga were long gone when we returned to the pool.
Gray Beard found us a place to sleep for the night near the source of a clear mountain spring. Maria and I have settled into a patch of soft ferns between two boulders. We sit hunched over our computers, while above us a million chirping, chattering birds settle in for the night. Not far off, Gray Beard sits with his bitch, gnawing on jerked venison and handfuls of what’s left of Maria’s last batch of muesli. Jones is off by himself somewhere.
Tuscany Page 5
