Galway

by Matthew Thayer

Before I could answer, Sal interrupted to inquire why his father hadn’t come looking for him.

  “If only I had,” Mitch replied with a shake of his head. “Lorenzo would still be alive.” In the diffused light, he looked like he might be Cpl. Bolzano’s younger brother–years younger than when we had worked together on The Team. Any woman would kill to have his smooth skin–unblemished and unscarred, perfect.

  “Martinelli hung me on a goddamn cross!”

  “That is not how events were supposed to transpire.”

  “How would you know?”

  “It was written. Written by her.”

  Suddenly, we were all speaking at once. Decibel levels rose as we talked over each other, until, with a quiet pulse of yellow light, Mitch vanished from sight. His reappearance by one of the fire pits coincided with a low-voltage zap of electricity that caused me to cry out in surprise. Though I had flipped the visor of my helmet down, I had not been able detect his movements, neither visually nor thermally.

  Shrugging his shoulders, expelling an exaggerated sigh, he requested that we listen to his tale without interruption.

  “I have never been a patient man,” he admitted as he began to pace back and forth across the mouth of the cave. “My temper has often gotten the best of me. Feel free to ask Salvatore for details later. I’m sure he will have very interesting anecdotes to share. During the 60 years I have been awaiting your arrival amid this backward yet oh so beautiful epoch, my tolerance for interruptions and insolence has dwindled even further. For days you have badgered me to share. Will you please shut the hell up and listen?”

  We shut up and we listened to a rambling lecture that failed to answer even one of the many questions on my list. He accused us of not truly understanding time travel. He said there were many ways in which history can be altered by a time traveler’s meddling, and other times when fate has dealt such a strong hand to the present, no amount of fiddling can change the future. Several times he asked where we had buried the first computer and if we had prepared it properly for its long wait to be recovered. We were vague in our answers.

  His discourse never wandered far from the ramifications of time travel.

  “You have asked me several times, what am I doing here? The answer is simple, I came here to save my son.” He put his hand on the corporal’s shoulder before turning to thrust a finger into my face. “And to stop you from destroying the world.”

  When I remained seated, refusing to rise to the bait, he continued, “We do not have enough time for me to explain how I know this, but believe it as gospel when I say Sergeant Lorenzo Martinelli and Doctor Maria Duarte are the common denominators. They always have been and always will be the drivers of this time travel mission.”

  He studied our blank expressions for 32 seconds before continuing.

  “Due to meddling with time, there will be three different launches of the same Einstein III timeship. The first launch will not include my son Salvatore. The ship will arrive in 30,000 B.C., experience mechanical difficulties and capsize near the headwaters of the Nile River. Among the survivors will be Sergeant Martinelli and Doctor Duarte. Duarte will be the only one with the presence of mind to don her jumpsuit before the ship’s evacuation. She will become a tyrant and empire builder.

  “The second jump did include Salvatore, but was made without the interference caused by me and my crew jumping back to arrive early–a mistake I have had six decades to rue. That successful time jump with Junior aboard was also plagued by equipment failure. The Einstein III lost power and began leaking in the middle of the Atlantic shortly after splashdown. Thanks to the valiant efforts of crewmembers, nearly a quarter of them survived as the powerful Gulf Stream swept them far north to the western shore of Ireland, near the bonny land that will someday become Galway.

  “Again, Duarte and Martinelli are counted among the survivors. Again, detail-oriented Duarte has remembered to grab a jumpsuit and computer on her way off ship. Again, she becomes a religious fanatic, this time as the consort of Emperor Lorenzo Martinelli. They go on to deposit seeds of change across the globe. In her meticulous fashion, she writes about it all to seal his legacy. Once resprouted in the 2200s, those seeds will have brutal, far-reaching impacts on mankind’s future.”

  I stood to interrupt, but he stalled me with an upraised finger.

  “On that jump, my son was not one of the people who made it through. There was no mention of him in Duarte’s accounts. Nor was anything written on either of those ill-fated voyages about soldiers named Jones or Kaikane. Maybe you three got lucky. Is the third time a charm?”

  Before we could respond or ask for even one clarification, without even looking to see if we would follow, Mitch dove like a weasel through the exit of his secret lair.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Do you ever pine for home, you know, miss the future?”

  Hunter: “Get homesick? Cry for my mommy? Never. How about you, ever desire conveniences from the future?”

  Bolzano: “It is difficult not to. In the early days, I kept a mental list of the 100 items I missed most.”

  Hunter: “Salvatore, my pampered son, that doesn’t surprise me in the least. You always preferred luxury. Now please, run down this list for me.”

  Bolzano: “I quit the list. Sergeant Martinelli was first to point out the futility of wishing for things we will never again have. I thought he was full of moose excrement, but in the final tally, he was correct. The list became counterproductive. The time I wasted on my sorrows was better–”

  Hunter: “Gelato.”

  Bolzano: “Gelato?”

  Hunter: “I miss gelato.”

  Bolzano: “How about silk sheets and Belgian chocolate?”

  Hunter: “Red wine and cheese plate.”

  Bolzano: “With chick pea stew. Remember that little restaurant in Bevagna? They served such simple, yet divine, food.”

  Hunter: “Even after all these years, my mouth waters to think of it. Two sisters ran the place, one pretty, the other, not so much.”

  Bolzano: “I just remember lunch took forever.”

  Hunter: “And then, when your gut was busting and you thought you might fall asleep...”

  Bolzano: “One of the sisters would bring out the cheese plate.”

  Hunter: “Arranged mild to strong.”

  Bolzano: “And served with homemade chutney.”

  Hunter: “You know, Martinelli was correct, this line of thinking is counterproductive.”

  Bolzano: “Did I not try to warn you?”

  Hunter: “How dandy it would be for you to ferment us a wheel of cheese to compliment our wine.”

  Bolzano: “Why not assign the task to one of your other sons? Surely there is a formaggiaio in your entourage.”

  Hunter: “Not their cup of tea, really.”

  Bolzano: “Tell me, what is their ‘cup of tea?’”

  Hunter: “Why, running things down and killing them, of course.”

  Bolzano: “Is that all?”

  Hunter: “They’re good at protecting me, seeing that I have fires and am well-fed. These Sons are fiercely loyal to me. I wish I could say the same about you.”

  Bolzano: “What is that supposed to mean? When have I–”

  Hunter: “When the time comes, we’ll see. Will you side with me or your new friends?”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Several times each year, Father flew the family and staff south to Umbria to tend the grape vines and olive trees on the family’s country estate. We had a monopoly on several reliable water sources in a wide valley near Perugia. The ability to irrigate allowed us to grow some very fine wines and oils.

  I enjoyed the smells and sounds of the harvests, but already, even at that early age, my habit was to do as little manual labor as possible. I spent most of my time up in the villa castle, causing mischief and listening to gossip. I just assumed Father was a master agrono
mist. By the way he patrolled the farm and issued orders to the help from the seat of his ancient three-wheel Piaggio Ape solar-powered truck, one would think so. Now, I find the man does not even know how to ferment a simple grappa.

  Rather than rubbing elbows with master vintners and agriculturists, Father should have gone to prison as I did. Jail was fertile ground to learn the art of wine making. We could construct booze out of just about anything–potato skins, food pellets, even seaweed. My cellmate Mario was a master of fermenting alcohol. Once we became friends, he taught me his secrets.

  Irony is a wonderful thing, is it not? Although my sojourns to prison brought great shame upon Father and the family, my rehabilitation provided me with the tools to make him wine, and hopefully cheese. What next, tiramisu?

  My desire to please, to gain Papa’s favor, is as strong and flawed as ever. He makes me dance like a puppet as I attempt to earn his praise and acceptance. That what I do is never good enough is a big part of what fuels the dance. I try so hard.

  This evening after dinner he shared several stories with the Americans detailing a few of my more grand fiascos–including the first time I was caught stealing from the priest’s wallet, and when I “borrowed” mother’s air car and crashed it into a government building. He took great relish in painting me as a pathetic, blundering, larcenous imbecile.

  To their credit, the Americans did not expound upon Father’s ridicule. Several times they rose to my defense or attempted to steer the conversation in happier, more enlightening directions. We have given up trying to coerce Father to tell his story. It comes at its own pace, with pieces to the puzzle arriving in dribs and drabs.

  The conversation eventually turned to our family’s wealth, which certainly piqued the Americans’ interest. Father’s “Golden Rule” was to never speak of your gold, never divulge family finances to outsiders. But on this night he was quite happy to run down the high points of the Bolzano balance sheet. This information was quite interesting to me as well, as much of it was new to my ears.

  According to Father, the Bolzano Empire included: manufacturing interests in Italy, Africa and South America; water rights in Russia, Canada and Antarctica; synthetic food production plants on every continent; telecommunication satellites and distribution of worldwide news, sports and entertainment programming. The family kept three main, fortified residences, one each in Milano, Umbria and Nice, as well as other apartments throughout Italy, Switzerland and Germany.

  Not every tidbit was new information for the Americans. More than a year earlier, I came clean about my family wealth. We were in Tuscany, having a powwow along the banks of the Arno River somewhere close to the spot where Brunelleschi will erect his grand dome. I explained that my family was quite well off, even showed them pictures of our estate in Nice. My crewmates didn’t really believe me–and I didn’t really care.

  Money and 23rd-century social status mean nothing here. Along the Arno, I was just learning to fight and fend for myself. It was a time of recovery, of striving to earn a place beside my companions through deeds, not my pocketbook. I discovered that pulling my own weight provided a good feeling. Now, more than four seasons later, bonded by blood, war and mutual sacrifice, we have truly become brothers and sisters of the Green Turtle Clan.

  Why did it not surprise me when Father began trying to drive wedges into that brotherhood? It is a process he is masterful at–manipulating people, pitting one against the other. Duarte asked what sort of manufacturing the family was involved in and Father shot her a devilish smile.

  “Salvatore didn’t divulge the nature of the family business? Oh well, I can’t blame him. Perhaps he is ashamed, for it is nasty. Or maybe he was worried you would be angry with him when you discovered his great secret.”

  By this time, all three of my crewmates were leaning forward, straining not to miss the next words. I decided to beat him to the punch.

  “My family made munitions,” I said, head dipped low. “For more than 400 years, dating back to before World War I, the Bolzano family has been manufacturing bombs, gases, mines, guns and ammunition for conflicts big and small. There is an ocean of blood on Bolzano hands. Our involvement was hidden behind corporate entities and companies with initials rather than names, but Father never let his children forget from whence the money for our homes and water wells and fine foods came. It is my cross to bear. He speaks it true, I am ashamed.”

  Father chortled a bit, then said, “You left out the best part, or, depending on your viewpoint, the worst. Why didn’t you tell them we made the stealth jumpsuits that slowly drive you mad? Or the timeship that began falling apart less than a day after splashdown? Bolzano Enterprises! All the defective equipment that turned to dust, the plates, forks, drones and microscopes? We manufactured the lot. Salvatore’s family earned an ungodly amount of money to send you back with manky gear. How does that make you feel, Doctor Duarte?”

  Looking him in the eye, she replied in an even voice. “When Corporal Bolzano arrived in this epoch, he was incapable of hurting a fly. He has grown as a man, as a soldier and as a friend. Your son and I are of the Green Turtle Clan. He is my brother and I am his sister. I do not appreciate the way you denigrate your own son.”

  With that, she took her man by the hand and led him away from the fire. Jones soon excused himself to find his native mate, Fralista. Father was not long in staying either. I curled up with my dog and watched the fire slowly flicker to embers and ultimately ash.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Father requests that I make him wine.”

  Duarte: “He’s not going to serve it to his Sons is he?”

  Bolzano: “I make no promises.”

  Duarte: “Don’t make too much then. If it’s in short supply, he’ll be less likely to share.”

  Bolzano: “I suppose.”

  Duarte: “And Sal...”

  Bolzano: “Yes.”

  Duarte: “Put some kick in it.”

  Bolzano: “Kick?”

  Duarte: “Alcohol content. Let’s see how your daddy holds his liquor.”

  From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  This is such an embarrassing entry to write. I am hoping that once I put pen to paper, so to speak, I’ll be able to stop obsessing about what transpired.

  Paul had left me alone in the cave while he was off inspecting the line of rabbit snares he has stationed along the edge of a nearby meadow. Using Green Turtle techniques with rough twine and willow sticks, he has become quite adept at catching the furry critters. The tricky part is collecting the bounty before it is consumed by scavengers. Paul has been robbed by everything from fox and lynx to weasel and owl. Shredded pelts are worthless to us.

  Following the hybrids’ example, we’ve begun collecting the makings for our winter clothing. By all reports, it turns frosty early this far north. Rabbit fur is the preferred lining for Cro-Magnon hats and mittens. We all like the way bunnies feel against our skin, and in our bellies. Now that we have constructed new leather cook bags, rabbit meat has served as the foundation for some lovely stews–certainly much better than the raw locust, crawfish and frog we subsisted on for so many days and nights this summer. It’s hard to beat the comforts of a place you can call home. It feels good to stop and rest, to sleep in a warm, dry cave. If not for the increasing stench of human waste in this valley, I could easily settle down for a season or two.

  So there I was, snug and alone, trying to take a nap, but far too perplexed by Dr. Mitchell Simmons’ damning revelations and out-right lies to do so. (See Reports # DMS–0009 - DMS–0018). Far too much of my time and effort this day had been spent dissecting his words. Paul says Mitch is just “messing” with my head, and if that’s true, he’s doing a wonderful job. In an attempt to put doubts and negativity aside for a moment, I lay back on our bed of wolf and bison furs and focused on positive things in my life. It’s an old trick of my mother’s. “Count your blessings, Maria,” she would say whenever she caught me s
porting a pained look.

  I thought about my work and the many new plants and animals I have documented and cataloged. Scrolling past memories of lost colleagues, closing my eyes to all the possibilities that sunk along with our ship, I thanked the fates for bringing our native father Gray Beard into our lives, and for our inclusion into the Green Turtle Clan. Thanks to him, we have learned and seen so much in the past two years and three months. Capt. Jones and Cpl. Bolzano have also proven to be dependable traveling companions and crewmates.

  Delving into my happiest place of all, I let my thoughts drift to my husband, Paul Kaikane, We call Paul the “Hawaiian waterman,” but he’s not pure Hawaiian, more a blend of Polynesian, Asian and Caucasian. The mix is an agreeable one, leaving him with skin that turns copper in the sun, and a broad, happy face that is graced by the brightest, warmest smile you will ever see. To look at him you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. He’s an eternal optimist. I worry too much and he worries too little. It is our balance and it works.

  Sailing the wild Atlantic with Paul while he was paralyzed and helpless as a newborn was the most trying experience of my life. There were several mornings when I woke next to him on the windswept deck and thought he had passed in the night. He was so frail, so ill. But Paul kept on fighting. And I kept on wondering what kind of man he would be if he ever came out the other side. I knew I would love Paul no matter what. Paralyzed, slurred speaker, whatever, I was ready for anything. And now he has made it all the way back. Maybe he has some weight to gain, and he could use a little more endurance, but that’s just being picky.

  Poor Paul was given only eight days to recover from Gray Beard’s healing sweat lodge before we evacuated Bretagne by both land and sea. Gray Beard insisted the Hunter was close on our tail, and as things turned out, he was right. Salvatore volunteered to sail north with Paul and me while Jones accompanied the clan overland. We enjoyed a nice, leisurely voyage, with Sal providing welcome entertainment and conversation. With no need to hurry, we camped on a pair of treeless islands free of wolves, bears and anything else that might consume us. A friendly competition evolved to see who could make the best bouillabaisse. Ten days later, on the exact day he predicted, Gray Beard led the clan through the sand dunes to our rally point. They were sure happy to see our cook bag full of Sal’s latest-greatest fish stew, what he calls his, “zuppa di pesce alla Romana.”