Kaikane: “What’s a window?”
Jones: “Could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Duarte: “Joke if you must. I think we need to establish a code of conduct to govern the rest of our time in the Pleistocene. You know, guidelines. Corporal Bolzano, what do you think?”
Bolzano: “You are right, the old rules do not apply. We do not have a modern ship to retreat to, or technicians to repair our suits when they break down. Frankly, I do not enjoy being invisible. The suit is just too much. It becomes reality. And I do not need to carry a gun around to feel like a man. Then again, I believe we should have more discussion before anyone hurls another of our belongings into the river. Specialist Kaikane, you have something to say?”
Kaikane: “I picture two sets of rules. One set for when we are around Cro-Magnon, or could be observed by them, and one for when we are alone. If we end up in North America, and man hasn’t arrived, I’d like to make a bow and arrows. I spend a lot of my spare time thinking about the sailing canoe we’ll need to get there. I understand the need to sail it out of the natives’ sight, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it.”
Duarte: “I think we all agree we must limit our impact on the people. Confining ourselves to using only their words, their technology and their ways would be a start.”
Bolzano: “A good homo sapien is seen and not heard.”
Duarte: “Something like that. We just can’t go around killing people, either.”
Bolzano: “Doctor Duarte, unless you three took up murder as a sport since we last met, I don’t recall a time when any of us have ever attacked a native without due cause.”
Duarte: “True enough. We have experienced so much violence in our short time here.”
Jones: “It’s a violent world. Like the old man says, some folks are good, and others are barely fit for stomping. If it comes down to a choice, I’d rather stomp than be stomped.”
Kaikane: “I suggest we live our lives as best we can. We should take care of each other, support each other and keep moving forward. Maria, if those reports you and Sal spend so much time writing make it through, you are going to educate the world. That’s a noble thing. If Jones and I can keep you well-fed and alive, maybe some of your nobility will sprinkle down on us.”
Jones: “What about Martinelli’s mess?”
Duarte: “If he left one, it’s our job to wipe it away. Who else will? We’ll be back-tracking his route into Italy for several months. We’ll know pretty soon if there is a problem.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The official inquiry just sort of ran out of steam. I think we all realized, like it or not, we’re stuck with each other. Like a family. We’ve made mistakes and probably will make a lot more. This world comes at you so fast, it’s hard not to.
Poor Maria. She was only halfway down her list of questions. We sort of shamed her into quitting. Turned things around to show how the three of us were just about as guilty as Bolzano. She’s going to draft a new oath, and if it will make her feel better, we’ll all stick our hands in the air and recite it.
I’ve gotta say, Sal’s growing on me. He brings a lot of conversation to the fireside. More than Jones, that’s for sure. We spent the first part of the evening swapping stories, singing opera and cracking jokes. He’s one of those guys who remembers jokes. I never could. When the fire burned low, we spread our sleeping furs and settled in to watch an old black and white film on his computer.
The movie was called To Catch a Thief, by some famous director named Alfred. It was filmed along the Riviera, and we all thought we recognized bits and pieces of the landscape, especially around Nice. There’s a wheeled car chase near the beginning of the film in which the star leads the police on a wild ride through the hills above Nice. Sal froze one of the panoramic views and pointed to the screen. “See this place here on the side of the mountain? The white one with the red tile roof? It was my family’s vacation home.”
“That’s no home, it’s a castle.”
“A villa actually. Quite nice, once Mother finished redecorating. We spent Christmas there every year.”
That set the three of us Americans to wondering what kind of money Bolzano comes from. He may have been bullshitting us about the villa, but I don’t think so. Sal has an aristocratic air about him. Put it this way, he’s not shy about letting others do his work.
Then again, he can be downright helpful. You usually need to ask. He and Maria are off gathering food for the clan while Jones and I stand guard over a pair of boars we killed this morning. Though we haven’t seen sign of the hyenas or wolves, there’s a pride of cats settled into a thicket not too far off that has my compadre on edge.
Jones announced last night, he’s headed north with the Green Turtles. Said he promised Gray Beard he would guard the clan as far as Fralista’s valley. He expects there will be more than enough salted meat to survive the winter. I guess it was the old man’s plan all along.
After all the traveling we’ve done the past year, part of me wants to settle down. The other part of me grows more restless each day. We’ll probably head north with the clan, but I’m waiting to see what the little lady has to say. I’m sure she has an opinion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “This is taking a long time to copy.”
Duarte: “It’s a large file.”
Bolzano: “Why so? Do you have photos or video contained within?”
Duarte: “Our cameras never worked. No, those are my notes and sketches. I think you will find the index easy to follow. It is very similar to yours.”
Bolzano: “My God! Sorry. My goodness. You did all this? By yourself?”
Duarte: “The boys helped plenty. They kept us fed and safe while I worked. As I think about it, those two picked up a lot of my slack. My nose was in the computer or up in the trees most of the time.”
Bolzano: “Jones would disagree. He says you pull your own weight.”
Duarte: “I stood guard duty, sure, but even then, I usually had one eye on the computer screen.”
Bolzano: “My efforts seem paltry compared to yours.”
Duarte: “Not so. I was up late reading your anatomical notes on Neanderthal. Dissection! I never would have had the nerve. Amazing stuff. No, Salvatore, you have done some very, very good work. Professional.”
Bolzano: “Thank you, I….”
Duarte: “There are several ways you can improve your note-taking, however. Included in the folder you just copied is a sub-folder labeled “Suggestions.” Just a few reminders on grammar and style, ways to expand the scope of your observations, and several links to reports on Neanderthal which should be included in your basic library.”
Bolzano: “Thanks. It is nice to….”
Duarte: “Do you ever wonder if we will be the only ones to read this stuff? Ever think we’re wasting our time?”
Bolzano: “The thought is in the back of my mind every time I sit down to transcribe my notes. I wonder if I would be better served by running naked through the bluebells or singing my favorite arias. I believe it comes down to two questions. Number one, can any mechanical device survive 32,000 years?”
Duarte: “Number two, will The Team, and only The Team, find it?”
Bolzano: “Correct indeed.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
It is quiet without the Green Turtles in camp. The clan headed downstream this morning. Heavily-burdened natives and pack-laden dogs, setting off eagerly into a thick gauze of fog which clung to the bottomlands well past noon. Cpl. Jones departed first. He ducked into the trees to take point after saying quick goodbyes to Gray Beard, Cpl. Bolzano, Paul and me.
“Hey, Sal, you take care of the old man, you hear?”
“Roger that, corporal.”
“Kaikane, Doc, see ya in a few days.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”<
br />
Per his instructions, we held back the anxious clan for exactly one hour, then allowed them to hoist their cumbersome packs, grab their dog leashes and disappear into the mist. Flutes blaring, drums sounding, shouts and whoops, I doubt they’ll surprise a rhino on the trail.
Many of the women cast evil looks my way as they marched by. Paul noticed the animosity as well. What did I do?
It was difficult to let Jones leave after such an abbreviated reunion. I think I can help him with his depression. If only he will let me. We need more time. There was just no stopping the Turtles.
We finalized our travel plans during last night’s farewell feast. The meal once again was dominated by rare pork, however, there was also a nice assortment of cooked greens and nuts. Paul speared several trout which we baked in grape leaves and served as an appetizer. What he calls a “pupu.”
The clanspeople were more interested in sorting through their belongings and preparing for the journey north than they were in sitting down to eat. They ate standing, or on the run, while rummaging around the camp, testing packs, and trying to pare down all the gear and trade goods they had scavenged from the dozens of tents left in the wake of the Tattoos’ crushing defeat.
The clan is rich beyond measure. Gray Beard predicts they will transport the heavy load for less than two days before they stop to bury most of it–in a place they will never be able to find once the brush grows back. “It will make a good story, give them something to think about when they are old like me,” he said with a chuckle.
Jones has no intention of carrying a heavy pack. His gear consists of one long spear, the new atlatl, a quiver of nine bolts, his reclaimed coil of sealskin rope and a roll of pounded-leather bedding. He wears the native clothes Gray Beard made for him last year–and new rhino skin moccasins which are identical to mine, only twice as big. His helmet, squeezed down over bushy hair, is turned off and covered with the pelt of a silver fox. The visor is up.
Paul will carry Jones’ computer and a few other odds and ends in the hold of his kayak.
On the eve of departure, he stacked his gear against a tree, then sat down by the fire to enjoy a relaxed meal with the four of us not intent on leaving. The boys threw the bones for a while and, of course, Leonglauix won. When he trotted off to speak with Tomon and Gertie, we dropped into English.
“You think he cheats?”
“How do you cheat the bones?”
“Don’t know, but the man wins every time.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Looks like it’s time for a story.”
When Leonglauix returned, he motioned us to move back from the fire before he and his nephew stoked the flames with several dead pines.
Once it was roaring, Gray Beard called the entire clan to gather in a semicircle around the fire. He stood quietly in the dancing light, waiting for all to be seated and quiet. Reaching into the folds of his tunic, he pulled out a handful of little pinecones which snapped and sizzled the instant he flung them into the flames.
The cracking startled several youngsters into squeals of wonder. He pointed at the children, studied them with wise eyes. Bending his knees, scanning the faces, he launched into his tale. It was one I had not yet heard. The following is my interpretation.
Listen and I will tell you a story! It is the best kind of tale, one about life and death. One human condition we cherish, the other we fear. It is the same for all of us, is it not? Who among us does not fear death?
This tale revolves around the life of a tree. How interesting can a story about a tree be? Well, consider this, how many different events may a tree witness during its long lifetime? It is true they do not move, but they grow tall and are able to bear testament to the unfolding of many tragedies and many triumphs.
The tree in this story was a friend of mine named Artolom. The product of an acorn dropped by a towering oak, he was one of many saplings who sprout in the spring, only to die off in the summer when the mother tree’s limbs become so full with leaves they choke out the sunlight. The year Artolom was born, things changed.
A mighty windstorm swept in from the ocean to blow and blow so hard, all the trees in all the forests were knocked flat to the ground. It is true! No forests, no shade, just a tangle of logs neither man nor animal could hope to travel through.
Out of the tangle grew Artolom. Though he was battered and skinned, his supple trunk bent with the winds and allowed him to survive the fury. A hand of summers passed. The tree grew tall enough to see that he lived atop a hill overlooking a barren valley filled with fallen trees defeated by the great wind.
Many hands of years passed. Birds returned to the area long before the other animals. They built nests in Artolom’s limbs and ate any bug which threatened to disturb his bark. Many passings of seasons took their toll on his mother and all the other fallen trees. Mushrooms, ferns and vines did their jobs. The crumbling logs dissolved to soil.
Solitary roamers were the first animals to find the virgin forest. Mammoth and giant male red deer. They enjoyed many hands of years without fear of wolf or lion. Eventually, however, the hunters also found their way.
One fall, Artolom felt a tickling at his feet. Looking down, he saw a female bear digging a winter den in the soft spot where his mother’s roots had once grown. The bear used her mighty front claws to scoop the dirt away for two entire days. When finished, she wandered off to fill her gut with late season berries and salmon she scooped from the stream.
Artolom’s leaves had fallen and the first snow was on the ground when the sleepy bear returned to crawl into the cave beneath his roots. She paused only long enough to cover the entrance with leaves and soil before drifting off to sleep. All winter long, the tree felt the heat of the bear, snoring softly in the cave. And all winter long, the tree worried about spring. “That bear has weakened my grip. When the melt turns every crease in the earth into a brook, and the firm ground becomes mud, I don’t know if I will be able to keep my hold on this hill.”
The tree convinced himself he hated the bear. She was a threat. He wanted to kill her! Artolom dreamed of ways to do it. Shed a limb at exactly the right moment? As the sow emerged from its den? Perhaps. Grow roots long enough to wrap around her neck? Strangle her? Perhaps.
“But I move so slowly,” he creaked.
Come spring, the tree felt a growing warmth in the cave beneath him. After a hand of days, he noticed two heartbeats pulsing up through his trunk. Everyone knows, animals are cute when they are babies. When the newborn cub took its first romp outside the den, the tree looked down in joy. It was a black ball of fur which rolled in the dirt and ran in circles chasing leaves. His leaves.
“I did my part in this,” he said. Artolom felt a tingle at the tips of his limbs. Several leaves, rolled tight against the next frost, suddenly burst open. They did! Pieces of fluff floated down, moving this way and that way in the wind to land in the baby bear’s fur, white like snowflakes.
Despite his distrust of the bear, Artolom came to enjoy watching the cub. He had little else to do. Birds were far less interesting. And so loud! Chirp, chirp! They make noisy guests. One day the momma bear led the cub away and didn’t return. Not for several years.
All summer long, the tree concentrated on growing his roots deeper into the hill. He began his lifelong ambition. Grow roots. Grow limbs. Grow leaves. Grow roots. Grow limbs. Grow leaves. He would anchor himself to the hill so firmly he would never fall like his mother. He wrapped his roots around underground boulders and traveled deep to find water sources to protect against future drought.
When the bear returned, she once again ripped at the ground to make her den even deeper and wider. The cycle repeated many times. Each time, she brought forth a cub in the spring, sometimes two, for the tree to enjoy. It became a fair trade. His roots were so deep now, he didn’t worry about falling. No wind could ever knock him down.
One spring, the tree felt the bear’s heat drain away. The cave became as cold as ice. The dead animal le
ft an acidic mess which burned the tree’s roots and made his leaves turn yellow well before the long days of summer. In the end, the tree survived. The bear gave him much nourishment. Artolom grew taller and wider. His lowest limbs were thicker than the trunks of other trees.
Countless hands of years passed and the tree continued to grow taller. Many bears were born in the cave, as were wolf pups, cave lions, foxes, badgers and eventually people. First came the Flat Heads. They used it for many seasons. Our people found the empty cave during a hunt.
I met the tree when I was a boy. Did you know I talk to trees? Oh, yes, it is true. The trick is, you must know how to listen. My father taught me. My wife also had the ability, though I had not yet met her when Artolom first spoke to me. I was young and troublesome then.
Left alone while the women helped the men butcher a horse, I had stoked the embers of the cave’s fire pit into an impressive inferno. Flames leaped higher than the top of my head. “Put out that fire, you are hurting my roots,” Artolom cried. I knew who was speaking. I had listened in on the tree’s conversations with my father.
“No,” I said.
I was young and headstrong. Trees did not tell me what to do. I added an armful of sticks to the fire, then asked, “What will you give me if I do put it out?” It was an evil act. I admit, my curiosity has always caused many problems.
“If I could, I would fall down and crush you.”
“What a stupid threat. You would die as well.”
I kicked out the fire and climbed to the top limbs to hear what Artolom had to say. Father insisted the top of a tree is the best place to listen. “Climb up, up, up. To the top finger (fifth). High enough to feel the trunk sway with the wind. Find a place to sit with your forehead pressed against the bark. If the tree likes you, it will tell you a story.”
I was surprised how talkative this tree was. It told me about the countless animals it had seen, and the many, many winters it had endured.
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