Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  “Here is the mouth of another river, let us go ashore and find a place to build a fire,” Lorenzo said with a huff. He received no complaint from Andre or me.

  The first light of dawn shows through the trees in a blaze of orange and pink to the east. Sleep is an impossibility for me, but not for my comrades whose snores echo from where they are curled up against the dirt bank on opposite sides of the fire.

  The wolves have left us, replaced by a herd of perhaps 10,000 bison. The shaggy, long-horned bovines are somewhat larger than their modern North American cousins. They stream by in a dusty cavalcade. The fact my companions can sleep through the incessant bawling bears testament to their utter fatigue.

  The onslaught of molting brown splits briefly to avoid our fire, passing not more than two or three meters away, before slowing to pick through the debris-strewn shoreline and then splash into the wide river. We seem to be caught up in the middle of a mass migration. Herds and packs of all sorts swam the river through the night, all heading inexorably north. Our determined hopes that the wolves would break off their nonsense and follow along with the herds seem to have come true.

  Alas, I hear my companions have rekindled a familiar argument. Awake for less than a minute and they are back to squabbling.

  “I don’t see why you had to scare off the dottoressa,” says Cpl. Amacapane. “She looked like she would be good in the sack.”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to make you shut up,” responds Sgt. Martinelli.

  The conversation may be taking a violent twist. It seems time to put away this computer and go serve as referee before the body count climbs ever higher. Is this what I have in store for the rest of my life?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Look at that snake.”

  Duarte: “Which one?”

  Kaikane: “The one with half an antelope sticking out of its mouth. On the bank over there.”

  Jones: “Hell of a snake.”

  Duarte: “It must be 12 feet long.”

  Jones: “What’s a snake so big doing in an environment like this?”

  Kaikane: “That’s obvious, it’s eating an antelope.”

  Jones: “You know what I mean. Ain’t it too cold come winter?”

  Duarte: “They hibernate. Temperature has less to do with potential size than factors such as food supply and competition.”

  Jones: “Gulps it right down, don’t it? Constrictor?”

  Duarte: “Probably.”

  Jones: “Kill a man fast?”

  Duarte: “Yep.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Dr. Duarte figured out how to set our helmets to buzz if they were locked onto by an auto-targeting system. That gave us some relief as we spent the next two nights searching for the Italians. Traveling in the “black” with our jumpsuits powered down. We used our eyes and thermal imaging to comb the coastline and river. Lots of animals, no sign of the boys. No fires. No equipment.

  On the third day, we made an afternoon run upriver to scout the Cro-Magnon camp the botanist was so interested in. We had found it on the second night, about two and a half miles upstream. Even the camp dogs were asleep on our first passing. Not so this time. We paddled to the far shore, beaching directly across the river from the camp during some sort of burial ritual.

  There was the usual crying and keening you would expect from a funeral. The strange part was the service was held for five dolls made from ivory and leather. Duarte said she thought the dolls might be stand-ins for the five women and children Martinelli and his men killed after the wave.

  We had great seats for the show. Our jumpsuits made us invisible as we kicked back on the opposite shore.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Amacapane: “You think the women would make a good fuck?”

  Martinelli: “Why would you want to have intercourse with a monkey?”

  Bolzano: “Those are not monkeys. They are our genetic cousins. It is Neanderthal.”

  Martinelli: “Andre wants to screw a monkey. Amacapane the monkey-fucker.”

  Amacapane: “Shut up! I was just asking, that’s all.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  We spotted our first Neanderthal this morning, a barrel-chested male with two women and an adolescent child, searching for treasures amongst wave debris littering the north shore of the river. Unclothed and coated in mud which cracked and dried to a light gray in the matted hair of their arms, legs and torsos, they used their hands to capture salamanders, crayfish and frogs. The squirming catch was deposited in a simple leather pouch tied at the man’s waist.

  As we paddled up to the muddy sand bar, the man directed the women to pursue a fat red newt, perhaps a third of a meter long. They spread out, working together to turn back the slippery animal’s attempts to swim through the slurry to the river. When it finally burrowed under, the women bent to the task, scooping handfuls of mud until they pulled the amphibian out amid delighted squeals and grunts. Amacapane, holding true to form, made rude comments about the women’s breasts and hairy bushes.

  The bright red newt never made it to the bag. The man washed it off in the river not two meters from my kayak, then took off its head in one crunching bite. He swallowed it down and had another go at the stout neck, then handed the remains to the older woman. She paused to squeeze out the guts and wack the torso against her leg a couple times to empty it of green goop, before burying her teeth in the soft underbelly. The kid ended up with a tail to chew on.

  They never saw or smelled us. The stealth technology used in these jumpsuits and kayaks is nothing short of amazing. I could have beached and observed the band all day, but Lorenzo would have none of that. The sergeant only allowed a 10-minute break before insisting we resume our search of the river.

  In all, our roundtrip inland must have covered 20 kilometers. We didn’t find any survivors from the ship, but did pass a fair-sized Cro-Magnon camp about six kilometers upstream on the south shore. We also passed four bands of Cro-Magnon hunters and fishers on the prowl.

  With all the mud and debris drying in the sun, it seemed impossible to find anything left of the ship or crew. Bits we thought were scraps turned out to be leaves, animal carcasses or birch bark. Lorenzo’s persistence finally paid off, however, as dark closed in. We were taking it slow, along the north shore, when he spotted an intact kayak sitting high and dry. It was wedged within a tangle of vines and downed pines not 500 meters from the river’s mouth.

  It took us 15 minutes to free the boat from the mess. By then, it was nearly full dark. Lorenzo sent Andre and me to find a suitable place to make camp while he inventoried the contents of the kayak. We located a flat spot along a small stream just uphill from the debris line. With a wall of downed trees at our back, it would be easy to defend against wolves once we get a fire going. Especially so now that Lorenzo has an additional pistol and more bullets.

  The kayak belonged to Master Sgt. Leonard. Amazingly, before we left this morning, Lorenzo identified this particular boat as the grand prize. The fact we actually found it defies logic. It would have been so easy to miss. One turn of the head or blink of an eye is all it would have taken. Andre and I had already paddled right past. In our defense, only a small portion of the bow was visible in the fading light.

  Since the discovery, Lorenzo has been as happy as a small child. The master sergeant not only had one of the new-style pistols stored in the holds of his kayak, he also carried spare ammunition, a bullet-making kit and several kilos of lead bars used as ballast inside the keel of the craft. The weight of the lead may have been a key factor in causing the long crack which runs down the keel’s length. Though this boat shall never float again, its contents are proving invaluable to us.

  We now have additional first-aid and tool kits, including a shovel, machete, microscope, magnifying glass kit, blanket and waterproof tarp. The pistol and its atte
ndant gear are the only pieces of equipment of the same generation as these wonderful new suits and kayaks. I do not hold much hope the shovel or knife will fare any better than our other failed weapons and equipment. Everything breaks.

  Thankfully, the jumpsuits, kayaks and pistols continue to function fine. Lorenzo shot several rabbits for supper and Andre has them cooking on spits by the fire. Martinelli refuses to share the pistols with either Andre or me. “Make a spear,” he responds with a sly laugh which seems to challenge us to “try and take one if you dare.”

  Even in tonight’s light mood, Lorenzo’s aggressive nature simmers not far below the surface. Though I do my best to keep the mission focused on science and discovery, he becomes increasingly bold. The sergeant is particularly outspoken about matters religious in nature. For instance, he insists the waves and subsequent discovery of the lost kayak are signs from God.

  As the eldest and most-educated of our trio, and a person with more knowledge of ancient man and cultures than the other two multiplied twice over, I would expect a certain amount of respect. We all know if we are to accomplish anything of note on this fouled-up mission, it will be done by Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano.

  The task will not be an easy one. When I pestered the boys to keep up with their journals, they elected me official secretary. Amacapane thought it was very funny. “You write some good things about us, and we’ll do the hunting, right Lorenzo?”

  The former soccer player constantly belittles me as he tries to lift himself up in Lorenzo’s eyes. I let his juvenile offerings slide off my back like water off one of the many ducks we see on the river, but can see they erode my authority to keep the mission on track.

  I continue to be hopeful we can find the other three surviving members of The Team and cobble together a successful, productive existence here in the Pleistocene. With the Americans’ help, I think I could keep these two in line.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Wow, look at that!”

  Kaikane: “Good thing Master Sgt. Leonard isn’t here.”

  Duarte: “Why?”

  Kaikane: “Oh, nothing, just thinking back to the river patrol. Soldiers kept saying, ‘Wow, look at that.’ Said it about a million times in the first 15 minutes. Leonard was ready to shit Twinkies. Man was an inch from stomping heads. I miss those guys.”

  Jones: “Leonard was an asshole.”

  Kaikane: “You knew him from before, right?”

  Jones: “Served with him in several engagements, back when I was a captain. No one enjoyed seeing me busted to corporal more than that mother fucker. Wrote him up for being careless with his men’s lives once. In Alberta. He never forgot.”

  Duarte: “I’ll never forget this. Look at those people.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  “A chicken-skin moment,” is how Kaikane described the ceremony. We called them “goose bumps” when I was growing up.

  Our giddiness, however, was framed in sadness. As the burial ritual unfolded I could not help but mourn my lost colleagues. After all of their theorizing and speculating, some of them spending their entire professional lives striving to understand ancient cultures based on a few bones and tool fragments, they certainly deserved to see this far more than a plant-loving botanist like me.

  I determined I owed it to them to record the event as completely as I could. This is what I saw:

  A total of 67 hominids, 39 male and 28 female, took part in the ritual. By my eye, 58 were pure Cro-Magnon, three Neanderthal and six were hybrids. This proves the theory of cross-breeding and cohabitation between the two branches of mankind. Each Neanderthal was clad in a grass and bark kilt, the same style as the ones worn by many of the Cro-Magnons. Did they make them themselves? Were they gifts?

  Easy to spot, the Neanderthal were shorter, far more stout, and covered in a matting of coarse hair. Barrel-chested, short limbs, thick brows on egg-shaped skulls sloped backwards. Big noses. Judging by their actions and participation in the ceremony, they were at or near the bottom of the social order. Although curious, they stayed to the outskirts and did their best to escape notice.

  The hybrids mixed freely amongst the Cro-Magnon and had a pleasant appearance. Jovial in an “I’m your kid brother” sort of way. They did not have any leadership roles in the ceremony. The frontal portions of their heads are rounded, gently sloping back as characterized in Neanderthal. Thick hair sprouts on their face and forearms and chest, but is patchy around the torso.

  Any doubts I had about Cro-Magnons being modern men were laid to rest. Physically, these folk would blend in anywhere on modern earth. Average height of males is about 5-foot-8, females 5-foot-3. Facial hair is common among men. No shaving, although most beards and mustaches appear trimmed. Dark hair and features are dominant. I would describe it as a classic Greek look. Olive skin turned bronze by the sun and weather. Hair ranges from straight to wavy to curly. The people are healthy and well-fed. They have strong muscle definition–suggesting a physically demanding lifestyle. Men who have extra weight carry it in the paunch, while women, no surprise here, hold it in the thighs and bottom. At least four men and two women show signs of recent injuries which have been treated. Four sport cuts and gashes that have been stitched with what appears to be gut. Two look to be nursing broken collarbones. Both have their arms immobilized in simple leather slings.

  Mentally and socially, the Cro-Magnons exhibit signs of strong intelligence, a knack for cooperation and problem solving. Even so, their antics would certainly stand out on modern earth. They leap and jump and shout. There was some restraint exhibited during the burial service, but judging by the party afterward, the males remind me of eighth graders or frat boys. They rough-house, strut, and forever jockey for superior position in the pecking order. Slap-stick humor may well owe its roots to these individuals. Chastened by stern rebukes from elders, they barely kept their testosterone under control for the bulk of the service.

  Three separate clans or sub-clans participated–each group’s unique body ornamentation and obvious allegiances set them apart. Using red, black and brown pigment, they painted their bodies and clothes in distinctive geometric shapes and patterns. I found it particularly exciting to see representations similar to the animals and scenes depicted on the walls of the French caves we had all studied in school–perhaps not too surprising since we are, after all, in the neighborhood.

  I am starting to pick up bits and pieces of the language, which is rather basic. It is a nasal, staccato-sort of speech with short sentence structure. Declarative. Nearly all vocalization is accompanied by hand signals and varied facial expressions. Not all hand signals are accompanied by vocalizations. Neanderthal and hybrids respond to both vocal and non-verbal commands. I did not hear the Neanderthal speak.

  Clothing materials run a gamut including tanned leather, rough hides, grass, tree bark, reeds and fur. Summer wear is currently the fashion of choice, though with the afternoon chill setting in, some donned soft leather capes and shawls. Most men wore what Kaikane describes as a kilt. The “kilts” are made of grass, bark and reeds woven tightly into long rectangles which are wrapped around the waist and tied with a leather thong. They appear much softer than that sounds. Other men wore light leather togas and wraps evenly stitched with gut.

  The women take more care with their appearances. Nearly all wore leather clothing which was finely stitched. Togas and kilts were the basic designs, most fringed with shells, ivory beads, or fur.

  Only men and women in one sub-clan had tattoos. The black and red designs were confined to areas on their foreheads, temples and cheeks. I’m guessing the tattoos are either a sign of rank or earned through some feat of courage, strength or daring. Their tattoos conveyed a message of intimidation and appear designed to incite fear. I know they scared me.

  Feathers of all colors, shapes and sizes were used to decorate hair, clothes and bodies.

  The jewelry was so impressive I wo
ndered if it was everyday wear or if they had pulled out all their best accouterments for this ritual. Everyone from the smallest child to the most wrinkled elder wore at least one necklace made of leather threaded with beads, claws, teeth and shells. Most men and women wore several of these, as well as ivory bracelets, rings and necklaces carved from, I assume, mammoth and walrus tusks. Some pieces bore geometric designs and others depicted animals, flowers and watery serpents. Ivory and wooden Venus statuettes, ranging from an inch to four inches in length, dangled from leather thongs around the necks of all women of childbearing age. A fertility ritual?

  Items of turtle shell and carved wood are prevalent. Both materials are utilized throughout the clan culture for just about everything, including bowls, combs, pendants, clasps, and a multitude of other household items.

  Any preconceived thoughts I may have had picturing early humans as ignorant souls eating dirt and bashing each other with clubs were put to rest. These people have a complex social structure, clan culture and love of life. I admire the niche they have carved for themselves out of the chaotic landscape.

  By the time we arrived, they had already dug a hole seven by seven feet wide and three feet deep. Two strong men used picks made from stout, Y-shaped poles affixed with flint heads to break up the soil. They worked for a while and then gave way as a second crew jumped down to deploy turtle shells to scoop away the debris. Spectators surrounded the pit, chanting a sort of mournful dirge.

  “Ah-uu-la, par-uu-la, shhhoom.”

  They repeated it over and over, cycling from soft to loud.

  “I know that guy,” Kaikane said, pointing, as a man of obvious high social status emerged from one of the biggest huts. He wore a long feather cape of the deepest blue over his shoulders. The feathers looked similar to the ones found around the neck of a male pheasant or mallard duck. I wondered how many hundreds of thousands of tiny feathers it would take to construct such a cape.