Paul took off in one of the kayaks this morning and has been gone for hours. He is so wrapped up in this boat-building project, he has a hard time stepping away. I think he must physically remove himself from the job site to keep from going insane pining for his fires and stone adzes. The log hull is finally starting to take shape, but much effort lies ahead. The sheer amount of work separating us from once again taking to the open seas weighs heavily on Paul.
Conversely, I have no problem setting aside my sail-making duties for a day of semi-leisure. Last week, Paul helped me lash a dozen poles together to make a long tabletop where I work weaving our new fiber sails. I have found it also makes a dandy desk. I spent the entire morning today seated comfortably on a folded wolf skin while compiling my preliminary data on the island’s unique ecosystem.
By my estimates, the island has been cut off from the European continent for at least 950 years, ever since sea levels began to rise at the beginning of this interstadial period. Ibiza’s seclusion provides an interesting snapshot of an ecosystem that has thousands of dead-end branches in its gene pool.
As I have detailed in my reports, we have encountered many varieties of plants and insects that will long be extinct before man begins cataloging and applying Latin names to things. Alepo pines, however, dominate the ecosystem, just as they will 32,000 years from now. The hardy, drought-resistant trees stand immune to the many stresses placed upon them. Several varieties of palm, including a type of coconut, compete for space along the coastlines. The coconuts were a very welcome sight. They provide us with sweet milk as well as fiber for our sennit-making projects.
One plant, a seaside dweller I have recently dubbed “saw-toothed pandanus kaikanus,” proves most useful for weaving our mats and sails. Its narrow, green leaves grow to a length of about three feet, and sport wicked thorns along their edges and down the middle of their underside spines.
Paul recognized the plant as a close cousin of the hala plant, one of the staples for Polynesian mat- and sail-making. Dry leaves littering the ground seem impervious to the elements. For our purposes, we pick mottled green leaves nearly ready to fall from the trees. He showed me how to de-thorn them by carefully stripping the spikes away in long rows. You pinch an edge or spine with your fingernails to create a fissure and then peel it away. I have prepared about 200 so far and only have several thousand more to go.
That is quite enough thinking about sails. I hope I am not becoming as obsessed as Paul.
The island’s predominate mammal is a blue-haired goat which appears to have no natural predators. Roaming the hills in herds by the hundreds, the silvery-blue animals cause erosion both with their trails and the way they nibble plant shoots right down to their roots. It has been a dry season and many lowlands have been completely denuded of fodder.
Paul and I have exhausted several conversations debating how the odd-looking goats came to be here without a species of wolf or cat to serve as counterbalance. Were all the predators hunting to the north when the seas returned? Did the carnivores swim for it? Or did goat outlast wolf? All it would take is one mating pair to perpetuate the species.
We do our part in controlling the population by dining on goat chops, goat stew, goat kabob and goat chowder. When we finally set sail, we will no doubt leave with our larder full of goat jerky. Sliced thin, rolled in sea salt and hung to dry for five days in the weak autumn sun, the jerky is the most palatable preparation we have found thus far for the lean, chewy meat.
Picky, picky. It’s hard to top the bounty of the sea. We could eat lobster, crab, rockfish, oyster and clam every night and never exhaust the supply. Our Bouillabaisse recipe continues to expand as we experiment with whatever new ingredients present themselves on a particular day.
On that account, I noticed some of the goats rutting last week. If any are unlucky enough to give birth before we leave, we plan to harvest a few nannies for their milk sacs to see if we can make butter and cheese. Plans and hopes, we have plenty of those.
We find that we must perpetually deconstruct our goals to understand the steps involved in reaching them. For example, Paul dreams of one day biting into a fat bacon cheeseburger with dill pickle, mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup and sesame seed bun. It may take years to gather the ingredients and learn to concoct them, but I hope to someday fulfill his wish. Meat and mayonnaise will be easy, and we’ll see about the cheese in a few months. I will need to circle the earth to find cucumbers, peppercorns, tomatoes and mustard seeds.
This boat is another example. Before we could fell a tall pine and begin hollowing it, we needed tools and rope and huge piles of firewood. Paul has given me the duty of learning to manufacture marine glue and pitch against the day when we will need it to repair our craft out on the open seas. I have enjoyed some success in creating both, but what good is hard-drying glue if there is no airtight vessel to store it? I must first manufacture tight-fitting pots and lids to hold the substances.
My pottery hopes are now pinned on a coarse red clay common to the banks of a nearby stream. I hope it works better than the beige gunk I tried five days ago. The pots I made with that gooey substance cracked even before I could attempt firing them in my makeshift kiln.
For the past 15 minutes, I have been glancing up to chart Paul’s return from his paddle along the coast. Riding a tailwind into the lee of our bay’s protective cliffs, he is finally free of the whitecaps and running sea that kicked up several hours ago to worry me so. His long, black hair is pulled back into a ponytail tied with a leather thong strung with orange and yellow shells we collected.
The long muscles of his bronze body are covered in sweat and flecked white where salt spray has dried. His wide mouth is curved in a smile as if he has heard a small joke. That is Paul’s face at rest. Perpetually happy. He paddles through the calm waters trailed by a trio of large dorsal fins. Sharks are just something we have grown used to. These waters are full of them. Thanks to our kayaks’ anti-predator systems, the big fish do not harass us, but still, they follow wherever we go.
Bye for now, I am off to see what my Hawaiian waterman has brought home for dinner.
CHAPTER THREE
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Gray Beard’s smoked mammoth tastes a bit like prosciutto, does it not?”
Jones: “Couldn’t tell ya.”
Bolzano: “Why not?”
Jones: “Never had prosciutto. Way out of my family’s price range.”
Bolzano: “My father had a standing order with a butcher in Bevagna. A fine ham, salami and other meats and cheeses were delivered to the family compound in Milano every three months. The cured hog’s leg arrived wrapped in pink paper with its black hoof jutting out the package’s narrow end. The leg was placed into a family heirloom, a wooden carving rack with attendant knives. We children would sneak down at night to–”
Jones: “Sal, I don’t give a shit about any of this.”
Bolzano: “Yes, but–”
Jones: “Going to bed.”
Bolzano: “Will you be seeking slumber in Fralista’s cave again this evening?”
Jones: “One way to put it.”
Bolzano: “Might I offer a cautionary word against dipping your quill in the company inkwell?”
Jones: “You saying Fralista’s the company inkwell?”
Bolzano: “No, she is Gray Beard’s daughter and he is the grande capo, the big boss. Take it from a man who has learned most of life’s lessons the hard way, you should mind your step, Captain.”
Jones: “Gray Beard’s the one who suggested I visit her in the first place.”
Bolzano: “You break Fralista’s heart and–”
Jones: “And she’ll probably spear me in the back. Don’t worry, Sal. I’m not fucking stupid.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
No wonder surgeons are so insufferably smug. They regard themselves as gods because they are!
Holding
a person’s internal organs in your hands, knowing life or death will be determined solely by your skill and courage, these are experiences heady enough to skew any person’s self-worth.
Four days have passed since the world’s first successful Caesarean section was performed by yours truly. I am happy to report that Gertie and her baby boy are both in fine fiddle, though unhappily sequestered inside a painted cavern until I judge them fit to be swum out. We will not risk the waters until her incision is well healed.
I no longer sleep in the chamber, but visit them several times daily. Today, as we shared our afternoon meal, Gertie and Tomon could scarcely take their eyes off their swarthy little boy. Attempts to start conversations regarding the weather, the cave painting and other favorite topics died upon the vine.
Left to dwell within my own thoughts, I cast back to the night of the operation. Much of that night is a blur. I remember forcing myself to make the first cut quickly, lest I freeze at the precipice. If this were a year ago, I would have sawed at her abdomen for half an hour and gotten nowhere. My meager practice, however, allowed me to anticipate the rubbery thickness of Gertie’s skin. It also helped that Gray Beard’s flint blades are as sharp as they come.
With one clean, downward cut, I opened a vertical incision 12 centimeters in length. I had a second or two to peer inside before the wound was awash in blood. Pressing makeshift styptic pencils against the tips of the bleeders, I soon had the deluge slowed to mere trickles.
And then, suddenly, I was frozen with doubt. Who was I attempting to fool? The banished family disappointment was once again set to weigh anchor on a delusional folly sure to end as so many others have done–in shame and humiliation for me, and great suffering for those I love. Taking a deep breath, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I asked Captain Jones to further retract the incision the way he did long ago for the medical officer named Peter.
Somehow, we muddled through. I quit thinking about everything else, just turned up the volume of Il Prete Rosso’s “Opus 9” and let my fingers work. There is not one mention of Caesarean section in my computer’s medical files. However, there are quite detailed descriptions of other operations, including gallbladder removal. To prepare, I studied every chapter which seemed pertinent, and picked the brain of Captain Jones for all the memories he could provide from his experience in Canada. Combining that data with knowledge gained from dissecting two drowned native women was better preparation than one might expect.
So far, there are no signs of infection. Though sore, Gertie is up and mobile. Her milk came in fine and the young lad has taken to the teat like a champion.
She and Tomon grow restless in the cave. Though I have sworn them to silence regarding the procedure, they are anxious to show their baby off to the clan. And that worries me. What if they tell the world? What if I am the sole cause of a population boom which ends mankind’s run before I am even born? A man of conscience might be more perturbed by such thoughts. Not me.
To keep the trio happy in their confinement, I do my best to see they are comfortable and well fed. The resident clan long ago devised a method to deliver supplies to the chamber through the natural, S-shaped skylight at the top of its seven-meter-high ceiling. Food and firewood are lowered with braided leather ropes. In reverse method, leather bags of human waste and garbage are removed. I am determined to keep the cave’s environment as sterile as possible. No visitors save myself, Jones and Gray Beard are permitted entry.
The special chamber’s existence has not yet been revealed to the new members of the Green Turtle Clan. I don’t know where they think Tomon and Gertie have gone. And I do not care. When Fralista and her diminished tribe sanctioned us to lead the trade-rich Turtles over the escarpment and into this hidden valley, I believe the locals were expecting visitors with better manners. I doubt the new recruits will ever be fully accepted into the once-prosperous, semi-agrarian society. There is a wildness, a stubborn rudeness within this re-formed clan that neither their leader Tomon nor his uncle, Leonglauix the Gray Beard, can tame.
The recruits do have their redeeming qualities, particularly upon the trail. They are savvy traders and travel at a steady clip. When it comes time to shoo an auroch off the pathway or rally to defend the dogs against a persistent wolf pack, these new Turtles are not shy about putting their necks on the line for the good of all.
In this long-settled valley, however, with its comfortable lodgings and respectful protocols, they stand out as ruffians and troublemakers. I know I am not the only one to grow weary of their antics.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Do you see those two eagles circling above camp?”
Jones: “Yep.”
Bolzano: “Let us bet upon which raptor will be first to capture its midday meal.”
Jones: “No bet.”
Bolzano: “Why not.”
Jones: “Ya probably got it rigged somehow.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Illuminated by the computer screen’s glow, my exhalations emerge as plumes of steam as I recline on a stack of wolf pelts in my solitary dark cave and try to put sense to a very eventful evening.
The Cro-Magnons will no doubt remember it as the day a flock of migrating ducks–big as swans and adorned in beautiful golden plumage–had the misfortune of landing in the valley swamp at the same moment as a large hunting party was preparing to leave on a hunt. Abandoning their scheme to procure goat meat to preserve with smoke and salt for winter, the hunters swiftly diverted to the swamp and set up an effective crossfire of stones and spears that brought down nearly two dozen of the 15-kilo birds.
Only two men in camp were not signed up for the initial hunt: Leonglauix and me. This was to be our time alone to discuss important issues. That arrangement was jettisoned once the unexpected flock honked its way up the narrow valley, made two circuits of the gorge’s amphitheater-like dead end and splashed down in the shallow waters surrounded by the clan’s berry bramble. The storyteller did not even bother to excuse himself as he hefted his three spears and headed for the swamp on the trot.
Hours later, the wily old codger continued to dodge my questions as we sat together beside one of the valley camp’s secondary fire pits. Warming ourselves against the late autumn chill, enjoying the aroma of duck slow-roasting in a nearby pit oven, we played a game of cat and mouse. Finally, I broke protocol to remind my clan elder of his solemn promise. Had he not sworn that once we reached this valley he would provide answers to my questions about our would-be modern rescuers to the north?
It has been more than five months since he dropped the bombshell that we had clan members with similar tools and weapons far to the north. His scrimshaw drawing of the Einstein IV time travel ship forced us to turn our plans upside down. Rather than heading to the south of Italy to explore Rome before the Romans, we elected to divert north to see if these phantoms of his youth were still alive.
Once we agreed to accompany him on the trail, however, he grew increasingly reticent about sharing facts of what he experienced with the northern Fish Eaters Clan and their powerful benefactors. Before setting sail, dottore Duarte made herself quite the pest badgering him for specific descriptions and details. The more she pushed for information about our would-be rescuers, the more slippery he grew.
He claimed he spent several seasons living with the clan as a young man, during a pause in his lonely pilgrimage to the ice sheet and beyond. For a legendary storyteller, the tales were woefully vague and inconsistent.
He would get us alone and share stories about seal hunts and great runs of fish, but whenever Duarte and I compared notes, there were wide discrepancies in not only small things, but also important ones like directions and geographical markers. His refusal to provide the mariners with a firm description of our final destination was strange. He insisted we all meet up in Bretagne–my word, not his–and travel the rest of the way together. Jones thinks the
man is afraid. I want to know why.
My challenge to his honor caused Leonglauix to stroke his beard in thought for a moment. When he locked his steely eyes upon mine, the intensity caused me to take an involuntary gulp of air.
“The land where you were born,” he asked, “do people make promises there?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Does every man and woman keep every promise they make?”
“Well, no, but those who do not keep their promises soon lose standing in the clan. Trust is very important where I come from. Please confess, wise father, why are you afraid of these men to the north? You are the great Leonglauix, storyteller of the Green Turtle Clan, destroyer of Lorenzo Martinelli, and the man who killed five bull mammoth at one time by himself.”
I thought my flattery might carry the day, but he abruptly threw a spanner in the works.
“These stories you ask me to tell, I made a promise long ago not to tell them. I think you, Doo-Art, Ky-kah-nee and Jones made the same kinds of promises. You promised your people you would not share the truth about where you came from and where you got your special clothes and weapons. You wish me to break my promise, why don’t you go first? Where do you come from?”
That may have been check, but it was certainly not checkmate. Sorting through my Green Turtle vocabulary for the proper words and hand gestures to make an effective rebuttal, I allowed myself to imagine telling the truth. If I admitted we were from 32,000 years in the future, could this man who counts in hands and fingers comprehend? If I told him the jumpsuits which give us strength and allow us to become invisible were the latest 23rd century prototypes, would he be able to grasp how hundreds of thousands of visual receivers and projectors allow the suits to blend into the background? How about the gyroscopes in our miracle kayaks? Would he understand how they keep us from flipping over and also scare away hippos? I am not even sure I understand how that works.
Gibraltar Page 3
