Jones: “Lanio. You two done the nasty yet?”
Bolzano: “Such an outlandish statement does not justify a response.”
Jones: “What I figured.”
Bolzano: “My good friend, if ever I have occasion to–how did you so crassly phrase it–‘tap,’ Lanio, you will be the first person I inform.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Captain Jones and I just finished viewing one of my favorite movies, the 2116 classic, Papa Panache. Jones had not yet seen the pre-apocalyptic love story set against the backdrop of Europe’s Great Famine. While it is unfortunate his initial viewing was on my small, scratched computer screen, he seemed to enjoy it. In the climactic scene, where the heroine succumbs to starvation in her lover’s arms as they hide under a bombed-out Paris bridge, I do believe I caught him wiping away a tear.
As expected, the soldier’s critique was short and to the point. “That’s some sad shit.” With that, he curled up in a pile of furs and drifted off to sleep.
I had rather expected the prime sleeping area to fall to me. After all, the exorbitant price to rent this cave and its accoutrements came from my store of necklaces. The captain often jokes that I tilt every situation to my personal benefit. I fail to see how that is the case in this instance. He beat me to the punch.
I admit, he does more physical work than me–hunting, carrying heavy objects, pulling guard duty, and generally making the world safe for us to traipse through. But someone must do the talking and listening and communing with nature. Those fine sauces we enjoy on our meat dishes do not make themselves! There was a time when I could assert that writing reports was how I pulled my weight. I have not even been doing much of that lately, but rest assured, report writing tops my To Do List. In the long run, I suppose the captain probably does deserve the better bed. The volume of his snores confirms his well-earned rest is enjoyed.
We are ensconced in a comfortably dry cavern located about four meters directly above what may be the world’s first shopping mall. With the cave’s entry ladder safely stored alongside us in our deep volcanic tube, we are somewhat assured of privacy and security. There may be another ladder nearby, or some nimble-footed animal might be able to scale the cliffs to either listen to us speak English or do us harm, but my faithful dog Izzy is staked near the entrance to our lair and she would raise quite a ruckus if someone or something dared try.
Gray Beard was not happy to see us take leave from his traveling clan tonight. Nor was his daughter Fralista pleased when Jones slipped away from her jealous fingers. “Two days,” we informed them, without adding why. Thankfully, they have such good Cro-Magnon manners they will never ask. How could we explain that after 16 days traveling, eating and sleeping in a tight pack, the captain and I needed to touch base with our modern selves, to unwind with some music, and to converse in sophisticated language. If only Jones spoke Italian. English is so drab and colorless compared to the poetry of my native tongue.
Poor Tomon, he will no doubt suffer the brunt of the storyteller’s ill humor tonight, as well as Fralista’s, for it was he who introduced me to the owner of our temporary home. Tomon and I were gathering ferns for the night’s bedding when he waved me to follow him up a well-worn forest trail. Trudging through mud sure to freeze solid when the meager sun dipped below the Massif’s rim, we angled away from the Rhone River and steadily gained ground. Sounds of flutes, drums and laughter led us through a stand of conifer trees to a cliff face pocked by caves. Many of the Early Modern Humans seated around the fires and standing in the mouths of caves glanced up to note our arrival, but their interest was cursory at best. What could strangers too poor to own dogs or packs bring to the table? Quite a bit, as they would soon learn.
Though the warren of volcanic caves would never be mistaken for Italy’s first true shopping mall, Milano’s beautiful Galleria, I had no doubt we had arrived at a place of commerce. It induced in this city boy an overwhelming desire for entertainment, cooked food, interesting companionship and most of all, the latest gossip. It is amazing how thirsty one becomes for good information.
Conversation along the well-used trail paralleling the Rhone’s western shore had become predictably monotonous over the past two weeks. Everyone we passed who was headed south had one of two opposite things to say. The first was how the volcano was a bad thing, a blight on the earth which blocked travel and filled the air with evil smells that burnt your throat. “Don’t bother,” these travelers warned, “Turn around now.” The second opinion held that the volcano was a “wonder” that must be “experienced to be believed.” Red-hot stone flowing like a river down the mountain into the freezing river to make clouds of steam, how could you not be moved by that?
It was encouraging to hear these stories dominating the news as opposed to the ones that must have permeated this valley 18 months ago, back when Sergeant Martinelli was leading a growing Cro-Magnon army down both sides of the river on a campaign of pillage, plunder and preaching the Word According to Lorenzo. How did things spiral so far out control so quickly?
I could never be blamed for the man’s atrocities, but I am sure there are some who would make a case for guilt by association. Thankfully, nobody along the trail has recognized me as the tenor who sang arias in Martinelli’s choir, or the one who taught him his Latin verses. At Jones’ suggestion, Bolzano has been replaced by Bozen. That is how I am now introduced, Bozen. My once flowing hair and beard are now bound in tight ponytails. I have shed the white fur robe I wore everywhere during the crusades–and also nearly 40 kilos in body fat. No longer do I need to be carried about in a kayak litter due to poor, broken feet. Put that way, I guess it should not come as such a big surprise that people do not recognize me. I am a changed man!
When we do encounter leftover flickers of fervor, Leonglauix confronts them head-on. Following Doctor Duarte’s mandate, he has worked hard to tamp down all remnants of Martinelli’s religious campaign. Occasionally, while seated beside a traveling band’s campfire or during a stop along the trail to share the news, someone will make a comment about seeing Lorenzo do something amazing. “Fire shot from his fingers to kill a goose!” Or, “He could disappear from one place and reappear in another! My brother saw it happen.”
The storyteller always finds an opening to present his effective rebuttal. He explains in a very convincing manner that Lorenzo was nothing more than a man, a man who was a rapist, liar and thief. “He was the worst of the worst,” he says. “As leader of the Tattoo Clan, Mertoon-elly brought much death and hardship to this valley and down to the sea. He stole people and broke up families. He was bad!”
Leonglauix’s stories are forever evolving. For our winter march up the Rhone’s shoreline, some interesting new material has been added to his schtick. When it is his turn to share the news, with as much embellishment as time allows, Leonglauix tells how the stocky young warrior Babeck ate The Hunter’s wife in a cave during a snowstorm. “Babeck started with Pinquinfidenjosn’s toes and finished with her brain!”
The graceful way he blends fact and outright fiction reminds me of Italian politicians and how they always tried to “get out in front” of a looming scandal. Those thieves and liars were experts at sowing half-truths and diverting blame, anything to cast doubt in the public’s tiny mind.
Mention of The Hunter always sparked interest. Folks seemed to think Babeck was in big trouble. “The Hunter will find him,” they said. I take it he is a bit of a legend in these parts, a regular Canadian Mountie–“The Hunter always gets his man.” I hope we have not been tarnished by Pinquinfidenjosn’s untimely death.
Today around noon, less than a half-day’s walk from the volcano, Gray Beard halted our contingent of four men, three women, one child and four dogs on the outside of a bend in the wide trail. Once he scanned the area to assure we were unobserved, he leaped upon a rock that was free of snow and instructed us to follow without leaving signs of our passing. Picking his
way carefully through the brush, he led us to a long-abandoned campsite remembered from days traveling with the Green Turtle Clan of his youth. He said when his father and mother were running the show, the Turtles often set up camp atop the granite bluff that overlooks a fast-running stretch of the wide river.
Once he had backtracked the spring to its headwaters to assure its waters were untainted by dead animals or poisonous weeds, he announced we would set up camp for three days to mend our footwear and put a little meat on our bones. The storyteller is worried that Gertie’s milk will dry up if we push too hard. According to the women, such drying is a common enough occurrence for traveling mothers, one that would likely spell the end for the still unnamed black-haired little boy who has stolen our hearts.
The order to halt inspired a bit of grumbling amongst the troops, even Tomon and Gertie. It seemed a shame to stop just short of the lava’s grand spectacle, but there was no arguing with the storyteller. Like a well-oiled machine, the Green Turtle Clan established its quarters in quick order. Before you could say “Pedro of Padua pickled a parcel of peperoncini” five times, the shallow caves had been swept out with pine boughs, firewood had been laid in, fires were smoldering in both fire pits and the sleeping arrangements had been worked out.
When the grunts of a she-pig enticed Gray Beard and Jones to heft their spears and trot into the trees, Tomon motioned me to the edge of camp. “Help me gather ferns for our beds,” he said with a wink. Not really a wink, but his voice certainly winked.
Twenty minutes later, we strode into the midst of traders and travelers, the smells and sounds of community. It was not long before folks began to take note of my great height. While slightly taller than an average adult male in the modern world, I now tower head and shoulders over most people we encounter. Cro-Magnon pointing and hooting no longer faze me. I just pat the hooters and pointers on the tops of their hollow heads and smile.
Tomon and I were inspecting a row of soft fox furs when a voice called out behind us in trade dialect. “I recognize the Green Turtle style of your foot clothes,” the voice said. “Am I right? Who made your boots?”
Turning, we saw a man plagued by a stiff leg limping our way. Like all good merchants and poker players, it was hard to read the meaning on his face, but his eyes had a glint that hinted at a love of fun.
“My uncle made them,” Tomon answered in Green Turtle dialect, pride in his voice.
“Does you uncle happen to be a great storyteller? The leader of the Green Turtles, Leonglauix?”
The mention of Leonglauix’s name caused heads to turn our direction.
“Him dead,” offered a woman from the next cave over.
“Not dead,” the limping man shouted. “That was the rumor. Not true. Like a rhino bred to a musk oxen, this boy’s uncle is too hard-headed to die! I should know, I am the only one to ever best him in a swimming race.”
Turning to Tomon, he added with a real wink, “You ask him about that race, boy. We swam for a pretty girl and I won! Ask him about it. Ask him if Goingpo beat him in the race. Come, let us share food. My wife is a good cook.”
We spent a charming two hours listening to the man’s stories, as well as his accounts of recent events. Goingpo was an apothecary, one of about a dozen crafters, traders and providers of services conducting business in the cluster of caves. After hors d’oeuvres, the delightful man and his woman were kind enough to take us on a tour and introduce us around. When I posed a subtle question how they survived the troubles which swept down the valley six seasons ago, Goingpo said they were warned in time to hide in the hills.
“We Owls will fight when we need to fight, but there is no shame in flying away to a safe perch.”
Night falls quickly this time of year in the Rhone River Valley. It was well past dark when Tomon and I returned to a frosty reception beside our clan’s campfire. Not only were we late, we had forgotten to collect everyone’s sleeping ferns. We received cold shoulders and disapproving looks from one and all.
“We thought you had been eaten by wolves,” dour Fralista finally piped up. The woman truly is a party pooper.
When I explained where we had been, and that I planned to return to the caves of Goingpo for a two-night stay, Jones surprised me by saying, “I’m comin’ with ya.” I had been planning on inviting Lanio. Oh well.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “How ya plan to lift your dog up to the cave? Can’t leave her down here.”
Bolzano: “You are correct, of course. Someone would surely eat her. I was planning to pack her up the ladder. Instead, perhaps we could hoist her up with your rope.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Feeling pretty good lately. Never had much luck with serious relationships, but Fralista’s all right. Low maintenance. She pulls her own weight, gives me space when I need to be left alone. Fralista always has my back. Probably best thing you can say about a partner. Sitting here wondering why I jumped at the chance to ditch her tonight.
Up in this cave, a mile away, I miss her.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Lotta smoke comin’ off the volcano this mornin’.”
Bolzano: “I feel it in my throat.”
Jones: “Old dude wanted to do a quick recon up to the lava flow and back this afternoon, long as it wasn’t raining too hard.”
Bolzano: “This portends to be a fine, if hazy day. Perhaps I’ll join you.”
Jones: “Way ya were eying that girl at breakfast, figured ya had another exercise in mind.”
Bolzano: “Listen to you. First I am bedding Lanio, and now I am going after a toothless femme fatale from yonder brothel. Why do you make this stuff up?”
Jones: “Nothin’ made up about it. Know ya’ve been fucking Lanio, and know ya want to fuck one of these girls. It’s what all soldiers do on leave. But maybe ya figure if ya keep busy, hang out with me and the old man, keep your dick in your pants, Lanio won’t cut it off.”
Bolzano: “You are certifiably daffy. What about this acrid smoke, will he wait to approach until it lessens?”
Jones: “Ya heard the stories on way up, been like this for more’n a year. Old man says Babeck’s gonna be lookin’ for us. Think the boss is way overestimating that bonehead’s abilities, but he told me to be on the lookout for a big party. Thinks Babeck might even have Neanderthal trackers.”
Bolzano: “Neanderthal trackers? This sounds like one of his exaggerations.”
Jones: “What I was thinking. Whatever, he ain’t gonna wait long. If we need to turn back south, he’ll wanna get at it right away.”
Bolzano: “Reversing course would truly be a shame.”
Jones: “Roger that.”
Bolzano: “He would not make us swim the river, would he?”
Jones: “Don’t think so. Not with the kid. Get your gear together. Let’s go see what he wants to do.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Visiting Goingpo’s camp a day earlier than Leonglauix intended us to turned out to be a grand faux pas. The old man had planned to waltz into his longtime friend and rival’s palace unexpectedly, at the head of an entourage bearing a finely-cooked pig and other gifts.
Though we ruined his surprise, tonight’s feast could hardly have fared any better. Great food, charming company, intriguing stories and fanciful music, this shindig was one for the ages. Even now, happy voices carry up the cliff face to my lair. I hated to leave the party, but had to come up and pack my things. While here, I have decided to jot down the story Gray Beard just told. I do not want to forget the details.
“Listen! Listen and I will tell you a story,” he began with his familiar refrain. Walking toward the fire, Leonglauix used one of his favorite tricks to cast a handful of tiny pine cones into the coals. The sudden popping and cracking made everyone jump, including me. He must have the deft hands of a magician, for even though I am looki
ng for it, that trick gets me every time. When all was quiet, he continued.
In this very forest, between this mountain and where the river bends twice like the leg of a horse, there lived two young men who loved the same woman. This woman had green eyes, a straight back and, most importantly, a father who promised to pay a handsome dowry of two hands of dogs to the man who could settle her wild ways.
You see, this girl loved to climb trees and swim rivers, hunt lion and wolf as much as any man. Even in the seasons when she was a tiny girl, she was good at these things. Her father never refused her requests to accompany him on his hunts. He had no sons and was glad to have her help with the stalking, skinning and dragging. She also made her fair share of kills. This girl knew how to throw a spear!
While her sisters longed to gather and collect pretty things, this girl wanted to hunt. While the sisters yearned to mate with strong men of the clan and make babies, she wanted no such weights to hold her down. Much like the two young rivals competing for her attention, she longed to explore, and to spear the biggest red deer anyone had ever seen.
At this point of my story, I must share a little secret. One of those boys was named Goingpo, and the other was Leonglauix! Yes, that is right, I am going to tell you the story of our great race. At the time, the beautiful young girl wore the name of Jennrey. I will not yet reveal her current name, but can say she is within the sound of my voice.
I do not doubt that you people of Goingpo’s Owl Clan have heard this story before. Well, now you will hear what REALLY happened! Aha, no sit down, please, you are far too gracious a host to interrupt a story by the great Leonglauix. Ha! If any word I say is untrue, you are welcome to correct me–after I have finished. May I continue, exalted host? Thank you.
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