Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  I reasoned if there were only two Christians on the entire planet, real ones at least, how hard would it be to stop by to say “ciao?” I followed his written directions to the letter and was rewarded with torture. Lorenzo perverted nearly every edict in the Bible, yet he continued to amass inordinate amounts of power and prestige. On the cross, I prayed and prayed, preached to the masses in good Latin. The arias I sang were the finest this earth has yet known. And still, there was no visit from the Lord. He did not whisper one word of encouragement or solace in my ear.

  If there is a God, He is one cold, calculating son of a bitch. Here I am, once again thumbing my nose, daring Him to smite me upon the spot. I don’t think He will. In the end, it comes down to what it has always came down to. If you believe, you believe. Who is to say a person of faith is wrong-minded? Just because the Holy Spirit does not reveal Himself to me does not mean He does not exist, it just means I am the same self-centered doubter who hates to be snubbed.

  I do know that prayers do come true. I have seen it happen. But whether it was just the vagaries of fate or Divine Intervention directing the dice to fall where they did, I am not wise enough to say.

  I prefer Leonglauix’s resigned acceptance that death is death. As a man who has spent the entirety of his long life in the service of others, as a healer, historian and eventually revered clan leader, he has learned much about the process. In his experience, he says, death arrives in many forms, and only rarely when you expect it. Some passings are sudden and gut-wrenching, while others stretch forward far too long. Green Turtle widows used to knock out their top two front teeth as a sign of mourning when their men died. The gray-bearded one now forbids the practice.

  Tomon believes when he and Gertie die they will be joined together up in the sky. Stars twinkling side by side on clear nights. While the thought bemuses Leonglauix, he says nothing to dissuade his nephew from his beliefs. “Why would I?” he asked last week. “If it helps him deal with the thought of losing his wife, that is his concern.”

  “Is Gertie ill?”

  “No, she is with child. Many women die in childbirth. Tomon has known since the day Gertilkgs came to his bed, she will probably die young. You have seen her narrow pelvis. They must not have been able to find roots to make the powder which prevents conception.

  “Wait until Tomon has buried as many people as I have. Ask him then if he has such a fancy notion about death. People are born and they die. My question is always this. Did they hunt well during the many hands of moons in between?”

  I am going to miss the storyteller. As a traveling companion and professor, I award him top marks.

  Dr. Duarte insists we separate from our Cro-Magnon friends for at least a year. She reasons it will give them time to settle back into their normal lives, and then allow us to gauge what, if any, impact we have made upon this civilization.

  I said my goodbyes with Leonglauix when he and Lanio slipped into town on a brief shopping trip. I didn’t expect it to be such a long separation. It will have to do.

  The blue-eyed girl seemed more nervous than ever. When I mentioned it, Leonglauix explained she had a difficult time around crowds. I imagine she really would not have enjoyed the Nice of my time. Its population was well past two million.

  Leonglauix appeared dumbstruck when I first wrapped him in a hug and thanked him for his companionship over the past few months. Though he rarely says a complimentary word, I was left with the sense that he will really miss me. I imagine my parting with Tomon and Gertie will only be 100 times worse. I shall not be writing about that, for it is far too personal.

  The leather bag of grappa calls out. “Put away your modern device and join me. The sun is out. Let us retire to the patio and bask in Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor.”

  Papa, Mamma, I hope you are proud.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “We camped right here, on this very beach. Lorenzo, Wallunda and myself. It was our first stop out of Nice.”

  Duarte: “In your journal notes, you report the two of them went mountain climbing. Was it above this beach?”

  Bolzano: “Yes. He complained that the old path dead-ended. He bragged that he was able to climb hand-over-hand the last 1,000 meters to reach the upper trail. The ascent was beyond Wallunda’s capabilities. He left her sitting in a pine tree for the better part of the afternoon. He returned satisfied with his meeting with the troops. In the end, however, it did nothing to quell a brewing feud within his ranks.”

  Duarte: “Did he mention anything about caves?”

  Bolzano: “Maybe in passing. I do not remember. Lorenzo was increasingly distracted. With God’s plans rolling non-stop through his head, he struggled to keep up with his administrative and clerical duties. Everybody wanted a piece of Lorenzo, particularly Wallunda. She was such a clinging, conniving bitch. They argued about the pine tree episode and retired early to make up.”

  Duarte: “Did he say anything else about this area?”

  Bolzano: “He said we were about to enter our native homeland. Italy. He said it was a far more beautiful place than the arid land of our youth.”

  Kaikane: “I’d say he got that part right.”

  Duarte: “Salvatore, what was it you wrote in your journal, the part about your overall impression of this earth?”

  Bolzano: “I said I have been struck by the general goodwill of mankind. These people share with each other, go out of their way to help strangers. They are more generous than the people of our time.”

  Duarte: “Do you ever feel guilty for what man will do to this earth?”

  Bolzano: “Collective guilt?”

  Duarte: “Consider the world we left; expanding deserts, melted poles, oceans polluted beyond repair, nuclear blast zones in the Middle East and Indonesia. Compare it to this green verdant world. Man’s thirst for over-consumption and altering the landscape has already begun. Think back to Firenze Camp. In just three months of steady habitation, the entire place smelled like urine and human feces. Game was scarce and food plants were stripped bare. Face it, man burns through natural resources like there is no tomorrow. It is no different now than it will be in 32,000 years.”

  Bolzano: “You are saying, your overall impression of this era is that mankind is already well on its way to destroying the earth?”

  Duarte: “Not the earth. Nothing but time can do that. It’s not really destruction, it’s about waste, about exploiting nature. Even Gray Beard, a man so attuned to the environment he communicates with trees. We’ve all seen him spear a deer just for the practice, and not take one bit of meat. According to you, Sal, the Tattoos might kill 40 or 50 animals a day just for the sport of it. I guess it makes me sad to know how the story plays out.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  After dinner, Jones and I stacked a giant pile of driftwood on the embers of the cook fire. It rages so hot, we’ve had to back up about 20 feet to escape the heat.

  Jones is off in his own world, staring into the blaze. The fire, and hauling in a few nice fish, seemed to brighten the poor guy’s mood a little. Maybe. Jones has been in a funk since Nice. He mumbles and mopes. I know it’s got to be tough traveling with those people.

  The clan’s a real problem for Maria and me. We just don’t click. At first, when we arrived, I thought they were going to hug us to death. An hour later they were ready to fill our bellies with spears.

  Jones had them camped in the pines, near the spot where Bolzano pitched his tent for Christmas. We made a pass in the kayaks, far enough out to be hard to see. Jones finally answered our call on the com line and told us where they were. These radios work for shit. We doubled back to brush-pile the kayaks a half mile down the coast. I trolled along the way and the fish were really going for my new lure. Blue feathers and a smaller hook. Bolzano was sitting, sharing a meal with Tomon and Gertie when Maria and I wandered in from the east.

  The people all jumped u
p to welcome us. Maria and I presented the stringer of fish to Tomon, thanked him for welcoming us to his camp. The willow limb strung through the gills of two dozen reef fish was warmly received. The fish were nothing but bones in 15 minutes. They chewed ’em the way we used to eat corn on the cob. Uncooked. Everybody happy as clams. They started blowing on their flutes, running around taking down tents, organizing their packs.

  The commotion brought Jones ambling uphill through the trees. He stopped when he first saw us, gave a nod and half smile. I trailed Maria as she closed the distance to lock Jones in a hug. He wore a perplexed look over the top of her head, scanning the faces of the clan members while Maria held him tight.

  “They want to be on their way,” Jones said, giving me a halfhearted handshake.

  Maria started right in with American Sign Language, explaining how we wanted to take him back to the cave. It was our first drop zone and we needed his help. She reminded him of our pact to have a big meeting. She had an agenda and everything.

  Jones countered he had no interest in seeing any more caves. He could not break his promise to Tomon. He promised the clan it could leave once Doo-art and Kaikane arrived.

  At first I thought my eyes tricked me as Maria signed her reply. “Sounds to me like you’re Tomon’s little bitch,” was my interpretation. When Jones threw his fists in the air and marched a tight circle, I gathered I wasn’t too far off.

  All packing had stopped. The wannabe traveling clan sidled in to watch the exchange. Maria was oblivious to the people. Her eyes were locked on Jones. She pouted her lips, motioned it would mean so much to her heart if Jones would spend a week on a side trip up into the mountains. The men stared at her with dreams in their eyes. The women, pure venom.

  Jones shrugged his shoulders. Waved for us to accompany him out of camp. When we were beyond earshot he spoke with a weary tone.

  “I know the area you are taking about,” he said. “Steep territory. There’s a pass that climbs above. Crests about 5,000 feet. No trails down, far as I know.”

  “Are you OK, Jones?” Maria asked as she put her hand on his forehead. Quick as a snake, he grabbed her wrist, then stopped himself. He took several deep breaths, shook his head.

  “Long way from OK. It’ll pass.”

  “What are you feeling?”

  “Duarte, you want this little trip of yours to work, you can’t ask me shit like that. No ‘How ya doings?’ or ‘Are ya feeling betters?’ Just let me be. When I have something to say, I’ll say it. Right now I need to go back and smooth this over with Tomon.”

  We spent an uneasy evening with the clan. Being stared at over a meal of chewy gazelle and not much else. We ate a few nuts and strips of dried fish from our packs. The clan refused to share with us. Bolzano tried to lighten the mood with a few songs, but nobody was in the mood.

  Later, we excused ourselves. Jones walked us through the moonlight as we searched for a spot to sleep. Although I don’t think we would have spent a night in camp with the clan, Tomon made it clear we weren’t welcome. With enough tact to let us know we shouldn’t take things too personally, he explained there was no room for additional people to sleep in this particular patch of trees. Bolzano offered to host us in his tent. We declined.

  “Why do they hate us so much?” Maria asked as we pulled up seats in sweet-smelling, low grass near the shore.

  “Tomon’s pretty good at anticipating trouble,” Jones said. “Sooner or later, those boys are going to start fighting each other to show off for you. Or, more likely, they are going to take a poke at your boyfriend. Or put a spear through him.”

  “I understand the men. I see the looks. What is it with the women? Jealousy? I’m no threat to them.”

  “Sure you are. But that’s only part of it. Don’t forget, you’re dressed in the ceremonial clothes of Gray Beard’s wife. Kaikane carries the great meteorite club and I have the atlatl. Old Time Turtles, Tomon included, are pissed Gray Beard gave away such valuable heirlooms. The old man tried to square it with Tomon back at Martinelli’s camp. He still doesn’t like it.”

  “Tough shit,” I said. “They sure have short memories. Didn’t we spend the better part of a year putting our asses on the line to rescue them? A bunch of strangers?”

  “I point it out every other day or so.”

  Maria cleared her throat in a way that means, “Let’s change the subject.”

  “What’s their biggest gripe about Nice?” she asked. “As the tour books will say, ‘Nice is nice.’”

  “This is a traveling bunch. They’re antsy, that’s all. Can you leave it at that? Fuck!”

  He stomped away, but not before confirming one last time that he saw minimal modern impact on the natives. He and the Turtles successfully engaged two Tattoo parties along the trail, wiping out both gangs of troublemakers.

  We spent a week or so hanging around Nice, including three days visiting Gray Beard and his new girlfriend up at their cave. It was good to hunt with the old man again. Hard to say goodbye.

  Once Bolzano and Maria put their heads together, they decided we should take a year off from the storyteller and the Turtles. Sounds like we’re headed south to find an island or quiet place. Sal says we’ll make some bread and wine and olive oil. Maybe we’ll start building the sailing canoe.

  As hard as it was to leave Gray Beard, it was no sweat for Maria and me to ditch Tomon and his bunch. Everybody with their fur up, giving us stink eye.

  Not so for favorite sons Sal and Jones. Lots of wailing from the natives. We left to wait by the kayaks. They were a long time coming.

  Jones paddled Maria’s kayak to the hidden beach, while she rode on the bow of mine. She lay with her head over the prow, pointing out turtles and coral heads as I enjoyed a nice view of her tight butt. We cruised more than a mile offshore to keep from spooking the natives.

  Once we reached the beach and settled in, I towed a kayak back to pick up Bolzano. When we returned, I rigged up a hook for Jones with a narrow piece of driftwood and a pair of eagle feathers. Trolling not far offshore, over a deep channel, he had barely tossed the hook into the water when a three-foot missile launched itself from the bottom to take the rig as it bounced across the surface. The tuna’s momentum carried it high into the air, its silver body flashing in the afternoon sun as it jackknifed against the line.

  Jones smiled from ear to ear as he slowly hauled in the line. It dragged the kayak around a bit, but when he finally got the fish close enough, he put a spear through its side.

  When he towed it to shore, I had another hook rigged. This one was smaller, with no float, and tied with red feathers. It’s a set-up favored by a tasty breed of rockfish common to these waters. He caught three of those ugly devils and we cooked them whole, roasting on flat rocks surrounded by hot coals. One thing I love about camping at the beach, there’s always plenty of dead wood lying around. I pointed the fact out to Maria and without missing a beat she said, “That’s erosion for ya.”

  She says a lot of things. Specifically tonight, she said I need to wrap up this chapter of “The Life and Times of Paul Kaikane.”

  How do I explain how a year filled with tragedy, death and hardship can be the best of my life? I feel like a guy who has beat all odds to win the lottery.

  Sure, I miss modern conveniences like live music, sports, surf contests, stuff like that. But, hell, I knew I was giving all that up. My life was to be swabbing decks, taking day trips ashore and running a lame-ass recreation program nobody gave a rip about.

  I never expected to have such freedom. I find myself in love with the world’s most beautiful and intelligent woman. And she loves me back. Together we are free to roam the planet. I expect we’ll do it. There’s a lot to see.

  The wildlife and scenery exceeds tenfold what Team recruiters promised. Bordeaux, Provence, Tuscany. Not a bad sweep of country to pass through. I’m sure things will toughen up once the Ice Age kicks back in, about 500 years after we’re dead and gone, but for now, Europe has had a g
ood thousand years to heal itself. I’d say it has done a good job. Wherever we go, the fishing and hunting are outstanding. On the march, there are always nuts and grubs, berries and greens to eat.

  Thanks to Gray Beard, we no longer scamper and hide from our own shadows. We travel through the darkest of woods with confidence. He’s taught us much about animal habits, how to avoid trouble and deal with it if it comes. Our time together was well spent, a graduate course in woodcraft. I remember the disgusted looks he shot our way when we snapped a stick along the trail. It was like he hated to see wasted potential. The man would have made a great wrestling coach.

  Jones is hopefully nearing the end of one of his blue spells. Bolzano’s chatter puts him on edge. Of course, when he’s like this, everything puts him on edge. At Firenze Camp, we had the old Jones back. Joking, amped up after a good fight, he got me through a tough time when Maria was banged up.

  Now, he says he needs his space, so that’s what I give him. Whatever his mood, I’m glad he’ll be along for this hike tomorrow. I hope the trail has dried out. We’re taking a lot of stuff. Too much stuff. Rope, tools, clothes, computers, food, water and even his big fish. After slow-baking through night, it will be filleted in the morning, seasoned from Maria’s pouch of spices and herbs, wrapped in fern leaves and folded into a cook bag over a bed of mushrooms. We are to have a “special” dinner tomorrow night. If he was here, Gray Beard would be quick to point out how crazy we were to carry so much crap up such a steep trail. As usual, he would be right.

  Maria said I should send a message to the people back home. If this journal ever makes it, she says I should have something wise to say. It’s hard to imagine it will, 32,000 years is a long time. I’ve been pecking away, trying to capture the moment, wondering why I bother. I know I could have done better and spent more time. I console myself by figuring Maria and Sal write enough for all four of us.