When he saw I was awake, Lorenzo gave up pacing around the fire and set off up the trail in search of answers. While he was gone, I managed to winnow the basic story by eavesdropping on the nattering natives.
Evidently, as the trail wound into the mountains, Big Ears and his boys grew tired of taking directions from Marqono, a strange newcomer elevated to high status on a mere whim by Lord-enzo. As we all are well aware, the Tattoos are as contrary and poor-mannered as they are aggressive.
At a particular fork in the path, Marqono veered to the left, taking a more narrow option which led still higher into the hills. When he realized that the clans were not following, he and his group doubled back to find the clans had ignored his instructions and turned the wrong way. They hustled forth to alert Big Ears of his mistake. Harsh words were exchanged. One thing led to another, and before you could say “let’s agree to disagree,” Marqono and his entire clan were hacked to death, stripped of their belongings and tossed into the depths of a deep ravine.
It turned out the newcomers had been holding back some very valuable carvings and assorted jewels. Big Ears expected to be rewarded for his efforts. Continuing happily along the trail, he found Marqono had indeed been correct. The path wound down into a dry, narrow canyon which dead-ended at the sea. We must have passed right by the place on our paddle east. One cove among hundreds.
Hiking down proved easier than going back up, especially without water, and while carrying a cumbersome ivory cross and packing Lorenzo’s heavy tent. The blood and rotting bodies of Marqono’s clan attracted all manner of carrion and carnivore. The Tattoos and their dwindling charges were forced to fight their way through.
In the end, one wrong turn followed another. In a cold rain, a trio of Saints charged with carrying the butt end of the cross slipped on a muddy, downhill jog in the trail. The cross was dropped. Its slide turned into a tumble which quickly picked up speed. Bouncing high, end over end all the way to the bottom of the valley, Lorenzo’s mammoth cross shattered into many, many hands of pieces.
The clanspeople respectfully delivered five of the largest ivory fragments to the Great One as they staggered into camp today. Their arrival was more than two weeks later than expected. Their tardiness and sorry state have forced the Great One to streamline his plans. There will be no sweep to the north.
Sadly, many of the promising youth, the “Bright Lights” is what His Holiness always called them, faltered along the trail. They were positioned too low in the pecking order to allow them enough food to survive. In fact, on many cold nights, with Sarah doing the butchering, the weaker children were quartered, roasted and eaten by the Tattoos and their women.
During questioning, the Great One aptly pointed out Big Ears did not lose weight during his time along the trail.
As the interrogation picked up steam, the main culprits were brought forth and stripped of their clothes. His Holiness assured them the chill would help them to concentrate on their answers. As usual, Big Ears and his two eldest sons were found to be the main instigators. Sarah was deemed guilty of cannibalism and perjury. She told an imaginative series of fibs while trying to cover up for her sins. These Cro-Magnon are such poor liars.
Big Ears sensed Esther’s vulnerability and attempted to deflect blame by accusing her of “rutting with Satan.” No reliable witnesses stepped forth to corroborate his testimony. Big Ears has been an anchor around the Great One’s neck for far too long. I get the sense his goose is truly and royally cooked. All his caterwauling makes it hard to concentrate.
At last, His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli has come to a decision. He beckons me to join his side.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “So cold.”
Kaikane: “I’ve got you, babe.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
After watching Captain Malmud for more than two weeks (it’s one of the few things to do on this floating shit hole) I realize there is a method to his madness. Even though, by my reckoning of the nightly stars, we continue on a southward course, I’m convinced he is a captain in every sense of the word. It’s his boat-building technology that sucks.
The high profile of his raft–we sit a good five feet out of the water–acts as a sail. The wind pushes us just about wherever it wants, especially in a gale. But Malmud has learned an ingenious way to control his speed and to, sort of, steer. He uses a series of different-sized stone anchors and wooden floats, all attached to the raft by sealskin ropes. He pitches all the anchors overboard to slow the raft down. To gain speed, the anchors are stowed and the floats are released to help catch the wind and current. Certain anchors are hung from certain corners to trim the boat so it beats in the general direction he selects.
Once he figured out that I knew my way around a boat, and Gray Beard convinced him I didn’t have any interest in being a competitor, he loosened up enough to tell us about his baby. Every mariner I’ve ever met has a special bond with his ship. They all love to brag, and, to a point, Malmud was no different. He explained that the thousands of intersecting poles were cut from a forest of tall, perfectly-straight trees. Judging by the direction he pointed, somewhere in Northern Africa would be my guess. That is as specific as he would be. He said there was only one such forest in the whole world.
He leaned over the side and used a finger to dig between the poles to pull out a chunk of light wood.
“It’s cork,” Maria said after I handed it to her.
“Salaga,” Malmud corrected her. The salaga, he said, is a thick tree bark harvested from forests common far to the west. I had seen a few cork trees in Spain back in the day. I wonder if those trees were the descendants of the ones that provided the bark for the raft. Malmud said salaga bark was fitted between each layer of poles to make the raft float.
“It will never sink,” he signed with his weathered hands. “Smash on the rocks? Most certainly. If we are not smart.”
Did I mention we have been out of drinking water for three days? We’re trying not to think or talk about it. Maria and Gray Beard are both rolled up in their sleeping tarps. I doubt they are asleep. Malmud caught a sea turtle two nights ago. We all managed to choke down enough guts and green goop to take the wrinkles out of our fingers, I swear we were drying up. We finished off the turtle yesterday afternoon. It’s a clear and cold night with no rain in sight.
We spotted the coastline off to the east. Malmud says it’s not where we’re going. Judging by the maps on the computers, I take it we’re off the island of Sardinia. He says once we round the island, northerly winds and currents will carry us where we want to go. Maria, my conspiracy theorist, is convinced we were put on the raft as a ploy to protect the Italians. She points out, correctly, we have no proof Amacapane is dead. Or proof that anything else Bolzano said is true. There’s a lot of time to think out here.
Gray Beard sits and mopes. He’s still battling seasickness. I hope the voyage doesn’t kill him. Hell, I hope it doesn’t kill us all.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “What does your boy Tomon know about sleeping potions?”
Bolzano: “I thought you asked him.”
Martinelli: “Couldn’t understand a word he said. Green Turtle mumbo jumbo. Shaking too hard to speak clearly. Ask him for me.”
Bolzano: “Certainly, right away. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
Martinelli: “Yes, Salvatore, why else would I ask you for a potion? God has much to tell me. Do you think He would be insulted if I took something to make me sleep tonight? So much to do.”
Bolzano: “How about some grappa? I have a little left.”
Martinelli: “Your wine gives me headaches. There must be an herb or leaf to make one sleepy. Wallunda used to put an oil into the meat stew which made us mellow. Now she broods and refuses to speak to me.”
Bolzano: “You expect different? You forced her to slay her own father. Can you not see how that might take the pizzazz out of a relationship?”
&
nbsp; Martinelli: “As I have explained, over and over and over, patricide was her punishment for not obeying my orders in the first place. If Wallunda had traveled up the mountain to keep her stupid father in check, as I planned, Marqono would be alive, everyone else would be alive and we would be making a killing up on the plains.”
Bolzano: “Saving souls, converting heathens into Christians.”
Martinelli: “Of course, of course. Ask Tomon. Now. No poison, Sal. Two recruits will test anything before I try it, so don’t try no funny stuff.”
Bolzano: “You sound like a gangster in an old movie. Let me see what Tomon has to offer.”
Martinelli: “Well?”
Bolzano: “He says, since you last inquired, he has unearthed several roots of the valloorn plant and extracted enough oil to induce many nights of sleep. He says the oil can also cure bad headaches. It looks like the same concoction Wallunda had.”
Martinelli: “It does, doesn’t it? Never did much for me.”
Bolzano: “I always wondered what it would be like if we made a tea from the pungent oil. Would you like me to string up a cook bag and boil you a nice pot of tea?”
Martinelli: “Yes, Sal, do that. You know, after all I’ve done to you, you’re the only one who is nice to me.”
Bolzano: “I cannot imagine anyone being rude to you.”
Martinelli: “They flinch like dogs whenever I’m close.”
Bolzano: “They will come around.”
Martinelli: “To them, I am a god. Do you have any idea how much pressure it puts on me? God, our True God, expects so much.”
Bolzano: “Perhaps you attempt to attain your goals too quickly. How many miracles can one man perform in a single year?”
Martinelli: “In the grand scheme of things, we have so little time. The Tattoos have the potential to be a great fighting force, one that could help me convert all of Europe into one Christian nation.”
Bolzano: “I had no idea your aspirations were so far-reaching.”
Martinelli: “Those are God’s words. When I lay down to sleep, He begins with His plans. How many commanders and how many warriors it will take to secure and hold each region worth holding. Supply lines, communication, taxation, religious education, recruitment, justice systems, and a million other details. We go over it all, every night. I need a break, my son, brew me some tea.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli conducted Mass this morning with the white marble cliffs of Carrara as his backdrop. His congregation sat in the warm sand with their backs to the blue sea, letting the Word of God fall down about them like radiant drops of knowledge and hope.
Following the sermon (see entry # 345-98 for a full transcript), my mind drifted up into the white mountains, conjuring images of the great works of art which will some day be mined from the sun-drenched hills.
The thought that both Michelangelo’s David and Pieta were at rest right there, un-chiseled and un-mined somewhere in the hillside, put me in a melancholy mood. I will never again see anything to rival the master’s work. Never in what is left of my lifetime.
Although mankind of this era is capable of surprising levels of talent, I have encountered no Michelangelos or Leonardos. My father complained I had intelligence, but no common sense. Conversely, our traveling companions have an abundance of common sense, but little intelligence.
The Cro-Magnon are problem solvers who rarely let inhibitions prevent them from taking a stab at most any challenge. Their curiosity often causes them troubles such as snake bites or arms broken when they fall out of trees while trying to see if there are eggs in a bird’s nest.
Problems arise when cause and effect has more than three or four variables. While His Holiness and I will quickly weigh the factors and come to a decision which is quite obvious, their minds seize up along the way. The scientific process totally escapes them. As do the subtleties of things like polite conversation, higher math and the plain truth of the Peter Principle.
I love my Porters, with all my heart, but find we have just about run out of conversation. Every story they tell deals with a hunt or long, difficult trek in which somebody is injured or killed, usually in an odd or comic fashion. Their stories bore me, while my tales are generally beyond their grasp. How can I reminisce with them about trips to the opera or my time as a schoolboy in Switzerland?
Tomon and Gertie raise the mental bar somewhat, as do other exceptions like Wallunda and Esther. Since Gertie has been sick, Tomon has very little time to spend with me. Those other two I do my best to avoid.
I had lost touch with most of the Porters. Without kayaks to carry, they were absorbed into the ranks of the working class as haulers, gatherers, cooks and cleaners. The Tattoos pick on them unmercifully. Now that they are back under my protective wing, I will see the nonsense ends.
The Arno is raging in full snow melt, and has been deemed un-navigable by the Great One. My Porters have been happily reassembled to portage the craft inland. We lost Flounder in a landslide up north. He died while helping carry the antlers of a giant red deer. The walleyed man has been replaced by another outcast, this one with a cleft lip.
The drummers Bongo and Conga claim the new man has musical talent. I hope so, as His Holiness has requested we work up a new selection of pieces for the Lenten season. “Easter in Firenze.” It has become a mantra to drive us forward.
I’ll miss the sea. In many ways, the journey from Nice was a vacation. We launched our kayaks only on calm days, stroking across flat waters as long as the weather was favorable. When the wind kicked up, or the sun neared the western horizon, we beached in uninhabited, sheltered bays where I was often left alone with the locked boats while His Holiness and Wallunda scaled the hillsides to explore or check on the clans. Forbidden the use of my computer and ear peas, I whiled away my days in solitary comfort, observing nature, cooking and sleeping. I built great fires and sang myself hoarse to let curious wolves know I meant business.
Though not one hominid paid me a visit as I danced alone on half-moon beaches, the hills were far from void of their presence. I spied several curious souls peering down from the rims of canyons. While paddling, we observed many groups of Cro-Magnon gathering food and fuel along the coastline, and twice, Neanderthal bands hopping among the rocks. However, once they spotted us, half-men sitting upright in the middle of the ocean, they scampered for cover as fast as their powerful legs could carry them.
Even the rainstorms and cold winds whipping off the mountains to pelt us with hail and snow were not all that bad. We were always able to find a cliff to block the wind or a cave to shield us from precipitation. Firewood was never a problem, nor was food. I have never consumed so much lobster.
The only blemish is Genova. The entire dynamic of the Great One’s religious movement was knocked sideways by the sins of Big Ears, Jonah, Hans and Sarah.
Drawing on The Lord Almighty for guidance, along the banks of a muddy river, His Holiness said a long prayer before detailing the crimes and decreeing an appropriate penitence.
Father and sons were to have 10 lashes each, while Sarah would have her lips cut off to demonstrate what happens when you lie to God. Compared to other sentences I have seen the man hand down, the punishments were tame.
The people could not resist the urge to lift their eyes and watch the show. His Holiness had issued his second strike across Jonah’s back, a stinging blow with a stout willow switch, when the daring lad wrestled his arms free and lunged for Lorenzo’s feet. As he gripped them tightly, Big Ears rolled on his back to piston his feet into the small of Lorenzo’s back. Sarah cheered them on as Hans rose to his knees, struggling to free himself and join the fray. The rest of us stood frozen. As I think about it now, we are lucky it did not become a riot.
Caught with his pistols tightly secured in his jumpsuit, His Holiness utilized his marital arts training to disengage himself from the
tumult. Snapping Jonah’s wrist with a judo lock and twist, he flipped the boy to the mud, then somersaulted out of range of Big Ears’ kicks.
A white-hot rage overtook the Godly Man as he scrambled to his feet covered in mud. Seizing up one of the startled Saint’s cudgels, he whirled to deliver a downward chop to Big Ears’ left knee. Spinning forward in a fluid motion, he followed with a jab to Jonah’s left eye and a three-strike assault that broke Hans’ collarbone and both ankles. He peppered the men accurately and without mercy until only Big Ears was left alive.
Striding to where his kit bag was secured around a low-hanging limb, he produced a flint knife, which he carried to where Sarah lay cowering in the mud. Her efforts to scuttle away backwards were halted with a violent stomp on her ankle. Snatching the stammering woman by the hair, His Holiness summoned two trusted Saints to contain her thrashes as he sawed the red lips from her face. She managed to nip him several times, and the last bite cost Sarah her tongue, as well as her life. The witch bled to death with both hands stuffed in her mouth, trying to pinch off the flow with her fingers.
“Wallunda, come here!” His Holiness absently wiped Sarah’s blood across the front of his jump suit. “Wallunda! Come now!”
The little shrew stepped over the body of her eldest brother to reach Lorenzo’s side. “This is your fault!” he wailed, centimeters from her face. “If you had done what I said, none of this would have happened! You must bear responsibility!” Grabbing up her arm, he thrust the knife’s bone handle into the palm of her hand. “It is your fault. It is your job. Finish him. Kill the pig now.”
Each time she dropped the knife or tried to run away, His Holiness brought her back to stand with the weapon in her hand. Finally, with Big Ears loudly beseeching her to let him live, Wallunda plunged the knife into her father’s neck to deftly sever the carotid artery and thus ensure a quick end.
Tuscany Page 9
