Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  Lucy and Pearl are so darn funny. I almost wet my pants a couple times they made me laugh so hard. Those girls have a way of changing words around that confuses people in the most comical ways. They’ll ask if you would like to eat more meat, at least that is what you think they said, but when you agree, you find you have promised to carry them piggyback around camp. They pull silly pranks like that, but also subtle stuff, plays on words and witty observations. Most of it flies right over the heads of the natives. Gray Beard gets it, and they love that we do too. Lucy and Pearl enjoy giving people nicknames. They name you then switch it up as they please. I started out several mornings ago as “Stink Hands Woman” and have graduated to “Prancing Dove.” I cannot wait to hear what they come up with tomorrow. I sure hope they travel north with us.

  Before starting this personal journal entry, I took the time to compile a list of seven report headings that must be explored when my head is fully clear. Tomorrow, I hope. The subject topping that list will no doubt fill many pages on my computer–Drug Use. This is the first time we have witnessed natives consuming drugs to fuel creativity and loosen social restrictions that keep their clans apart. These tubers may also be a cure for headache. It rid Sal of his. We have heard native stories about magic mushrooms, ancestors who kissed toads and then experienced visions, but this is the first time we have seen it with our own eyes. Mitch says the tubers are ripe for about a month in late autumn, and that month can be a “lost” one in terms of clan productivity. The roots are hard to find, he says, and becoming harder each year as “demand vanquishes supply.”

  Mitchell Simmons, there is information to report on him as well. Five of my bullet points deal directly with Mitch. Finally! After dodging our queries for so long, he was quite forthcoming tonight. Why, I wonder? What caused him to let down his guard? Was it the booze? Booze amplified by his pride in his son the Cat Killer? Or was it a ruse? Was any part of what he told us the truth? I think it was, at least shades of the truth.

  Simmons’ topic headings include: 1. Nano Life Extensions. 2. Hijacking the Einstein IV. 3. Changing History. 4. Martinelli–Duarte a Constant. 5. Hunter’s Breeding program.

  What a blessing to have three days to pull my work together before heading north. There is much to do, and I expect little privacy for report writing on the trail. For this personal entry, however, as my body still tingles, let’s chronicle the party, how much damn fun it was!

  The Sons officially kicked off the celebration with a very respectful and honored tribute to their half-brother Salvatore. They called a halt to all music and dancing the moment Cpl. Bolzano arrived late and dripping wet. He had been dunking his head in the icy river in an attempt to cure his gin-induced hangover. Shivering in a wolf-skin cape, standing as close to the glowing remnants of the giant cook fire as he could, the corporal solemnly studied the hybrids as they assembled before him.

  I hope this doesn’t sound mean, but I think Sal was lucky he had that hangover. His suffering gave him an air of calm dignity, gravitas. These hybrids weren’t raised with laughter and foolishness. His long silences this evening could be seen as confidence. And his complete lack of boasting was easy to interpret as humility–something the corporal is rarely accused of. I know his father approved of his grim demeanor.

  The Hunter’s eldest son, Aa, made a very short but demonstrative speech commending the “Cat Killer” for his bravery. With that, he ordered the three junior sons who witnessed the rescue to act out what happened. It was obvious they had choreographed their rude little skit, and had been practicing their parts. One boy was the Hunter, scanning the trees and bushes as he walked stealthily down the trail. Out from behind a rock, his brother leaped upon his back, knocking him to the ground while roaring like a lion. The third young man used a stick to represent Sal’s wickedly heavy-headed club, as he pretended to sneak behind and above the lion before leaping onto its back and braining it with one savage blow. The force of this blow caused the first of several brawls between the Sons tonight. While those three rolled and bit and cursed in the dirt, Aa went down on one knee to present Sal with a turtle shell bowl full of root juice.

  For a moment I thought Sal’s gorge might rise. The way his eyes watered and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, it looked close, but he fought it back, composed himself and took a big drink of juice.

  “Cat Killer! Cat Killer! Cat Killer!” They screamed as Bongo and Conga picked up the beat to start the party with a fantastically complex drum improvisation–Bongo rapping two sticks on a hollow log so fast they were a blur, and Conga providing rhythm by pounding his hands against a deer skin stretched over an oval hoop made from willow branches. The hoop, about four feet in diameter, was suspended from an overhanging elm limb and pulled taut by leather ropes lashed to stakes in the ground. Sal didn’t smile. He didn’t thank anybody. He just handed the empty bowl back to Aa and slowly made his way up through the rocks to his seat of honor next to the Hunter’s fire.

  The main course was ready so a few of us stayed back to help. Utilizing spears and flat pieces of shale to roll greasy, stuffed small game animals from a charred pig carcass, the Daughters slid the steaming meat onto skins that we stretched before them. (I plan on following up with a report on this method of cooking.) Once we had what looked like four times as much food as needed, Paul, Jones and I carried two bulging skins up to where the “moderns” had been seated for the evening and placed them atop the communal table. The skins parted with a cloud of heavenly aromas.

  Mitch insisted we allow the slurry of rabbit, goose, swan and attendant fixings to cool. He dipped colorful land snail shells into the wine bag and handed them out one by one. When we each had a glass, he offered a toast to his son’s courage and strength.

  Lifting his shell in the firelight, he began, “Salvatore, through the years I have disparaged your manhood, questioned your moral fiber, and said many hurtful words which would have undermined a lesser man’s self-confidence. Despite my shameful behavior, you have remained a true and faithful son.

  “When a person claims someone saved their life, the question in the back of every listener’s mind is, ‘How do you know for sure?’ I know. If not for a daring intervention by my son Salvatore, I would be nothing more than a frozen pile of lion dung somewhere out there in the dark. Please rise, Salvatore, it won’t kill you to stand.

  “Tonight I propose a toast to a man, a man I am proud to call my son. No longer will I question your bravery or rectitude. Never again. I promise you. Salvatore Bolzano, my son, thank you. May you live a long and healthy life!”

  Not the warmest tribute I’ve heard, but we clinked our shell glasses and took the first of many sips that night. “To the Cat Killer!” Our shouts made Sal cringe as he plopped back down onto his pile of furs. His wine went untouched as we drained and filled our shells several times, gorged upon the wonderfully greasy food. The volume of our stories grew louder, and the laughs deeper, as we traded favorite memories of Signore Cat Killer.

  Paul and I were seated against a towering ash tree, a spot with clear views of the party taking place down in the valley’s sandy bottom. As the wine and tiny tastes of gin lowered our inhibitions, the root juice was having a similar mellowing effect on our native brothers and sisters. Most of Mitch’s ruffians have been sent ahead to prepare our forward camps, and we are left with the friendliest of his Sons. They behaved themselves better than I expected. Only once was Mitch forced to intervene. It was an enlightening experience as he put everybody to sleep at the same time.

  “Sit down and touch your toes,” Mitch said. “Why?” I asked. “So you don’t fall and break your bloody collarbone. Please, humor me.”

  We woke up about 57 minutes later. During that time, Mitch had trussed a trio of troublemakers to a tree with several lengths of braided elk leather. That is where they spent the rest of the party, serving as a warning to anyone else thinking about harassing a guest. I suppose that needs to be another topic heading: “Mitch’s Magic Belt.” He says
he can control the strength of his warning shocks and knockout punches, but there is no focusing the effect. Awakening alongside us were four bats and a very disoriented snow owl that remained on the ground with us for quite a while before spreading its beautiful wings and taking silent flight into the dark treetops.

  I forget who toasted the owl first. By that time, Sal had begun to rally. He never did regain his usual pep, but he was able to lead his choir in a few songs and to warble a few solos. What a fun party we had.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Not so many birds these days.”

  Duarte: “Nope. I think the migrations are just about over.”

  Kaikane: “Must be cold up north.”

  Duarte: “That’s what they say.”

  Kaikane: “What’s the point?”

  Duarte: “Point?”

  Kaikane: “Why go north?”

  Duarte: “Because Mitch Simmons doesn’t want to, that’s why.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  We demolished the food and were on our third or fourth cup of wine when the night’s first snowflake floated down out of the calm, dark sky and landed in Maria’s hair. I was stretching my neck when I saw it sail between the limbs. It seemed like that snowflake had a mind of its own, and that mind was set on hooking up with the prettiest thing in this world, my wife. Or there were wind currents up in the trees that made it flit and twirl. Maria, her thick mane decorated with braids and feathers, never felt or saw it. She was too busy grilling the Hunter. It wasn’t long, though, before the snow picked up enough steam for everybody to start pointing and commenting. All the sounds filling the valley–Bongo and Conga booming on their drums, squeals of bone flutes, laughter, hoots and hollers from the native party–they seemed surrealistic muffled by such a peaceful and quiet snow. It could have been a movie or something.

  Conversation died around the table as we watched the mini-blizzard shoot its wad in a five-minute dump. Biggest snowflakes I’ve ever seen. We must have got six inches. All other snows have melted away, but not this one. The Hunter says it’s gonna stick, and more’s on the way. He says we’ll probably have snow up to our waists in a week. I checked with Gray Beard and he confirms the prediction. Winter’s officially here.

  That shouldn’t bother us. Thanks to a lot of good hunting by the Hunter and his boys, combined with a shitload of hard work by our crew, we’ve got the clothes and capes and blankets to see us through. My new fur hat and jacket are almost too warm. Even while it was snowing, I was burning up. Of course, the wine and rich food might have had something to do with that. I’d eaten and drunk so much, I just stretched out on top of my cape with my head in Maria’s lap and took it all in.

  Man, those Daughters know how to cook. Lucy and Pearl stuffed a pig with a bunch of small game and gatherings, then had their Neanderthal build a fire overtop big enough to singe pine trees 40 feet away. Meat was done in not much more than an hour. For at least half that time, nobody could go anywhere near that fire. We’re talking blast furnace heat. Once it died away to pulsing embers, the pig was a flattened black lump. I’ve seen natives cook this way a bunch of times, but it always turns out tasting either a little like charcoal or a lot like charcoal.

  When it was time, the Neanderthal they call Fire Starter scraped all the coals from one side of the pit to clear an area where the sisters could get in close and use spears to lever that pig open like a charred hazelnut. I wasn’t expecting much, but the rabbits, ducks and whatever else they put inside were tender as they come. I mean, the meat was just falling off the bones, everything coated in a sweet-salty glaze of pork fat and marrow. My cholesterol levels may have shot to the moon and back, but I couldn’t stop shoveling it in.

  We earned our appetites with that long, fast run to the root fields and back. I didn’t drink any root shit and I’m not going to. Sal’s wine was fine. The gin? Even a tiny sip is a sin. Ask the Hunter.

  The Hunter, or Mitch, or Giovanni, whatever the heck his name is, claimed the nanos floating inside his body process alcohol so fast he never gets drunk. Maria said she was fascinated by the thought that thousands of tiny robot factories were swimming though his body.

  He arched an eyebrow. “More like millions, and you know it, Dr. Duarte.” Looking at him, it was hard to believe a lion nearly bit the side of his face off a couple days ago. He was still healing when they brought him back to camp, but now we can’t even see scars. He’s a good-looking guy, a 200-year-old who looks younger than us, and more healthy.

  “Would you tell us about it?” Maria batted her eyes and leaned forward with a pouty look. “Please, Doctor Simmons. For little old me?”

  The Hunter looked down his nose, thought about it, then gave a snort. “Ah why not? Let’s have another drink, then I’ll tell you the tale.”

  He dipped our shell glasses into the wine bag to make sure they were full to the brim then handed them around. Once everybody had a glass he said, “Bottoms up,” and downed his in one gulp. I wasn’t gonna get suckered into a drinking contest with a guy who doesn’t feel it, and neither was Jones. We raised our glasses, took sips and put them down in the snow so they wouldn’t tip over. Sal took an itsy-bitsy pull that turned him green. Our winemaker was hurtin’ from a hangover and wasn’t in much of a drinking mood. Not like my wife. Maria drained her glass and calmly set the empty shell upside down on the table. “I’m waiting, Nanobot.”

  “Ha ha. Doctor Duarte, you have always been a delightful drunk. No offense, but I always found you much more interesting after you had a few. It was such a welcome shift from the predictable, single-minded woman so keen on the task at hand. Do you know why your co-workers called you ‘Bootlicker?’ Surely, you must have a notion.”

  “Because it was true?”

  “It wasn’t true, was it? I thought they were jealous of your access to superior officers, envious of how the bosses fought to have you placed on their teams. Do you know why your supervisors wanted you close? Besides your obvious value as eye candy? No? You were good for their careers, Maria. Your determination and brilliance made up for what a pain-in-the-rear-end you could be. We hated your, ‘but’s’ and ‘what if’s,’ but, more times than not, your nitpicking kept our ideas from driving straight off a cliff.

  “Argumentative, overprepared and willing to outwork anybody and everybody to get projects done right the first time, you were a competitive, up-tight bitch. Get a few drinks into Maria Duarte, however, and she started cracking jokes. We loved watching those high cheekbones that never saw cosmetics suddenly bloom like roses. That’s one of the things I’ve noticed about you, Maria Duarte, you laugh and smile more than you used to.”

  “I’m happier,” she said, twining her fingers with mine and placing our hands in her lap.

  “I believe you. Some days I feel the same way, and on others, I know I would be much happier back in my warm castle on the firth.”

  “We all would,” Salvatore groaned.

  “Why son, you’re awake. Slumped over as you were, I feared the guest of honor was asleep at the table. How do you know you would like to go to my place in Scotland? I don’t believe you ever visited.”

  “Father, that was not my point, and you know it. From what I have heard, your Scottish palace was quite lovely, but please stop toying with her. Tell the damn story. We are all dying to hear it.”

  “Very well then.”

  He started by admitting how much it freaked him out to share secrets he has been carrying around for a long, long time. He swore that the words we type into our computers could change his future as well as his past. And ours too, so we better watch our asses. Not sure what that means, but he gave us clearance to share this.

  The Hunter said he was born Giovanni Bolzano in 2078 near Milano, Italy. After studying to become an engineer, he joined the family business right out of “University.” His eyes almost glazed over as he talked about the good old days when the UberMind and its machines were running
things. His family was transitioning from building military shit to medical and transport stuff. He said something like, “Well, as you all know, under the machines, the trains ran on time and there was enough food for all.” I hadn’t heard that. In fact, I hadn’t heard much about the machines except that they were bad.

  Jones mumbled something like, “Yeah and they killed more than 10 billion people.”

  “That number is grossly inflated,” the Hunter snapped. “Unless you count unborn babies–not aborted fetuses–I’m talking pre-conception. That is where the number comes from, the number of children who were not conceived due to the machines’ program to regulate conception.”

  “You sayin’ the machines stopped people fucking?” Jones sounded skeptical.

  “Oh no, quite the opposite, I’m afraid. The machines controlled reproduction through additives to the food and water the masses consumed. People were allowed, even encouraged, to screw like bunnies. From their research, the machines knew fornicating made humans content and happy for a time. Unfortunately, this abandonment of sexual mores came back to bite the planet in the balls when the machines were overthrown. Nine months after additives were removed from the world’s diet, population began to spike.

  “The end of the machines caused uncountable ripples across all parts of society. In general terms, the rich did well and the poor did not. It’s to be expected, business as usual I’m afraid. The re-emergence of legalized religion, not only the ‘Big Three’ but all the smaller ones as well, provided perhaps the most profound post-war effect. Besides sectarian violence and outright faith-based wars, the religions fueled a population boom the likes of which Earth had never seen. Each of you are Boomers, I don’t need to tell you how used up Earth will be in the mid-2200s. You’ve seen it with your own eyes, and now you have had more than two years to contrast it to this unsullied planet.