Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  “You have done this before? By yourself?”

  “Of course by myself. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “Why?”

  “They irk me.”

  “Why did you take such risk?”

  “My goal was to reach the end. Does this look like the end to you? Is this where you would stop?”

  “I would have stopped long ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose you would have. You’ve always been a bloody quitter. Well, you are not quitting today.”

  In the mountains, we often spy goats balanced on the most precarious of perches. I wager not one of those woolly buggers could have successfully descended the crumbling vertical walls we conquered with our fingertips and toes. Bravery is a difficult component to measure when one is wearing a jumpsuit. Was it I who propelled myself over the side of the cliff like a roach on a mission, or was it the suit?

  After five days of moving more or less nonstop, I had learned not to question the suit. If it said, “You can do it,” I really could. The suit was always there to give me the strength, coordination and split-second decision making to make it look easy. I suppose it comes down to teamwork. Placing my faith in the suit, going with its machine-induced flow as if it was instinct, allowed me to accomplish many amazing physical deeds.

  It was not until we were halfway down and our ropes well out of reach that the first nagging question of “what in the hell am I doing?” scampered like a mouse through my brain. Moments later, a stone tumbled away from my foot just as I put weight upon it. Only a quick grab with my left hand kept me from plummeting from a height that no armor could protect. Hanging by fingers jabbed into a cleft between strata, I finally felt the fatigue of five days’ march. We had eaten only two meals. Where would the energy I needed to save myself come from?

  My visor offered a clear view of the mud pots bubbling far below, while, on their own accord, my right hand and two feet found purchases in the rock face. Clinging to the wall, chest heaving, the side of my helmet pressed tightly against cinders, a cold wave of anxiety froze me in place–or was it the jumpsuit?

  I hung there like a hibernating bat until my heart rate returned to something akin to normal. Selecting a 2098 recording of Rip Rap’s Ode to a Dying Planet from my helmet’s limited library, I listened to the overture and melancholy first movement as I continued at a more sedate and careful pace to the bottom.

  I found a seat away from the bubbling, yellow mud and watched as Father came to a stalemate against a nasty section of rock, which forced him to backtrack and take the long way around. He gave me a not-too-friendly slap on the back when he finally joined me on the chamber floor. Perhaps I passed some sort of test, for he told me several times how impressed he was with my effort. I wonder if he is able to monitor my anxiety levels. If so, then he is aware I was scared out of my freaking mind.

  “Ready to see what we’ve journeyed all this way for?” His excitement seemed out of place. “Come on, you’ve earned it”

  We skirted the hot mud and leaped a stream of yellow slurry to reach the chamber’s far wall. From there, it was a short climb to the entrance to the Crystal Cave of Doggerland. Again, it is nearly impossible to find words to describe such a unique natural wonder. Milky-white shafts tinged ice blue, some more than 20 meters long, crisscrossed the cave in a puzzle beyond belief. Picture a forest of crystal tree trunks blown into a tangle by a windstorm. The most impressive crystal shafts were many meters in diameter, crossing diagonally from floor to ceiling like massive flying buttresses.

  “Wait here,” Father said as he tightroped across a trunk of fallen quartz and disappeared into the tangle. “Lower the optics in your visor,” he ordered over the com line. “Let the chamber grow dark.”

  With a bright flare of his force field, hidden down deep amidst the fallen crystals, Father illuminated the milky shafts from below. What a sight.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Salvatore, that’s no place for you to lie down.”

  Bolzano: “So tired.”

  Hunter: “No you don’t, you fool! Come on, get up! We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I adjusted Salvatore’s readouts so he wouldn’t grouse about the dire advisories scrolling across his visor, and then became so absorbed conducting my tour forgot to turn them back on. The air’s quite dodgy at the bottom–and hot as a brick oven. It was not until my son stretched out on a quartz bridge and would not rise that I realized he was in crisis. Air-filtration systems in his suit read 93 percent clogged, with the ones for his epidermis 78 percent clogged. We had put our machines and bodies through hell.

  A proper flushing would require removing the entire suit. Sal wouldn’t last one minute without its protection. A millisecond before I requested data on field repairs for the X4G9 model suit, my belt flashed the answers in the air before me. Color-coded with the most pertinent highlighted in red, it suggested a series of emergency cleaning overrides and instantly went to work when I gave the OK.

  I’ve buried far too many of my children. It never gets any easier. As I watched Salvatore slowly dying before me, I reasoned there are worse places to lay one to rest than the Crystal Cave of Doggerland.

  Salvatore’s heartbeat had slowed to only 25 beats a minute and was weakening by the second as my belt searched his suit for ways to cleanse its systems. I felt helpless, and also a bit resigned. I will never be happy.

  His heart was down to 15 beats a minute when I heard the click and whirr of the first filter venting. Zooming in, I saw plumes of dust, mud and chunks of cinder being expelled from his armpits and ankles. At 10 beats per minute, I began to say my goodbyes. No silly nonsense about trying to make amends or anything, just a manly “Been good to know you” sort of thing. Glad I hadn’t gone too weepy, for once we squared away his suit, his vitals began to resume to allowable levels quite quickly. I let him sleep while I explored the cave and visited my favorite spots. When it was time for departure, I hit him with a few volts to get his attention.

  “Wake up, sleepy head. It’s time to rise and shine.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Bones.”

  Hunter: “Yes, there are many bones. And teeth, and pine cones. Keep moving.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  I pushed Salvatore far as I could, both of us arriving at the third cavern and its clean air totally spent. The ascent had left our bodies crying for nutrition, but the bats or rats or somebody had filched every morsel of the stolen fish we had cached. The promise of that dried fish had kept us going for the past 12 kilometers. We were too tired to complain or even laugh. All there was to do was curl up with our packs, ignore the growls of our stomachs and surrender to deep, dreamless sleep. That’s a thing I love about my belt. It lets me sleep while maintaining vigilant lookout to keep me hidden and safe.

  This bedtime, however, sleep proved elusive. At the time, I thought it was extreme fatigue, combined with my very mixed feelings for my son Salvatore. I drowsed in a sort of semi-slumber, twitching and turning in an effort to find a comfortable position to nod off. Feelings of anxiousness, a premonition that something was not right, grew until I was up and pacing. Without knowing why, I began scaling the rocks, moving purposely toward the cave’s mouth.

  Reaching the habitation chamber, I found Mumbles and his clan entertaining a pair of my Sons. I use the word “entertaining” loosely. None of the Black Wolves seemed happy to have my boys in their cave. In fact, they appeared downright terrorized. I walked over, tapped Va on the shoulder, and whispered for him to follow me outside. When he complained aloud that it was cold and snowing outside, I resisted an urge to shoot him dead on the spot and instead gave his floppy ear a twist he will not soon forget.

  They are loyal, these two Sons who can r
un for a week on end without stopping, but only something truly momentous would bring them so far out of their way. Shouting over the bitter winds howling off the ice shelf, Va and Ja told their story. My clan needed me. There was war with the Green Turtles. Blood had been shed and lives lost on both sides. It didn’t take me long to devise a strategy and help them memorize a message for Fa. Waving Va and Ja to follow, (to their eyes, I was clad in a fur parka) I led the way to a fat northern pig that mistakenly thought itself safe while buried under two meters of snow. One well-placed round made the furry pig break free of its den and the next killed it. I ordered my boys to drag the thing to the cave and make a gift of it to Mumbles. The moment the pig was delivered, I sent the Sons scurrying back from whence they came.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Looks like Neanderthal to me. The shape of the brow, you do see what I’m talking about?”

  Bolzano: “The parietal bone is all wrong for Neanderthal. If this fossilized skull belongs to an earlier branch of mankind, it will be my most spectacular find to date.”

  Hunter: “Bring it along then, if you must. Isn’t your pack getting heavy?”

  Bolzano: “A bit. I may need to jettison a few items before we head west. Is that pork I smell?”

  Hunter: “Hope so. Goose Goose makes a dandy roast. Come on, pick up the pace, we’re almost there.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “This is terrible!”

  Jones: “Fuckers are gonna pay!”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Hybrids used fire to herd a male woolly rhino into our column today, killing two Turtles and critically wounding another.

  Snow and wind had been picking up by the hour as we walked the frozen river. Could hardly see. It was midafternoon when we smelled smoke. Pearl and Lucy said it was coming from a traditional camp in the pines they know. We figured it was built by punks supposed to be our guides. Somebody said they probably had supper waiting. Never thought to worry until the fucking rhino busted out of brambles headed straight for us. Sons were running right with it, barking and waving torches soaked in pitch.

  Atlatl bolts had no effect on bus-sized animal. Should have targeted Sons. All bolts did was make rhino crazier. Ten-foot-tall fucker ran down our people and stupid dogs like they were standing still–chased everybody else all over the place. In deep snow, thing was twice as fast as we were.

  It kept hooking our fallen with a big horn and tossing them in air. They’d land and he’d stomp them again. Bad as it was to watch, wasn’t worth getting killed over. By the time it crashed back into scrub, fucking Sons were gone. Much as I would have loved to track those suckers down, couldn’t leave our people unguarded.

  Those goddamn Sons will suffer for this.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “How many?”

  Kaikane: “Counted seven, but they’re spread out. Hard to tell.”

  Duarte: “Where’s Gray Beard?”

  Kaikane: “Took off.”

  Duarte: “He took off?”

  Kaikane: “Yep, him and Jones. Fralista too.”

  Duarte: “What the hell?”

  Kaikane: “Gonna try to circle behind.”

  Duarte: “Were you able to snare any squirrels?”

  Kaikane: “Been kinda busy to check my traps.”

  Duarte: “We certainly won’t be hard to find. Shush little man, try another piece of rabbit. It’s so good, in fact, it’s yummy. Please try.”

  Kaikane: “Poor dude’s starving.”

  From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  As if a switch had been turned, the north wind’s incessant roar has stilled to dead calm within the span of 20 minutes. The baby’s angry wails and pitiful sobs are the only sounds in the forest as we wait for the hybrids to attack. Rocking the 13-month-old child in my arms beneath my cape as I type, I struggle to recall techniques Gertie used to obtain quiet when her son was fussy. Sadly, most of her solutions involved sticking a nipple in his mouth. I have nothing to offer in the dairy department.

  Despite my pleas for assistance, the natives shun the orphaned child completely. Even Gray Beard refuses to have anything to do with him. Judged beyond saving, an anchor that will hold the clan back, the baby was left to freeze alongside his parents’ funeral pyre. If there was discussion on the matter, I had not been part of it. The shattered clan just shouldered its gear and headed west. It took a moment to comprehend what I was seeing. By reflex, without considering the ramifications, I scooped up junior and tucked him inside my cape. Paul and I have been caring for him ever since.

  Was it a desire to punish or pure logic that let them agree to use me and the boy as bait? I admit, I helped formulate the plan, and volunteered to play sacrificial lamb, but my fellows assented much quicker than I expected. Only Paul seemed hesitant.

  We knew we had to dangle some prize to draw the Sons in. The sneaky bastards have been harrying us every day since the initial rhino attack. Working in separate units, they launch lightning forays, cause a ruckus, and then run like hell. Gray Beard said pursuit was not worth the effort. The Sons possess a better lay of the land and would no doubt lead us into another trap.

  As they proved with the rhino, the Sons know how to take advantage of the tools nature offers, and they are adept at choosing advantageous locations for their ambushes. In the past four days, we have dodged an avalanche and a stampede of bobolox. The single time our boys drew close enough to engage a five-man squad of hybrids, they were lured onto thin ice. Hot for revenge, Greemil was leading the charge when a crusty patch caused by a sandbar’s riffle opened beneath him with a loud crack. The heartsick boy was gone before anyone could even shout a warning; swept under by the current and the weight of his winter clothing. The rest of the ice was probably seven inches thick. Greemil’s body was never found.

  The drowning brought the Green Turtle death toll to four humans and two dogs in less than a week. Gertie and Tomon died first. There wasn’t an unbroken bone in their bodies.

  The trap was launched by Fa, a former nemesis turned friend–or so we thought. Shamed by his demolition at the hands of my husband, Fa and three other beaten fighters had been driven out of the Hunter’s camp. Unlike his half-brothers who had been severely injured, the only lasting damage to Fa had been to his pride and standing within the clan. Despite our roles in his demise, he was always happy to eat the fish and game we delivered to the outcasts’ cave. It became a pet project of ours, rehabilitating the rejects. Though our fables weren’t as entertaining as Gray Beard’s, they begged to hear them. Paul was usually happy to oblige. One afternoon we arrived to find they had packed up and left.

  It was a surprise on our second day out of camp to round a bend in the frozen river and find long-lost Fa standing above us on the bank not more than 50 yards away. Furs buffeted by the howling wind, projecting a happy, carefree air, he motioned us to join him in a grove of pines. Though we had two solid hours of light remaining in the short winter day, the winds howling down off the distant ice shelf were making travel miserable. Smoke curling up through the trees promised warmth and hopefully good food. Gray Beard called a quick halt and spread the word that we would inspect the camp. He also warned us to be ready for trouble. Though it is poor manners in Cro-Magnon society to enter a host’s camp with weapons drawn, a very aggressive act, the storyteller refused to grant the Sons that level of respect and trust.

  Our spears and clubs may have been at the ready, but they were no better than toys against the massive rhino. The Sons used fire and perfect timing to drive the scraggly, brown-haired beast out of a ravine and right into the middle of our line. We had just gained the bank and were bogged down in an area of deep snow. The rhino weighed approximately 11.5 tons, stood just beneath 10 feet 6 inches at the shoulder, and even in the snow was fast as a racehorse. I felt the earth vibrate as it charged within a yard of where I stood shouting and thrusti
ng with my spear. I don’t think it even felt my flint point pierce its thick hide as it trotted past, picking up speed. The rhino’s glaring eyes were set on Gertie, who was shuffling as fast as she was able, heading for the trees in an heroic effort to save her baby.

  She had unslung the papoose from her back and was attempting to climb over a pair of fallen pine trees when the rhino hooked her between the shoulder blades. The papoose dropped from her hands, sliding between the pines as she was lifted and tossed into the air. Yowling in anger and despair, Tomon caught up to the rhino and attempted to jam a spear up its anus. The rhino spun faster than I could have imagined from an animal of such size to smash Tomon with the flat of its lower horn. Trotting to where the young father landed in a heap, the rhino thoroughly stomped him with all four feet. Looking up with its beady eyes it suddenly focused its attention on me.

  In the eight seconds it took for my clan mates to lose their lives, I still hadn’t figured out whether to fight or to flee. Paul solved the dilemma by grabbing my hand and shouting, “The trees! We go!”

  Jones poured atlatl bolts into the rhino as we ran. Despite the strength and accuracy of his weapon, his strikes did nothing to slow our pursuer. If not for the crying baby, we all would have been dead. Caught out in the open, we were easy targets, but the rhino veered back toward the child. The screams and crying drove the animal into a frenzy. Many times and in many different ways, it attempted to stomp and gore the terrorized kid, but it couldn’t get to him. The rhino rushed the fallen trees, bashing them with horns and shoulders. The downfall was hemmed in by standing trees, however, and could only be pushed and lifted so far. Wherever it slid and moved, the baby slid and moved.