“The snow piled high and did not melt. I spent the winter with the clan, learning how to break holes in pond ice to catch eels with a weighted net, and how to pull from the river sturgeon fish bigger than three men laid end to end.
“The clan quickly accepted me as one of its own. I was a helpful boy, raised with manners. I knew to listen and not interrupt. Men and women told me I was ‘like a son’ when I spent the night in their huts laying with their daughters. The next summer I bet no less than four children were born to the Fish-Eater Clan with the same black hair and eye color as mine.
“When it came time to depart, the clan’s leader offered to accept me into the clan. He took me for a walk along the riverbank. For a short man, he had long arms. He said the Fish-Eater Clan was the greatest of all clans and I should consider it an honor to be asked to join. I replied I was honored, but had given my word to my father I would return. ‘At least wait for the smelt to run,’ he said. So I did.
“The smelt filled the clan’s nets to bursting as we hauled the silver fish ashore to roll them in sea salt and stack them on cedar racks over smoky fires. It was hard work.
“When it came time for me to leave, the elder once again took me for a walk along the river. ‘I will show you the source of this clan’s power, its history. Once you see that, if you still want to leave, I will not ask again. ‘This place I will show you, it is a secret. You must not tell another human about what you will see. Do you agree?
“The clan’s secret place was great indeed. There is nothing else like it in all the land. My promise prevents me from describing it to you. Trust me when I say it was beyond belief.
“As impressed as I was with the people and their warm huts and their great power source, a promise to my father was a promise I could not break. I said goodbye to the clan and never traveled so far north again.”
“I would like to return to see if the clan lives by the river still. If you would like to go, I will take you there. If they will show you their secret, it is something you should see.
“I can tell from your faces, you will not break your promise to your clan. It is a decision I understand. I have made the same choice myself. And I see from Lanio’s face, this story disappoints her. She prefers tales about women from the sea who save babies from drowning. Let me have a piss and a drink from the brook, then I will tell you one of those.”
We left him the next morning with tears in our eyes. Keeping his arms crossed as I wrapped him in a tight hug, he whispered, “Travel well. My daughter.”
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “That didn’t go very well, did it?”
Duarte: “Can’t talk right now.”
Kaikane: “What is it, babe, you OK?”
Duarte: “Just leave me alone for a while.”
Kaikane: “Are you crying?”
Duarte: “Let me be.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Sequestered in my comfortable tent, I struggle to put a wise and insightful end to this electronic journal.
There is no hurry. Tent flaps are pulled tight against squalls gusting off the frothy sea. A summer storm thundered in from the south last night. Its wind and rain show no sign of abatement. Tomon and Gertie are under orders to respect my privacy. I imagine they are holed up in a dry spot doing leatherwork or grinding herbs. Those two keep forever busy.
Dr. Duarte, Spc. Kaikane and Cpl. Jones left yesterday morning to pay a visit to Leonglauix. I take it he has a cave up in the hills somewhere.
How I miss telephones. It would be so convenient to ring them up to see what they are doing and when they will return. Rather, we must rely on the laws of probability and common sense. They will return when they return, most likely after the rain stops and it is safe to travel. I am certain they will not dally. The good doctor is quite anxious to show off her Neanderthal cave.
My only companion is a black and white female dog of about 25 kilos in weight. As she continues to show signs of accepting me as master, I have elected to name her “Izzy” in honor of my crazy aunt Isabella. They have the same unruly hair.
Now that is insightful. Par for the course, I am afraid.
Having re-read this odd collection of missives from start to finish over the past few days, I find it an embarrassing cross between scientific treatise and personal diary. If these files somehow survive the millennia, I do hope those who read them will not judge my effort too unkindly.
It has been a year like no other. Shipwrecked out of time and place, Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano has survived more hardship than he ever thought possible. Despite the physical scars, primarily feet which ache in the damp and cold, I believe I have emerged a better man. It is not much of a boast. How hard is it to improve on a lazy thief whose primary goal in life was never to miss a meal?
I arrived to this primitive time as a modern man with modern tastes. Lust, greed, power, glory. I was intent on making a name for myself, on wiping the disappointment from my parents’ faces. How many exiles have yearned to make their family proud?
I now share a bond with friends far stronger than the thin glue which held the Bolzano clan together. We have been to war, fought to keep each other alive. The intensity of those challenges far outstrips the bonds of attending the opera and gossiping about the help. Each day, my memories grow dimmer of Mamma and Papa and my siblings, of the vibrant city streets of Milano, of my gambling friends and favorite prostitutes, of all the excesses which I thought made my life complete.
Videophones, fine wine, crispy Belgian chocolate wafers, mattresses, Cook’s creamy risotto, there are one million things I could pine for if I let myself. It took the longest trip in the history of mankind to open my eyes. I have finally learned to appreciate what I do have, and to not fret about what I do not.
The cynic inside me asks, “What choice do I have?” The answer is obvious. I can choose to be content and be happy, or I can yearn for the impossible. Papa would call it “settling.” But Papa never went nose-to-snout with an alpha wolf, or survived on grubs and berries for weeks at a time.
The thought of Papa navigating his way through this wild environment brings a smile to my face. With his bushy mustache, puce ascot and ever-present nicotine tube, he would be as out of place as a fifth leg on a racehorse. I am sure he would find it all too noisy and dirty and disorganized. “What you need to do is paint numbers on those dogs so you can tell them apart,” he would say. Papa was never shy about offering advice, even when he hadn’t the foggiest notion of what he was speaking.
There will be no visits from Father, or calls from him on the phone. It is a blessing. He had a way of truncating our conversations which forced me to concentrate on the single most important nugget I wanted to share. I would arrive home after one adventure or another, excited to tell him all about it. “I don’t have time to listen to one of your long tales,” he would cut me off. “Tell me one thing. The most important part. You have five minutes.”
I accepted Father’s restrictions without complaint. Many parents of those times would not pause one second to listen to their children’s ramblings. Everyone was so busy, so preoccupied with “staying connected.” Besides showing me he considered his pastimes and chatting with his friends more important than listening to his son, he taught me to distill my thoughts down to pure essence. Six minutes is not five minutes. Many a story was ended midway, like jokes that never reached their punch lines.
A journalist friend who was in group therapy with me called it the “inverted pyramid.” He said writers are taught to load all the important details into the headlines and opening paragraphs of their stories. He said readers rarely lingered long enough to reach the end. That was Papa. Snapping shut his ancient fob watch at exactly five minutes, he would point me to the door.
I wonder, would he listen to me now? If I were granted the standard five minutes, with the same proviso to relate only one overriding impression of this epoch, I
would tell Papa how gratifying it has been to experience the basic goodness of mankind. I am sure he would prefer to hear about the pristine environment, or how the giant mega-fauna shake the ground itself as they roam the earth. He may even prefer a rundown of my religious exploits and final acceptance of what I do and do not believe. That would be tough linguini for Papa.
As I sit in this watertight leather tent, far better constructed than any anthropologist of my time would have dared dream, my mind drifts back to how Tomon and Gertie risked their lives to drip liquids into my mouth as I hung dying on the cross. A more loyal pair of friends will never be found. When my feet were burned and broken, I remember the concern shown by my Porters as they gingerly carried me over the worst of terrain, struggling to keep up with Lorenzo lest I be punished again.
Apart from the barbarity of the Tattoos, and of course Lorenzo’s fanatical meddling, I have found this earth to be populated by people who share generally the same common needs and goals. They are social animals, with cravings that go far beyond just food, shelter, procreation and safety. They enjoy pretty things and well-made tools. Great value is placed on entertainment and news from the trail. Family relationships extend beyond bloodlines to form tightly knit clans that are intensely loyal. This is also true for Neanderthal, though that branch of mankind mixes with Cro-Magnon no better than oil does with water.
While the differences between Neanderthal and the usurper Cro-Magnon are great indeed, the separations between Cro-Magnon and what we consider Modern Man are rather slight. The natives I have met are a welcoming and resilient people. They are crafty, quite adept at surviving in an environment intent every day on striking them dead.
Traveling this land more or less non-stop for 12 months, I have encountered native characters of every shape, size and intelligence. Everyone from toothless ancients wrinkled as prunes to robust hunters like Jok and his sons. Once again, setting aside the Tattoos and a few other spoilsports, I believe every native person whom I have had the opportunity to know has basically been good at heart. People of this time are quite giving, both of their time and their possessions.
I am reminded of a misty night in the foothills of the Appennino when Leonglauix and I followed the light of a bonfire to find five natives crouching down to dine on two skinny rabbits. Though we assured them we had eaten along the trail, the clan would not relent until we each had more than our share of charred, stringy meat. Countless times I have witnessed good deeds performed, simple acts of courtesy extended, without one gram of ulterior motive involved. If someone needs help lifting a deer carcass over a fallen tree, you help them lift it.
Life is precious. Mankind is precious. Compared to the crowded world we left behind–nine billion souls migrating toward the poles, pushing and shoving for water, fighting for free space–the Paleolithic is a place where meeting a stranger is minor cause for celebration. There is water aplenty. Open spaces abound. What natives thirst for is information. They seek entertainment.
I am sure Leonglauix and I were considered rude during our rush to the west. Many times, we left inquisitive, welcoming clans scratching their heads when we departed after exchanging only the barest of courtesies. Women were often busily unpacking food bags, adding glowing embers to hastily gathered teepees of kindling wood. They looked up in surprise as we begged our leave. Leonglauix decided early on, we could not perform our entire horse and pony show for every clan we met. The trip would have taken months if we spent the requisite one to three days a proper visit takes.
Ironically, Leonglauix says a visit with strangers should never extend past three days. By then, if bloodlines are to be exchanged, it will have happened. The new and old stories will have been told and retold enough times so people will remember. Three days is plenty time to conduct trade. “Nothing good happens after three days of sitting around talking,” the storyteller said one day as we walked along a muddy trail. It reminded me of Papa’s age-old axiom. “Guests are like fish. After three days they begin to smell.”
We granted most travelers, at least those not headed in our direction, less than 15 minutes of chit-chat, just long enough share the headlines of current events and, of course, ascertain if they had contact with Lorenzo’s unholy army. Those sans crosses, shields and stories of glowing men and disappearing women were passed by with our most humble apologies.
I devised a highly edited version of the anti-Lorenzo fable, the two-minute version, which we shared at the conclusion of our brief visits. In short, we warned the clans to beware of Tattoo troublemakers, and to be on guard, as many of the Tattoo battles were won by surprise attack. We also instructed travelers not to believe every story they heard.
“There was an evil man, a chronic masturbator, who caused all sorts of mischief before members of the Green Turtle clan struck him down in revenge. A few of the man’s followers escaped the Turtles. They make great claims about this man’s powers and abilities. Lies. Made up stories. If you ever hear these tales, see if they sound true to you!
“The man and his clan were nothing more than thieves, rapists and murders. Do not be like that. Take care of each other. Travel well.”
These people have a true gift at memorization. The spoken word is still oh so very powerful to them. That is not to say every Cro-Magnon is a genius. Far from it. Each clan has its imbeciles and its laggards. There are usually one or two sharpies running the show. They soak in information like sponges and disgorge it just as quickly. Around this type of folk, I must be careful what I say and how I say it.
Lorenzo took such a ham-fisted approach to bringing modern religion to this world. If he had trained storytellers to roam the earth spreading God’s word, he may have actually accomplished his goal. Instead, he sought his own power and glory.
I recognized the possibilities rather early on. It would be a lie to deny it. During the heyday of Lorenzo’s ascent, I did consider joining him in his ministry. He offered the prospect of sainthood, a powerful lure. What Roman Catholic parents would not be impressed by that?
My conversion was stalled by the sergeant’s harsh methods. I dragged my feet waiting for a word from God. I reasoned, if He was speaking to Lorenzo, surely He would pay me a visit as well.
What ineffectual clods Andre and I were. Why did I not just pick up a rock and bash Lorenzo’s brains when he was not looking? What klutzes we were in the wake of those waves. Fish out of water. I imagine if there was indeed a Christian overthrow planned by Team infiltrators, cooler, calmer heads would have been in charge of the missionary campaign. Perhaps the waves were a message from God after all. A message which said, “Stop mucking around with my Grand Plan.”
God. My lifelong relationship with Him has been checkered indeed. Raised by parents who covered their religious bases, I was brought up to be a devout altar boy. As a parochial school student, I knew the birthdays of all the saints and all the popes. One summer day, I believe I was 12, I decided I no longer accepted any of it. It was as if a glow sphere switch was turned off. One moment I believed, and the next I did not.
To be honest, my atheistic awakening had as much to do with my 12-year-old self-absorption as it did with the scientific books I had been reading. I reasoned, if God was too preoccupied causing droughts, war and famine to speak to me, or anyone else with audio and video recording equipment during the past three hundred years, then he was probably as invented as Darwin claimed he was.
My prayers turned dark, and my actions even darker. I tested Him to see if He would strike me dead for my sins. I think I have always had a bit of a death wish. I began stealing from my family and extorting the help. Pilfering the priest’s fat wallet on my last day as altar boy caused a high which lasted weeks. What was a poor man of God doing with so much cash? I hopped a train to Zurich and spent his money on a pair of Belgian whores.
As a family friend, Cardinal Sellaro must have been well aware of my transgressions. He had been taking Father’s confessions for years. No common priest was good enough for Papa. Yet the Ca
rdinal saw fit to imbed me on The Team. Was it just a favor to Papa, or did Sellaro entertain hopes I would regain my Catholicism once the coup was completed? He probably felt I would lean whichever direction the wind blew. Maybe that is what the Cardinal meant when he overrode my long-ago concerns by telling me I was “adaptable.”
And then, on the other hand, perhaps I was inserted to counterbalance Lorenzo. The cold-blooded assassin with one last job for the Church, paired with the thief who had never intentionally physically harmed another human in his life. Yin and yang, with misunderstood Andre squarely in the middle. If the Cardinal expected Cpl. Andre Amacapane to reclaim his religious upbringing, he was sorely mistaken.
Dr. Duarte and I have both written exhaustive studies concerning Cro-Magnon beliefs, practices and traditions. There is no need to plow that field once more. The conclusions are obvious. Death is a scary business.
Mankind will spend the next 32,000 years struggling to accept one simple fact: life is finite. It will be no closer to understanding that in the year 2300 than it is now, a time when women sew hazelnuts under the eyelids of fallen warriors so they will see to hunt in the next life. Over the next 32,000 years people will devise many ways to deny death, and to try to explain it away.
It was along the Loire River, not long after Lorenzo’s mighty fire, when I decided to give Christianity one last try. “Who cares if Jesus Christ won’t be born for another 30,000 years,” I said. “I am a Christian.”
Refusing to be swept up in Lorenzo’s orgy of blood and excess, I set my sights on being what I always imagined a good Christian should be. Kind and generous. Honest and pure-hearted. Over the next two months I did my best to live by the Ten Commandments. I no longer pretended to pray during Lorenzo’s sermons, but really closed my eyes and went to work asking for God’s forgiveness.
The Big Guy kept up his running dialogue within Lorenzo’s skull, guiding him safely through one ill-conceived misadventure after the next, but He never once paused to speak to me. I found myself back at the same crossroads I faced when I was a 12-year-old boy. True, I was more mature and much less self-centered than I was as a lad, however, God’s continued non-communication struck the same nerve.
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