Though we’re still in the short days of winter, the weather is unseasonably warm and dry. Like us, the storyteller was dressed in travel attire: leather leggings and shirt, waterproofed moccasins and a light waxed-leather cape. Not until the sun went down did we need to wrap ourselves in our sleeping furs and seek the comfort of a fire.
We spent the first night camped between a pair of granite boulders in a scree of hillside rubble. We chose the spot due to its proximity to a copse of white birch and willow where a freshwater spring bubbles up out of the ground. The spring feeds a meandering creek that trickles down the north-facing flank of a forested volcanic hill roughly halfway between Rome and our destination.
Gray Beard liked the looks of the creek as we leaped over it in late afternoon. Turning uphill, he led us on a half-hour trudge to the tiny waterway’s source. Sniffing out good drinking water and safe places to sleep are two of the old man’s specialties.
While he would have been content dining on the meager contents of his gathering bag, we’ve convinced him through the years to allow us to enjoy a few creature comforts on the trail. He thinks it’s crazy to tote non-essential items, especially food and utensils. That is not the Green Turtle way. In his opinion, when traveling fast, all a man needs are his clothes, weapons and a few key tools and spools of twine carried in a small leather scrip tied around his waist. Everything else can either be gathered, made when required or done without.
Obviously, the saying, “It’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” hasn’t caught on in the Paleolithic. At Stanford we called it the “Brown Rule,” in honor of professor Michael Brown. The biologist had a maxim for just about every situation–and a stable of willing undergraduates to carry his crap.
As the sun dipped low in the February sky, we made camp. Once enough firewood was gathered to last the night, Paul set to building fires to guard the approaches between the boulders, while the old man and I harvested armloads of ferns to cushion our beds. Not until the fires were lit and beds stacked high did the three of us walk together through the dusk to the headwaters of the spring to wash and drink our fill of fresh sweet water.
We also filled our leather cook bag halfway. Gray Beard may scoff at our heavy packs, but that didn’t stop him from gorging on the stew we made from salted fish, dried mushrooms, garlic cloves, truffles and two handfuls of local swamp tubers that look similar to yellow radishes, but taste like starchy Okinawan sweet potatoes.
Few things are more satisfying than a warm meal after a day on the trail. Served steaming in turtle shell bowls and sprinkled with my latest combination of dried herbs, the fish stew hit the spot.
Near the end of dinner, I asked the storyteller to again describe how he bred the line of dogs that produced the bitch. Unlike some legends that are set in stone, this particular yarn seems to change with every telling. The old man made us wait as he wandered to the other side of the firelight to relieve himself and stretch his back by raising his arms over his head.
Returning, he squatted by the central fire and poked its embers with a stick. “Do you want the real story, or do you want a good story?”
“The real one,” I said.
“Are you sure? A good story is better for your dreams.”
“Tell us what really happened, wise Father. Please.”
Listen and I will tell you a story.
Forget the other accounts you have heard about how I came by my special dog. I didn’t breed the bitch. I stole her as a pup from a man who had the poor sense to brag how smart she was.
My clan was strong then. I led four hands of Green Turtle men and four hands of women. We had many children and a string of healthy but ignorant pack dogs. I do not think of myself as old now, though I know I have more moons behind me than in front. In those days, back when I stole the dog, I was young and strong. I swam rivers for fun, hunted all day and rutted all night. I had a good wife who was a shaman and healer. She bore me children who listened and did not speak out of turn.
Apart from being small-minded and afraid to explore new territory, the people of my clan were some of the best. The Green Turtles were organized, dependable and hardworking. I taught them to hunt smart as well as with courage, which meant we had fewer injuries and accidental deaths. Other clans respected us. It was an honor to be allowed to camp near the Turtles.
They also feared us. Even the warrior Tattoos knew we fought as a pack and our women were just as deadly with a spear as the men. We protected each other. Ambush one Turtle and you’re soon facing a hand of hands of Turtles. Our weapon makers made spears that flew straight. The heads of our clubs did not fly off when we hit an enemy in battle.
Why was I not content following the herds and seasons around the motherland? The Green Turtle Clan had the respect of man and animal alike. Wolves and cats feared the sound of our flutes, knew it meant the Green Turtles and their spears were coming. Danger! Run!
Only outside clans who did not know the Turtles, and once in a while the Tattoos, dared make war on our clan. We had better weapons and better tactics. Our scouts knew they were going to make trouble even before they did. We were always ready with an ambush and counterattack. What fun we had!
And then one morning the sun rose and called to me. It said, “Come east to a new land.” My clan did not want to go, but I was leader. I promised the men good hunting and the women good gathering. East we went. Leaving the southern-bound herds and clans, we traveled through the time of falling leaves and shortening days. We crossed many streams and rivers, each one colder and deeper than the last, until we were forced to stop at the wide and mighty Rhine.
My people, even my wife, who should have known better, thought I had given up when I said we would build a winter camp. They built a camp and stored wood for a hand of moons, then moaned and cried when I ordered the trek to continue once the ice was thick enough to cross.
You’re asking yourself what this has to do with stealing a dog. Am I right? Of course I am, I’m a great storyteller. I know what everyone thinks and wants. What you two want is for me to get to the dog. I told you this was not a very interesting story.
On the sunrise side of the Rhine we covered much ground on the frozen rivers and through bare forests of tall larch, oak and beech before the spring thaw and bloom. We met many new clans and learned many new things along the way. The eastern people wore different clothes and though they spoke in different dialects, we got by fine with hand sign and pantomime. Some of their tools were better than those of the Green Turtles and some not as good.
By summer, keeping to the flat lands, skirting the northern edge of rolling hill country, every morning setting out for the rising sun, we had traveled farther to the east than any Green Turtle had before. I was very happy. All my life I wondered what was to the east. Now I was finding out.
My clan and wife were not happy. Each river we crossed made them mutter and complain. Every little hill we climbed was a mountain. The only Turtle enjoying the new views, tastes and experiences was me. I wished to keep going forever.
And then we met the man with the dog. He was leader of a large clan of large people. The Turtles appeared small when standing next to them. They were as tall as you are, maybe as tall as Bolzano. We met them in the middle of a wide plain where wildfire had burned away the trees as far as we could see. There was nothing but waving grass and many, many herds of many, many animals. Mammoth, aurochs, rhino, camel, bison, gazelle, deer, goat, pig and too many hands of other animals to list, all in grass no higher than my waist. The days were so long it never really got dark. I tell you true, I have never seen better hunting before or since.
The man’s name was Porqt. He was leader of the Tall People clan. Smoke from the Tall People’s cook fires led us to where they were setting up camp for the night along a small river. A thunderstorm was moving in from the south as I entered camp with my sons to introduce ourselves and let them know we would be camping nearby. The women led me to Porqt. His clan was head
ed west and mine was headed east. I was happy to hear that he spoke fine trade dialect. We had much news to share.
He and I traded news about the weather, hunting, trading and river crossings. My hungry sons watched while he and I ate a simple meal of burnt deer and berries. The rest of my clan was not invited into camp. The Tall People were not unfriendly or friendly. Porqt and his people had never heard of the Green Turtle Clan. They did not respect us the way clans in the motherland did. We were traveling light and did not have much to trade. Maybe this is why they paid us so little attention. Some Turtles would have liked to rut with the Tall People and hear their stories. Porqt’s clan was not interested.
After I had given him my words, he gave me his. The east held more of the same–more flat land, rich gathering and excellent hunting. In one hand of days of hard walking, he said, we would leave the grass and enter a great forest. If we kept walking every day until the shortest day of winter, we would reach a line of mountains running north to south.
“And there you will probably freeze to death,” he said. “It is cold and the snow drifts higher than a hand of men. There is only one reason for you to go east. You seem like a decent man, I’ll tell you why.”
Turning away from me, the clan leader shouted for one of his wives to bring something. She arrived by the fire carrying a puppy wrapped in a fur blanket.
“Look at her! Isn’t she beautiful? I know dogs and this one is already the smartest I’ve ever seen. Watch this.”
Porqt signaled his wife to set the puppy on the ground while he made a kissing noise with his mouth. Unleashed as it was, I expected the pup to run away. She didn’t. She followed the sound of the man’s kisses to run and jump on his lap. He fed her a piece of deer and she licked his face. I had never seen such a thing. No Turtle let a dog near their face. That’s how you get bit.
“There is a clan to the east that breeds these dogs. Tribes travel years to trade for the few pups they let go each year. Back home, I have a male from that clan. I plan to mate them. In time, my clan will have the best string of dogs in the fatherland.”
I did not hear another word he said. I was busy thinking how I was going to steal that dog. Before my face could give away my evil intentions, I thanked him for the food and news, wished him good hunting in the west and left with my boys to find our people.
The next morning, I told the Green Turtles they were done traveling east. It was time to make a fast run back to the west. “Are you ready to run as fast as deer and as long as wolves?” “Yes, yes, yes!” The news made them very happy.
I sent the women, children, elders and junior hunters ahead with orders to travel hard toward the setting sun. The four men I held back were my best and fastest hunters. We shadowed Porqt’s Tall People for a hand of days as they traveled southwest. It did not surprise me they were not headed in the direction he said they would. I lied a little, he lied a little, that is how it is done with strangers.
I waited for them to enter the hill country and for the moon to be nearly full. I watched and learned their habits. The puppy was carried on the trail in a papoose on the wife’s back. Every evening, as the sun dipped low, the Tall People stopped beside a stream or lake. The women made camp and the men hunted for meat. It was a slow way to travel. Like you two, they preferred to cook their food and carried far more than they needed.
While his people were busy each evening, Porqt took the dog from his wife and played with her. He was teaching her to sit and stay. I snuck into camp on the fifth evening. So quiet was I, no dog heard me. So stealthy was I, no Tall Person saw me. Porqt turned his eyes and ears toward the sound of a rock hitting a tree. When he turned back to continue teaching his dog, she was gone.
I expected Porqt to think an owl or silent wolf snatched away his smart little dog. Or, that she ran away. I was wrong. The big man found my tracks in an instant and sounded the alarm. What a fun chase they gave us! The Tall People may be bigger than the Green Turtles, but they’re not as fast. My men and I led them in loops through the hills for two days before doubling back one final time and running hard for the plains. We picked up the trail of our clan and followed it west.
We caught up to the others and scared them with stories of the bloodthirsty Tall People. “We must run for the Rhine. The Tall People are chasing us!” What is it about being chased that makes the heart beat fast and the mind become alert? My people galloped through day and night like reindeer. When we reached the Rhine, they barely stopped to bind fallen trees together to make the dangerous crossing.
You know the rest. That puppy grew into the best dog I ever saw or heard of. You traveled and hunted with the bitch, you know my words are true. We could sleep through the night knowing her ears protected us. She did not try to rub her packs off on trees, or bite people I did not want her to bite. Did she not save the life of Jones when he broke his back? If, tomorrow, I can trade for a dog like that, I will be happy.
Now, if you are done with your questions, it is time for a man to rest. May you both fly in your dreams.
Within minutes of curling up on his bed of ferns and covering himself with the fur blanket we brought for him, the storyteller fell fast asleep. His steady breathing blended with the winter night sounds of hooting owl, howling wolves, darting bats and the screeches of female wildcats in heat. As the fires withered to wavery red embers and the camp grew dark, the Milky Way slowly came into view between the boulders. Resting on our backs, snug under a layer of warm furs, we lost ourselves in the smudge of white splashed across the clear night sky. Jupiter and Mars had not yet ascended into view, nor the moon. Our night eyes took in the colors and pulses of far-off galaxies and stars.
I thought Paul had drifted off to sleep until his hand slid inside my tunic to rest on the bare skin of my belly. Fingertips light as feathers traced a line down my abdomen to the top of my leather trousers as he sighed, “I’ve missed you.” In answer, I snuggled close for a long, soulful smooch.
Cupping me in his arms, he covered me with soft butterfly kisses and electrifying love bites. Swirling a tongue around my ear, he moaned, “I love you Maria. I love you so damn much it hurts.”
I yielded completely as his mouth worked its way from my face, down my neck to my swollen breasts. Sucking my nipples, gently biting, he reached down to untie the leather thong cinching my pants. Reaching inside, he drew a tingling line along my inner thigh. Sliding his fingers tantalizingly, frustratingly close to the warmth between my legs he sketched the triangle of my pubis, stopping occasionally to lightly pull hairs at the corners in a way that made me gasp at the pleasure and pain.
Helping me out of my leathers, he kissed his way down my abdomen until his beautiful head settled between my thighs. Though my experience with cunnilingus is limited, I have never been with a man as proficient as my husband. He knows just what brings me off, how to grant me orgasms that make me writhe uncontrollably.
He’s never in a hurry as he starts circling my clitoris with his tongue. He’ll take me to the edge then stop a few times to ratchet my pleasure up and up until the release is like a rocket to the Milky Way.
On this night, while sucking and swirling his tongue, he inserted an index finger at just the right moment to press against my Grafenberg spot. My climax was electric, a wonderful throb that pulsated throughout my body for a full minute or longer. I closed my eyes and savored it. Paul knows how sensitive I become after such release. With soft, airy kisses he worked his way back to my neck. As my breathing returned to normal, he slipped out of the covers to stand in the chill night air, loosen his leathers and let them drop. I stole a glance to make sure Gray Beard was still asleep as Paul straddled my hips and slowly began feeding his manhood inside me.
Still giving me time to recover, he teased by only inserting the tip, sliding the head of his large, rock-hard penis barely in and out. Slowly, too slowly, he fed me more, teasing me inch after inch until I had what I craved, what I required, him buried to the hilt and pounding me hard.
T
hough exhibitionism has never been my thing, wandering off to find a secluded place to fornicate is a good way to get mauled by a bear or panther. The fact that Gray Beard could wake and catch us in the act neither tantalized nor worried me. He’s caught us before. We survived and so did he.
The last time I was really embarrassed was on the sailboat off the coast of Madagascar. Paul and I had the late watch on a calm, moonlit night. Everyone else was asleep in their bunk, or so I assumed. As I knelt before Paul giving him a rare blowjob, Sal stumbled by the rudder to take a long piss off the boat’s stern.
“Sorry about that, my paisans,” he mumbled on his way back to bed. “Carry on.”
He didn’t say anything the next day and neither did we.
This night, safe between the boulders and with our legendary guide snoring on the other side of the fire, we went at like there was no tomorrow. Finally, Paul arched his back in a way that told me he was close.
“I’m ready, babe, are you?”
“Yes, yes, come with me.”
The warm rush of his seed pushed me over the top once again. Once untangled, wasted and spent, we barely had strength to rearrange our covers before drifting off to sleep.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Their camp smells like a sewer.”
Kaikane: “Roger that.”
Duarte: “Looks like everybody’s getting ready to move.”
Kaikane: “Shoulda left months ago.”
Duarte: “Help me keep an eye on Gray Beard. He doesn’t look so good.”
Kaikane: “I wonder if he caught a cold.”
Rome Page 4
