Martinelli: “How many times must you hear it? Are you deaf? It is God’s will.”
Bolzano: “My crucifixion is God’s will?”
Martinelli: “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
Bolzano: “Too tight. Stop, please. You are hurting me.”
Martinelli: “My Saints already miss ‘helmet time.’ Did you know that? Kloick and the boys will be more than happy to reclaim their suit, drive home the ivory nails themselves. Just hold still. Good. Good. Now, that is a knot! God must be proud as He watches from above.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
This is our fifth day pinned down by the gales from the east. Gray Beard and Maria are off exploring, more than likely looking for more duck eggs to cook. I’m afraid to leave sight of the raft. I worry it will float away and we’ll be forever stranded on this shit-covered rock. After months at sea, it felt great to be on solid ground. For the first couple days. Now, I can’t wait to leave.
I spend just about all my time adding improvements to the raft. With a half-mile beach full of wood to pick through, I have plenty of raw material to work with. We started by making a new rudder system–a long pole with somewhat-flat blades lashed to one end. Using rocks as hammers, hoping we wouldn’t split the whole thing apart, we drove a pair of sticks deep into the belly of the raft to anchor the rudder mounts. We found that each pole is individually tied. We broke one or two ties, but she took the abuse just fine.
When that worked, it got me thinking about adding a mast. I led Gray Beard on a long and winding search down the beach. We located just the log I wanted–a 20-foot pine bleached white by the sun. We hauled it to our work area where I explained to Gray Beard how I wanted it trimmed. He fashioned a stone adze in less than an hour, then hacked away the stubs of limbs and put a sharp point on its fat end.
That day, we also harvested a pair of large sea lions for the leather to make two new sails. Gray Beard amazes me with how fast he can skin an animal. All with just a few flakes of flint from his kit. There were enough scraps of leather left over for him and Maria to braid about 50 feet of rope. We need at least 150 feet more, so another dark-eyed Romeo is scheduled to have his courtship end right after I get done typing.
The sails are currently staked out, curing under a weak sun. I wish we had time to tan them properly, but they’ll have to do. When the wind turns, we’re out of here.
Today’s project was to add two oars. I’m not happy with how they turned out, and sit here thinking about cutting the whole oar assembly away and trying again tomorrow. They are too short.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Bravo, bravo! Oh, Salvatore, Wagner himself would give you a standing ovation for that performance. Benissimo! That had to be some of your best singing ever. Look at their faces. Such contentment, such happiness.”
Bolzano: “Water. May I have a drink of water, please?”
Martinelli: “One more aria, and we will see.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
I completed my last report an hour before departure from the island we dubbed “Rocky Top” due to its complete lack of trees. The half-moon shaped islet covers roughly 82 acres of land and reaches a maximum altitude of 37 feet. Paul sailed us to the fingernail clipping of rock on one sort of boat, and we left this morning atop quite another. A mast, guy lines, triangular leather sails and other improvements finally give this floating mass of sticks an air of hopefulness.
Our captain stands at the tiller in faded and worn buckskins as a stiff northerly breeze fills our twin translucent-pink sails to carry us forward at last. His long black hair is tied back into a ponytail which flaps in the wind along with the wavy beard I refuse to let him trim. Honey brown eyes are shaded by a hand cupped over his furrowed brow.
Paul has been tested in so many ways on this unexpected odyssey. He continues to rise to every challenge. How he moored the raft on that island, I will never comprehend. The task was impossible, yet he made it look easy. The voyage has certainly put our budding relationship to the test. So far, we’ve survived starvation, dire thirst and our first big fight–all amid quarters too cramped for fear and emotions to hide. Stress affects us in many different ways, but my man has kept his smile and sense of humor through it all.
The long trip has been far from beneficial for our poor clan leader. Though Gray Beard’s seasickness faded after the first month, his mood continues to spiral ever lower into a malaise of resigned apathy. He’s stopped asking where we were going. Trapped without trees and trails, the old man is left to worry for his people and himself. He says he does not want to die like Malmud, speared by a great fish.
Lately, most of his days are spent sleeping, or with his back turned to us, staring off across the endless blue waters. He goes through the motions during exercise, then retreats back within himself. The island lifted his spirits briefly. He tired quickly of the incessant noise and guano. Paul attempted to keep him busy with projects and chores, which helped a little.
It wasn’t just Gray Beard. We all saw our appreciation for “Rocky Top” wear thin. The two-week stay was more than a week longer than we needed. The damned westerly winds refused to abate. After 10 howling days, they finally turned to blow, just as strong, straight out of the south. That raised hopes they would continue to shift to become the easterly winds we have been yearning for. Three days of gusty northerlies, with no change in sight, convinced us to go for broke. We poled our refurbished craft out of the bay, unfurled its lateen sails and let the wind take hold. Paul has us quartering with the breeze and I have no doubt we will reach the Italian mainland in a few days. How far north we beach this whale is yet to be seen.
The mighty captain himself beckons as I type. “Put that computer away and join me for sunset,” he says with a grin.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “The audience grows.”
Martinelli: “Good afternoon, Salvatore. I thought you were napping.”
Bolzano: “How many days?”
Martinelli: “Lost count, have you?”
Bolzano: “Eleven.”
Martinelli: “More than that! This is your twelfth day on the cross. Perhaps you will set a record.”
Bolzano: “The suit….”
Martinelli” Yes, the suit is quite helpful at keeping you alive. Almost as much as the food and water your friends have been sneaking you when they think Wallunda and I are not looking.”
Bolzano: “Don’t hurt them, Father, for they know not what they do.”
Martinelli: “Listen to Salvatore quoting the Bible. Has someone finally found their faith? If so, you should know that Lent is a time of fasting.”
Bolzano: “I have found it! As death nears, I do believe! Does that not worry you, Lorenzo? I may be the first into Heaven, the first mortal to sit beside God.”
Martinelli: “You won’t sit beside God! You’ll be fortunate to kneel at his feet! He knows you are bad.”
Bolzano: “If I understood last night’s sermon properly, I am on this cross to die for your sins. And theirs. That is not so bad. What shall I tell our Father about his son Lorenzo? When I have His ear, should I tell Him that Sergeant Martinelli is a holy man? That he is devout? That he keeps his promises to not hurt my friends when I am gone?”
Martinelli: “Listen to you, negotiating right to the end. Too bad you have so few chips to bargain with.”
Bolzano: “Watch yourself, Lorenzo.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The death of the raft is something I’ve pondered many times over the past three months. Alternating with the constant fear it would die too soon, were the many hours devising interesting ways to kill it once we landed. Firing the cork with hot embers, that was always a happy thought to pass the time as we turned helpless circles in the wind. Start the fire, shove the box back to sea, enjoy the view from shore as flames shoot 100 feet in the air. Let it dri
ft off into the sunset.
My thoughts turned less murderous once we fixed her up. I can’t say I grew to love the stubborn pig, but I was ready to kiss her palm leaf deck this morning when she finally dragged bottom on a white sand beach in the Italian Riviera. Stupid raft fought me every inch of sea to land 50 miles north of the Arno.
We now sit on a fern-scented ledge high above the beach. A rich smell of earth fills the air. Our packs are loaded with ham, dried fish and seaweed, but we’re sick of the stuff. We gnaw on odds and ends, greens scavenged during our hour-long climb up the cliff. Nettle shoots and wild onions mostly. We need to find a flatter place to camp before darkness falls, but it’s hard to leave the show. Back down on the beach, a clan of Neanderthal dismantles the raft one pole at a time.
Maria’s off sulking by herself about 50 yards away. She wanted to stop for an hour and study the Neanderthal while we walked off our sea legs on the beach. Gray Beard would have none of that! He insisted we leave immediately. Even though we wobbled so bad we could barely stand up. “Flat Heads are not to be trusted.” He said it over and over. Turns out, he was right.
It was just after daybreak when we spotted the stretch of sand. It looked like the only soft place in a coast full of sheer cliffs, submerged rocks and dangerous little bays. I pointed the raft in the beach’s direction, and, for once, she obeyed. We had plenty of time to square our gear away for a quick ditch. Maria consulted her computer for a while then said she was pretty sure we were headed for the future Cinque Terre town of Monterosso al Mare. If so, we would have more than a 100-mile walk to Firenze.
By the time we bumped to a stop, the clothing-optional beach was full of naked Neanderthal men, women and children. Sixty degrees out and they’re working on their tans. The nervous way they scuttled up and down the sand reminded me of quick-footed terns dodging waves. The excited clan would rush forward hooting and pointing, only to retreat back toward the several large caves they must call home. It seemed to take them a while to build up enough thought in their heads to commit to action. But once they did, look out!
Astonishment and curiosity. Not much fear on their faces. Judging by their slack-jawed stares, I’d bet they don’t get many landings of 20-by-20-foot sailboats in these waters.
Several older gentlemen, including one whose sloped head was almost entirely bald, held a tense conference in grunts and sign language, then stepped to the front of the throng. They led the chattering, curious mob to stand before us in the sand. Gray Beard cupped his hands to his mouth and cut loose with a wolf call that stopped them in their tracks. Holding three spears aloft in his left hand, he studied their eyes for a while, then addressed them in sign. After about two minutes speaking with his hand and pointing with his spears, he turned my way and motioned me to climb down into the surf.
I swung over the edge, trying not to look bashful or intimidated, as about 40 of those stout little fuckers closed in to nearly pin me against the raft. The meteorite club drew a lot of their attention, especially when I whipped it out and threatened to bash heads if they didn’t back up. Massive brows, big strong piano-key teeth, wide-eyed babies sucking on sagging tits, shaggy hair of all different colors. Their hungry eyes made me feel like a live pig on market day.
Mr. Meteorite and I maintained a tense little no man’s land until Gray Beard and Maria began handing down Malmud’s bundles of goods–the ones we didn’t make sails from, or eat their contents, or keep for ourselves. This calmed things down. Everybody loves surprises! I made a big show of presenting the bundles as gifts to the leaders, and they made a big show of accepting them.
Gray Beard motioned me to climb back up on the raft. “Be ready,” he said as I hoisted my heavy pack. I had planned to slash the sails and cut the mast lines. Not now. I left everything rigged and ready for a quick launch. Just in case.
Soaked to our waists, but no worse for wear, we made it to the beach with little fanfare. The clans’ eyes were glued to the leaders as the three men danced around the pile of gifts, no doubt arguing about who got what. We tried to just sort of walk away unnoticed. They noticed.
In an instant, we were surrounded by Neanderthal, jostling, pinching, pulling our hair and tugging at the packs. Gray Beard whirled to strike with his spear when Maria suddenly disappeared. I hadn’t thought to put my suit on. She was in full gear.
Like terns, the Neanderthal turned and ran for their caves. We didn’t get far before they scampered back in clusters of three and four. Warily, in spurts, they closed in on Gray Beard and me. Most had taken the opportunity to pick up a weapon or two–flint-tipped spears and wicked clubs embedded with shells and shark teeth.
From our perspective walking backwards across the sand, watching them come, there was no doubt we had sailed into some deep shit. Brandishing feathered spears, the leaders pushed their way to the front. They were less than 10 feet away and closing fast when Maria blazed from out of nowhere right in front of us to become a blinding sun. It was the same stunt Martinelli used on Gray Beard’s clan not so long ago. The old man clapped his hands and jumped for joy.
“Get the hell away from us!” Her amplified voice followed the screaming horde as it turned to run for the caves.
We were more than halfway up the cliff when I noticed one of the shit-for-brains had filched my knife from its sheath. I was grousing about the knife during lunch when Gray Beard suggested I choose a replacement from Malmud’s precious stash. “Why not? You’re carrying the heavy bundle,” he added with a wink. The old boy’s regaining some of his wit and wisdom now that we’re back on dry land. He stomped a few snakes on the way up and it seemed to cheer him plenty.
During our lunch of nettles and (burp) onions, he said Neanderthal are unpredictable at best. One moment you are sharing a camp fire with a Flat Head, and the next, the dummy is trying to circle around behind you to bash in your skull, steal your spears. He says they make excellent trackers and load carriers, but are difficult to tame. He speaks as if he’s discussing the merits of different breeds of dog. He said hybrids are much more social and trustworthy. If raised right, they can be good workers and helpers. He has not seen such a large clan of Flat Heads since he was a young boy.
Right now, far below us on the beach, they have torn the raft halfway to kindling. The clan swarms over what’s left, sawing away at the lashings with spear points and flint cutting tools. A few 20-foot-long poles litter the beach, but most are left to float in the surf. The waste bothers me more than the desecration of the sorry-ass boat. Malmud’s well-cured poles could be used for so many jobs around the camp, everything from spears to tent posts.
The leaders got into a pushing match a while ago and Baldy got the worst of it. He sat in the sand holding his sore head for a while, then joined the ranks in cutting the thing apart. Maybe they’ll collect the poles when they are finished.
We have about two hours of daylight left. The old man must have gotten his second wind. He now says we should put some distance between us and the Neanderthal–in case they forget about the bright light and decide to track us. He says that without a dog, in such a foreign land, we will not sleep well anyway. Sounds like we’ve got a night march ahead of us. At least we’ll have a good moon for it.
I heard Maria tell him we need to loosely follow the coast southward before drifting inland to the east. His eye for terrain is already plotting our course through the hilly country as he waits for us to gather up our gear.
Hey Sal, we’re coming. Are you still around?
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Wake up! Wake up.”
Bolzano: “Must warm my voice before I sing.”
Martinelli: “Don’t worry about that. I’ve not even held vespers yet. I gotta ask you about some of the things you wrote in this journal. I’ve been reading your entries and must say, I am surprised by how many lies you tell. Salvatore, you claim to be a holy man. You speak of sitting beside God, filling his ears with more lies. Lies about me! Perhaps He would be interested to know what a
teller of tall tales you are. How can a holy man exaggerate his accomplishments so? How can he minimize his sins to such a degree?”
Bolzano: “I have sinned my entire life.”
Martinelli: “Yes you have! Like when you claim to have spotted the tide receding before the first big wave. You claim to have alerted the crew of the impending tsunami and directed them to the nearby hill. Did you do that Sal?”
Bolzano: “Duarte.”
Martinelli: “Yes, it was the doctor who issued the warning, wasn’t it? She and Jones were the ones to bring up the rear. It was I who led the way! Correct? Not you, as you claim. Is that not correct?”
Bolzano: “Yes. I am a….”
Martinelli: “A liar. You are a liar and a coward. I count at least 39 outright lies and more than 100 fibs and false accusations in this journal. Do you deny it?”
Bolzano: “God will be my judge.”
Martinelli: “You’re not in heaven yet. You are here with me. Lucky for you, I still have use for Corporal Salvatore Bolzano. Why do you think I continue to allow your filthy minions to ladle soup into your mouth? To stand on each other’s shoulders in the dark hours before dawn to drip water upon your fat tongue?”
Bolzano: “You need me alive.”
Martinelli: “Yes! Though weak, your arias continue to draw converts from far away.”
Bolzano: “Not true. Bait.”
Martinelli: “Very good, Sal. Your body may be failing, but your mind is still a sharp instrument. Yes, you are my bait.”
Bolzano: “Americans will not come.”
Martinelli: “And miss Easter? No, they will show. And we will be ready.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “What words did you sing to the people last night? That Green Turtle mumbo jumbo, what was it?”
Bolzano: “What has agitated you so, Lorenzo? What have I done?”
Tuscany Page 13
