“My aunt claimed she recited a prayer each night to ensure the valley’s dams would not burst. I have been thinking about Donatella and my other second-tier relatives lately, people I haven’t considered in years. I guess the concept of family has been on my mind. How could it not be? We are surrounded by men, women and scrawny children.
“Five days ago, we joined forces with an industrious clan trading its way west. The eighteen-member party is dominated by a pair of look-alike brothers. Long-haired and short-bearded, the green-eyed twins Doolip and Dowlip are nearly as tall as I am, a rarity in this world. They share the same wife, another rarity. In truth, they seem far less interested in the rotund lass than they are in trading bright shells for furs and trinkets and foods preserved in honey.
“The rest of the party consists of six men, five women and four children ranging in age from a one-year-old boy to a girl I judge to be about nine. Dressed in furs and well-made footwear, sporting smiles full of healthy teeth, the clan travels with an air of affluence. Its complement of nearly two dozen shaggy, brown canines carries the bulk of the clan’s belongings in packs strapped across their backs. The twin packs are quite similar to the pair Leonglauix uses on the bitch. What the dogs do not tote, the clan must. All but the infant is expected to carry at least one woven reed basket of goods cradled in their arms or balanced on their head.
“Though we are part of their entourage, we have not been asked to share the load, nor have we offered. We find ourselves traveling at a much more stately pace, one which allows time to enjoy the views. Skirting the southern edges of the River Po’s soggy marshlands, we follow an ancient trail traversing up and down the wooded valleys of the Appennino’s northern foothills. Though it seems to take odd tangents at times, the broad path invariably circles wide around pestilent swamps and intersects rivers where they are narrow, shallow or both. It seems the wolves, bison and cats concede the trail as man’s territory, for they do not travel this highway in as great of numbers as one would expect.
“I do not mean to imply the Big Hat clan is particularly slow. It is merely slow by Leonglauix’s standards. It moves in fits and starts as it wheels and deals its way westward. On the trail, one giant brother takes the lead and the other brings up the rear. Each makes sure the dogs and clan members travel in a tight pack for safety.
“As they are quaintly protective of their new friends, I rarely find myself alone. And that is why I am dictating these notes rather than typing them into my computer. Having stolen away from my would-be protectors while they conduct trade with a clan from the north, I currently sit five meters above the ground, comfortably wedged into the fork of a broad-limbed alder.
“The Big Hats’ penchant for befriending potential trading partners suits our purposes in an important way. Gray Beard has told his story so many times, his voice grows hoarse. As his understudy, I am now occasionally called upon to deliver the tale in the master’s stead. Though I have memorized his every inflection, gesture and nuance, my performances do not capture the audience’s attention even close to the same degree. Somehow, he makes each listener feel his stories. He transports them to an exact place and time of his choosing.
“Though natives are rarely quiet, when Leonglauix tells a tale, you can hear an eyelash fall. My efforts remind me of my years spent teaching history to 14-year-old boys. In those days, if I had more than half of a class’ attention at any given time, it was considered a triumph of learning.
“I was sharing my version with a ragtag circle of wanderers yesterday afternoon when brother Doolip brought down the house with a well-timed belch delivered in the middle of one of my dramatic pauses for breath. He’s heard the story quite a few times and is ready for a new topic. He also prefers the old man’s style. Even so, I feel confident, the message is being delivered.
“We meet, on average, four to five clans on the trail each day. Even the most remote clans have heard tales describing the supernatural abilities of ‘Lord-enzo,’ but we have encountered only one tribe claiming direct contact with the man himself. We crossed paths with the five-man, four-woman, eight-dog contingent on the same day we met the Big Hats.
“We were camped near the confluence of two streams. The bitch roused us to report something not necessarily life-threatening was headed our way. Yips and snorts. Out of the morning mists stepped the Hats. Arriving with their floppy, fur headgear and compulsion to haggle, they stoked up our fire and treated us to a breakfast of dried fruits, honeyed nuts and jerked meat.
“Gray Beard rebuffed their efforts to trade in a way which implied we had more than enough goods buried in a secret spot high in the hills above Swedsissi (Nice). ‘That is where we are going,’ the brothers replied in unison. Plans were soon made to travel together. Leonglauix confided with me later, we will stick with the Hats only as long as the arrangement suits our purposes.
“The obvious benefits of strength and safety in numbers were only half the reason I so quickly agreed to travel with the clan. The Big Hat women looked healthy and full of life. Their “come hither” looks cast my direction gave the distinct impression they traded in services, as well as goods. Having lightened my pack of several of Wallunda’s necklaces over the past few days, I find the old saying is true. Prostitution is the oldest profession.
“What will my father say if he reads this? Burning crosses, paying for sex, discrediting a missionary, what’s next? Punching nuns?
“The day we met the Big Hats and their charismatic leaders, we set up camp with another clan whose name I do not recall. I was listening to Doolip’s attempts to best the other clan’s leader in a trade for ivory beads when Leonglauix squatted beside me to report the visiting clan’s storyteller was nearby, boasting about a huge gathering of clans in Swedsissi.
“I listened to the stranger complete his tale to the bulk of the Big Hat entourage before standing and clearing my throat.
‘Though I know you believe you speak the truth, listen now to hear what really happened. You are not the only one who was there that day. Listen to the master storyteller Leonglauix, great father of the Green Turtle clan, to hear the true story.’
“Gray Beard’s yarn had so much more entertainment value, such better timing, the listeners had no choice but accept his version. Lorenzo’s magical powers faded into a cloud of thievery and self-gratification. When the visiting storyteller attempted to rebut the masturbatorial masterpiece, his attempts drew such scorn from the listeners he was forced to retreat out of stone-throwing range.
“Pulling the defeated man aside as his clan prepared to depart, I pressed a fine ivory moon calendar into his palm. ‘You saw what you saw,’ I said in native trade dialect. ‘You also know Leonglauix’s is the better story. Tell it our way. People will be quiet and listen to your every word.’ The storyteller tucked the prize into a fold of his leather tunic and made no promises before turning to follow his mates down the trail.
“The time has come to conclude this report. My gluteus maximus grows weary in this tree. The old man says we will travel with the Big Hats for two more days, and then turn to the north to visit a friend. I promise to submit a more formal reporting when time and circumstance allow.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
The old man kneels at the top of the hill with his head pressed to the trunk of a medium-sized oak. I can just see him from where I sit beside a brook, half-typing and half-waiting for one of the fat, long-eared hares to hop close enough to be brained by the shaft of my spear. Come closer, you are safe with me, says the spider to the fly.
Seven days subsisting on grubs, watercress and sour berries have made a hunter out of me. “Would-be hunter” is a more precise term, as I have yet to bring an animal down.
Three straight miscasts of the spear, horribly inept attempts, have convinced me to try this new strategy. Indifference followed by a good bashing.
Now that my intentions have turned nefarious, I
believe the animals sense when I begin to focus my aggression upon them. Once a specific victim is selected, that beast and that beast alone pops up its head to study me with an “I knew it!” look upon its face. My next movement sends the little mind-readers diving into the brush with a flash of legs and tail. I hurl my spear, knowing all the while it is a wasted effort.
What a change from the many times in the past year when rabbits, squirrels, porcupine and other animals wandered close enough for me to touch them. I may have been working on my computer, daydreaming or listening to music. They were somehow cognitive of the fact they were safe in my company.
Please excuse my prose if it wanders, for I’m composing with one eye on the screen and one eye on a jet-black hare nibbling clover not more than three meters away. Come nearer, my little friend, I mean you no harm!
I do not think the Americans believed me when I told them I had yet to bloody my hands in this wild environment. It would be fair to say I have followed the creed, “live and let live.” Even when we harried the hyenas, I made sure to fire high. The karmic sentiment was fine and dandy when I had a clan to put meat on my table. Forgive me, Mrs. Bunny, for what I must now do.
What conflicting emotions. My initial, adrenaline-rushed exaltation has slowly been replaced with an ache in the pit of my stomach. I feel as if something pure has been lost. The self-doubt has done nothing, however, to diminish my appetite. Heavenly aromas waft from a pair of plump rabbits slow roasting over a bed of glowing coals. Just the act of writing about them causes my cheeks to salivate.
I would like to think even the Americans would be impressed with my hunting technique in the end. I waited for the black rabbit to graze within striking distance, then carefully set my computer to the side. Taking pains not to look in the direction of my target, I used my body to keep the spear hidden as I took a firm grasp just below its fire-hardened point. Turning quietly, expecting to see the animal in full flight, I found my quarry blissfully munching on a thick green clump of clover.
Striding forward, I delivered a crushing downward chop to the base of its neck. The attack sent rabbits running in all directions, including one hare on a beeline for the brook. I didn’t stop to think, just skipped forward as they taught us in training and cast with a fluid motion. The light, birch wood spear skewered the animal in mid-leap, taking it through the gut with a dreadfully exhilarating ‘shwock.’
The victory celebration was short-lived, however, as the swift-running water swept away both my spear and my prize. Grabbing my first kill up by its ears, I sprinted downstream for well over one hundred meters. Keeping pace with the spear and rabbit, I tracked their progress until they became wedged in a rocky shallows where the brook widened.
As I waded out to retrieve the spear, I spied many trout keeping to the shadows. Perhaps I will try spearing fish tomorrow.
Gray Beard was seated at the base of the tree when I arrived to brandish the spear and its limp rabbit. With only slight embellishment, I told the tale of my miracle shot.
“Drowning is a new way to kill a rabbit,” he deadpanned. “Stoke up your fire. We will see if it tastes like fish.”
The brief twinkle in my traveling partner’s eye let me know he was happy enough with my success to make a joke of it. With a cough and a wave, I was dismissed. Pressing his forehead to the trunk, he resumed his attempt to reach the progeny of his ancient friend.
It seems as if he has aged five years in the past few weeks. More wrinkled than ever, his face is lately beset with a sadness and weariness I have not yet seen. I fear recent frustrations have worn him out.
Since leaving the Big Hat clan behind, our trip has had more twists and wrong turns than an opera by Wagner. We crossed the mighty Po by holding tightly to a water-logged timber, floating alongside swimming mammoth and hairy hippo. Since then, our journey has become a never-ending slog through marsh and forest.
Leonglauix had never approached his friend the tree from the south. It grew near a traditional east-west hunting trail, one which followed a course between the “Big” river and the northern mountains. Navigating by the lay of the distant Alps, confirming our course with the sun, the moon and the planets, he kept us headed northwest. Toward Milano, my home.
Our course finally bisected the narrow path after almost a week of swimming swamps, rounding lakes and playing hide and seek with wolves.
The last time the storyteller visited the area, it was still recovering from a major brushfire. It had been a land of bald hills and empty valleys. Familiar landmarks are now screened from view by trees and undergrowth grown thick over the past decades.
“This land needs a good fire,” he muttered one afternoon as we sloshed through the icy waters of a stream. “The hunting was so much better then. You could see the game from long distances.”
When I inquired if the logic implied game would also be able to see him from long distances, he shook his head in dismissal.
“If I do not want them to see me, they do not see me.” He said it without one iota of braggadocio. “Someday you too may learn to use the wind and valleys as a true hunter must. For now, you hunt like an old woman, content with bugs and gatherings. There is no shame in it. I employ just such a diet when I travel. My son named Kaikane, he is very good at catching fish. He and Jones are skilled hunters. You could learn much from them.”
Whether it was his challenge to my manhood or the growling in my stomach which drove me to strike dead two bunnies, I will never be certain. I have heard hunters say meat tastes better when you harvest it yourself. I cannot argue, but would add this addendum: it tastes even better if you roll your victim in herbs and sea salt, stuff it with morels and slow-cook it for three hours over medium heat.
I must fetch the old man soon. The notes of his flute echo from inside the cave as he tries yet another way to tap into this young tree’s consciousness. Thus far, the oak stoically rebuffs all efforts to communicate. Leonglauix says he is unable to discern whether it does not understand or is just too stubborn to speak. He worries we may have offended it by chasing away its friends.
Two days ago, when we settled into this dusty cave below the tree, we supplanted a mother red fox and her brood of kits. Or, I should say, I supplanted the foxes.
The storyteller had been so pleased to finally find the tree, he marched up the hill and embraced it in a long hug. Tying the bitch’s leash to a nearby shrub, he leaned his spears against its trunk and climbed upward with a nimbleness which shocked me.
Halfway up, he called down to where I sat sprawled in the dirt.
“There is a den of fox in the cave. Build a fire to chase them away.”
“Did the tree tell you about the fox?”
“No, the tree and I have not spoken. I can hear the kits. Can’t you?”
Once he mentioned it, I noted there was quite a bit of caterwauling emanating from the cave. Igniting dried grass and bark with my magnifying glass, I soon had a smoky fire smoldering at its mouth. In a flash, the momma and three babies darted from the cave to bound into the brush.
Following weak yips inside the dry cave, I found one of the juveniles had been left behind. The only thing to shut the milky-eyed youngster up was my last bit of dried fish. The kit held the leathery morsel with its two front paws, made contented purring noises as it mouthed it with tiny teeth.
When Gray Beard descended the tree to find his dog curled up with a baby fox, he didn’t seem surprised. Picking it up with one hand to study its eyes, he declared it was no doubt the runt of the litter. “He was too weak to flee with his family.” Producing a fat white grub from a fold in his tunic, he snapped it in half and slowly squeezed its guts into the baby’s greedy mouth.
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
The young oak never did acknowledge the old man. In one last effort, we built a roaring fire inside the cave to warm the ground and singe its roots in the way Leonglauix claimed to have done to it
s father when he was a boy.
The blaze provided no inspiration to the tree, but it did attract the notice of a Cro-Magnon hunter and his three sons. Dressed in deer-hide capes and fox fur hats, they were standing wide-eyed at the cave’s mouth when we burst from its flaming depths.
After spending half an afternoon gathering dry wood and stacking it along the wall of the cave within easy reach, we enjoyed the heat of the fire for several hours. Sprawled naked, eating baked trout and sweet berries, I was reminded of the saunas my family so enjoyed while visiting friends in Finland.
Just as my brothers and I challenged each other to see who could endure the most heat, I found myself in a sweat lodge competition with Leonglauix. Flames tickled the roof of the cave as we lounged far closer than we ought. Shuffling low out of the smoke, we took turns feeding wood to the blaze. At least the bitch had the good sense to keep as far away as possible. She and the fox panted at the back of the cave, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with humans.
I thought nothing of it when Gray Beard tossed a green pine limb onto the fire. Several minutes later, sap boiling inside the limb caused it to burst in a shower of sparks. Several of the embers landed in our reserve of firewood, which was well-toasted and apparently primed to ignite.
Efforts to halt the fire’s spread proved useless. Snatching up our belongings, I was headed outside when the old man shouldered by on his way to get his dog. There was no stopping him. Shielding his body with his leather cape, he circled around the rapidly-growing blaze to kneel by the frightened animals. Slipping the kit into a fold of his cape, he picked the bitch up in his arms and tried to carry her past the flames.
Tuscany Page 28
