Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  They would rage behind shuttered doors throughout the evening, then descend the stairs to breakfast the next morning holding hands. Papa swore by make-up sex. He said it was the best kind. Mother knew better than to contradict him, or maybe she actually agreed.

  Does the nut not fall far from the tree? I picked an argument with Lanio yesterday just because I could. The woman is beginning to drive me mad–but not insane enough to ignore her caresses once we had moved beyond my shouting and her stamping of feet.

  Normally quiet, Lanio now considers me a confidant. It is a crying shame her only anecdotes are repetitious tales about her long-lost family, dangerous hunts, and river crossings gone horribly wrong. I do not understand this preoccupation with death, nor do I care to listen to one more of her sad stories. How many different ways can a young woman describe a person’s tragic demise? So far, the answer is 62, more ways than we have found to make love.

  I know you are wondering which number we are on. I tried to quit at 30. It was a nice round figure and we were starting to settle for subtle variations, not uniquely different positions. Admitting I was plumb out of new ideas, I suggested we pick our top handful of positions and perfect those.

  That is when Lanio began introducing concepts of her own. We raised the tally to 36 before I realized she was soliciting suggestions from the other women. Believe me, I was getting some strange looks from Fralista and Gertie.

  How daft was I to expect Lanio not to gossip with her friends? As Jones points out, she is a woman. The female propensity to communicate is no different now than it will be in the year 2233. At the drop of a fur cap, girls will share their feelings, deep thoughts, worries and aspirations. It makes little difference if they are speaking with their most trusted Cro-Magnon sister or a complete stranger standing alongside at the mirror as they powder their noses in an opera hall’s bathroom. Men hold their dreams and fears close, preferring instead to share life’s simple joys like eye-watering farts and laughter.

  Yesterday’s sniping was caused by Lanio’s newfound interest in my family and past. “I have told you about my people, now tell me about yours,” she coaxes. I keep my lies vague, claim I hail from a faraway place where she may never travel. As far as she is aware, both of my parents are dead, wiped away in a flash flood along with everyone else in my immediate clan.

  The way she hammers for details forces me to wonder if she is Gray Beard’s spy.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Are you a good swimmer?”

  Jones: “Not bad. How ’bout you?”

  Bolzano: “In a heated pool, I can be quite the fish.”

  Jones: “What about frozen rivers?”

  Bolzano: “It makes me shiver just to contemplate our crossing.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Abandoned by our pack as it prepares to float across the icy Rhone River, my little nephew and I have been bonding. I have never been a devotee of children. Even when I was being well-paid to teach them, I generally despised the diminutive troublemakers.

  This dark-eyed boy evokes different emotions. He rarely complains, and when he does, there is almost always a very good reason for the wails and sobs.

  With aunts Fralista and Lanio to dote upon him along with his two very loving parents, the as-yet-to-be-named lad has never lacked for warmth and attention. Even Gray Beard ruffles his hair occasionally. For the moment, No Name has shucked his fur blankets with vigorous kicks of his legs and lies face up, pudgy and happy on a deer skin near the fire. No, he is not in danger! Please give Uncle Salvatore a modicum of credit. As he is not yet capable of self-locomotion, there is little chance of him rolling up and over the circle of stones and into the blaze. Sparks, you wonder? Only the hardest and driest oak is good enough for my nephew. We will have no pine sap or sparks cracking his way. No we will not, will we? My widdle, widdle friend.

  Why do adults speak to children in such a nauseating manner? Even Cro-Magnons spew baby talk. I pledge from this day forth, I will commune with my nephew only as an adult, in complete Green Turtle sentences. “Yes I will, my little sunshine!”

  The boy’s mother and father have accompanied Leonglauix and Lanio to the market to procure a few things before our departure. The storyteller is anxious to trade for more goat tallow to slather on our nude bodies. He says we will all need a thick coat. The man has become obsessed with this river crossing. I have never seen him go to such great lengths to plan and execute a mission. He has collected many opinions on how to best cross the river at this time of year. All this attention to detail leaves me wondering, should I be comforted or worried? As a Card Carrying Pacifist, I have no problem ducking out of a fight with Babeck. If we give him enough time, he will likely suffer the slings and arrows of another fighter, perhaps The Hunter. Or a bison could kick him in the skull. I am just not certain crossing the river in midwinter is our best option. It sounds dangerous as hell to me.

  Our nominal clan leader, Tomon, appears to have no bruised ego or hard feelings over the fact that his wise uncle has re-seized the Green Turtle reins. The transfer of power has been so seamless, I am not even certain Tomon is aware of it. Perhaps it is a Cro-Magnon thing, but two weeks ago he was the one making decisions, giving orders. Now, he listens and does as he is told. And, as I really think upon it, Tomon seems happier than he has been in a long time. The mantle of leadership is heavy indeed.

  And why wouldn’t he be happy with a little cutie wootie like you, my rootie-toot-tootie young prince? There I go again. Baby babbling may be harder to kick than I presumed. Please do not tell Dr. Duarte, but after belting forth several of my favorite arias in the echoes of this shallow cave this morning, my young friend appears to side with everyone else in the Green Turtle Clan. He prefers his opera sung in German. I hope the two guards Goingpo stationed at our trail’s head were not listening. Actually, I hope they were. I miss performing opera for the natives. They loved the music so, they rolled in the dirt and leaves when I finished. Take my word for it, in the Cro-Magnon world, a rolling ovation is a big compliment.

  I now restrict my performances to native tunes, a repertoire which includes both traditional songs and ditties I myself have composed and arranged matching the words, cadences and phrasing already in use in these times. It is a challenge, but that is part of the fun. Tomon, Gertie and I sing most every night, usually after dinner, but also while we are cooking or resting in camp. Sometimes, even on the trail, one us will start humming a tune and others will join in.

  For all his many talents, Leonglauix’s ears are made of pure tin when it comes to music. I suppose there are worse sins than tone deafness. Fralista is not much of a crooner, but she is rather keen on chanting. Once or twice a week we are treated to her long and sonorous chants which generally detail great hunts, battles against wolves, or treks across the ice pack. She beats on a gourd if one is handy, or slaps her thighs to keep rhythm. I would never call her chants melodious, but in a world starved for entertainment, beggars cannot be choosers. When Fralista begins a chant, I drop whatever I am doing and focus my attention on her words. Most times, I am amazed by how her story matches Leonglauix’s versions verbatim.

  Captain Jones has not yet joined in the sing-alongs. With that deep voice of his, I have the absurd fantasy that one day he will round out the Salvatore Bolzano Quartet. As yet, he refuses to utter a single bass note, but there are times, usually when he is enjoying his “up” moods, that I sense he does want to join in. Making music is like dancing. It feels good, and the more you immerse yourself, the better it feels. I have shared this theory with Captain Jones numerous times. So far, to no avail.

  “Ain’t singing in your damn band.”

  I wish there was someone to warble with right now. It is too quiet in this lonely cave. Dutiful efforts to speak to my young friend in complete sentences have not yet conjured any like-minded responses. Contented gurgles and one explosive burp are all he h
as had to offer.

  Our home for the past two weeks has been exceptionally busy of late. There are many chores to complete before we tackle our mighty swim. Meat of one kind or another is always cooking on the spit, simmering in our leather cook bags or smoking on racks over the outside fire. We fill our bodies with fatty foods, and preserve stores in waxed skins to sustain us once we resume our travels on the opposite shore. Jerked meat is not the only item we will be transporting.

  Leonglauix studies my pack, lifts it to gauge its weight, and shakes his head to say he considers me a lunatic. He has never been one to place much value upon personal objects. He says if a thing is necessary, it better fit in the pack of a dog, because he is not going to carry it. He doesn’t know my pack floats and most of its compartments are watertight.

  When we set off tomorrow, I already know the belongings he personally will be strapping to our log floats. Along with his clothes, there will be three spears, two necklaces of animal teeth, claws, ivory beads and shells, and one leather scrip that is usually tied around his waist which contains a thin, ivory moon calendar, three very sharp flint skinning blades and several coils of dried gut and braided twine. In his dog’s pack will be two light turtle-shell bowls, a small bag of sea salt, a pouch of jerked meat and a fur blanket that just barely covers the both of them if they are curled up tight.

  Perhaps my modern ways are too ingrained. Though I have jettisoned every non-essential item, still my pack weighs nearly as much as Gertie. I cannot throw away my computer, jumpsuit or helmet. Would you have me discard my granite bocce balls, my marble pantheon of Roman gods, or my onyx chess set? Ha! Just seeing if you were paying attention.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “How was it?”

  Jones: “Hot. Ya goin’ up?”

  Bolzano: “It seems I have run out of time.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Me and Fralista wandered up to the volcano today, joined all the other gawkers risking their lives for a closer look.

  Seen a few things in my day, nothing more powerful than this. Take all the army engineers the world will ever see and you still couldn’t stop it. Undeniable force. Up on the hill, you’re looking down on this ribbon of lava and you think you know how big it is, but you don’t. Not like when you’re right by the flow and your skin is cooking. Heat comes right up through the leather soles of your boots as you turn slow circles to keep from burning up. The thunder of rocks smashing apart, the roar of a kilometer-wide river of liquid stone rushing downhill, the whistling of gas vents blowing off steam, it was all so loud you felt it in your blood. Most of us kept our hands clamped over our ears. Mine are still ringing.

  Had plenty of intel what to expect, just about all anybody talks about around here. Surprisingly accurate. One thing for sure, folks weren’t shitting us about the Rhone being bear country downstream of the flow. Fralista said she’s never seen more bears, especially this time of year. They’re supposed to be hibernating, but so much food’s washing ashore, and the water’s so warm, they must be taking a winter off.

  Bears and eagles, forest was choked with them, along with plenty lesser scavengers like hyena, raven and fox. Everybody too well fed to mess with people. Goingpo says a lot of salmon, trout and big sturgeon, as well as deer, bison and even mammoth get themselves killed in the hot water. Sometimes the current takes their bodies downstream far enough for his people to claim the flesh, but most get hung up just below the flow, right where the bears have staked their claim.

  We detoured inland on a wide path that intersected the flow about a mile and a half above the river. Five or six camps were pitched within spitting distance of the high-lava mark. Most were abandoned, their people off fooling around on the flow, or maybe hunting, or dead from breathing sulfur gasses. Smells were pretty bad down low where there were a couple vents pumping out steam and who knows what else.

  The edges of the flow had hardened to solid rock, though how solid I couldn’t say. It was still hot enough to feel under our feet. We didn’t see anybody fall through, but it was close a couple times. These Cro-Magnon boys get to daring each other, usually kids determined to up their rank in the pecking order, and they take some hairy risks.

  We hiked up as close to the caldera as most people our age dared, and were talking about going closer when a couple loud bangs and balls of lava began spitting out of the cinder cone like incendiary shells. All we could do was stand with our heads tipped up and watch to see if any were headed our way. The trajectory was northeasterly, and our position was not threatened. Even so, we both knew we had gone close enough.

  At least one of the lava bombs landed in a stand of pines. The patch of trees had survived the wildfires that burned most of the hillside up to the snow line, but its time was up. Wasn’t more than a minute or two before a fast-moving forest fire raged through the pines. The smoke was our tipping point. We found a trail headed south and followed it back to Goingpo’s camp.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Come on hon, move those legs. Please try. You must help me here! We must get moving. Now!”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  I was napping with Paul in our hiding spot in the Capparis spinosa bushes (sleeping on guard duty would be a fair charge) when I was awakened by the nearby strumming of an out-of-tune guitar. Most of my naps are of the power variety. I nod off for 10 or 15 minutes and find it easy to jump back into the flow of work or chores. On this afternoon, however, I must have been out cold for two hours. It was a long, groggy swim back to wakefulness, fading in and out of sleep. Dreams and reality converged as I fantasized about guitar music, then finally realized the sounds were real. Crawling to the periphery of our lair, I peered through the lookout hole to spy a middle-aged Neanderthal man standing on the deck of our boat, plunking the backstay line.

  Dressed with a tiger skin over his shoulder and simple leather footwear, the long-bearded, shaggy-haired man seemed to have dropped into a trance as he repeated the thrumming noise over and over. And then he switched to holding the rope with two hands, pulling and pushing it so violently the entire catamaran rocked back and forth.

  I have no idea how long he had been playing on our boat, but the Neanderthal left it undamaged when he jumped to the sand and headed inland at a trot. He would soon be back, with family or friends, I was certain of that.

  “Paul, wake up!” I hissed while passing him on my way to the observation tree. Climbing up to my fat limb, I quickly spotted the shambling gait of the hunter as he picked his way along a game trail skirting a duck-filled pond. I had little doubt where he was headed. Less than a mile and a half away the smoke of a fire rose to the windblown air. That was new.

  “Paul, wake up!” I dropped from limb to limb like a monkey, covering the distance in record time. This was something we had anticipated and planned for, but theory and practice runs are never the same as the real thing. My heart was pounding double its usual speed as I hustled to gather our gear and transport it to the boat where it had to either be stowed in the holds of a kayak or lashed to the deck.

  The last thing to be tied down was Paul. It was no easy task dragging him down the beach and lifting him aboard ship, but somehow, with his limited help, the task was accomplished. Once I had the mooring lines untied and coiled, I chocked Paul’s carefully-made wooden rollers under each hull. Casting nervous glances to the dunes, I sprinted to the uphill end of the catamaran and lifted with all my might. I had seen Paul do this many times, but usually I had been aboard the boat cheering him on as he rolled it back into the water.

  Once the weight of the boat was shifted to the driftwood logs, I was able to roll it one boat length toward the water. It took three leapfrogs of me running around, replacing the rollers, grunting to get the boat moving, then dragging my feet to keep it from rolling too fast, but in less than a few minutes, I had the boat out in waist-deep water and
she was floating free. Clambering aboard, I used a pole to guide the craft through the mangrove and out to one of the marsh’s deeper-water channels.

  In a fiction novel, I suppose I would have had Neanderthal rushing out of the bushes to fight me tooth and nail as I struggled to launch the boat–dodging spears and all that. By my estimate, we had six minutes to spare when I began moving the rear rudder side-to-side to scull our boat back out to sea. Looking down, I saw Paul sporting a lopsided grin as he watched me through one eye.

  “G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-d-d-d-d-d!”

  “Good! Good, right? Thanks, hon.”

  “G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-d-d-d-d-d!”

  Frustrated by his inability to speak, Paul let his head drop back to the mat-covered deck. On a hunch, I began calling out my intentions before I made my nautical maneuvers. When I said “Planning to raise small sail in channel!” Paul opened his good eye and saw me looking his way. With a shake of his right hand he told me it was too early to raise the sail. “Keep sculling” was what he meant.

  Our Neanderthal friend chose a fortuitous time to chase us out into the Atlantic. The currents of the outgoing tide carried us so steadfastly to open water I barely had to steer the boat. Once we cleared the headlands, I raised the medium sail to northwesterly breezes which carried us comfortably up the coast at a steady 10 knots. It was the first of many fine early-winter days under sail. As we bobbed our way west and finally rounded the cliffs of Cabo de Sao Vicente to swing north, I thought many times about the poor Neanderthal string musician. He no doubt returned with his associates to show them the most amazing site on Earth–only to find an empty beach filled with strange tracks. “You guys should have seen it, a giant floating ukulele!” I can just imagine his clan mates rolling their eyes and moaning a Neanderthal version of “Yeah, right.”