In the end, Doreen’s father got to watch his wife and then oldest two children die of cancer before the disease took him. “He poisoned us all, the stupid son-of-a-bitch,” Doreen said while chewing on the stem of a weed. After that story, I wouldn’t even put a New Cadiz weed in my mouth, but for her, she knew it was already too late.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Yo, ho, yo, ho, it’s a pirate’s life for me!”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Poor Doreen weighed only 57 pounds the afternoon she died in my arms. We were out in the sun, lying together on a mattress I had pulled off the hotel bed and dragged out onto the balcony. She moaned one last time and was gone.
I couldn’t get out of Spain fast enough, stayed just long enough for the funeral, part of it at least. The cousins held the wake down at the villa. A lot more people than I expected came, mostly folks I didn’t know. That didn’t stop them from hugging me and saying how bad they all felt. I was in a daze, but remember being cheered up a little when I saw how people cared for Dorey. Though her family had been wiped out, she still had a lot of friends and cousins, people she went to school with, or worked alongside. Nobody seemed to have much money, but they brought bowls of food and bottles of homemade wine to share. One of her Irish sponsors sent a case of booze. That was a big hit.
Before everyone got too drunk, a bunch of us paddled out beyond the gunk to offer Doreen a traditional surfer’s farewell. We made a big circle in the water and shared a moment of silence before spreading her ashes and tossing flowers into the ocean. Guys on shore blew conch shells as we sat on our boards and held hands. One of the cousins sang a couple sad Irish songs from her family’s old home town. I was supposed to do a Hawaiian chant, but was so choked up I couldn’t get it out.
There were waves that day. I caught one, rode it to shore and dug out without saying goodbye to anybody. Two days later, I was in Switzerland flying in a sky surfing meet over Lake Lucerne. It took the last of our money to get me there and pay for a used flying board, but it turned out OK when I won the first-place check. That money bankrolled a crazy leapfrog from one insane challenge to the next. Somewhere along the way my idiotic stunts drew the notice of extreme filmmaker Stephen Jacoby. My death wish became his pet project.
Whenever I risked my neck after that, there were four or five camera drones flying alongside to capture the action, and just maybe, the moment I finally bought the farm. Jacoby was a rich dude with great connections. We roamed the world looking for the next big thrill. Things like laws and borders, even a shooting war, couldn’t keep Steve from getting his shot.
I guess you could say we traveled in style, but I didn’t pay much attention to that. I was like some sort of prizefighter or circus performer. My job was to train hard, eat right and be ready to perform my tricks, take on all challengers at a moment’s notice. Knife-hunting pigs, ultra-deep free diving, tandem kitesurfing out of planes, stupid stuff like that. When a winter storm kicked up a 110-foot swell off a seamount near the north pole, Jacoby didn’t let the darkness or cold keep me from riding that wave. Steve had a thing about records. He liked to film me breaking them.
Our friendship ended in Switzerland.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Why must you take every panorama we encounter and turn it into a battle scene?”
Jones: “Old habit, I reckon.”
Bolzano: “I would deploy my las-cannons along that ridge, let the crews use the cover of what’s left of the forest for re-supply and base camps.”
Jones: “Ya defending or attacking?”
Bolzano: “What would a pacifist like myself be doing attacking? I am always defending.”
Jones: “Puttin’ your guys in some bad air so close to the lava flow. Way wind’s blowin’ they’ll be breathing sulfur and crap all day.”
Bolzano: “They would have respirator masks.”
Jones: “Ya ever wear a gas mask and try to do a job?”
Bolzano: “I have never had the pleasure.”
Jones: “Sucks. Hot and closed in, glass fogs over and ya can’t see shit. Even when bad guys ain’t shootin’ at ya, takes all your will not to rip the damn thing off your face and take a deep breath.”
Bolzano: “Where was this?”
Jones: “Better question is ‘where wasn’t it?’ California, Ontario, even back home in Pennsylvania, my unit faced creeps throwing bad shit our way. Chemical warfare, what the fuck is that all about?”
Bolzano: “Rather than devising ways to blow up this volcanic landscape, let us try discussing how pretty it is. When night falls, the molten river before us will glow red. That is what all the eyewitness accounts claim.”
Jones: “Your river sounds like glass breaking when it moves.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Cro-Magnons may be prone to exaggeration, but if anything, none of the little fibbers had done the volcano justice. We listened to its rumbling, scented its sulfurous gases, and even tasted its grit long before we beheld the actual eruption. Cresting the ridgeline and ogling my first ogle, I immediately cast my lot with all the travelers who had listed the tourist attraction as a “must-see.” This was a scene of biblical proportions–fire, brimstone, and all the rest. The scale of the thing was beyond imagination.
Led by a pair of Goingpo’s grandsons, we approached by way of an upland trail that climbed high to dead-end at a scenic vantage point. We do not see too many dead ends in this prehistoric world. Trails almost always go somewhere. Most are cut by animals and only later usurped by man when he finds them handy. As I could not imagine an ibex or wild horse trotting to the edge of the cliff to revel in the beauty of the valley below, I reasoned the switchbacks are an example of early human engineering.
Our route terminated at a picnic area, or summer camp with wide, flat rocks and several fire pits of varying size. Due to recent wildfires spawned by the volcano, there were no trees or scrub cover, just a wide panorama of the Central Massif to our left and the Rhone River Valley to our right. Beyond the river, almost completely obscured by volcanic haze, rose the smudge of a jagged, snow-capped horizon. Looming somewhere out there in the acrid fog were the French Alps. Prior to the eruption, I imagine the lookout had been a wonderful place to woo a sweetheart.
Chill afternoon winds sweeping down off the mountains threatened to turn the drops of sweat on our backs to ice cubes, but they also cleared our air of contaminants, pushing the haze and putrid odors off to the east, across the Rhone. Our guides claimed the views of the distant mountains had been extraordinary until last fall when a series of earthquakes presaged the “smoky moons.”
I think we all expected to do a little reconnaissance, then choreograph a way around or over the lava flow. Sitting there on our packs, shivering, we knew it would never happen. There would be no sneaking across or swimming around this glowing anaconda.
The lava flow was at least a kilometer wide and six kilometers in length. I estimate the drop in elevation from its caldera to the Rhone River to be about 1,500 meters. From our perch atop the cliffs, the mountainside facing us curved inward like a Roman amphitheater. The molten river emerged from a circular vent almost directly across the amphitheater, perhaps 1.4 kilometers away.
Pushed forever from behind, never allowed to stop and harden, the lava behaved as any liquid does. It sought the point of least resistance. The flow spilled toward our position for about a half kilometer until it reached the V-bottom of a side spur. From there, the flow took a sweeping left turn to follow the vagaries of the terrain all the way down to the river. The tumultuous union of firestone and near-freezing water sent up billowing clouds of steam.
That was the steak, here is the sizzle.
Punctuated by great glubs and plops, magma bombs firing off like cannon shots, the lava gushed from the earth’s core orange-hot and as elastic as
mud. After traveling no more than 300 meters, the surface of the flow began to wear a grayish tint, perhaps cooling from 2 million degrees to only 1 million. About a kilometer down-flow, cooled by winter air, the upper crust took on notions of becoming solid. Gravity and the red-hot river rushing below had other ideas.
Every time the top solidified, it would be folded and shattered into chunks tumbling atop the magma. The brittle pieces were sucked down to the molten river to be returned once again to liquid rock. This was happening every few meters, for kilometers! What a tremendous noise!
To say the sound of lava rocks folding and snapping in half reminds one of glass breaking does not give this auditory shemozzle its proper due. Imagine a thousand crystal brandy snifters per second dropping from the roof of Milano’s Duomo to shatter on the flagstones of the piazza below. Smash, crash, crunch, without stop! This force of nature reminds us how small and insignificant we truly are.
From this perspective, we spied many Cro-Magnon clans camping and cavorting along both sides of the flow. Of the 200 individuals I counted, roughly two thirds were bivouacked along its northern edge, most likely wondering how to proceed after having their traditional trail buried in smoking rock. This may be pure conjecture from so far away, but it seemed the southern visitors behaved like tourists. They walked along the cooled edges and tempted fate by standing right next to the river of orange. The people on the north did not approach the flow. Perhaps constant wind-blown smoke, ash and steam, the threat of fire bombs falling out of the sky, encourage them to keep their distance. Or, maybe being blocked in this cold valley for an entire winter makes them view the lava flow as nothing more than one big fat bummer.
Gray Beard and Tomon spent the afternoon sitting side by side, mostly in silence, but sometimes putting their heads together to share notions. The determined looks on their faces told me they have the beginnings of a plan, but the scheme does not yet taste right. This morning, they grabbed Jones and Fralista and whisked them off to see Goingpo for his input.
That leaves Lanio, Gertie and me to rotate hot rocks into the cook bags as we concoct another batch of our special rabbit stew. Gertie seems more content to nap with her baby than use forked sticks to lift stones from the fire. I wonder if sweet, blue-eyed Lanio needs help with any other chores this morning. It seems like a nice, quiet time to help her in the cave.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Been up to the flow yet?”
Bolzano: “You know I have. We were together, pretending to be generals.”
Jones: “I meant, ya been up close?”
Bolzano: “No. Have you?”
Jones: “Me an’ Fralista are headed up after this pow-wow with Goingpo. Sounds like Babeck’s on the march.”
Bolzano: “And the source of this information?”
Jones: “Old man told me 15 minutes ago. Said he heard it from a traveler headed to lava field.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Gray Beard announced plans to move out tonight at dinner. Told the world we’re gonna swim the river.
We were up at Goingpo’s Camp celebrating a good day for the goat hunters. Tasty eats. No dancing, fights or shouting, Cro-Magnons on their best behavior. Couple folks sang songs when the urge hit them. Always so many new people passing through Goingpo’s–headed to or from the volcano–you never know what you’re gonna get. This seemed like a peaceful bunch.
After a little nap, Gray Beard jumped up and said since he noticed some new faces, he’d tell his story of how Babeck ate The Hunter’s wife Pinky. This turned all heads except the ones on a couple characters trying hard to act uninterested. Kept my eyes on them as Gray Beard told his Babeck story. Every time he tells the sucker it gets longer and more detailed. He builds on the stuff people respond to and cuts the shit they don’t. Babeck was a prick, but far as I know he did not eat one bite of Pinky. I thought he was disappointed in his men, just couldn’t show it. Gray Beard has no shame. He now has Babeck making Pinky stew and wearing a necklace of her finger bones.
Two new guys nearly had smoke coming out their ears as he told how we killed Babeck’s men. Lowering his voice so everybody leaned in to hear, he admitted Babeck escaped before we could kill the son of a Flat Head. They didn’t like that either.
Then he was back up to full voice to finish with something new.
“Three different travelers have given me warnings on their way to the volcano,” he said. “They say Babeck has gathered his family clans and brings them north in search of my tiny band of Green Turtles. They will be here in a hand of days.”
Old man said he would like to stomp the snake Babeck into the earth, but didn’t have time. He has to meet some people up north. First time I saw the man turn down a scrap. I think he’s worried about the grandbaby, his only chance to pass on the family genes.
Had to make sure I was hearing him right when he said, “We will swim the river then head due north. If Babeck wants to follow, let him try. We will cross when the sun is high in the sky, two days after tomorrow.”
Once he returned to the low stone table and they could put their heads together, Goingpo tried to talk him out of it. Said they have plenty of hiding places where Babeck would never find us. He likes our company. Old man insisted we had to scoot on.
“Why not stay?” Goingpo asked. “In a hand of days we can have many hunters to fight by your side. We’ll take care of this problem and then grow old together. I’ve missed your stories.”
Gray Beard was real diplomatic how he answered him. Didn’t ride the man for settling down, just told him it wasn’t the life for him. Told him once he stopped rambling, he knew his days were numbered in fingers, not hands.
Finally, the old woman with the mashed face spoke up. Couldn’t make out her dialect, but she shouted something to effect of, “For Pete’s sake, Goingpo, help them. Quit wringing your hands like an old woman.”
That sorta broke the logjam. They hashed it out and came up with a plan. Goingpo admitted that others have made the crossing in late winter. We’ll need to rig something to keep the baby where he’s warm and dry. Gray Beard got a laugh when he asked with a straight face, “How many necklaces must I pay to have Goingpo and Jennrey swim my dog across the river?”
Next time he excused himself to take a piss, Gray Beard stopped by the ladder leading up to the cave apartment where his daughter and I have been shacking up. “This would make a good float,” he said. “There are many places to hold on. We can attach our fire horns here. We’ll need a fire when we land. How many necklaces for the ladder?”
They haggled, but in the end, Goingpo refused. Said his ladder was too special. The light wood is hard to come by, nearly impossible to replace. I got so tuned into them squabbling, didn’t see which way two dudes headed when they took off.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Have you seen Izzy?”
Jones: “Yep, with Lanio and Fralista. Your dog likes your girlfriend better’n she likes you.”
Bolzano: “Lanio is not my girlfriend.”
Jones: “Sal, don’t lie to your captain.”
Bolzano: “There is no relenting with you, is there?”
Jones: “Saaaaaal?”
Bolzano: “OK, I admit, Lanio and I have been sleeping together. Occasionally.”
Jones: “From what I hear, you two do a lot more’n sleep.”
Bolzano: “She told Fralista?”
Jones: “What’d you expect? They’re women.”
Bolzano: “Hmmm, I did not think she would kiss and tattle. Is that how you Americans say it?”
Jones: “More or less.”
Bolzano: “It started simply enough. We both spend a good deal of time tending to Leonglauix. As his students, we are expected to learn the stories, the family histories–”
Jones: “Know all that. Been watching you three sit around and talk while rest of us do the chores.”
Bolzano: “You also may remember that Leonglauix and
I found Lanio alone in the forest not long after her husband and family were wiped out by Tattoos. She watched their carcasses eaten and shit out by hyena. The poor girl was in shock, really quite fragile, when we found her last year. Gray Beard became her rock as he nursed her back to health, both physically and mentally. As her recovery progresses to its conclusion, as her dread fear of men dissipates, there are some treatments that a father figure like Leonglauix just cannot dispense.”
Jones: “I bet this is where your dick comes into the story.”
Bolzano: “My dick had nothing to do with it for quite some time.”
Jones: “Hand jobs?”
Bolzano: “Sometimes. I brought her along slowly. A man raised in Milano, at least a man raised as I was, learns many tricks to make the ladies swoon in orgasmic delight.”
Jones: “You showed her all your moves?”
Bolzano: “I suppose you could put it that way. Do you think the storyteller knows we are lovers?”
Jones: “You’re dumb as a stone. Ya know that?”
Bolzano: “What? What did I–”
Jones: “He’s the one who set you two up, dumbass.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
I remember as a child listening to my parents quarrel. The tumults did not bother me. I found them interesting.
Papa had buried two wives lost to old age and my mother would someday be his third. His refusal to pay the exorbitant fees for Mamma to have life-extension treatments was just one of several bones of contention they chewed on a semi-regular basis. Each bout was beamed worldwide for the voyeurs watching and listening through the cameras woven in Father’s hair.
Gibraltar Page 22
