Duarte: “A few, yes. There was a lion hunt that was quite memorable.”
Bolzano: “Yes, you have told me about ‘Death by Stone’ several times. I have a question.”
Duarte: “Fire away.”
Bolzano: “Fire? What fire?”
Duarte: “It is an expression. Ask the question.”
Bolzano: “You Americans and your expressions! On these hunts you witnessed, were the Neanderthal as determined as our current pursuers? We must have covered 50 kilometers by now.”
Duarte: “Closer to 64. I can’t answer definitively, but we didn’t see the Neanderthals in southern Spain expend this much energy to bring home food. Of course, they didn’t need to with such a ready supply provided by the sea. Those Neanderthals were capable of great bursts of strength and effort, but in no measure did they strike me as long-distance runners.”
Bolzano: “What do you think of Leonglauix’s assertion the Sons are hybrids.”
Duarte: “He once told me interbreeding between Cro-Magnon and Neanderthal produced sterile offspring. Gray Beard lied about that. I think it is quite possible the Hunter does use hybrids, but I do not believe they are actually his sons. The Team would never send a traveler back who had the capacity to reproduce. That is one of the first rules of time travel.”
Bolzano: “And The Team never makes mistakes, correct?”
Duarte: “Sheesh, when you put it like that, anything’s possible.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
I was so tired I barely remember entering the pines. Gray Beard and the clan expect me to be the same old dude, but my wind’s not all the way back and neither is the strength in my legs or arms. Running with those tall bobolox, trying to keep up with everybody, nearly did me in. I swear, my mind was going goofy, like I was hallucinating.
The moon was putting off plenty of light, but down with the hoofs and tails it was all dust and shadows. We moved in a tight oval, holding our spears out over our heads like some sort of porcupine. Finally, about a minute before I would’ve dropped, the old man angled us out of the herd and into the trees.
Next thing I know, Maria’s shaking me awake, telling me it’s time to move. There was no mistaking the worry in her voice.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Madonna mia!”
Duarte: “It must be the River Thames.”
Bolzano: “Even by moonlight, from this distance, anyone can see it is too wide. To cross is impossible.”
Jones: “Wanna bet?”
Bolzano: “He has made a decision already?”
Jones: “Just about.”
Bolzano: “Will Leonglauix at least permit the sun to rise before making such a foolhardy attempt?”
Jones: “Wants to try doubling back again. Ain’t gonna work.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
In an effort to mask our tracks and scents, Gray Beard led us down the middle of a series of brooks. Wading, swimming, jumping off waterfalls and sluicing through several heart-pounding rapids, we reached the River Thames two hours after dawn. Dragging out just shy of the muddy river, the Green Turtles barely possessed the strength to claw their way up and over the bank. Thirty-seven hours of near-constant flight had pushed the clan to its limit.
Drenched and fatigued, the storyteller used hand sign to signal us into the willows lining the two-mile-wide river’s southern shore. Fighting our way through a thicket of saplings to a small clearing of ferns on the high ground between two tributaries, we removed our packs and sprawled in the morning sun. Gray Beard gave the clan 11 minutes and 36 seconds to recover before clicking us into a tight circle.
“If we sleep, the Sons will make sure we never wake up,” he said. “Though you may not hear them, they are near.”
I estimated a larger margin, but knew better than to express the opinion out loud. Before starting down the succession of streams, the old man had led us in a trio of wide loops through the forested hills to create a confusion of tracks. Aided by water and gravity, screened by tall, steep banks, I reckoned our lead to be at least several hours.
“We must cross the big river,” he continued. “And let its current take us far downstream where the Sons cannot see the place we come out. Not too far. We must beach before this river mates with the big river from the north. That is important. Listen! Your life and the lives of your clan mates will be lost if you do not reach land before the two rivers become one.”
To roam as they do, Cro-Magnons are quite adept at crossing streams and rivers–though they rarely tackle one as wide as the Thames. When faced with a barrier this extreme, they generally turn around, wait for winter to freeze the surface, or journey inland as far as it takes to find an easier, narrower ford. We hadn’t the time nor the energy.
I’ve learned the key is finding the right tree. Not only should it be located near shore, be suitably buoyant and not so rotten it turns to dust mid-voyage, it also helps if it doesn’t have too many limbs. Bushy trees are harder to maneuver and often become snagged on debris and sand bars. It’s a pain when they flip over. Large driftwood is preferred. Unfortunately, the bank of the Thames was devoid of flotsam.
There was also a paucity of tall trees. We must have crept downstream a half mile before finding the first suitable candidate, a long-dead pine protruding through new-growth willow not too far from the river. The tree was no giant, and most of its limbs had rotted away, but the trunk was sound enough. It barely put up a fight as the boys rocked it back and forth until it snapped off at the base with a loud crack.
“Be quiet,” Gray Beard admonished in hand sign, adding, “this tree is too small to float the entire clan.” Pointing to the top of another dead pine visible over a small knoll, Gray Beard signaled that we would split into two groups for the crossing. Tapping the shoulders of parents Tomon and Gertie, as well as Lanio, Greemil, Bongo and Conga, he motioned they would use the tree while the rest would harvest another.
“Take off your clothes and tie them in bundles,” he said. “Tie the bundles to the tree after you float the tree and see how it rests upon the water.”
Tomon rolled his eyes to say he knew the drill.
“You have not crossed this river before,” Gray Beard curtly scolded his nephew with a point to the water. “Wait for my signal, then kick steady for the north shore. Last one there is a rotten egg.”
He didn’t say that last bit, but it’s the thought that rolled through my sleep-deprived, punch-drunk mind.
Our tree gave up the ghost as easily as the first, though we had the good sense to wrap its foot-diameter base with our wet capes and jackets to muffle the sound of its breaking. After carefully lowering the 17-foot-tall pine to the ground, we carried it as quietly as we could to the water’s edge and placed it in a small eddy somewhat free of the powerful current. It took two straining people, Sal and Jones, to hold it in place. Peeling off my leather garments, I added them to a growing pile. Soggy leathers will drag you under fast. I was helping Paul secure our packs around the trunk in a way that made our makeshift raft even more stable when Gray Beard waded up and began fastening his spears to the pine with his dog’s leash.
Catching my eye, he whispered, “Quiet walk up there and signal Tomon. They can go.”
Handing my helmet to Paul, I set off without complaint. If this was pre-jump, I would have been embarrassed beyond belief, walking bare-assed up a hill knowing four men, including my husband, were watching–along with jealous Fralista. Let’s say life with the clan has lowered my inhibitions. And I was just too weary to care.
Lightheaded and numb, I crested the knoll in time to spot a mass of wavy brown hair skulking through the trees no more than 30 feet from where Tomon and his shipmates had laid down in the muddy loam and fallen asleep. There were at least a dozen hybrids, tipping their heads back every few steps to scent the air.
Feeling all the more naked without a spear or club in my hand, I realized I
didn’t dare call out to Tomon for fear he might reply and give away his position. Ducking low in the willows, I whistled several Green Turtle birdcalls used for warnings and alerts. The hybrids noted the calls, briefly turning their heads to scan for the odd-sounding birds, while the clan slept on. Perhaps fatigue had addled my brain, for my solution to the problem was to stand, wave my hands in the air and shout in trade dialect, “Hey boys, looking for me? I’m over here. Hey you hairy Sons. Sons! Sons! Come and get me, Sons!”
Glancing down to my right, I saw Tomon rouse and begin hustling his people to their heavily laden tree. Tugging on the leather straps tied around their dogs’ snouts, they fought to drag the wary pack animals into the cold, rushing water. The baby began to cry, prompting several hybrids to veer toward the disorganized Green Turtles.
“No, it’s me you want,” I screamed between jumping jacks. “See which one of you can catch me!”
I turned and ran as fast as my noodle legs would carry me. Oblivious to willow branches slashing my face, pointed stones gouging the soles of my feet and the arrival of a spear suddenly flying overhead, I covered the ground in a strange, fear-fueled fog. “Go, Paul, launch!” I shouted. There were too many Sons to fight. They had the high ground. “Launch!”
Paul and the others were struggling to free their weapons and still keep the tree from being swept away as I neared the top of the bank. Offshore, Tomon and his open-mouthed crew floated past, picking up speed in the current. Registering a blur to my left, I dropped into a low slide that bloodied my knee and hip, and also gave me a close-up view of a heavily bearded hybrid dressed in leather mantle and tall moccasins sailing overhead. The brown-haired man landed like a cat, barely touching ground before scrambling to his feet and resuming his pursuit. Paul had freed a spear and was wading ashore as I raced down the bank.
“Left!” he growled, taking aim at the center of my chest. His left or mine? Jinking to my right, I heard the grunting sound of a man taking a spear to the abdomen. His hand felt rubbery and warm as it briefly closed around my ankle.
“To the tree!”
Splashing into the water, we arrived just as our comrades lost their battle with the current. With curses and cries of anguish, Gray Beard, Jones, Sal and Fralista were swept away amid a cascade of spears and stones. Paul and I dove deep, swimming side by side and holding our breath as long as we were able. By the time we surfaced the current had carried us out of the Sons’ range.
“Babe, are you OK?” Paul asked, treading water and wrapping his arms around my waist to study the welts and scratches across my face. Once I assured him I was uninjured, he unstrapped my helmet from his bicep and handed it to me. “Put this on and don’t ever take it off.”
“Never?”
“You know what I mean.”
Though our clan mates had quite the head start, the combination of them kicking against the current and us swimming with it eventually allowed us to reunite. Draped over the bobbing tree, Paul and I were allowed no time to recover before Gray Beard gave the order for all aboard to kick like mad for the northern shore.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Your old lady did OK.”
Kaikane: “What were we thinking? Letting her go off by herself like that?”
Jones: “Worked out all right.”
Kaikane: “Suckers almost killed her.”
Jones: “Almost. That’s the word to focus on, soldier.”
Kaikane: “But....”
Jones: “But nothin’. Ya gotta quit beatin’ yourself up over it.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Seen some close calls and this ranks right up there. Clan nearly lost two-thirds of its force this morning. Duarte saved our bacon.
She won’t come right out and say it, but I’d bet my last Norte Americano that Tomon and his people were sleeping on duty. Something forced her hand, forced her to draw all fire upon herself. While the rest of us had our weapons lashed to a floating tree. What a clusterfuck. I don’t think the doc realizes how close she came to eating it.
First, she had a whole tribe chasing her, then a gorilla trying to take her down with a flying tackle. Grunt came out of nowhere, had Duarte dead to rights, but all of a sudden she was sliding under him like a baseball player stealing home. Couldn’t have missed by more’n an inch. He popped up and almost got her again. By then, we had our weapons. Hybrid had to know he was on a suicide mission, but don’t think he cared. He just wanted be the first to touch her. Kaikane squelched that with a perfect shot.
Was it Fralista who pushed the tree free or a surge in the current? All I know is, we left without them. They surfaced a good hundred yards away. Didn’t think they could ever catch up. Water was too cold and they were too tired. Every time Kaikane would flip on his back to float, we’d hear her pestering him until he turned back over and started swimming again. When they reached us the Hawaiian could barely move his arms and legs.
Old man got us across to beach in a place he liked. Left us a short walk to this cave. While the gang built a fire, I managed to poke a couple deer. Fed and warmed, the crew sleeps. While I pull my second guard shift in a row.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Everybody up, they’re coming.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The trackers chased us over a couple of stony hills where stunted, lichen-covered trees grew sideways in the wind. With each mile the barks got closer. By midday we could hear the furry fuckers moving through the scrub. Not long after, Jones spotted a flanking squad quartering in from southwest. For some screwy reason I remember the scent of clover in the air as we crested the last hill and started down the other side. Leading us to a green crack in the earth, distress plain as day on his craggy face, Gray Beard slapped each of us on the back to hurry us onto a goat trail that dropped down a steep wall in five or six narrow switchbacks.
The floor of the canyon was a mix of jumbled boulders and flat sandy areas. Not much sunlight made it through the tall trees so there wasn’t a lot of brush or brambles, and not much game or predators either. Except for the barks of Neanderthal closing in above, the valley was peaceful.
It sounded like there were at least 100 trackers along the rim barking at us, probably enjoying the hell out of the fact we had trapped ourselves at the head of a box canyon. I expected the assholes to start launching spears or tumbling stones, but they held their fire.
“What is all this?” Bolzano asked in Green Turtle dialect, pointing to a low, squared-off stone table in the sand. The table was set with horn cups, turtle shell bowls and wooden shingle plates holding food–berries, nuts, even a smoked trout that tasted great. By the base of the canyon’s granite wall, a massive, dressed-out boar hung from braided leather ropes next to a cook fire ready to light.
We should have been preparing a defense, but we all just sort of walked around in a daze, wolfing food and stealing glances at the trees above. I did a quick check of gear piled on other tables to see if there was anything we could use. There were some decent stone-headed clubs and a few spears that looked like they might fly straight. Snack time ended when a new bunch came trotting up the valley. We could see them hiding behind trees about 40 yards away, blocking our only way out. I caught Jones’ eye as he loosened the atlatl from across his back. “May as well get ready,” he said. Cool as can be. Calling over to Gray Beard in Green Turtle, he asked, “Where we gonna hold this war?”
That’s when the amplified voice of an Englishman scared the living crap out of all of us. It came out of thin air, but sounded close.
“May I propose a more civilized way of handling this situation?” the voice asked, all prim and proper. We turned to see nothing but a mossy boulder. “Let us break bread together,” the boulder said. “I am quite willing to pledge to your safety. Will you do likewise? Will you assure the safety of my boys? Do I have your word?”
He repeated it all in native trade dialect�
�less flowery, but the meaning was the same. Gray Beard signaled his OK by kneeling by the cook fire and motioning his nephew to help start the flames.
“Good! Good!” The voice boomed. “Leonglauix has always been a pragmatic man.”
Homing in on the voice, I saw a dark-haired guy with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache slowly appear. He was sitting on the rock with one leg crossed over the other. His olive-skinned, oval face had no lines and showed no wear and tear from the elements. You get used to everybody having red cheeks from the wind and sun, and scratches or bug bites on their faces. This guy looked like he was ready for a fashion photo shoot.
Dressed in native buckskins, he wore a pair of pistol holsters slung in an X across his chest. The wide belt cinching his waist had a square buckle with two red lights blinking, one on either side of a round holographic touchpad powered down to neutral gray.
That sealed it. We really had found another time traveler.
Maria squealed, “Mitch? Doctor Mitchell Simmons?” at the same moment Salvatore blurted, “Papa!” All Jones and I could do is scratch our heads and wonder what the heck was going on.
CHAPTER TWO
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Oh boy, here we go.”
Bolzano: “No!”
Duarte: “Stop!”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I turned to see Gray Beard do that little hop-skip-step thing he does as he launches a spear. Man was supposed to be starting a fire, but there he was, too close to miss, letting fly for the Hunter’s gut.
Galway Page 2
