Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  The fireworks started building late this afternoon. Upon return from the proposed work site and being rushed into declaring it “the spot,” I was having a hard time getting my head to clear. Sinuses burned and it felt like I was getting a headache as we stowed the kayaks beneath the sailing canoe. Paul asked why I was rubbing my eyes and I said something about not knowing if I could endure living in such a toxic environment.

  Rather than respond, he fiddled with the anchor lines. When I broached the subject again later, he gave me his “Trust me, Babe,” bullshit. Like what I think doesn’t matter. And then he started droning on and on about the many difficult obstacles we might face dragging the stupid boat up on the stupid bank. How hard can it be?

  Finally, I just had enough. I told him I knew my responsibilities by rote, and considered them part of a bad idea being poorly executed. He interrupted me before I was finished speaking, so I interrupted him right back. Voices quickly rose and for about 20 minutes we went at it hot and heavy. This was our first big quarrel in years. Dishing grievances big and small, cutting each other off in mid-sentences, we had zings and arrows flying everywhere.

  One thing about life on a small boat, your petty squabbles are laid bare for all to suffer through. I’m sure our shipmates got good earfuls as we sniped at each other. In the end, I pulled rank and called for a revote. Hunter again sided with Paul. Gray Beard abstained by pretending he didn’t know what it meant to vote, the wily buzzard. Outvoted, I gave in. Am I not the good little wife?

  Oh, how I felt like carving off an ounce of flesh on my way to defeat. The hurtful words were on the tip of my tongue! I had some for each of them. But they were the sort of words that cannot be taken back. Swallowing this poison, I stomped to my bunk, pulled out my computer and got lost in my ever-faithful friend, Botany. Better to zone out late than never.

  Now, having completed two long reports and laid one pie-in-the-sky theory to rest, I’m wondering if it is too soon to make up. Paul went to bed an hour ago. I doubt he’s asleep. While we’ve all endured a lot of stress, that goes double for our captain. For such a happy guy, he takes responsibilities like this quite seriously. Too seriously.

  Gray Beard’s on watch, prowling the deck, ready to sound the alarm if the freshening breeze snaps a line or drags the anchors over the reef. Winds have shifted and now blow down out of the mountains with a welcome coolness. Unfortunately, along with the scent of pine, the easterly gusts also carry the stench of bubbling tar pits and fetid swamps. Paul’s worried the winds may affect the tide and thus hinder our ability to reach the back of the lagoon. He got us this far. I’m sure we’ll find a way to cover the last mile even if it’s a mile I do not want to make.

  As temperatures dropped, I had to dig a leather shawl from my pack and throw it over my shoulders so I could keep working. I was on a roll and didn’t want to stop.

  Though the result was not what I was hoping for, it’s great to be finished with the floating tree island reports. I’ll let Team cephalopod experts comment officially on the tool-use aspects of my findings, but these are certainly smart, industrious octopuses. I’d love to find out if, besides building and maintaining the nests, perhaps the biggest tools ever made by a non-human, are the animals also somehow desalinating seawater to irrigate their trees? I have a hunch that may be the case.

  Hunter was quite supportive of my floating tree species theory right until it crapped out. In many ways, he’s taken the news of failure harder than I have. “What a bloody shame,” he mutters dutifully at the end of all my anti-octopus rants.

  This extended period without the belt has been good for Hunter. He’s been able to reconnect with his humanity, to reconnect with us. There were a few moments under sail when I could have sworn I was conversing with my mentor, the brilliant, aristocratic Dr. Mitchell Simmons, and not the complex creature he has become. For his and all our sakes, I hope he keeps his promise to leave his armor locked around the mast. He’s a better man without it.

  Paul didn’t come right out and say it, but I think he’s jealous of the time I spend with Hunter. Many times during the voyage we’d be sharing a laugh or have our heads together talking over one theory or another, and I’d glance over to see Paul staring at us. He never complained, but it must have really gotten under his skin. The heat in his words today had to come from somewhere. Some of his digs were quite hurtful. I don’t think I flaunt myself, or that I’m spoiled.

  It’s hard being the only woman cooped up on a boat with three men. I make it no secret which one I have chosen, but that doesn’t keep all three of them from checking out my tits. There’s less privacy here than the ice caves of Galway.

  I’ve evolved into a strange cross between crew mate, nurse and mother. They bring me things they think may interest me as if they are schoolboys–and are disappointed if I don’t praise their thoughtfulness and effort. Their crass comments and rude jokes aren’t funny until I roll my eyes and register mock complaint. If someone gets a rash or infected sore, it’s up to me to treat it. (Talking about Paul and Gray Beard here, Hunter heals himself.)

  My goal has been to just be one of the guys, at least as much as I can. That means I sometimes talk late into the night with Hunter or Gray Beard, and that they have walked up while I was giving myself a sponge bath and got an eyeful. That’s not being unfaithful, it’s the product of being cooped up on about 135 square feet of living space.

  I’ve been looking forward to moving onto dry land for so long, it’s a shame we’re going to be camped in such a malodorous spot. Hopefully we’ll get used to it. That’s what Paul thinks. He’s asked me to trust him. I’m going to try.

  I see he has turned over onto his back and his broad chest moves slowly up and down. I think I’ll let him sleep. We can make up tomorrow.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Hold her, hold her.”

  Duarte: “The poles are too bendy.”

  Kaikane: “And too short.”

  Hunter: “Mind that rock on the starboard side!”

  Kaikane: “Leonglauix take rudder! You two feel like going for a swim?”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  Dry-docking was a cluster-fuck from the get go. Lucky for those sots, one of us was on our toes.

  It certainly wasn’t Kaikane. Spooked by winds sweeping down out of the mountains, he cried for help in the middle of the night. “Before it gets too strong, we gotta stage da canoe as far up in da shallows as can.” That’s how he talks.

  There was just enough room in the small bay at the mouth of the moonlit lagoon for us to tack back and forth and reach the channel mouth. Coasting to a stop alongside an upwind mangrove, we tied off and dropped our anchors in a place somewhat shielded from the wind.

  The plan was to drift to our dry dock spot with the morning tide, poling with long birch staffs brought for the purpose from Italy. In theory, Kaikane’s concept to pole the boat to the back of the lagoon was sound. Sadly, it failed to account for howling winds and a tide running three feet higher than he predicted. Fair mistakes, I suppose, for a man with such limited capacities.

  Overthinking it and anxious to get busy, he and Duarte decided to ferry several loads of heavier gear and pottery to camp to lighten the hulls. Their worries about the tide not being high enough to get us back there turned out to be dead wrong. We could have used the weight. It was just another in a string of miscalculations.

  Around 10 a.m., while they were on one of their ill-advised forays to the oasis, the tide began rising much faster than expected, at least 15 feet in the blink of an eye. The influx pinned the kayakers at the back of the channel. Paddle as hard as they might, Duarte and Kaikane could not make progress against the current. At least that’s what they claimed. Those two may have been shagging back there, though I doubt it. The frostiness from last night was back in spades when they returned. Those two were barely grunting at each other.

&nb
sp; Leonglauix and I had spent our time fighting to keep the heavy double-hulled canoe from ripping away its mangrove moorings and floating back to Italy without them. We gave so much play in the mooring lines and anchor ropes there was barely any left to tie off with.

  By the time they stowed the kayaks in their slings beneath the deck, the tide was ready to turn. I don’t know what was said between them on their round trip, but wouldn’t be surprised if it were a reprisal of last night’s verbal fisticuffs. Frosty is far too kind a word.

  “We left it too late,” I was about to say, but was stopped short as Kaikane began hauling in lines and pronounced, “We can do this if we hurry.”

  Whoever coined the phrase “haste makes waste” was a keen old devil.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “I told you this was a stupid idea.”

  Duarte: “You were all for it.”

  Kaikane: “The first trip, not this one. I knew we were gonna get stuck!”

  Duarte: “Just blame it all on me.”

  Kaikane: “Why not?”

  Duarte: “Screw you, Paul.”

  Kaikane: “Paddle harder!”

  Duarte: “I’m paddling as hard as I fucking can.”

  Kaikane: “No you aren’t! Try harder!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Maria’s gone.

  Son of a fucking bitch Hunter stole her. We’ve looked all over and can’t find a trace.

  Motherfucker must have had it all planned out. Not the winds off the mountains or the biting fish, nobody could plan that, but looking back on things he said, the way he’s been acting, he’s been scheming since he pitched this Syrian deal back in Rome.

  Motherfucker zapped us with his damn belt. Didn’t see him put it on, just knew he was geared up when he jumped overboard and grabbed the bowline. The canoe was being blown to the wrong side of the flooded flats, adrift after biting fish had driven the three of us up the ladders. I planned to pole across the shallows, but our long poles were useless in so much wind. We climbed down and were trying to tow Leilani by hand through waist-deep water when the fish hit. We braved the first few bites, they weren’t piranha, but the swarms just kept coming until there were thousands chewing on us.

  It was a real shit show right up until fucking Hunter put his belt on and jumped in to haul us to port like a human tugboat. He didn’t say much afterward, just held things steady at the top of the beach as I tied the canoe off to tree stumps, set the anchors and positioned the blocks underneath as the tide went out. He must’ve done something to the water with his force field. There was no sign of the damn fish.

  The canoe was sitting high and dry and looking good. Gray Beard and I climbed aboard to start de-rigging the sails and that’s when Hunter gave us his “Time to sit down and go to sleep” bullshit. Motherfucker.

  Judging by our sunburns, the old man and I must have been sprawled on deck roasting in the sun for hours. It’s been more than seven years since he last zapped me with knockout sauce. I forgot how long it takes to pull your shit together. Bodies too numb to even roll over, the old man and I shouted to each other, tried to figure out what was up with Maria. I’ve never felt so helpless, knowing he probably took her and being unable to fucking move.

  Once we got up and around, we tried tracking them. It was impossible to go more than 100 yards without getting hemmed in by tar and quicksand. We never even found a footprint. I decided to gear up, but when I tried to dig the jumpsuit of out of my pack, I found he stole that too. Asshole left my helmet, but the suit was gone.

  Gray Beard reckoned Hunter would ditch the swamps and head for the mountains, so we paddled down the coast and beached the kayaks to circle inland to see if we could pick up their trail. I called a million times on the com line with no answer. Three days busting through scrub, sorting through dusty animal tracks, facing down lions and studying the hardpan on our hands and knees gave us zilch. Gray Beard’s the best tracker on Earth and he’s stumped.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Everyone kindly sit down and touch their toes.”

  From the log of Hunter

  (aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  Fish bites brought my estrangement from the armor to an early close. The little bastards swarmed my lower body so completely they nearly pulled me under. The lagoon’s squalid water was turned to an orange lather by their antics. As the bites multiplied by the thousands, the belt chimed in my brain. “YOU MUST PUT ME ON! NOW!”

  I agreed. Though it bumps up my timeline a few days, the botanist and I will put this extra time to good use on the trail.

  Back to the fish, Kaikane hung in long enough to wrap a rope around a log midway up the channel as I hustled Duarte safely aboard the canoe. Leongaluix shouted something about his arms being tired. It was impossible to hear him clearly in the wind. By the time the log began dragging and the boat was headed for disaster, the belt had unlocked itself. Nobody saw as I slipped it around my waist.

  Instant energy. Instant confidence. Strength, timing and courage. Protection from the damn fish. I know there are trade-offs to being a superman. Great powers come at a great price. Experience tells me the negative impacts of the belt build over time. I’ll be a lousy dinner companion before long. Now, while I still grasp most of my humanity and powers of empathy, I wish to make a claim. I’m doing this for Duarte’s own good. She will thank me before it is over and while it may take that bugger Kaikane longer to come around, he too will thank me.

  The Hawaiian was happy to let me and my belt save the day. Perhaps he even thought I meant it when I promised to take it off once the craft was safe. His doomed gasp was priceless as he registered the words and realized knockout sauce was headed his way.

  What happened to the nice man who singlehandedly towed the boat to the proper place and held it in place as the wind and powerful suction of the outgoing tide snapped two ropes? Where was the kind chap who got rid of the damn fish?

  I waited for all three of them to climb back on deck before issuing the standard warning. I can’t say they acted all that surprised. Duarte seemed particularly resigned to trouble once she saw me in the belt.

  Of all the outcomes the conspiracy-minded wench fretted upon, I wonder if she ever contemplated me knocking her out, stripping her naked and dressing her in the jumpsuit she detests so much. Did she worry I would take liberties? Fondle her breasts? A little stinky pinky?

  Did I take such liberties? Of course not. Did I need to gently tuck said breasts into her suit and arrange them symmetrically? Most certainly. Did I need to make sure her private parts were situated correctly for the jumpsuits sanitation systems to work? Of course. We are going for a long run. She needs to be properly outfitted. I’ve carried Duarte and her equipment this far, from now on she will pull her own weight.

  Prior to commencing our journey, however, we’re going to wait for her ill-suited husband and father figure to paddle by. She must confirm their health and well-being or that’s all we’ll talk about. Who knows, they may walk right by her position atop the shoreline boulder. This is a logical landing place.

  My protégé stands ramrod straight, shimmering to my eye in the early morning light, but invisible to the world. I’ve placed her facing the sea. With her com line switched off, she does not hear the desperation in Kaikane’s voice as he attempts to hail us. He’s getting closer. It won’t be long now. Perhaps I’ll have her track them for a bit before we set off on our quest.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Hailing Dr. Maria Duarte. Maria! Hunter! Hunter, if you hurt her I will kill you! Answer me, goddamn it!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Another day and still no sign of Maria.

  Today we paddled north, all the way to where the coast turns east at the mouth of a wide bay. We headed into the bay for a mile or two until Gray Beard spotted a sandy beach he like
d the looks of. He let me stash the kayaks while he went right to work, searching the shoreline and near woods like a beagle. When he didn’t turn up anything, we cut inland along the edge of a recently burned-out forest, crossing quite a few human tracks, but none that belonged to Maria or Hunter.

  While he’s doing his thing, I call on the com line and scan with my visor. Old school, new school, nothing’s working. Every time we get back to the canoe I hope she’ll be there, waving from the trees or walking down the beach to help carry our catch for dinner. I can see her smile and hear her voice. My partner. My love. My right hand.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Specialist Paul Kaikane hailing Dr. Maria Duarte. Maria if you hear me, we’re coming for you. Stay strong. We’ll find you.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Now I understand why people chew their nails. It gives you something to do while you’re worrying.

  South today. Still no sign. The coast is rocky, with lots of ups and downs, steep valleys. We figure it isn’t the kind of place Hunter likes.

  Gray Beard’s hot to cross the mountains. Even though he has no clue what’s over there, he’s got it in his head that once we get to the other side he’ll find signs of Maria.

  “He covered his tracks well, but I know which gap he took,” the storyteller says, pointing. “His path may not be one we can take, but they must come out somewhere. He won’t expect us. His guard will be down. After all these years, my father never changes his ways.”