Romans to the core, there was never a chance one would slip from the saddle. I knew if I were to sound the alarm they would awake ready to fight, fornicate or resume guzzling wine depending on
what was required. Yes, they may wallow in excess and cruelty, may laugh and make wagers as their friends torture pet apes for sport, but they are also capable and kind, loyal to those who are worthy.
I think I’ll hang around a while longer to see how things work out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Hey, Babe, if you see Gray Beard, tell him to double-time his ass home.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Almost had to launch Leilani by myself this afternoon. Three days from peak tide, and today’s high waters still flooded the salt flats more than the day we beached. The outgoing surge had the hawsers moaning. I thought sure they were gonna snap. Our rollers floated away while I was trying to hustle the rest of our gear aboard. It was close. Leilani now sits in wet sand. She doesn’t seem any worse for wear.
Gray Beard was supposed to be here helping me finish rigging the sails and loading stuff, but he’s been gone for four days. He knows we’re leaving. Where the fuck is he?
If I’ve got it figured right, the highest tide of the year is in two days. If we don’t get out of here tomorrow, the surge will carry Leilani way inland. She gets up into the trees we may never get her out. Or I could be wrong about the tides and we just missed our big chance. If the old man was here, we’d already be under sail, on our way to Egypt.
Way too many ifs. I have to go find him.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Do you remember that kayak trip we took, just you and me, up the coast of Italy? We found that secret cove in the cliffs of Cinque Terre where the water was so clear? That’s one of my happiest memories. I thought I lost you, and then had you back. For the first time we were safe and left all to our selves.
“We’d make love in the sun until we were dripping sweat, then dive in the cove to cool off. I think that’s when we cooked our first seafood stew together. You found a purple fern or something that made everything taste so good. I was just getting the hang of my ivory hooks, starting to catch fish.
“You were on a break from your computer and had stopped taking notes. Remember that? How nice it was? I had never seen you so happy, so living in the moment. It was my first glimpse of the woman you would become. My soul mate.
“Maria, if we ever get back together, no, when we get back together, we’ve got to recapture the magic we had in that cove. I’ve gone over our argument a million times. It kills me to think the last words we said to each other were mean and hurtful. That’s not us, not who we are.
“Is it?
“My love, I gotta sign off now, just spotted Gray Beard’s kayak. He’s got it pulled up in the beach grass. Time to see what the old guy’s up to. I hope he’s OK.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
All I had to go on was a little nod of Gray Beard’s head a few weeks back. This was after he let slip that some woman had given him some bamboo canteens. He wouldn’t elaborate so next time he was out fishing, I searched his bunk and found he had a few other new things, including a soft blanket made of woven grass.
I didn’t say anything about the blanket when he got back, just waited for the wandering eye that said he was sick of carpentry and tarring and was about to take off again. Pretending to help him launch, but really holding his kayak so he couldn’t, I asked, “When you visit this girlfriend that doesn’t exist, which way do you go, north or south?”
He refused to say, so I gave him some shit in Green Turtle.
“These are your rules, Clan Leader. Rules you taught me! Travelers and hunters tell clan mates the direction they are heading.”
He waited for me to let go of the kayak then tipped his head to the south. I didn’t expect such a little nod to mean six miles, but paddled at least that far before spotting the glow of his kayak’s signature in my helmet’s visor.
The tide was super low and I had to drag my kayak a long way, the whole time exposed under the light of a full moon. A smell of smoke drifting out of the woods said man was close. Weaving around hauled-out puffins, seals and sea turtles, all the animals complaining like hell, I put my head down and pulled.
Tucked along the edge of the woods, in a clump of grass, the old man’s boat was hidden safe from the tide. I never would have seen it without the visor. Mine got stashed alongside.
Even with all the noise, no locals charged down to see what was going on. Grabbing my spears, pulling the meteorite club from my belt, I headed for the smoke.
There was no sign of Gray Beard in the first camp. Not a surprise, really, the place was a dump. Sited on a knoll overlooking the bay, it was probably nice in its day. Some decent rock tables, log benches and two big cooking pits, but camp looked like it had been taken over by bachelor fishermen, pigs or both. There wasn’t a woman in sight. No way the old man would make 12-mile round trips to hang out with knuckleheads too stupid to leave camp to dump the garbage.
We see camps like this wherever we go, places where guys, usually older, hang out away from their clans. Maria and Sal call them “boys clubs.” Sometimes they’re squared away, widowers or hunting pals that slap a camp together, but usually the men are troublemakers or slackers who aren’t welcome with their clans anymore. That would be my guess for the dudes sleeping in the dirt. I tiptoed around, studied each face up close just to make sure Gray Beard wasn’t slumming.
Heading inland, I crossed a trail marked with blood, lots of it and still wet. Another 400 yards along, trees silhouetted by the dancing light of fire came into view. A little farther on, the smell of smoke, murmur of voices and sha-sha-sha-sha of rattles.
It was a big group, living in a semi-permanent camp. Tents and lean-tos, barbeque spits with forked limb supports buried in the ground, kids crying and laughing, dogs barking, one guy chanting as he shook a pair of gourds filled with pebbles.
Keeping to the perimeter, I circled about two-thirds of the big camp before spotting Gray Beard, tied like a dog to a tree. They had him tethered with a light cord looped around his wrist. He didn’t look beat up or bleeding, was just sitting at the base of the tree looking over to where the clan was butchering a seal that weighed at least 800 pounds. It must have been a lot of work to drag so far.
I gave Gray Beard the trill of a nightbird to let him know help had arrived and he answered right back in long-distance hand sign. “Not yet. Wait.”
The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the dark and spin my wheels. The tide was coming and we had a boat to launch. I was about to sneak down and yank him out of there when a pair of middle-aged broads showed up with plates of sliced seal liver and raw intestines–two of his favorites. If I didn’t see the rest, I wouldn’t believe it. Sal and Jones are welcome to call bullshit if they like, but those women fed him by hand! And that’s not even the juicy part.
They were talking too low for me to hear, but it looked like he was joshing with the women and they were good-naturedly sassing him back like Maria does. There was some touching and shoulder rubbing, but it caught me totally off guard when he pulled one in for a long kiss. Once he let her go, the other woman leaned in to get her own smooch.
I had to look away as they undid his leggings and a big old boner popped out. It was like catching your parents in the act, something I’d done a few times, usually on dad’s sailboat when he and mom were sloppy drunk. I never figured out if they forgot I was there or just didn’t care.
I concentrated on my worn-out moccasins, counted the rips and holes by moonlight, blocked out the sound of the old storyteller taking on two girls at the same time. Right in full view of camp, if anybody bothered to turn away from the bloody seal and look. Damn, like I said, it was hard to believe.
At the trill of a nightbird, I looked up to see the c
ord back around his wrist and him being led into the middle of camp. Sliding quietly through the pines, I found a flat, fairly open spot between two pines where I could stand in the shadows and still be close enough to step in if I had to.
Folks seemed friendly as the women led him on a slack line around the fires and family groups sitting on woven mats eating raw seal by hand. Men, women and children eating supper together on a fall night. Compared to many louder, dirtier clans we see, this was a mellow group.
The women took him to a guy in his mid-30s with feathers and shells tied in his long dark hair and a little mutt curled in his lap. A black shark tooth hung at the center of his pearl necklace. Three or four ivory bracelets circled each big wrist. I wouldn’t call him fat, but hunched in front of his personal fire with a tiger skin over his shoulders, you could tell he was a stout guy. Not all, but most Cro-Mag leaders are the biggest and toughest dudes in the clan. Or at least they start off that way. This guy had that look. Like he fought his way to the top.
Gray Beard gave him the business right from the start. Pointing, grunting, sticking his tongue out, he may not have been able to speak the guy’s language too well, but he let him know he was ticked off about something. I kept an eye on the guy in case he started to wig out, but he mostly grinned. I’d say, right up to the end, he enjoyed the insults more than they bothered him. Everybody’s looking for entertainment in this lonely world.
Well, Gray Beard was entertaining. He kept up his hissy fit until one of the junior hunters couldn’t take any more and jumped in to defend his boss. Maybe he was the leader’s younger brother, or his kid. They had the same dark hair and beefy frames. Anyway, the second guy got up and shoved Gray Beard in the back hard enough to almost put him down.
Like a mongoose, Gray Beard caught his balance and turned to face the attack. Holding up his hand to signal me to stay in the shadows, he gave the new guy a dirty look and turned back to the leader.
What followed looked like your usual trading deal. As they went back and forth it sounded to me like Gray Beard thought they had made a deal and the leader was trying to back out of it. He used enough Northern trade dialect and even some Italian for me to get the gist. “You cheat me!”
Finally, with a sigh, the leader pulled Gray Beard’s leather nut bag from behind his back and tried to hand it over. Gray Beard spread his arms in the age-old way of saying, “No! I’m not taking it. Give me what I want!”
The smile was missing as the leader tucked the dog under his arm and stood to look the old man in the eye. Junior closed in to crowd him from the back as the leader pushed the bag to Gray Beard’s chest and let go. Gray Beard didn’t take it, or even look down as the bag tumbled open and diamonds scattered all over the place.
They were closing on him and I was trying to decide which guy to bring down first when Gray Beard pointed to the ground where diamonds sparkled in the firelight. “I need a spear in this spot,” he shouted in Green Turtle. My aim was off, but the spear landed within a foot of where he wanted it.
All heads in camp turned my way, everybody trying to see where the damn spear came from, as Gray Beard yanked it from the ground and stabbed the antler point straight through the top of junior’s foot. Dodging a wild punch, he circled behind to give junior a pair of kidney shots with the blunt end. He wasn’t trying to kill, but he sure put the dude out of play.
I don’t think anybody in the clan besides the leader and junior knew what Gray Beard was up to. The rest were too busy coming for me. Everybody, and I mean everybody, all the men, women and children, picked up a weapon and charged. My follow-through must have carried me into the light.
Gray Beard shouted, “Run! Run! Meet at kayaks!”
Dodging moonbeams slanting between the tall trees, I led the pack uphill into the deep forest to throw it off before doubling back the way the old man taught me. Shouts, rattles, loud drumbeats, it’s hard to say if they were trying to catch me or chase me away.
The drums must have put the bachelor fishermen on alert. Thinking I was home free, I was jogging down the bloody path and trying to work out how many hours before the tide peaked when I ran smack into the middle of their trap.
Bachelors poured out of the trees like panthers. White shark teeth embedded in the heads of their heavy clubs bristling in the moonlight. Sea lion killers. If any of them bothered to throw a spear I wouldn’t be here writing this journal entry. I’d be dead. Instead, they rushed in from all sides and paid a terrible price. Able to see in the dark, I measured my shots, made sure each one counted as the meteorite did its work. I took a couple cracks to the helmet, and one to the back I still feel, but I cut through those guys like a brush hog. Don’t think I killed anybody. Hope not.
Once through, I just kept running for the coast. The tide was coming in when I got to the clump of grass and found only one kayak. Following drag marks in the sand, I saw the old man stagger as he pulled his boat along the side of a dune, using its shadow as cover.
The bachelors had regrouped and were bringing an angry, drum-pounding army with them as I dragged my kayak across the sand with its noisy seals and seabirds. The old man was about 100 yards off shore and battling a nasty current sweeping him south when I finally caught up to him and asked, “You alright?”
“I’m OK.”
Asked and answered in English, and then a “woof.”
The leader’s little dog stood wagging his tail in the old man’s lap.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Maria, darling, if you could see my hair right now you’d never stop laughing. The problem was the tar. No matter how careful we were dipping for tar and carrying it in our leather buckets, it got on everything. Slopping it on the hulls with brushes was even messier. My hair was always getting dragged through. I tried tying it back, ponytails, nothing helped.
“Finally, I figured if I couldn’t beat the stuff, I’d join it. I read once how pirates would dip their ponytails into tar to hold them tight and out of the way. Gray Beard thought I was crazy, but it worked so good, I ended up doing my beard into two braids and dipping those too. He started calling me ‘goat.’”
“Today the braids and tar come off. The old man’s already flaked a couple flint blades, says he’ll be glad to give me a haircut.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The current that was with me on the way south to find Gray Beard made it almost impossible to paddle back to camp. Strengthened by the tide, it was like a raging river. I knew we had to paddle far out to sea to get outside the current, but the old man didn’t buy it–even though he was fucking paddling as hard as he could and going backward. The straight-line approach was all he could wrap his head around.
I finally had to tie off to his kayak and tow him to deep water. He griped his ass off when I turned and let the current carry us south, at least a mile the wrong way, but shut up after he noticed how fast we were going. There was no denying the speed as we angled out to flat water.
Free of the current, I didn’t bother untying him, just turned north and concentrated on getting the most out of each paddle stroke. The Leilani was probably still sitting on dry land, I told myself. She wouldn’t float for another hour, maybe two. The high tide might push her up into the palm stumps, tangle her lines, but as long as we got there before the tide turned we’d be OK.
Next time I checked on Gray Beard, he was slumped over, asleep with his paddle across his lap. I guess he’d had a long day. The dog was out on the bow, balanced and calm like he’d been born on a boat.
We couldn’t have cut it any tighter. The tide had peaked and was starting to turn when we reached the Leilani. Fifteen minutes later and there would have been no way we could have got to her. It would have been impossible to paddle into the lagoon as it drained. This was some tide.
Strange what goes through your mind. I caught myself thinking how I would miss the smells of the place as we hustled to slide the kayaks up on the deck and waded through neck-
deep water to start untying mooring lines. The smells that seemed so awful at the start had grown on me. I guess, in the end, we accomplished a lot in that hellhole. I hope Maria and Hunter appreciate that.
We got every line but the main hawser untangled and stowed under the fading moonlight. By the time we got to the big rope, usually the easiest to untie, the tide was pulling Leilani too hard. It was wrapped over on itself a couple times and couldn’t be loosened.
We worked years making that line. Coiled on deck it was one of everybody’s favorite places to sit. Now it was our enemy. I tried raising the sails to get some slack as the depth of the tidewater dropped from about five feet to three. Any more and we’d have to wait for the next tide high enough to float the canoe, probably three or four months.
Stressful? Bet your ass. Gray Beard tied his new dog off in Hunter’s bunk–a nice touch–and jumped down to loosen the hawser’s grip around a palm tree with an antler point. There was too much tension. I told him 50 times it was useless, finally screamed to give up or I was leaving without him. Soon as he climbed on deck, I put my sharpest diamond saw to work. A couple passes of the blade and the hawser started parting. The Leilani was pulling so hard the fat rope hummed, its strands cracking like electricity as they snapped.
The hawser gave way all at once, with a sound like a gunshot. “Crrackkk!” I’m glad one of us wasn’t on the other end of that line. Thick as my calf, it shot back toward the tree like a bungee cord.
Rome Page 39
