Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Man, I wanted to say something, anything. Gray Beard and Bello were conked out after pulling the early-morning shift. Maria and I were alone. It seemed worthy of comment. “Was that a big turtle or what? Do you think it was the one we saw before?” I kept the questions to myself, just let the sails out and reset the lines for a tack to the north. These westerly winds are brutal.

  Maria surprised me. Instead of heading to her bunk or the little nest she’s made for herself up in the left bow, she wrapped a leather cape over her shoulders and wandered back to stand with me at the tiller.

  “Some turtle,” she said, arms crossed.

  “Yep, big one.”

  It felt like fly-fishing for wary trout. I knew I’d spook her with too many words. I watched the horizon and waited for her to go next.

  “Look, I know I’ve been a bitch.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, I have. Paul, let me say this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry. Sorry for giving you such a hard time when we first dry-docked. I’ve felt so bad about that argument.”

  I had to bite back the urge to tell her to forget about it, that it was just stress talking. She fell quiet then started again, words picking up speed as they came out. She said the only clear memories she had of her long run with the Hunter are too terrible to talk about. The rest of the trip was all jumbled–scenery, people and crap going by too fast to keep straight.

  “What if I’ve wronged you, Paul? Wronged you badly? Could you forgive me?”

  For the 100th time, I told her nothing she could have done while she was Hunter’s hostage could take away from how much I love her. All I care about is having her back.

  “If it will make you feel better,” I said one more time, “I forgive you.”

  It sounds simple, but it isn’t. How could it be when she flinches every time I touch her? When she’s so distant and sad? When I can see her sitting alone and talking to herself as she works through the stuff that happened.

  We’ve already had a few talks about post-traumatic stress disorders and I started to go down that road again. I’ve read so much on my computer I’m starting to feel like an expert. She cut me off with a simple question.

  “Can I have a hug?”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Why are we towing that contraption? What is it anyway, a crab trap?”

  Kaikane: “Nope. What you see there is a genuine whale chaser.”

  Duarte: “Whale chaser? You trying to catch a whale?”

  Kaikane: “The opposite. We bumped a couple on the way south. Figured it can’t hurt to let ‘em know we’re coming.”

  Duarte: “Are those lengths of bamboo?

  Kaikane: “I think so.”

  Duarte: “That’s odd. As far as I am aware, bamboo doesn’t make it to this part of the world for a long time. I haven’t seen any. Where’d you find them?”

  Kaikane: “Gray Beard got ‘em from his girlfriend. At least that’s what he said.”

  Duarte: “One of the woman you watched him have intercourse with?”

  Kaikane: “Hey, you were listening to that story.”

  Duarte: “I haven’t been completely out of it.”

  Kaikane: “Especially lately. How about another kiss?”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Leonglauix finally got his hair and beard trimmed today. Maybe trim is too mild a word. I gave my native father a real chop job–partly as payback for what he did to Paul’s hair–but mostly because it was the only way to rid him of all the gobs of dried tar dotting his hair and beard. The afternoon just zoomed by as I futzed with his mane and pretended to be stern the few times I had to tell him to knock off the squirming. We didn’t discuss any important issues, really didn’t converse much at all.

  I tried feathering it this time and think it turned out fairly decent. It’s not nearly as short as Paul’s, whose fuzzy locks are still no more than an inch long, but it’s up around his ears. Let’s just say it’s the shortest haircut the storyteller has ever let me give him.

  Usually, he won’t sit still long enough. Haircuts are no fun in the Cro-Magnon world. No matter how careful you are as a barber, working with stone tools means you’re going to inflict some pain. Roots get tugged, blades slip.

  Spread-eagled on deck with his eyes closed, Gray Beard let me cut as long as I wanted. Bello took great interest in the process for the first 15 minutes. Chasing flying hair, licking his master’s face, he had a grand time until Gray Beard got tired of the antics and ordered a stop. To my surprise, the dog listened. Curling up in the space between Gray Beard’s knees, he settled in for a long nap, only occasionally opening an eye to study the scene.

  Most of my cuts were made by pinching strands of Gray Beard’s hair between the flat of Paul’s meteorite club and the edge of a sharp flint adze. Draping his hair over the club’s nickel head, I used a rocking motion with the flint to make my cuts.

  Though it sounds primitive, this technique is far less painful than the traditional Green Turtle coiffure, which usually entails pulling the customer’s hair tight and sawing with a flint blade, or snipping it between two rocks that are either rubbed or clacked together. Some clans braid the hair before cutting. I’ve even seen fire employed, both times with near-disastrous results.

  Tufts of gray had blown to every corner of the deck by the time his mane and beard were trimmed to a uniform two inches. Smiling from the tiller, Paul waited until late afternoon to kid the old man about his new style. Nearing the end of a long tack toward the low hills of Africa, Paul hooted to get our attention.

  Pointing past Gray Beard to the coast, he shouted, “Maria, do you see the grandfather mammoth in full molt? It has lost its hair. No, wait, that’s no mammoth, it is Leonglauix I see!” Cro-Magnon humor.

  With apologies to Team leaders, I must report the storyteller slowly extended his middle finger and flipped Paul a good-natured bird. I wonder which of the boys taught him that one. It wasn’t me!

  Not to throw Jones under the air bus, but I’d bet my last Norte Americano it was he. I’ve seen our resident soldier make the same gesture more than a few times. Never in anger really, just to say “quit kidding around” or “leave me be.”

  My recent bout with mental illness has given me a new window into what Capt. Juniper Jones goes through when he’s in one of his “blue” moods. Efforts to cheer me up, all the reminders of how lucky I am, how many things I have to be thankful for just made me want to jump off the damn boat.

  Suicide? To be honest, even during my lowest low, it was never a serious option. My sense of self-preservation is too strong. Just like Jones. He’s stood at the edge of the precipice–at least twice that I know of–and never jumped. I don’t think I could either. But now I understand why people make such a difficult choice. I respect them in a way I did not before.

  Jones swears he never suffered episodes of depression until the jump. If the trip through time wasn’t the trigger, his next best guess is the day his jumpsuit short-circuited.

  Not long after splashdown, Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli grazed Jones’ shoulder with a high-velocity slug. The Captain was underwater rescuing Gray Beard at the time. Even though the density of the water and the suit’s armor robbed the bullet of its full punch, Jones almost died. It took us a while to reach him that night. When we did, his suit was on final countdown and, I’d swear, taking him with it.

  It would not surprise me if the sputtering armor inflicted brain or nerve damage. My recent five-month term in a jumpsuit certainly left me empty and paranoid. I’ve never felt so worthless. It’s impossible to explain my emotions or overwhelming sense of guilt. I feel violated, as if I’ve been dissected, studied and haphazardly slapped back together. It bugs the hell out of me to know I’m forgetting things that are vitally important. No matter how hard I concentrate or how many times I reread my notes, the memories refuse to come. On the plus side, the lousy, hurtful memor
ies have also faded.

  As my mother used to say, “time heals all wounds.” It’s been more than a month since I shed the jumpsuit and 24 days since my tense, surreal reunion with Paul and Leonglauix. I do indeed feel more like my old self. The rolling nightmares of torment and infidelity have been replaced by wonderful, sound sleep. How easy it is to take good sleep for granted. You never realize what a friend sleep is until she turns traitor and mocks you night after sleepless night.

  This past week found me rejoining my husband in his bunk. Tender and gentle, he treated me as if he was afraid I might shatter in his arms. Paul would have been content to kiss and spoon all night. I had to get the action started.

  On the trail north, Hunter said some crap about how Paul and I probably make love like an old married couple, one that does it the same way every time. “You touch him here, he kisses you there, you do this, he does that. It’s no better than bloody sawing logs.”

  Over the next few evenings we tried not to give Gray Beard too much of an earful as we did indeed regain our rhythm. And you know what? There’s a reason why lovers find a groove and stick to it. It feels good! It works!

  Last night we relished in our first extended period alone in a long, long time. We made a bed on deck out of furs and leather blankets to ward off the late-fall evening’s dewy chill. There were no worries about being quiet or reserved, and yet we were anyway. It was a night for cuddling under the blankets, covering bodies with kisses and proclamations of eternal love. It seemed we couldn’t hold each other tightly enough. We drifted off in each other’s arms and slept through the night in a warm, comfortable tangle.

  This morning dawned gloomy with marine fog, but the sun burned it off by 10 a.m. to reveal a splendid blue sky. (And stiff winds blowing in the wrong direction.) We’re anchored in a shallow, sandy bay on the leeward side of a pine covered island about 11 miles off the Benghazi coast. We’ve been fighting westerly winds for a week, tacking back and forth and barely making headway. Paul spotted this humped island in the distance yesterday afternoon. Saying it looked like it might be tall enough to block the wind, he reset course.

  Not only was the sandy islet tall enough, it turned out to have the nicest little anchorage on its leeward side. I scanned the woods and scrub through my visor to find the islet clear of predators. No bears, wolves, big cats or anything else menacing. Like most of the uninhabited islands we anchor near, the main hardships we face are bird guano and finding space on the beach amongst the nesting turtles and sleeping seals.

  Leaving Paul to his knots and lines, Gray Beard and I paddled kayaks to shore to see what kind of fruits and greens we could scrounge for dinner. Paul can be quite obsessive in securing his beloved Leilani. He fears she’ll drift away in shifting winds and tides.

  Returning from our circumnavigation of the island with gathering bags bulging, we found Paul building a fire out of driftwood. He had already constructed a low hut where Bello could shelter out of sight from the eagles and shrikes. Making it sound like an afterthought, Paul suggested Gray Beard and Bello might want to spend the night on shore while we stayed aboard to watch the boat.

  A roll of the old man’s eyes said he knew what kind of boat watching we would be doing. To that end, we did make love twice, though most of the night was spent in wonderful slumber. There’s something about falling asleep in Paul arms, inhaling his scent and listening to his breathing, it feels like . . . home.

  No matter how comfortable you are snoozing outdoors, it’s virtually impossible to sleep in once the sun comes up and the birds and animals start their morning recitals.

  We were about to swim to shore to make breakfast for Gray Beard when Paul spotted a pair of mako sharks entering the bay. Putting the swim on hold–it was cold anyway–we launched a kayak instead. He paddled me in and helped gather wood before leaving us to paddle out to the reef and troll for breakfast. Early-morning fishing is one of his all-time favorite things in the world to do.

  It didn’t take him long. We had barely finished building a blaze worthy of chasing away not only the foggy dampness, but also the seals when Paul was back, dragging his kayak up the beach and carrying a stringer loaded with tender reef fish and two sweet lobsters.

  Every island hop is dedicated to loading calories and regaining weight. The seafood was tasty, but the star of breakfast was a little round fruit we gathered the previous afternoon. Purple like a prune, but with a sweet, pulpy mass of seeds in the middle instead of one central pit, they taste like dates only juicier.

  It was Paul who suggested we try drying the fruits, maybe use them as an ingredient for pemmican. Following the meal, it became a race against the starlings and terns as we roamed the island searching for silvery bushes to pluck what fruits were left. We didn’t quit until our bags were filled to their tops.

  We’ve started the curing process on our biggest deck mat, which is currently spread on the beach in the sun with heavy stones anchoring its four corners. A quartet of smoky fires dissuades pilfering birds and rodents from venturing close.

  In midafternoon, we left Gray Beard to keep the fires going and to protect his beloved dog from the raptors as we paddled back to the boat. Climbing the rope ladder, I intended to log on to my computer and get some work done, maybe lay down my initial findings on the new fruit. As I headed for my bunk to retrieve my computer, Paul gently traced his fingers across my bicep.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  “Will I like it?”

  “You might.”

  Sheepish grin plastered across his wide, handsome face, he walked to the stern of the sailing canoe and hauled in the line of what he had explained to me earlier was a “whale chaser.” The gang of tied-together bamboo tubes had been sliding, dancing and splashing behind the boat since we left the Nile. Once the barnacle-encrusted mess of rope, twine and bamboo was on deck, I saw the tubes were plugged at the ends. Rimmed by black, the plugs looked to have been glued in place with the same type of tar Paul used to seal Leilani’s hulls.

  Handing me an antler knife, he said with a twinkle in his eye, “Open one up, let’s see if it’s dry inside. See that notch in the rim. It should pry right off.”

  I wish. The tar he used was far stronger glue than he expected. I pried for at least a minute before I finally got a tiny section lifted and was able to work the antler under the lid. Rocking the horn around the circumference of the rim, I gradually eased the lid away. Turning the tube upside down, a shower of sand and crushed coral poured out. I heard a clunk and saw a flash of something skitter across the deck as Paul lunged to catch it just before it sailed overboard.

  Smiling even wider, he shrugged. “That was close.”

  “What is it?”

  Shaking his head and hiding his clenched hand behind his back, he stood. “Close your eyes.”

  “Show me.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Just close ‘em, and stick out your hands.”

  “Is that thing alive?”

  “No, it’s not alive. Come on, trust me.”

  Shutting my eyes and cupping my hands as if to receive a baby chick, I felt a cool, smooth egg placed between my palms.

  “Guess what it is,” he said.

  I studied its silky surface with the tips of my fingers and rubbed it against my cheek. The object was shaped like an egg, about two inches long, but far too heavy to have come from any bird or turtle.

  “Is it a petrified egg?”

  “Nope.”

  I studied its weight in one hand, felt it grow warmer the longer and tighter I clenched.”

  “Did you find it or make it?”

  “Mmmm, both.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Sky blue.”

  “Husband dear, did you finally buy me a diamond wedding ring?”

  “Don’t get too excited. Open your eyes and see.”

  It wasn’t an egg I held, but a frozen raindrop. Holding the blue gem up to
the sunlight I determined it was a crystal clear sapphire without one blemish, crack or inclusion. The sapphire wasn’t perfectly egg shaped, but nearly. One side was a little less rounded than the other. I have since looked up how to measure carat weight and learned that a carat equals 0.2 grams of weight. The article also said a sapphire the size of quail’s egg measured 321 carats. This blue beauty is the size of a duck egg! 550 carats? 600?

  “Oh Paul, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  My husband has that Hawaiian thing about gift giving. He just loves to do it, certainly would rather give than receive. It stresses him when he feels a present isn’t good enough. In his culture, you only give the best. He sure outdid himself this time.

  Paul had mentioned his diamond-edged tools earlier in the sail, while he was leading me on a tour of the repairs he and Leonglauix had performed. I was in such a fog, still beating myself up non-stop, the thought of asking how he got the jewels (and did he have any more?) never occurred to me. At the time, I probably just wanted to curl up in my bunk and obsess.

  “Tell me again about the jewels. Where’d you get find them?”

  “Open another bamboo first.”

  “There’s more?!”

  Each of the five tubes held a different type of stone. And yes, in case you were wondering, I was much more careful dumping them out. The next plug I pried open revealed a yellow diamond about half the size of the sapphire. It hadn’t polished up as well and had a few inclusions but was still an impressive stone. After that came a brilliant green, but misshapen emerald.

  The next was my favorite. What can I say? I’m an old-fashioned girl. The clear diamond emerged perfectly round and perfectly smooth. Using the quail’s egg comparison, I’d estimate it to weigh around 220 carats. I love the way it magnifies the things it is set upon. You can see every line and swirl in your fingertip. The diamond was so perfect, so beautiful I could have sat and studied it for the rest of the afternoon. I’m trying to decide if I want to mount it in a necklace or a bracelet. It will not spend its life hidden away inside my leather scrip.