Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  Esther works out of a broad, flat-topped tent which cost us nearly all of our turtle-shell combs and sealskin ropes. The leather structure is large enough for me to claim the rear third as my own. A curtain of hanging furs separates our quarters. I have a flap which provides me with a private entrance. The tent is pitched in the heart of what will become Nice’s Old Town, near where the one-eyed Turk will one day create his culinary masterpieces.

  Though void of buildings, roads, train tracks and all other trappings of the modern world, the mountains and sea are just as I remember them. They may now be more vibrant and clean and teeming with wildlife, but the landmarks are the same. It is the coastline which has changed most dramatically. Gone are the rows of half-submerged buildings and sunken Promenade des Anglais that were claimed by rising sea levels. Made up of crushed shells and rounded stones, this beach is wide and extends much farther out than even my great-grandparents’ grandparents would remember before the “Big Melt.” It is beautiful.

  The Porters helped me rig a leather awning over my doorway to create a porch of fern and sea grass. I have a wonderful view of the sunset. It is also a suitable place to tend to the duties assigned to me by His Holiness. He requests wine, bread and olive oil for the Christmas service. I do my best to comply, but fear I must return inland to pick more olives and grapes. The ones which grow around here are woefully tart and small.

  Occasionally, as I tinker with my clay jars and reed tubes, Esther will duck through the furs to ask my opinion of an ivory carving, or rough jewel. Ever stern-faced, she may lack a sense of humor or even one modicum of personality, but she is bright. Esther learns quickly to judge for herself techniques like how to tell the difference between quartz and gemstone.

  My invitations for her to join me on the porch for sunset are met with looks of disdain. I am not sure what Lorenzo told her about me. It must have been a bad report. She has yet to exhibit even one hint of a smile in the more than three weeks I have known her. Her demeanor makes one thing quite apparent, she does not trust me. Perhaps he told her I was a crook.

  Lorenzo has commandeered the entire Colline du Chateau, the small hill which will someday separate Nice’s Old Town from its harbor. His arrival displaced more than a score of natives who had used fire to clear trees from the hilltop area. His ready-made camp comes complete with cook pits, flat stone tables and benches. It is all quite livable. His huge tent commands an impressive ocean view.

  The Great One splits much of his time between the lavish tent city on the hilltop, which he shares with members of his inner circle, and the barracks that he has established for his troops in a cluster of caves about two kilometers westward down the coast.

  Clans and hangers-on cast adrift two months ago continue to trickle in, usually with new recruits in tow. Once His Holiness’ promise of peace and safety made the rounds, pilgrims from all over the south began to arrive. Folks are curious to witness for themselves the mighty power of Lorenzo the Great. His reputation grows as the Word of Jesus spreads.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “I thought your feet were too sore to walk? And now you want to hike back up into the hills? Have Tomon, or the two butt-buddies, what do you call them, ‘Snare Drum’ and ‘Kettle Drum?’ Have them go pick your grapes and olives.”

  Bolzano: “This is a chore I must perform myself. There are at least three different types of grapes growing in the region, and only one is suitable. I will take the porters along. They can carry me if I falter. I do not trust them with a mission this important. Earth’s first Christmas? It must be perfect. And the olives, don’t get me started. As far as I can tell, mankind has not used this amazing food for anything more productive than to throw at one another.”

  Martinelli: “How perfect can two-week-old wine be?”

  Bolzano: “Not very, I admit. It will be more of a rough grappa this year, but in Christmases to come, we will toast with increasingly better vintages.”

  Martinelli: “OK, you can go. But Tomon and Gertie stay here, as do the rest of the porters.”

  Bolzano: “Why? Who will carry me?”

  Martinelli: “I still don’t trust you, Sal. They’ll stay here to help make sure you come back. I don’t have time to go chasing you this close to Christmas.”

  Bolzano: “What do you mean? I would not run off.”

  Martinelli: “Sometimes your faith seems just too convenient. You can also leave your computer and ear peas behind.”

  Bolzano: “How will I hear without the peas’ amplification?”

  Martinelli: “You don’t use your ears to pick grapes. The peas stay with me. Just come back, that’s all. Here’s the deal, Esther has requested a few days off to gather supplies before we move south. She’s worried the plants will be different in Italy. I’ll have her and a few of the Saints accompany you. You can teach them how to pick grapes and olives.”

  Bolzano: “I would prefer more companionable companions.”

  Martinelli: “Take it or leave it. And don’t argue with me.”

  Bolzano: “Of course not. I have been hoping to get to know Esther better. Perhaps this will give us time to do so.”

  Martinelli: “I doubt it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Robust, red-leaf ivy, abundant along the trail between 2,000- and 3,000-foot elevation. Leaves are roughly palm-sized, asymmetrical, tri-segmented and have saw-toothed edges. Woody stalks attain two inches in diameter, climbing to great heights, reaching the tops of pine and oak trees. As I remember nothing like it in the future, it appears to be an evolutionary dead end. Natives use the sturdy vines for a variety of purposes, most usually as ropes and lashes for burdens such as firewood and game. The vines….”

  Kaikane: “Hey, babe, check out the band of Neanderthal down there. Hunting the deer herd. See ’em?”

  Duarte: “Where?”

  Kaikane: “Right over there, at the edge of the forest, by the dead pine. They’re all ducked down now. There, one just popped up to throw a spear. See him?”

  Duarte: “I still don’t see.”

  Kaikane: “Here, stand in front of me. See, right over there where the deer are spooked.”

  Duarte: “Hey, Buster! Watch those hands. Oh, wait! I see them. Help me get my pack off.”

  Kaikane: “Take your time. Gray Beard and Jones are so far ahead, five more minutes won’t make a difference.”

  Duarte: “This is the second Neanderthal clan today. I wonder if it’s the same one. No, OK, I have them. Looks like four, no, six males and three women. It’s a different bunch. Clothes and necklaces are all different. Zero hybrids this time.”

  Kaikane: “I don’t know how you wear that helmet.”

  Duarte: “Maybe my eyes aren’t as good as yours.”

  Kaikane: “They aren’t.”

  Duarte: “You know me, I need to count things and catalog them. Miss Precise. Really, though, I don’t see anything wrong with using our technology.”

  Kaikane: “I didn’t say it was wrong. The thing makes my head spin, that’s all.”

  Duarte: “Well, it’s obvious the Italians are using their technology. That poor clan along the river. I can’t stop thinking about it. Who would do such things?”

  Kaikane: “The crucifix standing in the middle of camp sort of points to one bunch of guys.”

  Duarte: “I’m glad you knocked it over. Oh, speaking of poor things, there goes two, now three deer down to spears. A fourth. They drove the herd directly toward an effective ambush. That first launch was merely a feint. The second group was hiding in a little creek bed. Four hunters in that group, all hybrids, one female.”

  Kaikane: “How do you know they are hybrids?”

  Duarte: “By the way they walk and look. They’re taller and thinner. Foreheads are not as sloped. Less hair. Gray Beard says they are sterile. Like mules.”

  Kaikane: “Oh, oh, they better move quick. Going to have company. Pack of wolves at 11 o’clock.”

&nbs
p; Duarte: “I see them. Must be more than a dozen. Trotting up like they own the place. Neanderthals don’t seem overly concerned.”

  Kaikane: “Holy cow.”

  Duarte: “Amazing! The old man said they worked together. I didn’t believe it.”

  Kaikane: “Split the kill 50-50. Check out the wolves dragging those two deer.”

  Duarte: “Strong necks. Gray Beard says it’s the wolves which keep the Neanderthal alive. He says they have hunted together since memory began. When times are hard, wolves will eat Neanderthal and Neanderthal will eat wolf. More common, he says, are the times when mother wolf or mother Neanderthal nurses an abandoned baby from the other species.”

  Kaikane: “What’s the old story about the brothers raised by wolves?”

  Duarte: “Romulus and Remus.”

  Kaikane: “That just blows me away. Did you ever expect so many of mankind’s stories would already be in circulation today?”

  Duarte: “As Jones would say, that’s some heavy shit, man.”

  Kaikane: “He’s in a blue mood again today. I guess it can’t be easy to leave a girl like Suzie behind.”

  Duarte: “I think Jones’ problems go far deeper than breaking up with a pregnant little Cro-Magnon chickie.”

  Kaikane: “How so?”

  Duarte: “I’ve been reading up on manic depression. It’s a serious disease.”

  Kaikane: “Is it catchy?”

  Duarte: “No, you goof. I think Jones suffers from depression. He tries to hide it, but even when he’s ‘up,’ don’t you feel a negative current lurking just underneath? Some of the looks he shoots toward your back scare me.”

  Kaikane: “We’ve been through this before. Jones and I are compadres. We both love you, but he’s cool you and I paired up. We talked it out.”

  Duarte: “I know you talked it out. I was there, remember? I made you do it.”

  Kaikane: “For a pushy broad you sure are cute.”

  Duarte: “Hon, help me get this pack back on, wouldya, couldya, please?”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We have put roughly 97 rugged miles behind us in the five days since we left Fralista’s valley. Each burned-out cluster of huts we pass goads us to push harder. We are exhausted. My four traveling companions, three men and a dog, snooze restlessly in a pile of dry leaves nearby.

  We have reinstituted the watch system, and it’s my turn to pull guard duty. I’ve been monitoring the approaches to our makeshift camp while banging away at botanical reports and updating my observations and analysis of Early Modern Human. Lest you think I shirk my security responsibilities, my helmet allows me to multi-task. I observed the thermal images of a herd of curious horses which snooped within 18 yards of our camp 20 minutes ago. No predators, man nor beast, lurk nearby.

  I would say we were alone atop our grassy bluff, one mile uphill from the Rhone River’s west bank, but one is never alone in this environment. Rodents scurry through the grass on nocturnal missions. Bedded-down migratory birds moan and coo from their hiding places in the tall sedge. Toads and crickets are absent from tonight’s chorus. Too cold. Not so for the owls and furry bats who stalk the night air.

  The lowing of the herds in the bottom lands is more subdued at night. Thankfully. We find ourselves traveling the same direction as millions of animals moving south with the season. As exaggerated as that sounds, it is the truth. In the thermal viewer, they fill the valley with an overall, spotty glow as far to the north and south as I can see. Zooming in, I am able to distinguish more diverse species than I ever imagined. Horses, asses, mammoth, wooly rhino, aurochs, deer, elk, bison, antelope, gazelle, goat, wolf, lion, panther, hyena, coyote and at least five different types of pig. And, of course, scores of oddball creatures (described in my reports) we three “moderns” have never seen or heard of before. The mass migration tracks south along both banks of the river.

  Fed by snowmelt and glacial runoff of two mighty mountain chains, the Rhone runs deep and fast as it cleaves a brown, mile-wide gash down the middle of the valley. Judging by the width of its debris zone, the river must be a raging monster during spring melt. For now, in late fall, it stays within its banks.

  How deep the river is, I do not know. My attempts to sound for a measurement are swept away by the strong current.

  I think we are near where the French village of Avignon will one day be built. It’s hard to tell. The topography along the Rhone Valley is much different than I recall. Although I spent the fall semester of my junior year in the area studying drought-resistant grapevines, and returned several times later, nothing is familiar. Ice fills the glacial valleys and thickly caps the summits. These mountains seem taller and more round.

  After so looking forward to returning to this fertile land at the bottom of the Alps, it is dispiriting to search continually for memorable landmarks and find I recognize nothing. In geologic time, 32,000 years is a mere blip. Even so, this valley will see much erosion over that span. Scoured by water, wind and the

  remainder of an Ice Age, and further reshaped by man, a startling amount of change will occur before some idealistic girl from Stanford arrives ready to change the world.

  What did I expect? To crest a hill and discover Pierre and Dr. Mimi trimming their vines? Or the townspeople finishing the fall harvest? I have thought a lot about this, and would say we all seek some sort of touchstone, a tangible connection to the future, to our past. We search and search, and all we find are reminders there is no going back.

  Now, if it was just company we were after, it wouldn’t be hard to find. Campfires of at least a dozen Cro-Magnon clans glow in the distance. The raging bonfires are built near the river where there is plenty of dry driftwood to feed the flames. The blazes cause eddies in the currents of animals as they briefly swing wide on their way south. Gray Beard prefers to set up our solitary, cold camps apart from other travelers. During the day, we occasionally fall into step for an hour or more with other clans. The folks who recognize Gray Beard pay him the respect due a great storyteller. He brusquely declines their requests to stop and spin a tale. He engages in just enough conversation to collect the news.

  Tales of murder, rape and destruction predominate. The Italians are either completely or partly responsible for the wave of terror which rampaged down the valley about one month ahead of us. Natives speak of glowing suns which become men who disappear into thin air. That’s our boys. They abuse the technology in ways several outspoken members of The Team predicted during the planning phase.

  I haven’t worn the jumpsuit very often on our great walk, only once lately when it was just so cold coming down out of the mountains I couldn’t stand it. I utilize the helmet far more often. The optics are outstanding, and I find its voice-activated recorder quite helpful as a note-taking device. Even when stowed in my backpack, it picks up and records my voice. Very handy.

  While writing reports, I often start by cutting and pasting entire sections of transcribed observations to lay the groundwork, and extrapolate from there. I have been doing just that for the past two hours. Cut and paste, what odd terms. There wasn’t much paper or paste in the world we left and there is certainly none now.

  That was profound. I’m so tired, I think I’m getting punchy. I usually reserve these personal journal entries as a sort of reward. I allow myself some “Dear Diary” time when all the chores are done. That sounds a lot like my mother. (That will certainly give me something to think about on the trail tomorrow.)

  I have three more days’ worth of notes to sort through. At this traveling pace, who knows when I’ll get the next chance to treat myself to personal ramblings. Though we have picked up the pace, we’re at least three weeks behind the Italians. I notice Paul and Jones have not been writing–they’re too busy keeping us alive.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I don’t see how anyone could do something like this in the name of religion.”

  Jones: “Most of the wars I fought
in were based on religion. People been tearing each other apart in the name of Jesus Christ, Mohammad, Buddha, for years.”

  Duarte: “All the bones.”

  Jones: “Old man says butchery like this isn’t new. Tattoos are a nasty piece of work.”

  Kaikane: “How about the story, how the Tattoo clan grew so mean?”

  Duarte: “Darwin would have had a field day with that one.”

  Jones: “What’d he say? I missed this.”

  Duarte: “He told us a little tale one night back at Valley Camp. He said it has long been a common practice for families to rid themselves of disruptive and violent offspring by giving them to the Tattoo Clan. If a child was deemed particularly murderous or destructive, he or she was sent away to live with the Tattoos–a cantankerous lot who enjoys nothing more than a good brawl or back-stabbing.”

  Jones: “You’re saying they got all the bad eggs. And now they have a genetic predisposition toward being complete assholes?”

  Duarte: “Well put.”

  Jones: “And this Tattoo clan is serving as the Italians’ personal army?”

  Duarte: “Sounds like it. The old man gets the same story from every survivor he meets. They’re all pretty clear on the point.”

  Jones: “Where does that leave his clan? The Turtles?”

  Duarte: “Details are sketchy, but it sounds like they are still running with the Italians and the Tattoo Clan. Hard to say what role they play.”

  Jones: “Armies aren’t all fighters. Could be cooks or carriers. We’ll see. For the old man’s sake, I hope they didn’t have anything to do with this business here.”