Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  He likes the way Sal rolls octopus in honey and sea salt then smokes ‘em overnight. He spotted some crawling over the reef one day and has been bugging me to make him “sweet legs” ever since. I told him I’d do it, but he had to find the honey first. Totally stalling. Damned if he didn’t paddle back to camp last night with a couple big combs wrapped in leaves. Not sure how he got them, guy didn’t have a sting on him.

  Golden and warm, the honey was great. We’ve been living so close to the ground, this was a pretty special treat. Old man told me it was my first smile in three hands of days.

  A deal’s a deal, especially when the storyteller’s involved. There would be no peace until I kept my word. That’s how I ended up taking a day off from prepping the canoe to go fishing.

  Like I said, our traps were just killing it with the octopus. In less than a half hour we had caught more than 20, all we could use. Casting off from Gray Beard, I paddled out beyond the edge of the reef and let out a pair of trolling lines for the paddle back to the lagoon. I lost one ivory hook and nearly lost another, but managed to catch a couple fat mahi mahi. The last mahi was jumping all over the place. I was about to cut the line when it finally calmed down enough for me to get it next to the old man’s boat for him to finish with his spear.

  By the time the five-foot-long fish was trussed to the side of my kayak, we had wasted half a day. I was trailing the old man’s wake when he stopped and let me coast along his starboard side. Lightly grabbing my kayak by the gunwale, he pulled me to a stop.

  “Tell me Hunter’s words again.”

  For the hundredth time, this the short version, I ran down the bastard’s promise to return Maria safe, how repairing the boat was supposed to be our priority, and how our deadline to meet them down south was in four moons.

  Looking me squarely in the eye, he patted the top of his head in the Green Turtle sign for “time is passing, passing fast.”

  “You have wasted half a moon dipping sticks into black ponds and letting them dry,” he said. “You say there is much cutting and burning, covering the logs with black-bad-smell-sticky-stuff. You must get started. What if we are late and Hunter does take her on another long run? I’m too old to go looking for my adopted daughter in a land I do not know. Before I die I want to return to the herds and circle the Baby Mountains the way Green Turtles have done throughout time.”

  I didn’t bother arguing. It’s true. I have been off my game. Plus there’s not much to show for what I’ve been doing. A lot of prep work and planning go into a project like this. You can’t just start cutting the first day. Material tests and inspections are important steps.

  I told him the hulls needed to dry more before we could scrape the rest of the barnacles. We had been scratching the hell out of the wood before I called a stop. The hulls need to be even more dry before we can start applying preservatives (black-bad-smell-sticky-stuff).

  “Bah!” He gave my kayak a shake. “You stand on edge of waterfall afraid to jump. Jump!”

  There’s no fooling the storyteller. He knows I’ve been stalling. The truth is I’m afraid.

  Once I start punching holes in this thing there’s no going back. I’m no expert. I’ve never done anything like this. All I have to go on is my faded memories as a 12-year-old, watching a Tahitian master make bold cuts with a chain saw while restoring a little six-man koa canoe.

  My Hawaiian Language class spent a day inside the Homelands helping him. We mostly watched, kinda awestruck by the way the barefoot man with a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth dove into the valuable, ancient relic as if it was firewood. He cut away the rotten spots to make rectangles where inserts would be fitted. The hull had a long crack running down the bottom. He had a couple of us hold the canoe on its side while he cut three butterfly holes across the crack. He said bowtie-shaped pieces would be fitted and glued in the holes to stop the crack from splitting any wider or longer.

  The Tahitian guy’s name was Tata. He was some kind of legend in canoe repair. Before he started cutting, he took his time to study the canoe, telling us he needed to understand its “mana,” its soul. He went over it with the Maui guys, listened to what they had to say, then had everybody join hands while he chanted a blessing in French to ask the canoe for permission to go to work.

  Once his chain saw was revved up, the cuts came fast, straight and true. Tata spent a lifetime learning that stuff. How am I supposed match that? By myself and with homemade tools? I was only there to help one day and never saw the finished product.

  I’d have a lot more confidence if Maria were here. I miss bouncing ideas off her, getting her take on stuff. She’s so smart, so good at either working things out on her own or finding the answers on her computer. I miss her touches when she walks by, the little pats on my hips and shoulders, the way she messes with my hair and kisses my cheek when nobody’s watching. Now that I’ve started, I could spend the rest of the day listing what I love and miss about my wife. Hell, I could spend the rest of my life.

  Gray Beard’s right, this moping shit is no way to get anything done. In his simple way, the storyteller said it best.

  “We’re not getting there, here. Andiamo!”

  It’s time to bring out the secret weapons and let ‘em rip.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Specialist Kaikane hailing Chief Botanist Duarte. Come in please. Please!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Not sure how long I’ll be able to keep my eyes open. We had another long day. Gray Beard dozed off with his supper plate still on his lap, hunched by the cook fire. It’s been cold at night.

  We worked straight through lunch to finish scraping all the barnacles off the hulls. Seemed early to stop for the day. Old man said he was game, so I showed him how to use pieces of flat sandstone to smooth all the crap away and get down to wood.

  Guy could pass for an Italian bandit with his straw hat and fiber-cloth bandana tied over his mouth and nose. Maria probably wouldn’t be happy with me showing him how to weave a Hawaiian-style palm frond hat. I didn’t see we had a choice working all day under the hot sun. Sometimes I wonder if Hunter chopped down our shade on purpose. I wouldn’t put it past the stupid asshole.

  I spend a lot of my day thinking about him and Maria, wondering where they are and what they’re doing. Scraping barnacles is mindless work, gives a guy’s mind lots of room to roam. Most of the junk I chew on is OK, stuff like old memories, things Maria and I did or talked about. Sometimes I replay whole conversations, at least what I remember of them. It helps pass the time.

  There are many dangerous forks in the road. Turn down a couple dark alleys and I’m suddenly thinking about whether my wife was abducted or left on her own. I don’t really think that, but to quote Maria, “To truly understand a situation, all options must be understood and explored.”

  I always got the feeling there was something between those two in the past. I don’t know if one of them had a crush on the other or if it was something more serious. That’s a route I’m doing my best to avoid.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Specialist Kaikane hailing Chief Botanist Duarte. Come in please. I miss you so much, Maria. I hope you’re safe and eating well, taking care of yourself. Next time you see Hunter tell him I’m going to kick his skinny white ass.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The bad news is our “secret weapons” haven’t been worth jack.

  The iron chisels we spent years making were supposed to be a big secret from The Team. Maria made me promise not to mention them in my journal. Well, too bad. The tools were not only brittle they were downright dangerous. I busted the first one with barely a tap from the meteorite club. I was working on one of the worst dry rot sections, clearing away spongy wood, and hit a knot that was still solid. The knot had to come out so I figured this was as good a time as any to try the iron. After a couple little ta
ps, the chisel I figured to be my workhorse shattered into about 20 pieces. One flying splinter nearly put my eye out.

  I broke the last two scraping. Sliced my palm open both times. It sounds stupid, but I was so pissed I picked up all the iron pieces we made, carried them across the salt flats and chucked every damn one into the orange water as far as I could. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck, fucker, fuck!”

  Gray Beard gave me a sarcastic “Bravo” when I picked up the antler awl I should have been using in the first place and carefully pried the knot clear. Some of the tools we made before we got here, like the wooden scrapers and chisels, have been working OK. Yew and oak stand up way better than the iron we smelted. Our shark tooth saws work but break all the time. We waste more time fixing them or swapping out worn teeth than actually sawing.

  Most damage is centered in Leilani’s right hull. I don’t remember anything happening to the hull while we’ve been sailing her, but it’s like she took a big hit. Maybe Franz and his guys took her out for a spin and ran her up on a rock. There’s two long cracks running lengthwise and a weak spot I want to try to reinforce. Dry rot and wormholes are spread through both hulls. We’re going to have to cut away at least two big rotten sections, and maybe a few more. We’ll see how it goes.

  It’s a damn good thing we already cut and planed our insert boards back in Italy. We’d never get this job done if the old man and I had to do everything from scratch. The scary part is going to be cutting those damn holes, trying to get them just the right size. If the inserts don’t fit tight, no way they’re going hold in rough seas.

  I wish I had a chain saw.

  Ten Tatas and a chain saw would be even better.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Ow! Fuck you, you mother fucker!”

  Bolzano: “Does it help when you swear like that?”

  Jones: “Shut the fuck up.”

  Bolzano: “Do you think the stone understands when you curse it?”

  Jones: “Ahhhhhhh.”

  Bolzano: “I am genuinely curious. What do you gain? It is not the flagstone’s fault you dropped it on your toe.”

  Jones: “One more word and I’m gonna drop you.”

  Bolzano: “No thank you, Juniper. I have never fathomed excessive swearing after a work-related injury.”

  Jones: “What do you fuckin’ do?”

  Bolzano: “Why, the answer should be rather obvious. If, somehow, I have not avoided the task in the first place, at the first mishap, I lay my tools down and vow never to do said task again.”

  Jones: “Sounds about right.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Me and Sal are halfway through a quick overnighter to work on cave. Brought up last bags of Duarte’s pine cones and seeds. Not sure when to expect the Navy back, but I’d guess we’re now on schedule if not ahead of it. Duarte can’t say we ain’t been trying. Had to knock off digging tonight. Moved a stone and my back tightened up.

  Thankfully, Sal’s motivated. With all his Neanderthal crap to bury, he wants to get this vault done right. Been stretching and trying to walk off the spasms while he sections the back wall into compartments with flat stones.

  Think I’ll ask him to crack my back. Way my neck feels, it’s gonna be a long walk home tomorrow.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “If the women could see us now.”

  Jones: “Give ‘em whole new idea of what we’re up to when we’re gone.”

  Bolzano: “Indeed. Are you ready?”

  Jones: “Yep.”

  Bolzano: “All right, relax, take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Three, two, one . . .”

  Jones: “Holy fuck!”

  Bolzano: “Are you OK?”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Now that I have been forewarned, I spy the red wolf’s tracks everywhere! Awakening this morning, I found he had trod within a meter of where I slept in the dust.

  Capt. Jones says he watched by moonlight filtering through the cave’s mouth as the large male licked the dwindling seep of water next to my head. Once he had his fill, he exited and continued uphill. I fear the good Captain has anthropomorphised the wolf into some sort of mascot or feral pet. That oversized beast is a vicious killer. We have both seen him bring down game that would take three normal wolves to slay.

  Jones told me he thinks the wolf sleeps close at night to take advantage of our fires, to use them as his own protection. Having grown up with man, the wolf the locals call “Blood” does not fear flames and smoke the way other animals do.

  It is possible. It is also possible that we have taken over his personal cave and once the water runs out, he will live up to his name by laying claim to our blood.

  Jones insists we need not worry. His mood has improved now that I have realigned his spine. Every time I give him a chiropractic adjustment, it sounds like I have snapped his neck. He lets completely go, trusts me not to injure him though I have no practical training other than what Paul Kaikane and Maria Duarte have shown me. Lucky for Juniper, it worked again.

  Lucky for me as well. Rather than spending another night in the hills dragging stones while he lies suffering on the ground, I get to reunite with my paramour. Though Summer Wind may be my mother’s age and would be considered overly plain by former standards, I miss her company. We have been playing house. I find it more enjoyable than expected. There is something very basically, humanly satisfying to have a mate who cares for you. It makes life more complete to have someone so happy to see me after absences both long and short she cannot hide her smile.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “When do you expect our mariners to return?”

  Jones: “Not a fucking clue. How about you?”

  Bolzano: “They could arrive today, next moon, or not for another year.”

  Jones: “Wow, Sal, ya really narrow it down.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Lions got one of the new guys this morning around daybreak. Pride swarmed him right on trail as he was coming up from lower cave to get water. Nobody saw it happen, but we all heard the screams. Cats had dragged him all the way to flats and were tearing him up when I got to Mammoth Killers.

  Nothing we could do. Boys wanted me to put some bolts through cats to punish them. Much as I would’ve liked to, my shoulder’s been killing me. Sal’s chiro work helped my neck and low back, but there’s something wrong with my wing. Feel like I’ve got a dead arm.

  Guy’s two brothers were all broke up. Banging their chests and hollering. Attack put everybody on edge. Including me. After a few close calls, this is our first casualty. Who knows how long cats have been stalking that trail.

  Called meeting in cook area, laid out new orders. No traveling alone. Pairs or more at all times. Also drew up duty teams and shifts for fire tenders, wood gatherers and watchmen. Looks like the problem kids are moving back to the top of the hill.

  Shit.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “I have not seen a hippo in months. Have you?”

  Jones: “This one count?”

  Bolzano: “No, carcasses do not count. There used to be hundreds, thousands of the ugly beasts lining the Tiber. Are they all deceased?”

  Jones: “I see one, I’ll let ya know. Sal, ya ain’t digging up another grave. Not today at least.”

  Bolzano: “No, I just want to visit the site, walk the grid to see if it provides any inspiration for my next report.”

  Jones: “I’m cool with that.”

  Bolzano: “We needed to get off that smoky hill. Look at us on a double date with our sweethearts.”

  Jones: “Couple of married men.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  The women and I spent a relaxing, yet productive afternoon weaving baskets within
the cool confines of Lupercal. On the heels of yesterday’s marathon hike to the coast and back, our weary muscles appreciated the respite.

  What started as a short jaunt to the Neanderthal dig with Summer, Jones and Flower somehow turned into a languid drift to the sea, where we swam naked in the tide pools for an hour, filled our gathering bags with basket-making textiles, sponges and clams, and hoofed it home in time to man our shifts at the sentry fires. Ravenously hungry, we enjoyed quite the clambake as we fed the flames around the spring and its outflow.

  The long ramble evolved without plan. We arrived at the bank overlooking the narrow Tiber to find the dig site completely overrun with rhinos and long-horned buffalo. Reaching the graves would entail building a series of fires to clear the beasts. As I have already burned every piece of loose combustible within easy walking distance, that meant far more work than my companions were willing to put forth to earn the pleasure of watching me scour debris piles on my hands and knees.