Duarte: “I understand the point Sal is trying to make. We discussed this in length during planning. We even tried putting monitors out early just to see if there were any blips. They picked up nothing. I really don’t know what to think.”
Jones: “Whoa, now, look who’s coming up the trail.”
Duarte: “Leonglauix? What the heck is he doing here?”
Kaikane: “How did he find us?”
Bolzano: “Looks like he has a gift for you, Doctor. What is it, a new moon calendar?”
Duarte: “Oh, my goodness. This changes everything.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
We were forced to exhume this computer to add one last entry. Our associate Mr. Leonglauix, the one we call Gray Beard, arrived this afternoon to throw a proverbial monkey wrench into the works.
Somehow, the storyteller tracked us to our remote mountain camp. He walked from the trees as we were finishing our lunch. We were discussing how to collapse the mouth of the cave to seal it from wanderers and thieves when the old man shuffled silently into our midst. Jones said something like “Hey, look who the cat dragged in.” I turned and there he was.
Surprise. Shock. I think the things I felt most were relief and happiness. As I struggled to find the proper words to welcome him, he thrust a petrified whale tooth into my hands. “Take. Look.”
Etched in the surface of the tooth were 17 wavy lines which snatched my breath away. I handed the tooth to Bolzano and sat down on a rock.
“It’s a ship,” he said, tossing it to Paul.
“Not ours,” Paul said.
Jones studied it for a moment then said, “Newer model.”
I instructed the boys to keep Leonglauix occupied while I retreated to the privacy of the cave. Placing the tooth on the corner of my computer, I began searching. Though I already knew the answer, I had to make sure.
Leonglauix’s scrimshaw image was an accurate representation of the starboard side of “Einstein IV,” The Team’s next ocean-going timeship. They did attempt a rescue. This changed everything.
Tucking the computer into my pack, I returned to find the men standing in a circle, taking turns dipping their fingers into the stew pot. In Green Turtle dialect, I welcomed my father to the camp, and asked him to forgive my poor manners.
Cro-Magnons consider it coarse to get right to the point of a conversation. It is a rude person who ignores the niceties. We took care of the small talk first. When I asked about the health of Lanio, Gray Beard said she was feeling better now that she was rid of the dogs.
“Did she trade them to Kolettelena?”
“No, she gave the dogs to Tomon for a few pretty things. She made a bad deal.”
“Where is she?”
“Down at the beach with my dog. And Bald-zano’s dog. Izzy. We found your fire. I see now why your tracks uphill were so deep. Easy to follow. Look at all the gear you carried. Did I teach you nothing?”
He pretended to be disgusted as he roamed the camp inspecting the quality of our ropes and the size of our cook bag.
“You could feed two clans from this,” he tsk-tsked with a twinkle in his eye.
When enough small talk had passed, I motioned for him to join us by the fire.
“Father, please tell us about this design on the tooth.”
“I tried to tell you once. You did not listen.” The statement wasn’t expressed in anger. Just matter-of-factly.
“Was this the secret of the Fish Eating Clan?”
“Fish-Eaters,” he corrected me. “Yes. You were not interested. This is what I remember of their secret place. I carved it after you left. I do not like to break a trust. You must never tell anyone.”
We all nodded our assent before Leonglauix would continue. He said the strange hut was half-buried on a gravel embankment along the mighty river’s shore. Its sides were harder than wood, and softer than stone. It made a hollow sound like a drum which could be heard over the hills when it was thumped by clubs.
The Fish-Eater leader swore to Leonglauix that a strange race of people once called the place home. Tall and hairless, speaking a strange dialect, the strangers were so afraid of the clan’s people, they were, at first, quite dangerous to be around.
Over time, the Fish-Eaters and the strangers became cordial neighbors. They shared the stretch of river in peace, celebrated portentous days on the moon calendar together, and even joined forces to fight off pesky groups of marauders from the south.
“Father, would you lead us to this place?”
“Of course. I promised the Fish-Eaters I would bring you.”
“You have spoken with the northern clan?”
“Not since the winter long ago, during the journey I made when I was a young man.”
“How then, could you promise to bring to them people you did not yet know?”
“The strangers told the Fish-Eaters. They said more of their clanspeople were sure to be looking for them. You are from the same faraway clan, are you not?”
“What if we are?”
“Then you should go check on them. They may need your help, or they may have left something of value for your clan.”
Our plans have taken a 180-degree turn. We are headed north.
THE END
Author’s Note:
Imagine our joy five months ago when another radioactive transmission was triggered along another border. I won’t tell you where, but will say the host governments were far more efficient in processing our papers and allowing work to commence than the Italians and French had been on our first go around. The cooperation is not unexpected. Everyone wants a piece of the pie.
Once again, a solo computer was recovered, along with a minor cache of Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon artifacts. No treasure.
I have read the preliminary transcripts and all I can say is, the adventure continues. Future portions of The Team journals will be published in chronological order. The compilation and editing of the next installment, “30,000 BC: Gibraltar”, is well underway.
Before closing, I must report on efforts to locate and speak to the infamous Cardinal Sellaro, the man who allegedly smuggled Martinelli, Bolzano and Amacapane onto The Team. In light of his alleged involvement in the assassination of the Italian president, I have not been the only one looking. Put simply, the Church has either done an amazing job of covering his tracks, or the man does not exist. There are no records of a Cardinal Sellaro in Milan or anywhere else.
The debate in the staff room orbits around several questions. Was Sellaro an alias, or was his very existence wiped from the threads of time? If Martinelli had been allowed to bury his treasures in the family crypt, would that have changed things? Was Sellaro’s family deprived of wealth, and thus, the tools which made such a high station in the Church possible?
As Capt. Jones may have said, “That’s some heavy shit, man.”
This book is dedicated to the memory of a real life Gray Beard, my father, Clarence M. Thayer.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Mammoth-sized thanks to editor Kelsey Sadler, artist Darko Tomic and web guru Joe Ferguson for helping move this project forward. Their efforts are much appreciated. Thank you also to my wife Kelly, daughter Andrea and eagle-eyed readers Frank Hackett, Cindy Moorhead, Dr. Diane Shepherd, Lindsay Alexander and Kathleen Bick. Big mahalos to the rest of “The Focus Group,” including Kathy DePalma, Makena Gadient and Andrew Jacoby.
Mahalo nui loa,
Matthew Thayer
Credit: The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond is a Scottish folk song which dates back to the 1700s. It was first published in 1841 in Vocal Melodies of Scotland.
Available 2013: Book Three of the series,
30,000 B.C. CHRONICLES:GIBRALTAR
-webkit-filter: grayscale(100%); -moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
Tuscany Page 40
