Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  The last pack I opened, however, must have been the clan’s traveling strongbox. Andre had mentioned he and his people had begun collecting artifacts, though he never gave me a chance to see what they had found. My sharp intake of air drew Lorenzo and Wallunda to my side.

  “What is it?” he said, pushing me to the side. “Grab the skin over there, we’ll dump this stuff out.”

  I took no joy from, and saw no beauty in, the treasure my Italian commander poured unceremoniously onto a deer skin laid by the smoky fire. Most of the pieces were wrapped in soft rabbit fur, while a few were contained in woven reed baskets. Wallunda recognized several pieces as Green Turtle ceremonial talismans, including a pair of carved mammoth bracelets, a walrus tusk short sword and a dagger made of rose quartz.

  The collection also included ivory carvings, bright sea shells, and two small pouches. One leather bag held a few small nuggets of gold, while the other was filled with an assortment of rough gemstones. Among the gems were several rubies and emeralds the size of the top joint of my thumb.

  “Not bad,” Lorenzo said, nudging one of the carved lions with the toe of his boot.

  “I suppose you’ve seen better?”

  “Most certainly, we have one twice the size, don’t we, Wallunda.”

  “You are not teaching her Italian, are you?”

  “She’s a smart kid.”

  Lorenzo ordered the baby rhino slaughtered upon our arrival back to the lakeside camp. A string of muddy, bruised and defeated women followed the Tattoos to their fire. Eyes downcast, the property of the Tattoos, they would be absorbed into the enemy clan as the low of the low. Slaves.

  Bad news spreads fast. I sat down with Tomon and Gertie and was soon surrounded by the surviving porters and few Green Turtles who had been left behind. They expected a tale of a mighty fight. Their faces grew blank as I told how Lorenzo destroyed the Turtles from afar and buried them in a blue lake. This incited a tumult of keening and wailing. Tomon later explained that the victims’ spirits would drown and never float up to take their places amongst the stars.

  Lorenzo held a church service the next day which drew well in excess of 150 people. His odd combination of ghost stories, group singalongs, magic tricks and blood sport is proving to be a potent recruiting mix. Groups swing by the lake on their way to follow the juicklain and find themselves sucked into the vortex of his strange power. The clans with the willpower to break free from Lorenzo’s orbit rarely leave with as many members as when they arrived.

  He made no promises to these people, and I do not think he gave much thought to the logistics of moving a small army across a continent. When we set off, the entourage numbered around 145, and the local landscape had been scraped bare of food. In the two weeks since we left, three more small clans and several travelers have hitched themselves onto the tails of the moving circus. Individual clans tend to spread out to travel. They also sleep and hunt apart from other groups. At the sound of Lorenzo’s pistol, however, they come running to his revival show.

  My personal clan, the Porters, has been recast with new misfits, including a half dozen reasonably strong young men who are learning to keep to the rhythms of Bongo and Conga as they help schlep our three kayaks across the mountainous landscape. Lorenzo took an adze to the inside of my damaged kayak to clear way for his growing collection of booty. Upon examination of the equipment stripped from the boat, my accident was apparently caused by gyroscope failure. I had no idea the boats even had gyroscopes.

  We have paused for the night on the eastern flank of the Massif Central, overlooking the Rhone River, about where the city of Lyon will one day stand. Our campfires are spread out along the hillside for more than a kilometer. The sounds of flutes and laughs and fights mingle with the smells of cooking game and the nightly cacophony of birds returning to their nests for the night. Bats and swallows dart through the evening sky.

  Flounder speared a fat brace of rabbits along the trail today. As I type, Tomon and Gertie prepare the skinned and gutted animals for tonight’s main course. They dust them with a liberal coating of crushed grains. Just as I have taught them. They will place the breaded game in cook bags partially filled with spring water, shelled nuts, soaked lentils, mushrooms, dried currants, garlic and onions. Whatever the women gather along the trail during the day goes in the cook bag.

  Although Lorenzo occasionally demands I perform an aria at one of his services, I have stopped singing modern songs to my people. They learn the words too fast. Rather, we now collaborate on native tunes. Our drummers have a few favorite rhythms which I have arranged several choral numbers around. One of the best is a soulful little ditty about the water of a river flowing day after day toward the sea. The refrain of “jukle, kolis, kolis, umbaraghhh!” can be translated loosely as “There is no going back.”

  There is certainly no going back for me.

  As I reviewed a section of my notes on Neanderthal anatomy this evening, I ran across a note posted by Andre. He must have accessed my computer in the days before he made his unsuccessful attempt at escape. In the note, he apologized for not taking me with him, but did not provide an adequate excuse as to why. He also advised me to seize the first opportunity to attempt my own escape.

  I was sitting there mulling Andre’s words when Lorenzo blazed to life right in front of me. He does that, wanders around camp snooping and scaring the hell out of people.

  I must have had a guilty look on my face, for he demanded to know what I was reading. Like a fool, I powered down my computer and insisted it was “nothing, nothing at all.” Now Lorenzo is obsessed to learn the password to my computer. Although 99 percent of my text deals with things like native tools, customs, anatomy, dialects and religious beliefs, as well as weather patterns, plant life and geographical highlights, there are few passages which could very well get me killed.

  What made me think I could write negative comments about Lorenzo and not suffer a consequence? I tried deleting the words, but could not. Evidently, there is a time limit on editing. The offending sentences are as good as cast in stone. I may need to toss this device in the river. That makes my heart sick. So much effort, sweat and sacrifice has been poured into this flat, white box. There are times when my work, the vague notion my data and my research may actually make it across the millennia to shed new light to the modern world, is just about the only thing that keeps me going.

  I managed to deflect Lorenzo this evening by explaining he caught me writing a love poem to my departed Stella. I was flustered and embarrassed, that is all. He accepted my story for now, he was anxious to tend to other duties. He will be back, though. I know he will.

  Cpl. Andre Amacapane

  Security Detail III

  (English translation)

  Ciao Sal,

  That’s some tricky password you have, Salvatore. For a sneaky bastard you sure are stupid sometimes.

  I wish I could say it was a joy knowing you. That would be a lie. I’ll miss your singing, not much else. Certainly not your nagging.

  Don’t be angry that we didn’t bring you and the porters with us. You would just slow us down.

  When Lorenzo follows (I’m sure he eventually will) you should gather up the ones who can walk and take off in the opposite direction. There is no life for either of us with Lorenzo. He’ll keep pounding us over the head with his Bible until we break. His word means less than nothing.

  I will not tell you where we have gone, but perhaps we’ll meet again some-day.

  Don’t catch the clap,

  Amacapane

  CHAPTER TEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Hold me, Paul, this is more sorrow than I can endure. She seemed to be getting better.”

  Kaikane: “I know, babe. You did your best. Better than your best. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Duarte: “Fate? You’re trying to tell me fate took that little girl?”

  Kaikane: “No, the sickness took her. You know that. You gave her a chance. She was too
weak.”

  Duarte: “I hate this, I hate it.”

  Kaikane: “Come on, babe, hold on. I’ve got you.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We buried the last child this afternoon. It was a sorry little ceremony conducted by the 12-year-old blonde’s grandfather. Gray Beard’s voice was steady yet filled with emotion as he listed the qualities which made the girl special, her fine singing voice, her helpfulness and ready smile. He said she was one of his favorite grandchildren because of her willingness to listen and learn.

  Six of the clan’s women and one man were strong enough to emerge from their caves to quietly observe. This group has seen so much suffering in such a short time they are numb. Gray Beard’s daughter, Fralista, sank to her knees and sobbed as Paul and Jones covered her child’s grave with soil and then a layer of heavy rocks.

  Paul and I had gathered flowers earlier in the day and together we placed a bouquet on top. I looked up to see tears streaming down Paul’s cheeks. Soon he was sobbing, too, and that got me going. When you are surrounded by such gut-wrenching sadness it’s hard not to be swept up within.

  I’m useless as a medical doctor. The poor little girl seemed to be getting better. Then a raging fever struck two nights ago. By this morning, she was gone. My attempts to make penicillin continue to fail. I’m not sure if it is the altitude or my raw materials, but I cannot get a proper mold culture to grow.

  Barring another setback, it looks like the rest will pull through. Two men and six women. We have been pumping them full of nourishing food and clean water. Ever so slowly, they regain their strength and will to live.

  The healthiest of the women is a brown-haired girl of about 18 years who is four months pregnant. A widow from the mammoth attack, she was apparently receiving extra rations as the weakening clan’s people cut their own portions to keep her fed well enough to save the baby. After five days of our fatty meats, fruit, nuts and greens, she is rebounding nicely. When I listen to her abdomen, I’m pretty sure I hear two distinct heartbeats. Hopefully, the baby will survive. The girl is not much over five feet tall. Though skinny, her breasts are round and her belly and hips have filled out with motherhood. The way she was batting her eyes at Jones last night across the fire, I think she has designs on finding another strong man to share her bed.

  For reasons I do not understand, Fralista has taken an instant dislike to me. All she has to do is look my way to become filled with anger. Although she does not speak to me, I can tell from her conversations with her father that she is the backbone of what’s left of this clan. Even with her gritty resolve, this group faces a bleak future.

  Gray Beard announced there would be a big cleaning after the burial. He directed us to lead the survivors to the hot spring cave which is located against the valley wall in a cluster of conifers about a quarter mile from camp. If they were too weak to walk, we carried them.

  Once the flea-infested living quarters were clear of people, he and the boys built smoky fires at the back of each cave.

  He showed Jones and Paul how to feed the fires quickly but carefully with evergreen boughs and then run outside and close the flaps. Puffing out his cheeks, rolling his eyes, he reminded them to hold their breaths. When he left for the hot spring, they put their helmets on.

  The bitch and her pups worked overtime to bring the rat population under control. Flushed by the smoke and flames, rodents scurried from the caves in astonishing numbers. The mutts had a field day. They snatch up a rat, give a violent shake to snap its neck and immediately drop it to move on to the next flash of gray.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Look at old Sparky go.”

  Jones: “He’s a demon all right.”

  Kaikane: “Good to see him do something besides steal food from his brothers and sisters.”

  Jones: “This is some camp. Must have been nice back in the day.”

  Kaikane: “The old man said there used to be more than 40 people living here at the end of the valley. Plenty of food, good hunting. I can close my eyes and picture it.”

  Jones: “Not now. People are in bad shape.”

  Kaikane: “Think Hop-Along’s gonna make it?”

  Jones: “Never expected him to survive surgery. Duarte was steady that night. ‘Gentlemen, cauterize the wound now,’ she says. How was that?”

  Kaikane: “I’ll never forget it. The smell and sound, sizzling meat.”

  Jones: “The way the spear handle vibrated all the way up to your hands when those flints touched flesh.”

  Kaikane: “Intense.”

  Jones: “He looks pretty good now.”

  Kaikane: “I was thinking the same thing. I hope he does make it. It would be good for Maria’s confidence.”

  Jones: “Fire’s going out in that cave.”

  Kaikane: “Hope the old man’s trick works, these fleas are murder.”

  Jones: “Roger that. Here we go.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  The hot spring here has an average temperature that is 23 degrees Fahrenheit warmer than the waters back at Warm Spring Camp. Paul and I have sneaked off for several quick baths. I can see why the people would settle here, and why they would loathe thoughts of leaving.

  Water bubbling out of the ground is hot enough to take a while to get used to. Most bathers tend to take seats away from the vents, where the water has cooled a bit. The wide pool rests under a vaulted limestone ceiling where steam collects and drips down. The roof is littered with the beginnings of dozens of green and yellow stalactites.

  While the folks settled into their familiar pool, I distributed an armload of herbs and mosses for scrubbing. Their bodies have filled out some. When we arrived, they reminded me of the photos from the Nazi concentration camps taken at the end of World War II. Pale skin stretched tightly over their skulls, and the joints of their arms oversized compared to stick arms and legs.

  Bead necklaces with Venus statuettes adorn the necks of all the women. Claw, teeth and shell necklaces hang around the men’s. Oversized eyes follow us as they try to figure out who we are and what it is we are doing here.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Got yourself a girlfriend, huh?”

  Jones: “Somethin’ like that.”

  Duarte: “I just thought you should know, I checked everybody for skin afflictions, venereal diseases, tuberculosis, whatever. She had a clean bill of health, at least as far as I could tell. In case you were wondering.”

  Jones: “Be a shame to get the pox, considering your doctoring skills.”

  Duarte: “They’re woeful, I know.”

  Jones: “Don’t be too hard on yourself, you do OK.”

  Duarte: “Did you see Paul?”

  Jones: “Down trying to coax a trout out of the stream. Told him, water’s too warm.”

  Duarte: “I need to have a word with him before you leave on the hunt.”

  Jones: “Better hurry then. Old man’s been giving me dirty looks.”

  Duarte: “Why?”

  Jones: “Impatient. Kaikane made the mistake of asking about those long-horned gazelles, ‘yo-yos’ or whatever they were. The ones we saw yesterday. Old man says the horns are good for making needles. Wants us to bring him a couple.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Kaikane and I roam far and wide to hunt ibex and mountain goat. Challenging work. Pigs are easy pickings around here, but we’re all tired of pork. Gray Beard tells us to leave the animals close to camp alone. So the clan will have something to hunt when we leave. Also forbids us to go near the area where the mammoth hunt turned to guano.

  Spotted the bull today. Holed up in a little pond full of cattails about five miles down the valley. Old man told us to find him. When we asked if he wanted us to kill it he smiled and signed “no” in way that looked a lot like “not yet.” Stayed well downwind. He says if we spook the mammoth it wi
ll take weeks to find him again. The bull is easily half again bigger than any other mammoth we’ve seen. Yellow tusks must be 25 feet long.

  Good to get away from camp. Kaikane and I draw all the shit details. Put digging graves and burying little kids at the top of the list. We hiked up the cold little stream that supplies the camp’s drinking water a few days ago. About halfway to the source, maybe 50 yards above the camp, Gray Beard found a muddy pool where pigs had been wallowing.

  We fretted what to do for a while, until I suggested we fill it in with pointy rocks. Make it uncomfortable for the pigs. Stream tumbles over boulders and narrow rapids most of the way and this was the only flat spot where they could wallow. Old man had the hardest time grasping the concept, even when Kaikane and I started hauling rock after rock to place in the firm mud. I guess he’s never seen a concrete swale or bridge culvert. He finally got the idea. Three of us spent a backbreaking afternoon that seemed to fly by. Reminded me of summer days when all us neighborhood kids built dams across Moorheadville Creek.

  Evening dips in the hot spring sure feel good after days spent doing everybody else’s hunting, chopping, digging and hauling. There has been one bright spot. I call her Suzie. Her real name is unpronounceable, but close enough to Suzie to make sense. She rubs away the aches and pains. And a lot more. Reminds me of those Filipino girls we’d visit in Manila.

  She has her own cave and isn’t shy about sharing it. Her old man was flattened by the mammoth. She’s with child. I guess no one can say I deflowered a Cro-Magnon virgin. Duarte is the one collecting all the data, running around measuring people’s heads and hands and learning their languages. Drawing pictures. I’ll add this. By my own close observations, little Suzie is physically no different than any other woman I’ve met. From the way her box gets wet when she’s hot to how her nipples get hard when she comes, she’s just as much woman as a certain doctor I know.