Before the jump, I made it my job to indulge every whim and fancy which passed within reach. I cheated, I stole, I lied and I brought shame to my family. It somehow feels noble to maintain Team principles while my fellows wallow in excess.
TRANSMISSION:
Amacapane: “Cold tonight.”
Martinelli: “Your woman should make you a pair of leggings like Big Ears’ boys wear.”
Amacapane: “Two Handful stitches me new clothing as we speak. Fought the other girls for the honor.”
Martinelli: “Andre’s harem.”
Amacapane: “And each of them wants to know how far we will travel north.”
Martinelli: “I had hoped to reach the English Channel, or at least the wide plains and Paris. Obviously, it is not possible. Too bad, the men say it is good hunting along the edges of the ice pack.”
Amacapane: “It will be midwinter and the snow will be up to our balls before we reach the ice.”
Martinelli: “I know. Hey, Salvatore, wake up. You’re very quiet this evening. Set aside your computer and join us.”
Bolzano: “I have been studying the maps.”
Amacapane: “Those maps are worthless. Where’s all the high ground?”
Bolzano: “Not in front of us, I fear. I suspect this wetland is part of the Loire River valley. We will likely intersect the river tomorrow or the day after.”
Martinelli: “Yes, near where the city of Tours will be built. Don’t give me that look. You are not the only one who can read a map. Go on.”
Bolzano: “I wish to suggest a new competition.”
Amacapane: “What is it now, find the tiniest cockroach?”
Bolzano: “I do not understand your bitterness, Andre, Lorenzo’s vole was clearly smaller than yours.”
Amacapane: “I’m kidding you, Sal. My boys still talk about that particular challenge. They ask when they will hunt for small game again.”
Martinelli: “My Tattoos still don’t see the humor.”
Bolzano: “Your Tattoos couldn’t see humor if you poked them in the eye with it.”
Amacapane: “They might get that joke.”
Bolzano: “They do enjoy slapstick. Maybe they would also appreciate a long distance race.”
Martinelli: “A race? Why”
Bolzano: “We need to pick up the pace. The porter Tomon claims Green Turtles on the move cover more ground in four days than we have gone in three weeks. Even if some of it is boast, you must admit we travel slower than a line of ants. You two lead your packs of hunters off on wild tangents, and we end up camping only a few kilometers from the previous night’s fire.”
Martinelli: “What about you and the porters? Don’t you think you have slowed us at all?”
Bolzano: “Of course. It is crazy to carry those boats. That is why I think it is time for us to un-stow the paddles and test the waters of the Loire River.”
Amacapane: “Spit it out, Bolzano. What is it you wish to say?”
Bolzano: “As long as we find the river navigable, I suggest we separate from the clans for a while and paddle upstream alone. We should be able to travel at least 130 kilometers before the river becomes un-navigable. Let them fight through the muck and brush. They can join us in 80 kilometers or so, perhaps where the river turns southeast, where Orleans will be.”
Amacapane: “I don’t trust the Tattoos, they’ll harass my people if I’m not with them.”
Martinelli: “Do they fear the Tattoos?”
Amacapane: “The way they fear a blind rhinoceros. You fear the stupidity and you fear bad luck of running into one in the wrong spot.”
Bolzano: “We will place them on opposite sides of the river. They will draw straws to see which clan must cross north before the start.”
Amacapane: “What are the stakes, not backrubs again I hope.”
Bolzano: “No, it must be something grand. I suggest a feast for the winning clan and a boon for their Italian representative.”
Martinelli: “A boon?”
Bolzano: “A request, a favor which cannot be denied.”
Amacapane: “I’m in. The Turtles have been itching to stretch their legs and move.”
Martinelli: “The Tattoos are also frustrated by our slow progress. I agree.”
Bolzano: “One more thing. Since my porters will have their hands free, I wish to enter them in the race. If they agree, they will travel apart from the other Green Turtles.”
Martinelli: “Those misfits. Who will lead them?”
Bolzano: “The boy Tomon has a good head. I would ask him.”
Martinelli: “If they run off, you’ll be carrying these boats yourself to the Rhone.”
Bolzano: “I think it will be good for morale to let them try.”
CHAPTER SIX
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Jones’ fever broke last night. Lacking a thermometer, I do not know how high his temperature spiked, but there were several times when I thought we would surely lose him. The big man had been boiling hot, thrashing and shouting nonsense. When his fever finally broke, his breathing slowed and he dropped into a restless sleep.
The rude penicillin I concocted seems to be working. The first dose was administered 12 hours ago. There are marked signs of improvement. I hope to save the arm. The infection spread fast. Red lines still run down to his wrist. Both wounds smell of death.
The clan leader remains in a coma. I have the sense he is listening, taking it all in. It may be my imagination. He went into the water with his tool kit strapped around his waist. Its contents, though meager, are a fascinating insight into Cro-Magnon technology. Razor-sharp cutting and skinning tools, bone needles, several rounds of different gauges of gut string and a palm-sized moon calendar.
The calendar device is carved from a flat piece of bone, perhaps petrified, and features an array of etched dots and lines which I assume allow him to track the seasons and movements of the herds. Animals adorn each corner, starting with a mammoth in the top right and moving clockwise to an auroch, a woolly rhino and an eagle. Using pieces of charcoal and bark, I have copied the dots and plan to make my own calendar, when there is a spare moment for such things. I have not given up hope Mr. Gray Beard will survive to claim his belongings.
Spc. Paul Kaikane has been wonderful these past six days, tending the fire, chasing away predators, catching and preparing food, helping feed and clean the patients. We take turns keeping watch, and both of us are severely fatigued. I don’t think he or I have slept more than two hours consecutively since Jones was shot.
Our hideout is a good one, where a freshwater spring rises out of the ground to form a small brook which feeds the river about 100 yards away. At night we bank the fire to shield its view from the river and build as big of a blaze as we can to keep the predators and scavengers away. We keep piles of throwing stones handy as well as our growing collection of spears, clubs, adze and scraping tools. Rarely an hour goes by, day or night, that we don’t shoo away a rodent, vulture, lion, hyena, owl, pig or porcupine. Two nights ago, Paul speared a she-wolf just as she was ready to take a bite into Jones’ neck. I saw the spear fly by, and turned to find the wolf twitching in her death throes.
At my suggestion, Paul skinned the wolf and we are making our first attempt at curing leather. The pelt seems mottled and I’m not holding out much hope for success. I think we’ll need to harvest furs in the winter for better quality. I do not recommend wolf meat. It is tough and gamey compared to the trout, duck, rabbit and squirrel Paul has so far provided for our meals.
Our camp is downwind about three miles as the crow flies from the clan. Paul has made several quick trips to check on the Italians. When he returned today, he said they were gone. The huts had been disassembled and the place was deserted.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “You’re correct, this spear does fly straighter.”
Kaikane: “Better balance. It’s lighter too.”
Duarte: “When did you
make it?”
Kaikane: “I didn’t. Found it over by the native camp.”
Duarte: “You swam the river?”
Kaikane: “Sure. It felt great. Warm compared to this spring water.”
Duarte: “I wondered what was taking you so long. Find anything else?”
Kaikane: “The huts are really cool. Stone foundations and mammoth tusk supports. They must take the covers with them. I saw some broken turtle shell bowls under a bench.”
Duarte: “They had benches?”
Kaikane: “A few. Tables too, rough ones at least. There’s a work area uphill, we couldn’t see it from our side of the river. I tried to get to the bowls, but the clans left a dog behind.”
Duarte: “Not friendly?”
Kaikane: “Barked her head off. She’s tied to a tree stump. Bunch o’ pups running around.”
Duarte: “Poor things’ll starve.”
Kaikane: “What I thought. Found her a couple rabbits up in the meadow. Wrung their necks and tossed them to her.”
Duarte: “Kind thing to do.”
Kaikane: “Not if you’re a rabbit.”
Duarte: “Smartie.”
Kaikane: “That’s when I found this spear. Somebody lost it in the meadow.”
Duarte: “Probably hunting rabbits.”
Kaikane: “I found this, too.”
Duarte: “Look at the shells. Oh, it’s a necklace. How beautiful.”
Kaikane: “You can have it.”
Duarte: “No, I couldn’t. You should keep it. You found it.”
Kaikane: “Never been big on jewelry. Besides, this is obviously meant for you, see how these shells here match your eyes?”
Duarte: “Where did you find it?”
Kaikane: “Wedged down along the foundation of one of the huts. Pretty sure it was this guy’s place. Anyway, I was looking at the rock work when I spotted a single shell. This green one. I picked it up and the rest came right along with it. I washed it in the stream and when I saw how pretty it was, well, I thought it would look good on you.”
Duarte: “Thanks.”
Kaikane: “Try it on.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
Once Jones was up and around, we moved Gray Beard back to his old camp. Even without the covers for the huts and all the cooking utensils, the camp is a hundred percent more livable than our damp spot by the brook. The area is well-cleared, has benches and stone-working areas, has easy access to the river and, most importantly, it still carries enough stench of man to keep most of the wild animals away.
On my first visit, I found one of the dogs tied to a stump by a five-foot length of leather rope. A female, she had four mid-sized pups sleeping beside her. They must have been too small to travel. Once I showed myself, they barked like hell. Momma looked sickly thin, but there was no way to get close enough to untie her.
The Italians’ lion head was stuck atop a tall cross planted in the middle of camp. Crows and other birds had picked it pretty much clean. They still fluttered around it, taking turns landing to work their way into the skull for rancid brain.
The stripped-down huts were a trip. From a distance, the way their mammoth tusk supports arched inward toward the sky, they looked like big teeth chewing up out of the ground. Or bright white rib cages 10 feet tall. There were about a dozen of them spread around camp in no particular order. Circular stone foundations, with flat sand floors and fire pits.
I can’t imagine how the clan will carry all the hides it took to cover the huts. The leather tarps must weigh hundreds of pounds each.
I staged a few things over ahead of time, then we made the big move altogether in one crossing. We strapped Gray Beard to the front of my kayak, using it first as a stretcher and then for floating him upstream. Jones did his best to paddle with one arm. I gave him a tow in the places where the current ran strong.
A herd of mammoths, I counted 32, forced us to stop for about 20 minutes while it forded the river headed north. We pulled into a little cove out of the current where we could watch and wait. They are strong swimmers and seem to love the water. After a bunch of trumpeting and spraying themselves in the shallows, groups of four or five at a time plunged in to make a beeline across the river.
Maria pointed out how the females and younger bulls served as escorts for the old bulls whose heads were dragged under by the weight of their huge tusks. The bulls swam blind. All you could see was their tails and tips of their trunks. Friends hemmed them in on all sides and kept them headed in the right direction.
Last to cross was a trio of elder females who had to nudge two reluctant babies into the water to make them follow their mothers’ worried bellows from the opposite shore.
Once they were across, we made a quick paddle to camp. The dogs went nuts when they caught Gray Beard’s scent. Howls of joy. We laid him down by the momma and she licked his face while the pups wagged their tails and sniffed up and down his body. I could swear he smiled.
The first thing Duarte did was push over the lion’s head cross. We pitched the skull into the river and used the wood for a fire.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Don’t tell me how I am feeling.”
Duarte: “I didn’t say that. I know you are in pain.”
Jones: “See, there you go again.”
Duarte: “Are you in pain?”
Jones: “Hell, yes, I’m in pain. My fucking arm doesn’t work.”
From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Typing with one hand is a bitch. Managed to move two fingers in my left hand today. Arm hurts all the time. Duarte says the movement is big progress. I wish she was a real doctor, not some doctor of Botany. If it sounds ungrateful, too bad. There’s a big fucking difference.
Been thinking about my first platoon after West Point. Lots of time to think. Haven’t slept a wink since I was shot. Back then, I was raw and ready. Gung-ho. It’s a wonder I didn’t get myself and everyone around me killed. Master Sergeant tried to guide his new Lieutenant in the right direction. When that didn’t work, he got me drunk and told me.
Jablonski had been in for 24 years. We were in a bar up in northern Ontario, on a break from keeping the peace with the Quebeccers. He spouted defeatist axioms like, “If it can go wrong it will go wrong,” and “Catch 22.” I told him he was full of shit.
“Wait until you are in a four-day firefight and you start running out of ammunition,” Jablonski said. “Headquarters’ll put you on hold, or tell you to keep fighting, or some such bullshit. You’ll see. Soldiers have been complaining about the Army for thousands of years. You know why?”
I didn’t.
“Because the guys who call the shots are never anywhere near the damn action. They are somewhere safe, making decisions based on numbers and probabilities. Our lives mean nothing to them.”
He was right every step of the way. They sent us back in time with barely a chance. My current comrades would be surprised how often I think of suicide. How to do it? When? My desire to end the pain all but consumes me.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “You guys ever wonder if aliens visited earth?”
Jones: “Space men?”
Kaikane: “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Explorers like us.”
Jones: “Why the fuck would I care if space aliens visited earth?”
Kaikane: “I didn’t ask if you cared, I asked if you ever thought it happened.”
Duarte: “The Team considered the possibility while planning the trip. Who is to say what is or isn’t possible? We jumped back 32,000 years. Through most of mankind’s history, that would have been considered impossible. Why do you ask?”
Kaikane: “Just some of the things they said during training. I always wondered.”
Duarte: “Most of us in the science community doubted it, but there was a list of ‘places of interest’ drawn up. Expeditions were planned to the locations of the Great Pyramids, Machu Picchu, S
tonehenge and other spots where early man really outdid himself.”
Jones: “Say we do run into a space man, say his ship is advanced enough to take us home. Would you go?”
Duarte: “Not me, not yet.”
Kaikane: “Me either.”
Jones: “You two are fucking nuts.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
I was spooning gruel into Gray Beard’s mouth this morning when he sat up and touched my face. He had either been comatose, faking it, or some combination of both for 18 days. I handed him the piece of bark holding his food and he finished it himself, using his fingers to scoop in mouthfuls which he took his time chewing. When he was done, he stood up, stumbled and nearly fell. It took a while to work the kinks out of his limbs, but he was soon shuffling around the camp. The dog and her pups trail close on his heels wherever he goes.
His broken ribs have healed sufficiently so they don’t seem to bother him. He stopped passing blood in his urine 10 days ago. Paul and I keep our jumpsuits turned off around him. We’re doing our best to shield him from our modern ways and language, but it’s hard. I will not miss feeding and cleaning him. He appreciates my efforts no more than Jones, who has been sullen and uncommunicative for more than a week.
I have dredged my computer for every scrap of information there is on shoulder wounds and cannot explain the weakness and paralysis Jones is experiencing. The wounds were not in a spot where you would expect nerve damage. I wonder if it is caused by the infection or, worse yet, my efforts to treat it.
A double whammy for Jones has been the loss of his jumpsuit. It stopped glowing after we peeled it off him and has not worked since. He tried it on the other day. Nothing. Poor Jones, he’s a modern-day soldier minus gun, uniform and rank.
I have a set of magnifying glasses that have, so far, survived the test of time. The wire rims and handles are long gone, but the glass lenses remain clear and functional. I used them to inspect the rents in Jones’ suit. One of the gunshots destroyed a main electrical link, sort of a circuit box. It’s a jumble of tiny wires and capacitors, and I don’t know how we will ever fix it without proper tools.
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