Wobbly legs carried me back to the window. Following the jerky paths of portable lights, I sat atop a crate as intruders searched my home room-by-room, floor-by-floor. Outside, the front facade and twin turrets were bathed in light from hovering tanks. Fingering the console of my belt, I waited for one of the big cruisers to settle over my childhood home–a place that had been bought and maintained through the construction of munitions for more than four centuries. Did they think I would have no explosives? No defenses?
Tripping the detonators, I had a full minute to scale over the velvet couch and wriggle into a ship that had at least a 59 percent chance of killing me. “It’s been a good 222-year run,” I thought, closing the lid with 30 seconds to spare. Three green lights flashed and the deepest chill overtook my body.
When waking from sleep, I generally have a notion of how long I have been out. Even in this land without clocks, I wager I can still tell the difference between a four-hour sleep and a seven-hour sleep. This trip took a minute or a year, I could not say, but the stars were shinning brightly when the lid automatically hinged open.
The ship had come to rest at an angle. Lifting myself upward to peer from the narrow hatch, hanging on with trembling arms, I found that I had come to rest atop a blue, two-wheeled bicycle in the same forecourt where the Martinellists had assembled. Relief flooded over me as I let my head settle back against the ship’s cushions.
I knew that bike. It had been the prize gift of my 10th birthday. I was allowed only one quick circuit of the cobblestones before Father dragged us off to Umbria for cousin Benito’s four-day wedding feast. I parked the bike in the middle of the high-walled courtyard and never saw it again–until this night. Upon our return from Umbria, we found the bike had vanished. Father refused to buy a replacement. “You should have locked it inside,” he scolded.
Maybe that bike really was stolen. Or maybe it was crushed by a 300-kilo time machine after a 212-year jump. Studying the antique light fixtures and how small the trees were above me, I knew there would be no Martinellists flying in for a thinning. Lorenzo Martinelli was a good three or four generations from being born. I had plenty of time to nip that problem in the bud–if I wanted to.
Fishing the house key from the third flowerpot on the left to let myself inside the castle, I found I had not only beaten the odds and survived the jump, the machine had delivered me on the exact day and time requested. Perhaps we had been too hasty in canceling the program after all.
Just like the placement of the key, the security codes were identical to when I was a boy. And better yet, the combination to the walk-in safe was the same as when I was man. Nostalgia filled me as I explored the empty house. Rather than a fleeting sense of deja vu, this was wading neck-deep through my childhood, seeing it in real time with my own adult eyes. Water was still plentiful enough to allow bathtubs in homes. I took a long soak before climbing into a set of my father’s work clothes.
Using rope and an antique block and tackle tied off to a progression of trees, I managed to drag the time machine across the courtyard and down to mother’s vegetable garden. Using a spade and post-hole diggers, it took nearly 12 hours to excavate a hole deep enough to bury the ship and twisted bike where they had a reasonable chance of never being found. I toiled at a steady pace, knowing there was no great rush. I would have the estate to myself for two more days. All the neighbors were relatives or staff. They too would be down in Umbria drinking to Benito and Rosa’s health–or helping cook and serve the food. It was a grand wedding, one I remembered fondly.
Returning everything to its natural place in the garden was impossible, so I made it appear as if a wild boar rooted in her vegetables after gaining entry by digging under the perimeter fence. Having lived on the estate for more than 200 years, I knew this happened from time to time. Scuffing over the scratches in the cobblestones so they didn’t look new, raking away footprints, hosing down mud, I left the place as near to how I found it as possible. The missing bike and supposed depredations by a feral pig would not be cause enough to prompt Father to involve the authorities. I knew that for a fact.
Perhaps, one day, he did an accounting of the contents of his safe and concluded he was short several hundred thousand Euros in bearer bonds and a far greater amount in gold bars and coins, but I doubt it. Father was never one to count his pennies. The ready cash was his bolthole, and as things turned out, he died fat and happy, never needing to use it.
I fought through an intense urge to go out and buy a replacement bike. The two-wheeler’s disappearance had been quite painful for the 10-year-old me, but it jibed with history, so I left it at the bottom of a hole.
A million times greater than my desire to replace the silly bike was the urge to speak with my parents. Though we had our differences through the years, I loved my mother and father as much as any son. Slinking away without re-establishing contact was perhaps the worst decision of my life. What orphan doesn’t yearn for one more Sunday dinner with his parents, for a chance to pose questions or to tell a joke and hear them laugh? Whenever I am fortunate enough to dream of my father or mother, I wake knowing I had the most wonderful opportunity to visit and didn’t take it. I was far too determined to be a good Ethics Specialist. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
I pilfered a sturdy suitcase for the gold and a quite serviceable three-piece suit from basement storage and set off to make my fortune in a distant part of the world. Throughout my overly long life, I had detested Great Britain, and I’m sure the feeling was mutual. My family had been manufacturing munitions used against that country and its holdings for centuries. I despised the sound of the English language and refused to listen to its music, see its movies or read its literature. So I elected to move to Scotland and become a Brit, reasoning I would have a nearly zero percent chance of running into my future self or friends in the land of tunnels, poor dentistry and droll food.
I’m sure Salvatore and the Americans would enjoy hearing this story, but it will not happen. I have concocted a better version of the facts, one that will appease their small minds and perhaps keep me from having to turn them into worm food before their time.
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “You thought feedin’ those motherfuckers was going to change anything?”
Kaikane: “Just trying to help.”
Jones: “Know where they headed?”
Kaikane: “Not a clue.”
Jones: “Hunter says they were his four weakest men. Told me he knew one of us would end up whoopin’ somebody’s ass, so he offered up his top-four fuck-offs.”
Kaikane: “What do you think?”
Jones: “Guy’s full of shit.”
Kaikane: “Just wish I hadn’t fought so damn dirty. You want the truth straight up? I was scared, man. Been a long time since I took on four guys.”
Jones: “Tore everyone of ‘em a new asshole.”
Kaikane: “Ain’t something I’m proud of.”
Jones: “Why the hell not? Had it coming.”
Kaikane: “It wasn’t right.”
Jones: “You sure we’re OK? You ‘n’ me?”
Kaikane: “Huh? Yeah, yeah, we’re cool.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Sad one’s coming. Too much crap going on, too many strangers in this narrow valley. Truce with Hunter and sons don’t mean we can let down our guard. Wouldn’t put it past any of the dip-shit-fuck-heads to try stealing the baby or raping our women. Duarte won’t talk to me. Fralista’s pissed off and so is Kaikane, though he won’t say so. Wish I could go off and find a quiet place to sleep for a month, but can’t. Something bad’s gonna happen. Feel that coming too.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “I would never have imagined so many ducks on the wing. Their numbers are unfathomable.”
Duarte: “Most are geese.”
Bolzano: “You understand what I am saying.”
Duarte: “I do. It’s incredible.�
��
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Crispness in the air has brought excitement to the valley. What is it about seasons’ change that inspires such palpable anticipation? Is it because we humans are so easily bored? After three months a season grows tiresome? It matters not that icy winter awaits packing pain and deprivation, we are all anxious to sample something new.
Though the clan may hanker for blizzards and hundreds of kilometers of frozen river to test its mettle, none of its members were so daft as to squander today’s bright bluebird skies and warm breezes wafting in from the south. I had stationed myself in a patch of sunshine and was on the point of taking a well-deserved siesta when dear friends Tomon and Gertie stopped by with their little scallywag to invite me on a picnic. The young couple claimed to have all the necessary accoutrements stuffed in two half-empty woven fiber baskets clinched in Tomon’s arms. All that was required of me was to collect my three spears, heavy club and summer cape.
Gertie was in contented mood. Sleeping baby slung across her shoulders in a sturdy leather papoose, she let her eyes prowl as we picked our way across the hillside toward a particular glen the couple has adopted as its own. Following lifetimes of habit, the gatherers stopped often to collect juicy snails, sweet thimbleberries, radishes, herbs and other items, which were deposited inside Tomon’s baskets. I could not help but join the hunt. When I joked their picnic bore many similarities to a work detail, they explained quite vociferously the land would soon be buried under waist-deep snow. The time to make hay was now. Not their exact words, per se, but the meaning was synonymous. Winter is coming. Exploit readily available natural resources now or wait for next year’s crop.
I would have selected a picnic spot with a commanding view of the surrounding precincts, or one overlooking a lovely waterfall, but my friends are not as interested in views as they are in tangible attributes like the quality of gathering, safety, warmth and comfort. Their meadow was a tiny thing. It may have been initiated by a campfire gone astray, a lightning bolt flashing down out of the sky or a diminutive blight of bugs. Whatever its cause, the postage stamp of clover was little more than a hidden afterthought in the unending primeval forest.
My father had an actual postage stamp, one of the last Italy ever produced. Framed and matted, it hung upon a wall in his office. The stamp was about the size of two fingertips and featured a painting of Julius Caesar in profile. Father boasted it was quite valuable in a way that made the survivor in me sense a trap, a test to see if I would steal it. Let us say Father had his reasons to doubt my rectitude at the time. I must ask what became of his stamp.
At meadow’s edge, Tomon piped a one-note tune on his bone flute for several minutes to give lurking predators ample notice of our intention to enter. Most confrontations with our rivals in the food chain are instigated by surprise or mistaken identity, rather than nefarious intentions. Not all of them, however. We must forever be on our guards, especially when the health of the world’s cutest and cuddliest baby is at stake.
As we waited the requisite time for tigers or wolves to rise from their midday slumbers and slink away, I spied what I thought were the leaves of a prized tuber sprouting between two rocks. Firmly grasping its woody stem to yank the nutritious purple root free, I found myself clamping down upon the Thorns of Hell. Crying out in agony, I looked down to find a copse of poison splinters bristling from my palm and thumb. Mamma mia, it stung!
My friends’ matter-of-fact shrugs allayed any fears of imminent peril. “You should not touch those,” Tomon deadpanned as he led the way through a fringe of birch to the special, sunlit patch. My exclamations and native curses had woken Junior, who fussed until Gertie freed the little cherub from his bonds and offered him a nipple to suckle.
Shedding his cape and placing it on the ground, Tomon motioned me to do the same. Easier said than done with one hand on fire! A wave and a point signaled me to sit down and extend my paw. I didn’t even see his fine bone needle until he jabbed it into my thumb to extract the first of eleven prickles buried beneath the skin.
Thorns and splinters seemed inconsequential back in the days of tweezers, antibiotic ointments, doctors and holoscopes, but let one go septic in this world and you may well lose a hand, or your life. Our native friends have many colorful anecdotes and legendary tales detailing tragedies contrived by one measly splinter left untended.
Watching Tomon work, I once again marveled how his mannerisms and features mirror those of his wizened uncle, Leonglauix. Though his beard is blondish-brown, and may not be as thick as the storyteller’s, he strokes it in exactly the same way when he ponders a thing of importance. It does not take much imagination to see Tomon as a replica, a younger, shorter version of the clan leader. They have the same meaty lips and rangy builds, thin waists, thick wrists and powerful hands. Under fire, both remain composed and calm. You look into their steely, determined eyes and find trust–even when they are torturing you with a sliver of seal bone.
I suppose the similarities should not come as a surprise. Along with being direct kin, Tomon has spent most of his 21 years honing his many skills at the great man’s knee. Under orders to remain quiet as a mouse, he learned through observation, by watching and listening. Tomon also owes much to Leonglauix’s deceased wife, Two Newts, the great shaman and healer. Many of the medical arts he employs he gleaned from her. I saw the magnificent woman only once. She was running to look for seashells and easy blubber in the wake of an Atlantic tsunami when Sgt. Martinelli drilled a line of holes through her abdomen. The burst from his automatic rifle sent her tumbling like a ragdoll.
Despite my association with Martinelli, Tomon befriended me not long after our arrival in this prehistoric land. I wonder, does his propensity for assisting people in need come naturally, or did he learn this behavior from the old man? Tomon surmised I was quite out of my depth, not long for this world, and took me under his wing. The competent lad was the first Cro-Magnon to be kind to me. Perhaps he viewed me as a chore that needed to be done. Whatever the inspiration, he became my mentor and best friend.
Gertie, however, was not such a pushover. The petite young woman with narrow hips and pleasing smile despite two chipped front teeth warmed to my charms much more slowly. Without verbalizing, she made it plain she considered me trouble, someone who could get her man killed. While Tomon took pity upon my ignorance, Gertie was appalled by it. My gaffes drew sighs and rolled eyes. “How can somebody your age be so stupid?” she asked without speaking. I refused to let her disapproval pry me away from my only ally. After two weeks of sharing their nightly fire, Gertie began correcting my poor grammar and social skills. They found my mind quick. I rarely needed to be told things twice. In their own style, both moved my education forward at light speed.
As our journey together wore on, as we suffered and slaved side by side, a powerful bond formed among the three of us. Despite my inadequacies on the trail and hunt, I provided entertainment, like teaching them how to do three-part harmony. They so love my songs and stories.
Tomon and Gertie saved my life on more than one occasion, and I was fortunate enough to repay the favor. Rarely a day goes by they do not thank me for bringing their little pride and joy into the world. By their words and deeds, they have adopted me as a member of their immediate family–an inclusion that causes my heart to swell with pride.
Motherhood has made a woman of Gertie. She was a girl of not more than 15 years when we met in the swamps of Bordeaux. Gone is her shyness, her desire to forever blend into the background when faced with social situations. Gertie has learned to look strangers in the eye, and to scoot in close if one has a new tale to tell. There is a relaxed confidence, spiced with a dash of impudence, I never would have expected from the girl who used to hover in her husband’s shadow.
Once the last of the offending thorns was expunged from my hand, we settled in for a splendid afternoon of doing nothing more taxing t
han lounging and snacking and watching unnamed junior roll in the clover in his latest attempts to stand and walk. He’s determined, but as yet unable to take more than one wobbly step. His dark hair has never been trimmed and now hangs to his shoulders. Gertie uses a thin hank of leather to tie back the bangs so they do not obscure his happy, almond eyes.
Feigning sleep, I gave them an hour of family time. Maybe I did snooze a little, but I also observed the tableau through half-lidded eyes. Nuzzled together in the warm sunshine, Tomon and Gertie were as content as two people can possibly be. Their giggling boy used his parents as a jungle gym, climbing up and over their bodies, kissing them and howling in pleasure whenever they tickled him under the chin with a stray feather or stem of clover.
Only once did a toothy predator attempt to intrude on the festivities. The large, jet-black panther was probably attracted by the baby’s squeals of laughter, for it arrived in hunting mode. Belly to the ground, tip of its tail snapping as if it had a mind of its own, the cat crept to a dark patch of shade at meadow’s edge. If not for two opalescent eyes studying us through gaps in the ferns, the cat would have been undetectable.
Not so for our merry band. Three adults were arrayed in battle formation, and one baby was wound back into his papoose and slung across his angry mother’s shoulders. The Green Turtles were ready for war. It was our friends the birds who alerted Tomon to the cat’s approach. He noticed the alteration in their chirps and caws a good ten minutes before the feline reached the clearing. Peering through the leaves, it discovered alert humans holding sharpened tree branches in their hands.
With a toot of his flute, Tomon signaled the first of two salvos of throwing spears. The flint point of my initial cast lodged briefly in the panther’s left haunch before coming free as it scrambled for the trees. Sound, scent, pain, all-out human aggression–these are what make the Green Turtle method of negative response therapy so powerful. Hopefully, that panther will think twice before it stalks another human baby.
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