Bolzano: “How could I do that?”
Martinelli: “I don’t know how, but I feel it in my bones. You caused me to doubt Our Lord. He showed me what He thinks of that!”
Bolzano: “How does He feel about cheating and lying?”
Martinelli: “God spoke to me as the river’s current carried Wallunda and me through the smoke and flames to safety. He said your games are a distraction. I need to spread the word of God, find a way to leave proof of His existence here on ancient earth.”
Bolzano: “Proof?”
Martinelli: “A mammoth tusk cross, buried where Cardinal Sellaro’s people can find it.”
Bolzano: “You came up with this idea on your own?”
Martinelli: “I told you, God spoke to me. I take credit for nothing.”
Bolzano: “Whatever. Now, about the boon you owe me.”
Martinelli: “Do not speak to me of boons.”
Bolzano: “Andre is not going to let this pass and neither am I. Just listen to what I propose. Do you not seek unity? It will be so much happier around camp, and you will get far more help converting the heathens if you acquiesce and do the proper thing.”
Martinelli: “Spit it out. What do you want?”
Bolzano: “From Andre, I plan to ask for the use of one of his favorite women, the dark-haired lass with blue eyes. I think she could make a suitable mate. It is time for me, don’t you think?”
Martinelli: “And from me?”
Bolzano: “I want you to let him hunt in full gear, with one of your pistols. One hunt. A great contest.”
Martinelli: “The pistols are mine.”
Bolzano: “I am aware of your strong attachment to the weapons. And you, I am sure, are aware of Cpl. Amacapane’s overwhelming desire to hunt with one of your guns. I have a theory that once he does, he will realize the pistols take away from the excitement of the hunt. Even you, Lorenzo, I notice you utilize your guns less and less. When you sit around the fire with your Tattoo warriors discussing the day’s exploits, the conquests which garner the most attention are accomplished by spear point, not by bullet. After all, what honor is there in shooting a long-horned buffalo from 100 meters away when compared to going toe to hoof with the snorting killer, putting your guts on the line?”
Martinelli: “You’re full of mozzarella. Do you know that?”
Bolzano: “Just think about it.”
Martinelli: “Don’t get your hopes up.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “That’s it, that’s the spot right there. A little higher. Oh yes. That’s nice.”
Kaikane: “Heck of a walk today.”
Duarte: “Not quite so hard. Mmmh, mmmh. Yes, yes, oh, yes. Sweet.”
Kaikane: “Did you notice how purple the clouds were before sunset last night? Way they were churning, I thought for sure it would storm. Gray Beard took one look and said they held no rain and no wind. He was right. Ever wonder how he knows stuff like that?”
Duarte: “He’s had a lifetime of watching and learning. And his head is a repository of clan legend and lore. I would say he knows stuff like that right down to his core. Would you like to change feet?”
Kaikane: “Sure. Pull my toes again, will you, please?”
Duarte: “They only crack once.”
Kaikane: “I think you missed a couple.”
Duarte: “I did not.”
Kaikane: “Uh, did you hear that crack? You know, babe, these foot rubs in the ‘69’ position are all right. You sure you thought it up all by yourself?”
Duarte: “Is somebody jealous?”
Kaikane: “Not as much as somebody else I know.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
And on the fifth day they rested.
We have paused to recuperate after following the Garonne River southeast for about 72 miles. We have averaged 20 miles per day over three and a half days.
Paul and I are sitting together, leaning against a mossy log along the southern bank of the river. I file reports on my computer while he makes a fishing net from reeds and two long willow limbs. Gray Beard has taken Jones off on a hunt.
The clan leader sets a brutal pace. Initially, I thought he was showing off. Then I attributed it to the fact that all he has to carry is three spears while his dog packs the rest of his gear. Now I think it’s just the travel pace he has maintained his entire life. The pace of his people.
He wastes no daylight, setting off without breakfast at sunrise and settling in to a cold camp when it’s too dark to see. Nearly all meals are picked up and eaten along the way. When Gray Beard is hungry, he’ll kick over a rotted log to expose plump, white grubs, or swing wide off the ancient trail to lead us to hidden patches of berries and fields with edible tubers and ferns. Hunting and cooking wastes time and energy, he says. It doesn’t stop him from stomping the life out of snakes, or encouraging Jones to practice his atlatl by launching spears at anything which moves.
So far, the animals have been quite safe, as Jones can’t hit a thing. He’s frustrated, but remains determined.
We staggered to this deserted, semi-permanent camp along the river well after midnight last night. Dried wood had been set aside by previous travelers, and we made our first fire of the trip, even though we were so tired we could barely keep our eyes open. The old man had collected a pouch full of grubs, grasshoppers, mushrooms, nuts and assorted fruit. He doled out portions to each of us and gave the rest to the dogs.
As we snacked, he broke the silence by announcing we had the next day off. The magical number five again. The old man explained that the proper way to travel is to move hard for four days and rest on the fifth day, the “Thumb Day.” The Thumb is for resting and tending wounds, for repairing weapons and gear, and for gorging on healthy food, hopefully rich in fat.
To that end, Gray Beard and Jones are off to a nearby bog to see about liberating a baby pig from its mother. Paul is anxious to fish this river, but we’re both loathe to leave our spot in the sun. Every muscle in my body aches. It feels wonderful to stretch out and relax atop this soft loamy soil littered with last fall’s leaves. There are no huts in camp, just sleeping areas of flat earth where untold numbers of shoulders and hips have worn indentations in the ground. It’s the closest thing to beds we’ve had since leaving our wonderful wolf furs back in what we now refer to as “Bear Camp.”
At the end of the previous three nights on the move, we slipped 50 or 60 feet off the trail to carve out sleeping places in the middle of prairie-like fields of eight-foot-tall grasses, grains, ivies and assorted flowers. By moonlight, the four of us stomped down circles 10 feet in diameter and collapsed with the dogs to dreamless sleep.
While each of our makeshift camps seemed to be chosen at random, they were all within a short walk of freshwater springs. Gray Beard has cautioned us to not drink from the river or from one of the many slow-moving streams we cross daily. He used the farting noise to explain how bad water will loosen your bowels. Springs are what he prefers, the closer to the source the better. Water, sweet and untainted. He seems to know where all the best ones are located along the way.
This Thumb camp is far smaller than Bear Camp, but it too has a convenient spring which gurgles forth out of a hole in the rocky ground just uphill. If there was a pig defecating or dead in the brook, we could see it. Makes sense. And makes me miss our kayaks with their filtration systems all the more.
To Paul’s credit, he hasn’t complained, though we surely could have paddled this far upstream with much less effort. The current slows each day as we bypass hundreds of creeks, streams and smaller rivers which add their contents to the Garonne. I expected the river to merge with the Dordogne where the city of Bordeaux will one day be built, but they have not yet joined. Gray Beard explained there is a sister river which parallels the Garonne to the north. I wonder what great force of nature will cause the seven-mile swamp between the two to be swept out to sea. Will the Gironde E
stuary be formed erosionally, one thimble-full of mud at a time, or in one gigantically cataclysmic event? That would be something to see.
Gray Beard uses an interesting form of negative stimulus response therapy to keep predators, present and future, at bay. The man produced a bone flute as we walked out of camp the first afternoon and he hasn’t stopped tooting it. Every five to 10 minutes along the trail, he releases a few sharp notes to announce our presence to any animals we may meet along the way.
He says there is no need to surprise a lion, bear or wolf. Any predator brave or uneducated enough to ignore the flute gets a series of sharp notes while we all shout and launch spears in its general direction. Wild bulls, mammoth and hairy rhinos are left alone and given a wide berth.
Cro-Magnons have rules for throwing spears, both in battle and on the hunt. The first rule is never throw your last spear, not unless you absolutely must. It should be saved to jab and protect yourself as you scamper forth with your fellows to retrieve the spears you did cast. It is helpful if every person aims at the same target. Thus, spent spears are easy to gather as a group. We scared away several lions this way and Paul killed a lone wolf which trailed us on and off for most of the second day. Gray Beard was well pleased by the long shot that took the black canine through his torso. He said the adult male was a scout for a pack which did not need to know we were crossing its territory.
Wolves are like people, he says. We are bound to begin seeing more as we move inland. Some will be peaceful, and some will be (farting noises) rectums. I told him it seems like we have the countryside to ourselves. He explained while most clans have followed the herds to the north, there are some people who prefer to stay back to hunt closer to home valleys and forests. He frets the malingerers will steal the dogs and try to waylay us for unspecific reasons. I gather he’s worried about me.
I expected the dogs to act as our protectors. It turns out our job is to protect them. Although they will stand up to any predator, the dogs have no chance against most of the toothed, clawed and horned adversaries we encounter. Their jobs are to carry packs and serve as alarms. Momma dog is well-trained to bark at intruders. She uses different volumes and octaves to relay whether the interloper is something docile like a porcupine (light growls) or a grave threat to life and limb like a cave bear (absolute frenzy).
Slung with a pair of packs across her back, carrying Gray Beard’s belongings and now our bag of sea salt, she trots at his heels and never allows him out of her sight. The puppies weigh about 50 pounds each and are maybe two-thirds grown. They are useless, so far, as pack animals. They fight the packs.
The pups frolic and wrestle and chase squirrels while zigzagging from one side of the trail to the other. When we tried tying them with leashes, the ropes became tangled so often they slowed our pace intolerably. Gray Beard shakes his head and says he does not expect them to make it through the hill country.
He asked if we could swim and explained we will soon cross the river. The way ahead becomes marshy and slow-going, so it appears we’ll head to higher ground to cut across the bottom of the Massif Central, France’s southeastern mountain range, on our way to the Rhone River.
I make it sound as if Gray Beard and I have detailed conversations in which we understand each other completely. That is so far from the truth it’s laughable. Though he’s a gifted storyteller, I understand less than 50 of his words. The more complex the concept he attempts to convey, the harder it is for me to grasp. Pantomime works for objects and emotions, but not so well for nuances like honor or pride or tradition.
At times, he becomes so frustrated he waves his hands in dismissal and walks away. He usually returns, attacking the language barrier from a different angle. Though the boys rely on me to interpret, they comprehend more than they give themselves credit for. He bosses them and they do as instructed.
Paul just caught a trout which must be four feet long. Although its thrashes shredded the reeds of his basket net, he managed to insert two fingers through a gill slit and wrestle it up the dusty bank. He dispatched the flopping fish with a quick blow from the meteorite club. Despite the pace, I have managed to fill a pouch with herbs, onions, garlic and morels. I shall now help him prepare the trout for lunch.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Hey, babe, why are you wearing your helmet?”
Duarte: “I was watching those seed finches dine on kernels of wheat. Can you hear their birdsong? So beautiful. There it is, did you hear it?”
Kaikane: “I love those birds. When I’m fishing, if I sit still enough, they land all around me. They’re curious little buggers.”
Duarte: “Paul Kaikane, you certainly are one with nature. What does Kaikane mean, anyway? Probably Birdman or something.”
Kaikane: “No, it doesn’t mean that, but close. ‘Kai’ is ‘water’ or ‘ocean,’ ‘kane’ is ‘man.’ Water-man or Ocean-man, that’s me. Hawaiians would say it backwards, Kanekai. The surf magazines used to eat that stuff up.”
Duarte: “I think it’s fitting. I’ve never met anyone more at home on the water. You swim, you fish, you hang-10 on your kayak and scare me to death. It suits you perfectly.”
Kaikane: “What does Duarte mean?”
Duarte: “Nothing much. Basically it means the name Edward. As in King Edward, I suppose.”
Kaikane: “Oh, so you’re royalty. It explains why you have such elegance and royal bearing.”
Duarte: “Flattery will get you everywhere, Bub.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
We crossed the big river two days ago, angled east into the foothills. One of many water crossings. This is a land of rolling hills and stream-carved valleys. We’re camped on a ridgeline, about 2,000 feet above the prettiest valley I have ever seen. Pine forests, fast-running brooks and fields full of game stretch every direction forever. I can see my breath in the morning air as Maria gathers twigs to restart last night’s fire.
This Thumb camp is tucked in a grove of pines about 50 yards beneath the crest of a long hill. A freshwater spring glub-glubs out of a hole in the rocks with water that is pretty warm, warm enough for a bath. Stretched out in a pool eroded or carved from solid stone about 10 feet below the source are Gray Beard and Jones. Our traveling partners fill the pool, every once in a while letting out moans as knots in their muscles loosen. Their view through the trees looks out over the valley where the sun is working hard to chase away the last of the morning fog.
Maria and I wait our turn to wash off 120 miles of dust and sweat. I used to think my friends who ran marathons were nuts. Racing 26.2 miles just seemed crazy. By Maria’s calculations, we walked more than that each of the past four days. I doubt we would have won any races, each day spending more than 13 hours on the trail, but then again, the marathoners I knew didn’t carry packs, cross rivers and need to swing wide off the trail every mile or so to steer clear of rhino, bear and mammoth.
I’m glad to be out of the flatlands. The river views had become too closed in. After a while, it was just a lot of trees, muddy water and tall grass. The air was so filled with bugs, martins and bats, we had to keep our mouths shut to keep from swallowing something.
Now, snow-capped mountain peaks rise beyond the rolling foothills to the east. Maria says it is France’s Massif Central. Fingers of smoke and ash spew from the tops of several far away volcanoes. Gray Beard says we will avoid the mountains that “belch death.” I think that’s what he said.
Jones’ mood brightened once he figured out how to use the atlatl. During the first week, his spears had a tendency to flare upward. If he managed to hit his target, it was usually with the flat or butt of the shaft. A helluva technique for scaring the crap out of animals, but not killing them. We were all walking together when Maria offered a suggestion.
“I wonder if the spears are too long for your launcher,” she said. “Maybe that’s why they stall.”
It wasn’t the first advice Jones had received. Far from it.
We all had offered tips on his form and style. Poor guy was fed up with our critiques. He shot her a dark look and snapped one of Gray Beard’s beech spears over his knee. Knocking the butt of the half tipped by a heavy flint, he launched it with all of his might at an oak about 50 paces distant. There was no arc. The bolt sailed straight to bury its head so deeply in the tree the flint disappeared from view.
“That’s why you don’t aim for trees,” Gray Beard scolded as we tried to dig the shaft out of the oak.
There was no breaking our sturdy yew spears, and we didn’t have a whole entire day to cut them, so we talked Gray Beard into letting us build a fire at our cold camp that night. Piling an inch-wide bed of coals between two flat stones, we surgically burned two yew shafts in half. Jones now has two bolts with antler tips and two that will have flint tips when he gets out of the creek and makes them.
The heavier yew bolts fly perfectly. He brought down an antelope at 100 yards yesterday afternoon with a shot that, unless I had seen it, I would never believe possible. Drawing the atlatl and its knocked bolt up with one hand, he lightly stutter-stepped forward and launched overhand with a fluid motion. Like a jai-alai player in old Miami launching a guided missile. The bolt never went higher than 20 feet from the ground. It took the animal through the neck. Jones didn’t say a thing, just grinned from ear to ear as we trotted up to inspect the kill.
In honor of the mighty shot, Gray Beard took the time to quickly butcher the animal. He removed the two back legs and both tenderloins along the spine. We cooked the loins last night, skewered on sticks over the fire. The haunches have slow-roasted through the night. They throw off a terrific smell from a stone hearth, a sort of oven, at one end of the camp’s fire. Maria covered the roasts with herbs, sea salt, morels and wild onions. It makes my stomach growl.
The dogs just started barking. I think I’ll go see what’s up.
TRANSMISSION:
Bordeaux Page 24
