Pushing his shield forward one last time, the renegade leader leaped to his left to turn 360 degrees in the air. The shield was to be whipped in a quick circle around his body to slam into my side with substantial force. Even if it failed to knock me down, I would be disoriented long enough for the business end of his short spear to do its deadly work.
My blow was timed perfectly. I caught him in mid-pirouette. The club arced down through a narrow window between spear and shield to smash Kloick’s right shoulder to bits. The force knocked him straight to the ground. I wish I could say there were times for last words, or explanations, or that I granted him a chivalrous end. It was a mess.
Hoisting up his short spear, I danced around Kloick’s flopping body, trying to stab him in the throat or gut as he struggled to elude me. A pair of women were closing on Leonglauix. I gave up on the spear and took a mighty chop with my mace. It caught his rolling body across the hips. Stunned by the blow, he was relatively stationary for my follow-up, an overhead smash to the crown of his skull.
Turning to see Leonglauix dodging rocks thrown by the two women, I set off on a sprint. By this time, I believe I was well and truly mad. For me, the terms “killing spree” or “bloodlust” held no true meaning until this day. At the moment, I would have mowed down my own mother or father if they raised a hand against me. The Tattoo wenches glanced up at the sound of my club spinning through the air. I launched it horizontally, with such force as I ran forward, that it knocked them both to the ground.
“Rocks! Rocks? You want rocks?”
Grabbing a two-kilo river stone, I cracked their skulls open like overripe cantaloupe. Over and over. Coated in gray matter, sitting in a puddle of their blood, I slowly turned to find Leonglauix, Jok, the son and two fighters scrutinizing my mental breakdown.
The five of us, and the two tortured girls with burned feet, were the only ones to survive a battle which claimed 32 lives. As we surveyed the bloody scene, pulling crucifixes from necks, burning shields and snapping short spears over rocks, it became apparent Leonglauix had slain more than half of the Tattoos and their entourage by himself.
“They were snakes who needed to be stepped upon.” It was all the explanation he would offer.
Quite unfortunately, Esther was not included in the death toll. It appears she and at least one of her witches took flight during the fighting or before it started. Leonglauix seems unconcerned. He claims to know where they will go, and assures me we will catch them before we reach Swedsissi.
Having regained his wind following his untimely tumble, the old man has been in a fine mood. Capturing the dog pack is a major coup. The shaggy beasts represent far more fortune than the scores of bags of trade goods and dried foods we uncovered in Kloick’s hut.
Both the dogs and the goods were solemnly divvied up on the beach. Jok and his son recognized a few of the dogs and several items of value and laid claim to them. They promised to return the belongings to the appropriate clans, and I believe they will. The remainder was divided evenly between the five of us. Although I have no immediate use for six dogs, or three leather bags of Cro-Magnon treasure, Leonglauix insisted I take a full share. He is anxious to deliver the dogs to Tomon and the Green Turtle clan.
Their lust for revenge quenched, Jok and his son stated they had no desire to continue west in search of Esther. The hunter said though he dreaded the thought of returning home to break the news of his eldest boy’s death to his wife, he thought she would be appeased by the ghoulish bag of salted Tattoo faces and the rescue of her two nieces.
Gray Beard mashed several roots together to make a gray paste to dab on the girls’ blistered feet. He said they would be able to travel in one hand of days. When I prompted Jok to inquire why Esther and Kloik rolled them in the penne pasta, the scared little things said they didn’t know.
As I expected, most of the other fighters elected to turn back eastward as well. All except one. The blue-eyed girl surprised me by asking if she could travel with us. “I am good with dogs,” she said. “I work hard.” I suggested she ask Leonglauix, knowing he would say yes. The storyteller has a soft spot for pretty girls.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “This trail must lead somewhere. Let’s see.”
Kaikane: “I was just going fishing.”
Duarte: “You can fish when we come back. Come on, this will be fun.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
My fingers are frozen, but I need to do something as we wait for this ice storm to pass. No wood to make a fire inside our tiny cave. Maria is asleep, curled at my back, wrapped up in a cracked old bearskin scavenged from the rear of the cave.
Jumpsuits and warm clothes are stowed at sea level with the kayaks. Could sure use those suits now, on this supposed day-long hike. How we ended up here, clinging to the edge of a mountain, is beyond me.
It all started two days ago while we were waiting for Jones at the mouth of a peaceful little valley, in what we thought was a secure location. The cliffs were almost straight up and down. I saw no trails. I figured once Jones hailed us on the com line, we’d have him go a couple bays down and I’d bring him in by kayak.
And then a noisy clan of native stone throwers sent us running for our lives.
We had just finished taking a swim in the stream and were sunning ourselves on flat rocks when we heard them coming. Hoots and howls as they picked their way down hidden trails, flushing deer, pheasant and other game along the way.
“Those aren’t Tomon’s people,” Maria said, sitting up to listen. “Different dialect.”
Answering shouts erupted from the opposite side of the valley, along with the sounds of men and women crashing through brush. Lots of them. Maria’s brown eyes grew wide, her mouth became a little oval. The tone of those voices really hit a nerve.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, grabbing her computer and clothes and running in place as she waited for me to collect my weapons.
We sprinted down to the beach, gathered up all our cooking and sleeping stuff, just crammed everything into the holds, and shoved off as the first wave of children hit the stone beach.
Whether it was kids being kids, or if we narrowly escaped with our lives, we’ll never know. We saw them, they saw us, magic torsos, heads and gear floating in invisible boats 30 feet offshore. Without a second thought, they picked up rocks and started chucking them our way. Big ones splashing down like artillery shells, and flat skippers zinging close to our skulls. A pair of fist-sized chunks of coral bounced off the back of my boat as I swung in to shield Maria.
Kids and adults spread out along the coast flinging rocks. Even when we were well out of range, they kept right on shouting, throwing stuff, and shaking spears.
“Let’s go straight out for a while, think about what we should do,” I said.
We stroked through the calm afternoon until those assholes were the size of ants. Finally, sitting side by side, drifting in the current, we caught our breath.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Look at them all. How did you know?”
Duarte: “Know what?”
Kaikane: “They were evil. How did you know they would attack?”
Duarte: “It was just a gut reaction. Something about the way they entered the valley. So loud and careless, like they were spoiling for a fight. Did you feel it?”
Kaikane: “I felt something, but that’s not a feeling I generally run away from.”
Duarte: “Oh, Mr. Macho with his meteorite club. There’s no shame in running away from battles you can’t win. Just imagine what my life would be like if you got your brains bashed.”
Kaikane: “I’d rather not think about that, right now or ever. Look, they’re spreading out. Both ways. To see which way we go, I bet.”
Duarte: “Should we try to warn Jones? Bolzano? Tell them to steer clear of these bums?”
Kaikane: “That’s what I was thinking.�
�
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Careful not to flip the boats, we fished our jumpsuits out of the holds one at a time and put them on. The uncomfortable tingles sizzling through my body reminded me how much I hate the things.
Once we were in stealth mode, we paddled back in close. Maria dictated notes into her helmet while we sat offshore and watched them set up camp. She described the aggressive people as “robust.” They were stout all right. From what I could tell, they were mostly redheads with freckled skin. A pair of pigs were being sectioned near the smoldering embers of our fire pit. Several young women moved around the beach, setting up tents. Lots of babies tucked in leather slings.
Most kids had given up looking for ghosts and were throwing stones at pieces of driftwood floating near the beach, or were wading along the banks of the stream in search of crawfish and salamanders. Old timers sat chatting around the packs, probably talking about us.
One by one, men and sub-adults drifted back to camp. The clan had at least 30 people, and more than that many dogs. A lot of mouths to feed.
Thankfully, no wooden cross necklaces or other signs of Martinelli.
We watched for a while, calling Jones and Sal on the com line and getting no answers, then circled back northeast to see if we could head them off. When it came time to find a place to camp, each bay we paddled into was already occupied. Fires and barking dogs. We tried hailing Jones and Bolzano every few minutes. No replies. It was past dark when we hauled out on a tiny sliver of beach at the base of tall red sea cliffs. The crescent of crushed shell and coral wasn’t much longer than our two kayaks laid end to end. By the light of a near-full moon, we laid our gear out on the rocks to dry and settled in to a quiet, cold camp.
The next morning, Maria was fussing with her computer when she called me over. “Check this out.”
She had called up the drop zone map.
“There is a grade three drop zone somewhere above this stretch of coastline,” she said. “We’ve got to be really close to the future French-Italian border. When we make the jump, there will be a series of caves right up there, about 4,000 feet. Let’s go see if we can find them. Maybe we’ll get within com range of Jones or Bolzano.”
It was such a hot morning, we stowed just about everything in the kayaks, then stashed the boats in a long, well-hidden sea cave. We set off in our light Cro-Magnon gear with no idea how long and challenging our day trip would become. In the small backpack I carried only one water gourd, one salted fish, two lengths of rope and our two computers.
Using the compass and altimeters in her helmet, Maria called out the numbers to mark our progress. We climbed up higher than I thought we could, generally following the leftward crest of a jagged ridgeline up into the Maritime Alps. We were close to 3,000 feet when the sea breezes at our backs turned to chill, damp winds sweeping down off the mountain. Just like that, the clouds started swirling and thickening up.
We found a cave and ducked inside as rain began to fall. The temperature plunged. In less than an hour, rain switched to snow.
“We could make a run for it,” I said.
“It wouldn’t be safe,” she said, shaking raindrops from her head. “Besides, I don’t think this is the right cave. This tunnel slopes downward, not up, and the chamber’s not deep enough.”
We hunkered down to wait as a mix of snow, rain and sleet continued through the day. It quickly covered the narrow ridge with ice.
Fog drifted in yesterday morning. White out. We spent the day waiting for the storm to clear, huddled together inside the rank old bearskin, wishing for a pile of dry wood to burn.
At least our helmets are warm. No response to our calls over the com line. I’m sick of asking, “Jones, do you read me?”
One thing I know for sure, first chance we get, we’re climbing down off this damn mountain.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “You made it.”
Bolzano: “Yes, and you as well. Did you encounter any difficulties along the way?”
Jones: “Couple. You?”
Bolzano: “We had our share of excitement. I do not suppose you have found the time to distill some spirits since you arrived?”
Jones: “Spirits?”
Bolzano: “Booze! Hooch, wine, whiskey, cider, beer. Oh, how I need a drink.”
Jones: “Duarte’ll have your head if she catches you moonshining.”
Bolzano: “Now, there is a woman who needs a healthy slosh. She is wound far too tightly. Where are they?”
Jones: “Don’t know.”
Bolzano: “They must have arrived by now. Surely you have seen them.”
Jones: “Not yet.”
Bolzano: “But they were in the boats, they had the shortest distance to travel. Could they have been lost on the river? The Arno?”
Jones: “Negative. Saw ’em long after that. Those two kept pace with the clan up until 22 days ago. Last saw ’em around Genoa.”
Bolzano: “You mean Genova. You Americans, I swear, what is wrong with using the proper….”
Jones: “Fuck you.”
Bolzano: “Wait, come back. I was just kidding. It was a joke.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
How happy was I to find my leather tent still standing taut, overlooking the coastline of Nice? Happy enough to dance a jig with Tomon and Gertie amongst the barking dogs. Happy enough to hug Jones. Happy enough to start a batch of grappa in a greasy leather cook bag.
I descended the trail into the patch of towering, widely-spaced trees I think of as “Old Town” a full 10 days after the arrival of the grim-faced American corporal and his Green Turtle charges. The clan was headquartered in the same tent I had shared with Esther some eight months earlier and already conducting brisk trade as she did.
Our gift of 11 pack dogs was warmly received. Having already translated many of Lorenzo’s treasures into a tidy profit, the infusion of additional trade goods and canine transport means the Green Turtle clan is wealthy beyond all comprehension. Though they are quite at home in the modest economic center the natives call Swedsissi, the Turtles are anxious to continue north. They hope to reach the herds before winter sets in.
Tomon admitted proudly that the tent was one of his first purchases. He traded an ivory walrus figurine for it. How could I argue with the wisdom of that? Particularly when I found my half unoccupied and more or less the same as I left it? Evidently, the natives refrained from touching my former belongings for worry of being cursed or struck dead with a blast of lightning. Jones may have toppled all the village’s crosses. And he may be confiscating every crucifix he sees. We still have much work to do here.
Leonglauix fell ill not long before our arrival in Nice. His sniffles began as we descended the Alps toward the shimmering blue Mediterranean and the narrow plain of the Cote d’Azur. Blue-eyed Lanio tugged her dogs to the front of the pack to express her concern when a coughing fit forced him to bend at the waist. We stopped at a fork in the road, minutes from the outskirts of town.
If you can call a cluster of seven or eight permanent structures and a score of tents a town, then Nice is a town.
The storyteller summoned me close. He studied me with rheumy eyes, struggled to control his shivers.
“Find Tomon,” he gasped. “Gift him the dogs and the trade goods. Tell him to trade well. Fralista needs many things.”
“But, revered elder, why do you not tell him yourself?”
“I am sick. Lanio will take care of me. There is a place I know. I will go there until I feel better. Worry not. It is no killing sickness.”
As one who stayed home ill from classes for a record number of days during preparatory school, I recognized the classic symptoms. Hacking cough, dry sniffles, shivers. I had also called in sick to work with similar ailments. He was faking. If the old fart would rather cavort with an 18-year-old lesbian than visit his nephew
and his clan, that is his business.
“Should I tell Tomon where you are going?”
“And Doo-Art, Kaikane and Jones. They will know my location. Tell them to visit in two days. I will be better then.”
I sent them off with a nod and a wink, then felt my arm nearly ripped loose from its socket as the pack strained to follow them up the trail’s mountainside fork. Though I had taken many turns handling the pack on our traverse of the rugged Riviera coastline, the 12 dogs in my charge had never showed me one whit of respect. I was forced to wrap their central rope, a braided leather whip some five meters long, around the trunk of a birch to hold them tight while the two true alphas, Leonglauix and Lanio, marched out of sight with the bitch and her three dogs happily in tow. For an ailing man, Leonglauix set a good pace as he led his party back up into the hills.
My canine charges tugged and tugged on the birch, yet were unable to uproot it. The only dog content to remain with me was the mottled black and white female that Gray Beard had picked out for me. She sat happily by my side, setting a good example. The rest finally gave up and laid in a serpentine line. Staring with alert eyes, tongues hanging out, they provided another reminder of my days teaching history to 14-year-olds. Languid delinquents, predisposed toward testing all limits, ready to bolt given any chance.
Clearing my voice to gain their utmost attention, I fixed upon them a steely glare which said I would tolerate no further trouble. This tall male human was now the dominant pack leader. Upon unwrapping the leather rope and finding the dogs content to stick by my side, for the time being at least, I did what I did when I was teaching and the kids did something particularly pleasant. I sang a song.
“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,
Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond.
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae
On the bonnie, bonnie banks O' Loch Lomond.
Tuscany Page 33
