Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Anything that looked tool worthy and survived the whack-on-a-rock test was stacked like cordwood inside the pack–the longest ones lining the sides so they could poke out around the flap. Broken-off tips that might make good awls or needles were wrapped in squares of leather and stashed in the front pocket. I ended up with at least 70 pounds of petrified horn.

  Once the pack was squared away, I started on the jewel pile by clearing away all the big, heavy jewels and as many non-diamonds as I could. The old man got back from his morning constitutional to find I had two 15-pound piles of glittering sand on the leather tarps and was about to cinch them into pouches. Right away he started in with how there was no way he was going to carry bags of dirt across boulder fields and down cliffs.

  “Wise Father, if I promise that you will not need to carry any dirt except for short stretches and just a handful of times, will you stop whining like a little girl with a sore tooth?”

  I said it with a smile, but my tone let him know the “dirt” and horns were coming out whether he helped me or not.

  “You plan to drag it?”

  “Yes, Father. Have you not taught me to hunt on high ground so the land helps? This drag is all downhill.”

  Once I showed him the curved tree limbs I planned to use as runners, he bought in. Like the horns, the limbs had cured in the valley a long time. They were light and sturdy. Something about this dry place put starch into things. Maybe it was the minerals or something. Maria would’ve known.

  In not much time, we slapped together a sturdy little sled that could be picked up like a stretcher to clear rough spots. I knew there was a reason I brought so much twine and rope.

  We babied that sled at first. By the end, we were tossing it off boulders and letting it slide down rough washes on its own. Dragging it over miles of cinders and carrying it through boulder fields left us more than happy to let gravity do its part. I’m not saying we pitched it off tall cliffs or anything. There were a lot of places, including 10 or 12 dry waterfalls, where we had to get out the ropes and lower the packs and sled separately. Slow going, but better than getting pulled over a cliff by a sled full of a diamonds and petrified horns.

  We pushed hard to reach the kayaks before sunset. Twilight was fading fast as we dragged the wobbly sled to the clump of beach grass where the boats were stashed. I left it to the old man to decide if we would settle into a cold camp with no food and wait for daybreak, or rest until moonrise and paddle home–back to where it stunk, but where we had food stashed and could build a fire.

  “Wake me with the moon.”

  His snores started the second he laid his head on a pouch full of diamonds. Now we’re back at camp, our stomachs are full and I’m too pumped to sleep. Tomorrow we make tools.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Maria, it’s been a rough day. I really could have used some help. Fuck, I could use a lot of help! Forgive me darling, but there are times when I get so mad at you. Why haven’t you found a way to come back to me? What are you guys up to that’s so goddamn important to leave me alone to worry my ass off. And do all the work! It’s not fair! Goddamn it!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  After a lot of trial and error–mostly error–I’m starting to get the hang of these new tools. It hasn’t been easy. My first saw worked so good, it really got my hopes up. Even if its diamond teeth fell off in seconds, those few seconds showed real potential.

  The first diamond-tipped drill held up a little better, maybe a minute or two. The first hole didn’t go all the way through the hull, but almost. Same hole would have taken me a day with shell and flint. I knew I was onto something.

  I dragged my pack full of horns and a pouch of diamonds to the edge of the pit with the stickiest tar and started mass tool production. Using paint brushes made from wads of gull feathers tied together and clipped square, I coated the leading edges of my saws with tar. After they dried a little, I rocked the edges in beds of tiny diamonds. Pressing down, I tried to get the tightest fit I could.

  Drill bits, rasps and files were a lot easier. I didn’t need to paint those, just dip their ends in tar, wait a half hour to harden, then roll ‘em in the pile.

  My problem? The diamonds weren’t sticking for beans. I’d use all my drills to make only one or two holes a day. It was worse with the saws. The diamonds flew off those after just a couple strokes. Friction heats the tar, makes it soften and lose hold.

  Pretty hard to commit to making major cuts without knowing if I’ll be able to finish. I’ve started on a few of the smaller repairs above the water line. As much I’m dying to get rid of that damn burn hole, which is there every day to remind me of how dumb I am, I’m holding off until I get this shit down. We still may have to patch it with concrete and hope for the best.

  Yesterday was so damn frustrating. I got hardly anything done and by noon was back to resurfacing tools. Cocksucking teasers. They’d work great as long the diamonds held, which was never long. No lie, I was about to start pulling my hair out. I mean I’m way past talking to myself. Yesterday it was more like full on shouting matches with myself, pacing and kicking stuff, throwing tools around. Very mature.

  Gray Beard was off somewhere again so he missed the pity party. Paul Kaikane, all alone and losing his mind. I threw my favorite rasp at a stump and stood there like a fool, watching it pinwheel, hoping it didn’t break. It’s probably the straightest and strongest tool I’ve got. I was so thankful when it clanged off the stump and sunk point first in the sand without shattering.

  That kinda snapped me out of it. At least I stopped acting like a fool for a while. I just went back to the routine, back to coating the tools with my latest tar mixture. I’ve been mixing ground oyster shells and ashes into the tar and it seems to help stiffen it up a little. (No way near enough.)

  That’s when Maria’s little clay pots of marine glue popped into my mind. Those pots were supposed to be off limits since we have so little, but a test couldn’t hurt.

  Damned if that glue didn’t work like a champ. I drilled four holes with one gemsbok horn tipped in diamonds and it was ready to keep going.

  This horn’s tip had been broken off before we found it, leaving a flat circle about the size of an antique penny. I spread a little dab of glue and pressed it hard into the diamonds, held it there for a few minutes since that always seems to help. Setting the drill to dry in the sun alongside others dipped in tar, I didn’t think much more about until today when I hooked it up to my bow and started chewing through wood as if I was using a power drill.

  My bow is simple, really, just a limb bent into a curve by a pair of leather straps tied to the ends. Wrap one of the straps around the drill handle, line things up and then start moving the bow up and down to make the bit turn. I got the idea from Jones. When he’s having trouble starting a fire, he’ll make a bow and turn a stick until he gets enough heat to flare his kindling. Trick he learned in the Army.

  The bow and Maria-glue drill seems like a perfect match. I just gotta watch the hull doesn’t catch fire from the friction. Not too long after I began today, I looked over and the hole I just drilled was smoking. I put it out with a wet sponge.

  The diamonds did eventually fall off, but that one bit lasted longer than an hour. I spent the rest of the day scraping tar off my best tools and carefully gluing diamonds along saw edges, drill tips and rasps with Maria’s special glue. I can’t wait for everything to dry. There’s a lot of work to do.

  There’s only one complication. Isn’t there always a fucking complication? That stuff was supposed to be used to glue our inserts and butterflies into place. I’m going to have to figure out an alternative. Maria’s stuff is going fast.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “I’ve had one of Sal’s songs stuck in my head all day. Remember the one about flying fish? I was thinking about the time we were sailing off the eastern coast of Africa and he was singing that song just as a whole flock of flying f
ish came flapping out of the water, hit the sail and dropped on deck. Sal was dodging fish but never stopped singing, just acted like that was what he meant to happen all along.

  “You laughed until you had tears rolling down your cheeks. You’d get calmed down, then the giggles would start up again. I guess the silly look on Sal’s face would pop into your head, or maybe it was how he goofed around, pretending to dance behind Gray Beard as the old man hustled around the deck grabbing flopping fish and whacking their heads against his knee.

  “I’d give anything to hear you laugh right now.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The first two inserts are finished and, knock on wood, fit like silk gloves. We’re talking perfect. I spent way more time cutting the holes and shaping the inserts than I should have, but I learned a lot.

  First, I trace the outline of my prefabricated insert on the hull in charcoal. I’ve been working on the inserts for more than a year. With a lot of help from Maria and the old man. The boards are custom made for each problem spot, as well as a few standard sizes for unexpected problems, like a big, stupid burn hole.

  The drill and bow setup is the key. I drill holes to mark the corners and every few inches just inside the lines. Each hole is angled slightly so water pressure outside the boat will help hold the inserts in place by pushing them inward. (Do I sound worried about my new tar glue?) Once my holes mark the shape of the cut on both sides of the hull, I start sawing.

  With the first two long insert patches, I wasted a lot of time sawing all the way through to make the holes. Even with my diamond-tipped blades it took forever. Now I get my corners set, scratch out my lines to about a quarter-inch, and then pound oak wedges with my meteorite club to split the wood right where I want.

  The first few splits felt very risky. I couldn’t help worrying, what if I split the hull down the middle? All I can say is, Franz and his boys picked a pair of straight-grained trees when they built this canoe. The German may have been a real asshole to me, but I’ve got to give him props for a job well done. I hope I don’t fuck it up for you there, Franzy.

  Tomorrow, I take on my nemesis. Burn hole be gone!

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Too tired to talk tonight, baby. I miss you.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Back in small kid days, I learned to surf from a guy named Mule Pelekai. His family was one of the few old-time Hawaiians and locals never to sell off their land. The tin-roof plantation worker house, along with a quarter acre of mango trees, was probably nothing special back when it was built. Just one of a bunch of plantation homes 15 blocks inland.

  By the time Mule took over his grandparents’ place, it was right on the water. Poor guy spent a lot of time pacing and filling sandbags every time there was a hurricane. Us kids found it hard to believe the ocean had gone up that much through the years, but if Mule said so, it was good enough for us. We helped him fill sandbags and clean up after storms to pay him back for all the food he gave us, and for letting us use his surfboards even though my brothers and sisters almost always brought them back with dings.

  He didn’t really own the place, just something like 100,000th of it. He joked his share got a little smaller every time one of his cousins had a baby. For more than 100 years, his line had been caretakers. They kept it up and the rest of the relatives, mostly families from Maui, got to use it for parties and stuff. There was a gang there every day and night.

  At first, Mom and Dad were invited to hang out if they had booze or drugs to share. Dad lost his welcome after he busted up a couple uncles visiting from the Mainland. That made it an even better place for us kids.

  There was a nice left break in front of Mule’s that could really hold some size. Waves kicked up off a reef made from the concrete rubble of an old shopping center and peeled for a long way. I had a lot of fun there. Mule would paddle out to get away from babysitting his relatives and show us how “old-timers” surfed. I guess you could call him my first coach. His big thing was, “If you’re going, no hold back, GO!”

  It sounds simple, but that’s probably some of the best advice I’ve gotten in life. From charging big waves to winning Maria over before Jones or Sal got to her, “No hold back, GO” has served me well. There comes a point when you gotta quit thinking and do it.

  You’ll have to forgive me, Team leaders, I’ve spent the last few hours paying respect to my elders, to guys like Mule and the canoe builder Tata, my wrestling and judo coaches from high school and, yes, even Mom and Dad. I learned something from every one of them and am proud to stand on their shoulders.

  That’s a very long way of saying the big patch is in and it looks like it’s going to hold. The old man and I spent 10 days cutting the hole and shaping the inserts and little wooden butterflies that hold the three long pieces together. Hard work, patience, a good plan, learning on the fly, all came together better than I ever could have hoped.

  All we have left is some sanding after things set up, then we can give the area its first coat of tar. We’ve already got two coats on the right hull and one on most of the left. It’s a nasty, awful job that’s the worst part of the project so far. Gray Beard hates it, finds every excuse to bail out of here.

  This morning, while we were inserting the last board and butterflies, he was drinking from a stoppered length of bamboo I didn’t recognize. I asked where he got it and he said a woman gave it to him. It’s a pretty nice gift. I asked if he had a girlfriend I didn’t know about.

  All he did was smile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Sal! Get up. Ya gotta check this.”

  Bolzano: “Are they back?”

  Jones: “Nah. Grab your spears and club. We’re goin’ up to kitchen patio. Better view.”

  Bolzano: “View of what?”

  Jones: “Trouble.”

  Bolzano: “Trouble?”

  Jones: “Big time. Bring Summer, she’s gotta see this too.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  Capt. Jones roused Summer and me from our beauty sleep just after dawn. He and Flower were departing for a morning hunt when they encountered a sight warranting our immediate attention.

  The powdery trail that delivered us to the top of the Palatine was once well shaded and lined with ferns, berry bushes and moss-covered logs. It now scales a barren landscape beneath skeleton trees. Judging by the cloudless skies and sweat pouring down Jones’ back, it promised to be another hot and sunny day.

  Gaining the summit, we found our swarthy hill mates had also been ordered to muster. Mammoth Killers and friends were quite agitated. Moaning, keening and facing south, their gazes led my eyes to a wall of thick gray smoke blotting the horizon from east to west. The whole of Southern Italy appeared ablaze.

  Though it is impossible to gauge exactly how distant the wildfires rage, Capt. Jones and I do not believe them to be overly close–yet. We estimate 50 to 60 kilometers. Tonight in the dark we shall have a better gauge. If we can see individual flames they are closer than we think. At the moment, winds are light and blowing from the north. That buys time as we discuss what the hell we are going to do.

  Whatever is decided, we will be moving forward without the Mammoth Killers and their two loathsome friends. Spouting ancient clan lore, the Cro-Magnons insisted it was death to linger. Our only option, they said, was to cross the Tiber and follow the coast north. “You have made us wait too long,” they wailed. “We should be halfway to the glaciers by now!”

  Summer Wind and Flower were just as shaken by the fire as the men. They did not complain like the others, however, when Jones and I sat down on opposite sides of the picnic table and calmly weighed our options.

  “Probably should go north, but not with these idiots,” Jones said in English. Noticing the natives were listening in and reading our
facial expressions, I switched to American Hand Sign.

  “What about staying in Lupercal?” I signed. “The cave is deep. The fire will pass quickly. We can clear the area of dead brush and debris.”

  “What about the animals? Gonna get crazy around here.”

  “It will be crazy on the trail as well. Getting across the Tiber will be hell. Rather than run, we should fortify our wall to keep the animals out. We could soak skins with water to retard the fire.”

  “Glad to hear ya say it. Not sure my back could handle a hard run. And I’m sick and tired of these pricks. Let’s cut ‘em loose.”

  We did our best to be polite while saying goodbye. Our significant others were also given leave to evacuate north if they felt like escaping with their clan mates, though we knew full well they would not. We are in this together.

  Before shambling north, Dirt Bag took time to make what was a long speech for him. He said our plan to build a wall across the mouth of the cave was destined to fail. “You cannot stop animals from entering. You cannot stop fire from entering. You cannot stop smoke.”

  Mammoth Killer wisdom handed down from his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather says, “Go to the sea. Swim out with the animals if you must. Sharks may eat you, currents may drown you or carry you away, but YOU WILL NOT BURN!”

  With that, he crossed his stubby arms and gave us a moment to come to our senses. I was about to break the bad news when Jones, resourceful chap that he is, cut in to say, “You are right. We should go too. Before we do, help carry this tabletop and benches down to the cave. We will put them inside for when we come back. After the fire has passed and the rains have returned we will need a place to sit and eat.”