Gibraltar

by Matthew Thayer

  Though I attempted to remain aloof in camp as their boat neared shore, the urge to sidle down and join the welcoming committee proved impossible to resist. I reasoned such a long voyage, on such a small boat, was an accomplishment worthy of a Bolzano aria or two. Their landing proved to be no time for merriment.

  I had to bite back a cry of despair as Duarte staggered off their catamaran to collapse in the wet sand before us like a wasted bag of sticks. Weathered by constant exposure to sun, wind and salt spray, her lobster red skin was littered with scabs and festering sores. Specialist Kaikane lay sprawled upon the boat of their deck, emaciated, peering at us with concentration-camp eyes. The corner of his mouth hung low, dripping a thin string of drool, to remind me of a former colleague who briefly returned to work after suffering a debilitating stroke.

  “Water,” Duarte croaked. “Give him water.”

  Jones’ feet barely touched the ground as he loped up the trail to fetch several gourds and dip them in the freshwater stream. When he arrived back to the beach, we had carefully moved Kaikane off the boat and laid him in a shady spot by his wife. They were barely lucid as we dribbled water into their mouths and over their parboiled skin. Tomon and Gertie mashed together medicinal herbs and plump leaves of coastal succulents to make an ointment for our patients’ damaged skin, while I returned to camp to grab a setting of turtle-shell bowls and carry the stew bag down to the beach.

  By the time our somber beach picnic wrapped up in mid-afternoon, the nourishment and hydration had already begun to pay dividends. Duarte’s body rallied in a way which reminded me of a dried-out sponge absorbing moisture from a puddle of water. Wrinkles in her fingers slowly disappeared. Her breathing returned to normal. The shivers and shakes were gone, but inside, she was still quite fragile. Each attempt she made at describing their tribulations ended in tears. Kaikane’s progress is more difficult to assess. He has a long way to go before he is fully recovered.

  Leonglauix ordered us to carry them up to camp, but the mariners refused to vacate the beach until their precious catamaran was dragged up into the trees and properly tied off. We landlubbers did the heavy lifting while Duarte noodle-legged alongside. Once their gear was squared away, Duarte shook off our offers to carry her up to camp. “I’ll walk,” she said. Tomon and I placed Kaikane on a makeshift stretcher and carried him up the switchback trail. She followed along behind, using a spear to aid her shaky ascent.

  Behind the smiles and tears of joy, I had been surprised to note a feral wariness to their bloodshot eyes. Granted, it had been a long while since their last interaction with other humans, but it made my heart sink to see how our excited declarations, our hugs and backslaps, made them cringe. Sensory overload.

  That night by the fire, they were finally ready to share their tale. We sat on our haunches, close enough to hear her raspy voice, as Dr. Duarte explained how they had been at sea for more than a month and a half straight, how they survived several storms and times when they could not land a fish. Specialist Kaikane tried to chime in occasionally to clarify a point or give Duarte credit, but he has difficulty enunciating his words. Several months ago, the waterman was partially paralyzed after being stung on his right hand by a jellyfish or perhaps a sea worm. Dr. Duarte, in her usual indomitable fashion, taught herself how to sail and brought her man across the sea, fighting sharks and who-knows-what-else along the way to place him into the hands of the one person she believes can help.

  To date, the poultices and ointments concocted by native healers Leonglauix, Tomon and Gertie have worked magic on their patients’ battered epidermises. Gone are the angry welts and crusty flakes of dying skin. Their major sores have all begun to scab over.

  As their diet has primarily consisted of seafood for the past nine months, we provide them with rich stews and roasts procured from terra firma, as well as green salads, fruits and nuts. The nourishment has begun to tack a modicum of flesh on sunken cheeks and gaunt, skeletal frames.

  Though I longed to hear about their grand adventures, to talk shop with a fellow scientist, Dr. Duarte was not up for meaningful conversation until the third day after their call to port. The opportunity to speak arrived unexpectedly on a breezy afternoon, when an invitation to take a stroll echoed through the pine-bough walls of my lean-to shelter.

  “Feel like a walk on the beach?” she shouted.

  Crawling to the low opening, I stuck my head out just as a gust of wind forced her to close her eyes against tendrils of matted hair blown across her sun-blotched face. I waited patiently for Duarte to wipe the hair away, but she seemed disinclined to release her arms from where they were folded tightly across her chest. Turning to face the wind, she let the breeze sweep the thick, unruly mane behind her.

  “It is a rather windy day for a walk on the beach,” I replied. “We would be forced to shout to carry on any sort of conversation. There is a protected dell nearby. One that is graced by a very picturesque waterfall. Would you like to see it?”

  “How far away? I left Paul with Jones.”

  “It is not far. Come now, Dr. Duarte, you could use a break.”

  “You got any booze?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Do you?”

  “Not yet. I have been waiting to see how receptive you might be to the idea of me fermenting a bag or two of grappa.”

  “Long as you don’t give any to the natives, I don’t give a shit. Goddamn, I could use a drink.”

  I processed that information as she followed me up the streamside trail in silence. By the time the path wound its way through the flat-bottomed valley’s swaying birches and delivered us to its dead-end meadow, the doctor had begun to open up. Resisting an urge to show off my own studies, I asked leading questions to prime the pump. Dr. Maria Duarte is nothing if not committed to her work.

  As we walked side by side across the shaded meadow, she regaled me with descriptions of spindly, 30-meter-tall paperbark trees where giant man-eating eagles nest. Once her botanical highlights had been adequately conveyed, she moved on to the hominids of Ibiza and Southern Spain. Admonishing me several times to quit interrupting, she spun a fantastic account of their time amongst the Neanderthal of Gibraltar. Sometimes in minute detail, and others with broad generalizations, she gave me an overview of Neanderthal’s familial clan cultures, its group hunts and feasts, and how she had given descriptive monikers to main subjects, including, if I remember correctly, “Granny, Blondie and Hercules.”

  “Oh, Salvatore, you would have loved it,” Duarte sighed as we settled into a sunlit patch of ferns affording a fine view of the falls. “Rarely a day went by that Paul or I did not say, ‘Sal should be here to see this.’”

  Her words began to tumble faster than the rushing waters of the stream as she described the awful days and months which followed Specialist Kaikane’s unfortunate injury. As she downplayed the trying times, made light of the dangers they had faced, I concluded that no matter how much I would have loved to have participated in their Gibraltar experience, I would not have had the fortitude to survive such a stressful sea voyage.

  My admiration for the intense, oft-argumentative woman grew exponentially as she matter-of-factly described how she learned to sail and make sturdy fire hearths from clay, to lift a 100-kilo cripple aboard ship and to keep him alive against all odds. I would have made a beeline for the nearest shore and waited until eternity for reinforcements to arrive.

  “Do you think Gray Beard can help Paul?” Her voice cracked as she asked the question. “He must help him. He must! I see the way the clan looks down on Paul. Like he’s some sort of weakling holding everybody back.”

  I assured her that Leonglauix is quite determined to find a remedy. He and Tomon have been chanting the old stories, the family lineages, searching for references to survivors of similar afflictions.

  “I think he has a course of action planned.”

  “His sweat lodge?”

  “Oh, so he told you about it?”

 
; “Rather hard to miss the lodge-pole teepee and bloody skins. What animals were those harvested from? They’re huge.”

  “Captain Jones and I had never seen their like before. They were a moosey-elky kind of ungulate, swamp dwellers with spiked horns and thick brown pelts. The lumbering beasts stood at least four meters tall when the hunting party led by Leonglauix flushed them from a muddy bog about two kilometers over yon hill. They banged drums and clacked spears to drive the animals toward the bluff where Jones and I had been stationed. The behemoths were still well out of my throwing range when Jones dispatched the two largest males with two well-placed bolts from his atlatl. It took all our might to drag the skins back to camp.”

  “Bet you were happy to see those drummers. You used to write letters on their backs. Remember that?”

  “Yes indeed. It was a joyous surprise for me, as well as for the rest of the Green Turtle Clan, to see them walk into camp. Leonglauix has a soft spot in his heart for his two grandsons. Besides being hard workers and loyal clan members, they have quickly resumed their roles as the backbone of our musical ensemble.”

  “You’re not teaching them to sing in German again, are you?”

  “Perish the thought. We maintain an all Cro-Magnon repertoire, and actually sound rather divine. I could use another female voice, you know. I hope you will consider joining us.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You could use it as an avenue to form closer ties with the other women.”

  That comment set off another release of emotional steam. “Why do they hate me so?” she wailed. “We’ve only been here three days and already they grumble behind my back. I don’t do anything to them. I try to be polite and helpful.”

  Not wanting to see the conversation end, not before we discussed what I considered the 800-pound gorilla in the parlor, I did my diplomatic best not to scoff at what she considers “polite” and “helpful.” Dr. Maria Duarte may mean well, but the way she looks people unblinkingly in the eye, her penchant for offering unsolicited opinions, for asking embarrassing questions, and worst of all, the way she treats the great male clan leader Leonglauix as an equal, bugs the hell out of our clan mates. All except Leonglauix. He has the softest spot of all for his adopted daughter. Although he has fielded many complaints, and understands exactly what the problems are, in his eyes, Smart Duarte can do no wrong.

  I beat around the proverbial bush, then suggested she speak with Leonglauix. He should be the one to explain this to her.

  As we stood to depart, I dropped my bomb.

  “Leonglauix finally gave us descriptions of our would-be rescuers,” I said evenly. “Jones and I think we know who two of them are.”

  We spent the entirety of our trek back to the seaside camp and much of the evening dissecting the old man’s tales from the north. Not surprisingly, we were less than halfway home when Dr. Duarte reached the same conclusion as me–this puzzle was missing a few key pieces.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “You’re right, his story does not add up.”

  Bolzano: “Add up? What does math have to do with Leonglauix’s disinformation?”

  Duarte: “It’s a saying. The facts do not add up.”

  Bolzano: “How would you like to learn to speak Italian? I am a very good teacher.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Howzit b-b-been…you guys?”

  Jones: “Made it this far without gettin’ killed. Had a few hiccups along way, nothin’ too hairy.”

  Kaikane: “W-w-where new Turtles?”

  Jones: “Dead. Them boys and girls are all dead or shacked up back in Fralista’s Valley. They snuck a young instigator named Babeck into the valley, a real asshole. That snake slipped away. May be on our trail with a pack of friends. Old man seems to think so.”

  Kaikane: “F-F-Fralista saying aloha to h-h-h-hot spring and c-c-cave not easy. M-m-musta been h-h-hard for her t-t-to leave p-p-pretty valley.”

  Jones: “Reckon.”

  Kaikane: “H-h-heard you two p-p-paired up-p-p.”

  Jones: “Heard that, did ya?”

  Kaikane: “Y-y-yep.”

  Jones: “Suppose we have.”

  Kaikane: “T-t-two naked d-d-dudes banging on drums. Ar-r-r-r-e they Gray B-B-Beard’s grandsons? G-g-guys f-f-from Nice?”

  Jones: “Roger that, Bongo and Conga. Wandered in last week. Not sure how they found us. Gray Beard must’ve sent ’em a message somehow. Always pounding on somethin’, that or off holding hands and smooching. Never quite sure what to make of those boys.”

  Kaikane: “G-g-good m-m-music.”

  Jones: “Yeah, long as ya ain’t got a headache, they’re pretty fuckin’ talented.”

  Kaikane: “T-t-t-t-thought M-M-Martinelli’s S-S-Saints s-s-s-skinned t-t-them alive?”

  Jones: “That was the intel. Asked Bongo about it, puffed up his chest, said they were Green Turtles, no Tattoo could ever find ’em in forest or catch ’em on the trail. Claimed they lost Tattoo force by hiking straight up and over two mountains. Saints gave up chase and returned to make false report. Not last time soldiers will lie to their commander.”

  Kaikane: “L-l-l-looks liiiike M-Maria has-s-s joined S-S-Sal’s choir.”

  Jones: “Time for the show. Here, let me help you get turned around.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  They will be coming for Paul and me soon. The crackling of the sweat lodge’s fire dies down, as does the scent of its smoke.

  After consulting the ancient stories, weighing everything he knows about treating illness and injury, the healer has prescribed two days’ sweat in a hide-covered tent, combined with a diet of fresh water and oysters. As I understand it, lots of oysters. Evidently, the storyteller’s family lineage includes mention of a long-ago paralyzed shaman called the “Oyster Man.” The shaman lived by the sea, loved to eat oysters and enjoyed a long life despite being plagued by stiff legs.

  Paul is quiet. He has his game face on. Though neither of us are superstitious, we are afraid to talk about it lest we jinx the cure–or set ourselves up for even more disappointment. Watching my lover wither away, seeing his muscles turn to jelly are the hardest things I have ever had to endure.

  I have been thinking a lot about our future. If we need to cut Sal and Jones loose, let them travel north with the Turtles, that is what we will do. Paul and I could settle here along the coast, or maybe sail back down to the Mediterranean where the weather is more temperate. Certainly, I could find more constructive things to obsess upon. It is hard not to worry.

  Gray Beard gave Paul five days to recuperate from his wounds. Cooking round the clock, the men and women dished up turtle-shell bowls of all the fatty, warm foods we could eat. Paul’s orders were to gorge, and that is what he did.

  The non-stop buffet closed yesterday afternoon. At that point, Paul was placed on a regimen of bitter berries. For the past two hours, he’s been chewing on pinkish stalks similar to rhubarb. As promised, the berries loosened his bowels in an explosive fashion. The rhubarb is supposed to bind his guts up. Our native father says we will all take turns in the lodge, pumping Paul full of water, oysters and oyster juice. I take it the only exit the food and liquid will have is through his skin.

  When I asked Gray Beard if this flushing of a man’s system has ever worked before, he pretended not to understand me. Old bugger, I hope he knows what the hell he’s doing.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “How does he look?”

  Bolzano: “Truthfully? You husband resembles a tea bag that has been squeezed dry.”

  Duarte: “You don’t think Gray Beard would try to kill him, do you?”

  Bolzano: “Bah! What sort of conspiracy theorist nonsense is this?”

  Duarte: “Mea culpa. That really wasn’t fair. He has taken more turns than any of us by Paul’s side. I really do worry all this heat and steam will fry his brains.”

  Bolzano: “Please do not take this the wr
ong way, but would not Paul Kaikane rather die trying than spend his life confined to a broken body?”

  Duarte: “Don’t take it wrong? What other way is there to take it, Sal? Fuck you, and fuck the horse you rode in on!”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  By the morning of the second day, a yellowish pus had begun to weep from Kaikane’s pores. Mindful of his sores, we carefully used split tree limbs to scrape away a gooey excretion that reminded me of a cross between rancid mayonnaise and bee’s wax. The idea was for each of us to stay inside the stifling tent for as long as we were able, and then force ourselves to endure another 10 or 15 minutes, to hold fast until we felt as if our heads might explode. The average duration of our visits was about an hour. Duarte and Leonglauix took shifts about every four hours.

  While in the tent, it was our job to stoke the fire, ladle water and raw oyster juice into the shrunken man’s mouth, to massage his atrophied muscles and to ignore the burning in our throats while telling him stories–exciting tales with bloody fights and murderous endings. If we could scare or startle him, all the better. Dazed and immobile, splayed naked on a thick wad of wolf furs, Kaikane listened to my every word while gazing at me through heavily lidded eyes.

  On my third shift, I related a true story about how we had been attacked by a pair of massively long snakes while trekking our way to the coast. We were crossing a swamp south of where star-crossed Paris will be built when I turned to Gertie’s shouts of alarm to find a four-meter-long constrictor winding its fat coils around Tomon’s waist. The young father had his prized possession, his black-haired little boy, held high above his head with both hands as Gertie wrestled to straighten the snake’s long tail. Grabbing its head, I did my damnedest to keep it from squeezing the life from my best friend.