Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  I never arrived like this. Skimming over dry pastures, doing my best to milk the run as long as I could before crashing into a cow, I found a line of white-roofed warehouses that gave me enough lift to make it to the column. The crowd barely noticed me. Everybody was watching the big screens as Zug raced a train into Lucerne. Letting my board stall and hover in the column, I joined them in watching, and cheered along when she gracefully grabbed the edge of her board and hung a pretty right turn at the last possible moment as the train thundered into a dark tunnel.

  She was on final approach to Lucerne and had less than a minute of air time left. The title was hers. She had earned it. I let the column’s thermals carry me just high enough to make a straight run for the finish zone. Shaping my sky board to resemble an old Hawaiian-style, wooden longboard, I clasped my hands behind my waist, arched my back in old-school style and made the whole ride barely moving a muscle. Dorey would have been proud, I knew, as I timed it perfectly to sail right through the twin spires of the old cathedral like a field goal, then leaned in to make a smooth, easy turn to touch down and skim across the lake right in front of the judge’s stand.

  I spotted Steve looking pissed off in one of the box seats, and couldn’t help doing a little spinner that shot a spray of lake water all over him and his camera. He laughed it off like it was a funny joke, but I knew he would have killed me right there if he could have. I learned later that he hedged the bet I would be killed in action by matching it with a bet I would win. Steve was ruined.

  I never saw or spoke to him again. Less than an hour after I handed the Lucerne Sky Surfing Championship trophy to Juanita Zug, I put my thumb to the touchpad of a stack of computer documents that basically signed my life away.

  I had been recruited. I was going time traveling as a member of some new outfit called “The Team.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Life is full of surprises.”

  Jones: “Roger that.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Limping in the dappled light of a full moon, Goingpo led his delightful little wife and his shambling ex, Jennrey, through the pines and into our camp. Despite arriving an hour before the first glow of dawn, they found the Green Turtles packed up and raring to go. Perhaps raring to go is too kind a term. We were coherent and capable of self-locomotion. For perhaps the millionth time in the past year, I wished I had a nice hot cappuccino with an espresso/brandy chaser.

  Our early wake-up call had been scheduled at Leonglauix’s insistence. He and his old friend had convinced themselves it would be best if we slipped away without fanfare.

  Snow flurries had left a mantle of white that reflected the moonglow in a way that made staying on trail quite easy. It also provided adequate illumination as our crew gathered up its belongings, and our geriatric guests pitched in to help hoist the logs we planned to lash together once we reached the river’s banks.

  Goingpo did not allow a bad leg prevent him from maintaining a steady clip as he carried two logs over a shoulder all the way down to the river. Walking across the gravel beach to our embarkation point, I examined the dark current racing past with absolute dread. The river was so wide, the frigid water so deep and dangerous. This was sheer madness. Struggling to quell the fear rising within me, trying to not run away and hide in one of Goingpo’s secret caves, I watched through rather dazed eyes as the two old friends pushed our logs out into the current and let them float away. Hoisting our leather bags of tallow, they pitched those into the water as well.

  Turning to our surprised faces, Leonglauix said, “It is cold for a swim. We will climb a mountain instead.”

  The three locals led the way to a meter-wide trail angling gradually uphill through the forest. Following Gray Beard’s example, we did our best to follow exactly in their tracks to mask our numbers. Halfway to the mountain’s base, we picked up a set of fresh tracks. Jennrey said they had been cut by our guides and baggage handlers. Porters? What welcome news that was!

  We found our mighty carriers sleeping in a tangle at the base of a nearly-vertical escarpment. Goingpo roused them with a swift kick. I don’t think I was the only one disappointed to see only three young men had volunteered to help. They were Goingpo’s grandsons. Two of the lads had led us to the lookout to view the volcano. They seemed like capable enough fellows, but we had four dogs, a baby and a fair bit of gear to hump over a towering mountain. Who was going to carry my pack? The answer was simple. I was.

  It transpired that our porters did not carry one dog, one bag or baby for even one meter. They had their hands full lugging, of all things, a ladder. I recognized the contraption the moment I spotted it leaning against a tree in the moonlight. The ladder had provided access to the private suite Captain Jones and I rented upon our arrival. Goingpo was aghast that first night when we wiggled the ladder loose from its foundation hole and hauled it up hand-over-hand to store inside the cave–and thus assure we would receive no unexpected visitors.

  “Don’t burn it, don’t burn it.” His shouts woke the neighbors. “It is a rare wood. Please, do not burn!”

  We assured him we would not use his ladder as firewood, and we did not. I had been impressed by the ladder’s ultra-light weight. Its center post is made from a single tree trunk with a thickness of perhaps two hand-spans at its base and one at the top. The post is about five meters long, and is notched every half-meter, where rungs with matching notches are secured with tough fiber cord.

  Having recently completed a woodworking project of my own–a pine cross on which Sergeant Martinelli hung me last Easter–I was able to appreciate the craftsmanship, as well as the uniqueness of the wood. Back in Tuscany, Tomon and I spent much time in search of the lightest wood possible for my cross. I was going to have to carry the damn thing over my shoulder, of that I had no doubt. Though I would be marching to my death, I asked myself, who needs a backache?

  My cross was at least three times heavier than Goingpo’s prized ladder. I’m guessing he employed a type of cedar, or perhaps even balsa. He claims it was harvested from a swamp at the base of the Alps, near a great lake to the east. Geneva? The Bodensee?

  With a clap of his fur-mittened hands, the trader called us to attention. In the speech that followed, it became obvious that this journey had become a matter of pride for the Owl Clan. Its people were staking their reputations on getting us safely to the top.

  “We may not travel the world like the Green Turtles,” he said. “And you may demean our home mountains by calling them ‘Babies,’ but these are our mountains and the valley beyond is our valley. The Owls know everything there is to know about hunting and traveling in these hills. Or, at least we thought we did before the earth began puking up firestones and rivers of hot mud.

  “This is the one and only spot where you have a chance to start your climb and actually finish at the top. There will be many odd twists and turns, dangerous crossings. You must trust my grandsons. They know the way.

  “I wish I could accompany you on this difficult climb, but it is beyond my reach. To my brother Leonglauix, I wish you many more adventures after this one is completed. You are the best storyteller who ever lived. I would like to hear more of those stories some day. You are a good friend.

  “The Green Turtle Clan may be small, but it is stocked with capable people–people who are strong and smart. May you fly like Owls over these mountains and land safely in the valley beyond.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “I’m considering donning my helmet. I fear I will become snow blind.”

  Jones: “Roger that. Sun’s killer.”

  Bolzano: Do you think the boys know where they are going?”

  Jones: “Been headed back downhill for long time now.”

  Bolzano: “While toting a ladder.”

  Jones: “Thing’s come in handy so many times, I ain’t complaining. Figure they know what
they’re up to.”

  Bolzano: “Goodness me, I hope so.”

  Jones: “How’s that pack feel?”

  Bolzano: “Pack? What pack? Am I carrying a pack?”

  Jones: “How about that dog strapped to your pack? Feel her?”

  Bolzano: “Light as a feather.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Lava flow was a tiny thing below when we quit the tree line and began cutting a long, diagonal line across mountain wall. Snow so deep we had to carry the dogs.

  A couple minor earthquakes shook the ground, put worries of avalanche in the front of everybody’s minds. Probably was good to give us something to think about besides our burning lungs and wobbly legs. Guides did more than pull their own weight, exhausting themselves stomping trail through the crusted snow and carrying their ladder.

  Thought ladder was stupid idea until we reached the first cliff. We used it every time there was obstacle, from walls of ice to deep crevices. For all the hassle, we never woulda made it to the top without that hunk of wood.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Are you planning to eat that?”

  Jones: “Fuck yeah, I’m gonna eat it. Keep your damn hands off my food.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Our guides led us dutifully skyward–about half the time following a snow-covered trail, and half the time making it up as they went along. The grandsons tromped a path and we followed it, in and out of gullies, around cornices, forever angling up toward the sway of a saddleback ridge.

  When the ground was favorable, and the drop-offs not too steep, we set the dogs down and let them walk for themselves. Oh, the relief! If we keep this up, Izzy is going on a very serious diet.

  Vertical climbs, fissures in glacial ice, we faced many impasses which threatened to turn us back to try another way, or heaven forbid, another day. The ladder and heavy ropes were worth their weight in gold as we utilized them to overcome one obstacle after another. I am quite adept at tying knots, and used many of my favorites as we anchored the ladder to rocks and hardy tundra bushes. This was no pleasure trip by any means, but the mission was well-planned and executed. We had every right to expect the excursion to come off without a hitch.

  Everything turned to guano at the last crevasse.

  We were no more than 300 meters from cresting the pass, carefully picking our way through a canyon of ice, snow and jutting red and gray volcanic boulders, when the two boys leading our way dropped from view. They were side by side, teaming to carry the front end of the ladder, when they stepped onto a bridge which could not support their weight. The diabolically formed mantle of crusted snow disguised a fatal trap, a fissure in the ice wider than our ladder was long.

  The poor boys cried out in surprise, their voices trailing away with the howling wind as they tumbled into oblivion. Jones and the tall grandson had been conveying the back of the ladder, and though startled by the sudden turn of events, were able to hang on and keep it from falling in. Thinking quickly, the captain grabbed the boy around the neck to prevent him from charging up to the crumbling edge.

  “Corporal,” he commanded in English, clinching his teeth against the boy’s struggles. “Rig me a rappelling harness.”

  I will forever be haunted by that boy’s mournful calls to his lost family members. “Holkjhg! Frenn! Are you hurt? Why won’t you answer me?” Tomon and Gertie held him as we rigged the ropes. Once tied off, Jones backed toward the crevasse with his legs spread wide. Jabbing downward with our longest spear, he quickly dislodged the overhanging snow and delineated where terra firma began.

  “Let him come to me,” Jones finally said in Green Turtle dialect. “Hold those lines tight.”

  The surviving grandson showed little concern for his safety as he stumbled through his tears to the edge of the precipice. Captain Jones clamped an arm around his waist to keep him from falling or jumping in. The crack in the ice dropped away to darkness in facing parallel walls cast in blue. The boy screamed out his brother’s and cousin’s names, racking, sobbing appeals for them to speak up.

  There would be no voices from the bottomless crevasse. Leonglauix gave him about five minutes to grieve, then told Jones to bring him back to sit with the women while we sorted this obstacle out.

  “Your clan members’ lives have ended,” the old storyteller said to the boy as he gripped his shoulders with both hands. He waited for their eyes to meet before he continued. “They died on a journey, on an adventure, and they behaved with honor. The best death is fast and unexpected. Is it not better to die on a hunt, to falter during a challenge, than to expire as an old man who sits and waits for the day to come? The Owl Clan will tell stories of Holkjhg and Frenn for generations.”

  The mention of the boys’ names sent the grandson into another paroxysm of crying. Leonglauix passed him off to Lanio and Fralista, then walked over to where Jones, Tomon and I were discussing the merits of establishing a base camp in a somewhat flat spot out of the wind. Besides our fatigue, dark was no more than two hours away. It seemed to make sense to hunker down and figure out a better way around tomorrow. The old man shook his head when I outlined our plan.

  Pointing to a bank of swirling, leaden clouds building to the east, he asked, “Have I taught you men nothing? Big snow coming. Big cold. We either follow trail back down to tree line, or we cross. Hopefully this is the boy who knows how to find the cave.”

  Tomon spoke first. “Grandfather, when will the snow begin?”

  Leonglauix turned and studied the clouds. “It will start when it starts. By tomorrow morning, snow will be up to here.” He pointed to mid-thigh.

  “Grandfather, the climbing stick is too short.”

  “So? We’ll use spears to make it longer. My son Bolzano is handy with ropes.”

  I feared my frozen fingers might snap off my hands as I bound four spears to each end of the ladder. Knowing that my life, and the lives of my friends, was at stake added more than a modicum of pressure to the process. It was so cold, I hummed a bit of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries to steel myself against the pain.

  Crossing the extended ladder was worse than any of the crazy training exercises The Team put us through while preparing us for the jump. The ultra-light wood bowed under our weight, and wobbled and bounced with every movement we made. Our ropes were not long enough to span the abyss, forcing us to shuttle our belongings and canines across on our backs.

  My first trip across was one of the most hair-raising experiences of my life. I did not need to see two young men tumble to their deaths to know what falling meant. It was right there in my face. With each crawling movement forward, the ladder twisted and turned, threatening to shed you like water from the back of a duck. Once I had my pack safe on the other side, it required a stern talking to myself to convince me to cross back over and retrieve my dog. “Who else is going to do it?” I silently berated myself. “Gertie? The baby?”

  Leonglauix made blindfolds for each of our four dogs, then showed us how easy it was by cinching the bitch’s four feet together and slinging her across his back for a quick scamper across the ladder. He took the rungs like a porcupine waddling along the top of a fallen log. Tomon and Lanio enjoyed similar success with their dogs, leaving Izzy and me as the only ones remaining on the wrong side.

  I understand that equestrian riders can sense what their mounts are thinking, whether they are anxious or afraid. Well, Izzy must have sensed the panic building inside me, for halfway across she began thrashing her legs free and jerking her head to rid herself of the leather blinders. It was all I could do to hold on for dear life. Wide-eyed, the timbre of their shouts betraying their terror, Captain Jones and Leonglauix held tightly to the ladder to prevent it from flipping over.

  And then the grandson was beside me, standing on the ladder like a tightrope walker. He grabbed my dog by the scruff of her neck and turned wit
h a mighty heave to throw her clear of the crevasse. Just barely. Izzy hit the rim with her chest and was gamely clawing with two front paws to save herself when Jones risked a hand to grab her by an ear and hoist her toward the other barking dogs. The grandson stepped over me and walked calmly to the opposite end of the ladder. As he helped hold it steady, I slowly crawled hand over hand toward the women’s shouts of encouragement. This is the sort of stress that gives a man prematurely graying hair!

  There was no time for back-slapping or hugging. Our day of high anxiety was far from over. Snow was already drifting down through the fading light as the boy led us up and over the pass. Stepping from shadow, the sun greeted us at the summit, an orange ball sandwiched in a narrow sliver between the thickening cloud cover and the horizon.

  “Which way?” Leonglauix asked the dazed boy. When there was no answer, he prodded him with a gentle poke of his spear. “Which way to the cave?”

  With a point to a cluster of rocks perhaps a kilometer away, he sighed. “We must hurry.” It was not quite full dark when we reached the general vicinity. Lanio and I held the dogs while the boy led Leonglauix and Captain Jones on a wild goose chase searching for a cave buried beneath a meter of snow and debris. Finally, they returned for the storyteller’s dog. “If there is a bear, she might smell it,” the boy said.