Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  We suffered no major injuries. The storyteller is stiff and has one hell of a bruise, but insists his sore shoulder will not prevent us from marching west tomorrow morning. The thickness of his winter clothes protected him from the ravages of the shark teeth, but it was Jones’ excellent aim that saved his life. Bongo and Conga received slight bumps on the head, and Pearl suffered second-degree burns on her hands when she snatched up a burning stick to thump a Son that had Fire Starter down on the ground and was kicking the Neanderthal’s ribs. Sturdy Fire Starter shows no ill effects of the abuse. Kicks like that probably would have shattered every bone in my rib cage.

  At Gray Beard’s insistence, the five corpses are to be left where the animals can get to them. He says he is done playing nice–not in those words, but the meaning is the same. If the Sons want war, we’re going to give it to them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “I hate to admit this, but wearing a suit does imbue one with vitality and strength.”

  Hunter: “I knew you would grow accustomed.”

  Bolzano: “The difference is the fine-tuning. Once you adjusted my suit, many of its negative side effects vanished.”

  Hunter: “You would be surprised what my belt can do.”

  Bolzano: “Such as?”

  Hunter: “Such as listening to everything you and the Americans have said for the past six months. Did you know your helmets have a master recording feature, which only officers can access? I thought not. Do you wish to apologize for any of the nasty lies you told about me?”

  Bolzano: “No, not really. We did not know about the recordings, but Dr. Duarte did float a paranoid theory that you have been eavesdropping.”

  Hunter: “Lass has never been short on conjecture.”

  Bolzano: “I have grown to care very deeply for Maria Duarte, but there are times when her conspiracy theories drive me up a wall. As a test, we attempted to draw you out with outrageous stories. Did you enjoy them?”

  Hunter: “Amateurs. It doesn’t work when you giggle and slap each other on the back.”

  Bolzano: “May I please change the subject?”

  Hunter: “If you must.”

  Bolzano: “The volcano which abuts the Crystal Cave, is it visible on the surface?”

  Hunter: “Certainly.”

  Bolzano: “Must not be too far away.”

  Hunter: “Not overly. Terrain’s a bit dodgy.”

  Bolzano: “I wish to visit before we turn west.”

  Hunter: “There is something you should know. I have received word of trouble between the Turtles and Sons.”

  Bolzano: “Word? From whom? Gray Beard?”

  Hunter: “No, from Fa. He dispatched a pair of runners.”

  Bolzano: “I thought Fa was a pariah.”

  Hunter: “Well....”

  Bolzano: “He was cast out.”

  Hunter: “It seems his banishment was merely temporary.”

  Bolzano: “Have there been casualties?”

  Hunter: “Not that I know of.”

  Bolzano: “Fa is no match for my friends. They are supremely capable.”

  Hunter: “My Sons can be....”

  Bolzano: “Whatever it is, it can wait. I want to have a good meal and see the volcano. I may never visit this area again.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  Before sending them on their way, I directed Va and Ja to gut the pig in the snow near the cave and allowed them ample time to gorge on its intestines, heart and tongue. I do spoil my children so. Once the boys had eaten their fill, I had them drag the pig carcass into the cave to present as a gift to Mumbles and his clan.

  Snow was falling as Va and Ja repeated my message to Fa one last time before setting off on their long journey to catch up with their brothers. The little jolt I sent as they entered the tree line caused my Sons to laugh and shake their spears over their heads. They cover ground as if they were born to it. I watched until they topped a distant hill and disappeared from view. Back in the cave, while the happy natives chattered and fussed over their unlikely, porcine boon, I perused their larder to assemble a nice picnic for another of my sons.

  Salvatore was still asleep when I returned to the third cavern with a skin loaded with smoked fish, dried fruits, nuts and the pig’s dark, red liver. Readouts floating in front of my eyes revealed his blood oxygen levels were again quite low, as was his heart rate. The readouts suddenly winked away as I unsealed his helmet and carefully removed it from his head. With his long beard and unruly hair, I don’t think his mother would recognize him. The cheeks and forehead that were wind-blown and ruddy when I locked him in the suit, were now pale and smooth. Sores, scratches and crow’s feet that once marked his face had healed without leaving any scars. Salvatore appeared years younger.

  His first breaths were quite shallow and ragged, but over the course of an hour, he rallied sufficiently to sit up and begin stuffing food into his maw like a sparrow chick gobbling worms. After another hour, he had regained the strength to wriggle out of his jumpsuit and to dig through his overloaded pack to retrieve his native clothes and traveling jacket. I hung his empty suit upside down and commenced its auto-flush protocols.

  We had quite an enjoyable meal together, decompressing, discussing the highlights of our long, arduous journey to the crystal chamber. Sadly, oxygen deprivation robbed him of clarity. He has little recollection of our time inside the chamber itself. I do what I can to refresh his memory. Hopefully, breathing all that manky air will have no long-lasting effects upon his organs.

  The small talk and concerns for his health reminded me of adventures we shared when he was a child. Salvatore has always been a bit of a hypochondriac, a dramatic actor. He cried over cuts and bruises as if they were bullet wounds. But he could also be a fun traveling companion. Since he was a child, Salvatore has always been able to hold up his end of a conversation. He has a sixth sense, an uncanny ability to ferret out a good time.

  My favorite place to take the older children was the flooded city of Venezia. We would stay in Padua and take hover boats to all the best spots. While the children preferred to dive the crowded zones like Rialto and San Marco, Murano was my favorite underwater precinct to explore. Drowned glass factories with their forges and broken red brick chimneys intrigued me. All the ornate buildings with their white marble facades, it must have been very pretty in its day.

  At Padua Train Station, if you took the time to walk to the far eastern end you could see where the lines of the old tracks dropped off into the sea. The kids didn’t think much of it, but I had lived long enough to recollect days before all the coastal cities had been wiped away. Granted, those cities were in the midst of losing battles against rising sea levels, but I have some very fond memories of places like New York, Los Angeles and Tokyo–as well as Venezia. To me, those train tracks illustrated how impossible it was to go back, not with the world drowning in salt water and people.

  My brother’s grandson Dino was an accomplished diver who operated a successful scuba company in Venezia until the day he told young Sal there were monsters lurking in the silted waters. Dino claimed he was just trying to make certain the problematic child didn’t swim off and get hit by a boat, but watching Salvatore’s eyes grow wide as goose eggs, I knew his love of scuba was finished. The boy gave it a game effort, year after year, but Salvatore could never wait to get out of the water. His joy had been stolen.

  I called in Dino’s delinquent loans. When he could not pay, I repossessed his boats and equipment. Perhaps it was a mercy. Dino put a bolt of electricity through his brain, and in so doing, his wife and children qualified for a modest pension.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “I require a few more days without the suit.”

  Hunter: “It’s cold outside.”

  Bolzano: “Yes, I imagine it is.”

  Hunter: “We need to get back
to our people. Who knows what is afoot?”

  Bolzano: “I understand.”

  Hunter: “Your pack is so heavy, how will you carry it?”

  Bolzano: “A few artifacts may need to be jettisoned, but first let me try to deliver them all to Duarte. She will be absolutely dazzled.”

  Hunter: “I thought you had grown accustomed to the suit.”

  Bolzano: “It has strong points. When it comes time to move swiftly, jump high and fight hard, you cannot beat it. As I attempt to compile my reports, however, I find I recall very little of our journey to the cave, or what we did inside. Perhaps that is why these petrified bones and fossils seem so important. They are only tangible evidence of what we have accomplished.”

  Hunter: “You don’t remember any of it?”

  Bolzano: “Only flashes, bits and pieces–frozen rivers and lakes, pine trees and reindeer herds that blackened the horizon.”

  Hunter: “All right. You will change back into your suit at the volcano. Hopefully it’ll be warm enough to keep your balls from freezing off. And then we make a fast run west. Agreed?”

  Bolzano: “Agreed.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Blinding snow and a bright, bluebird sky forced me to shield my eyes as we emerged from the mouth of the dark cave and trudged eastward toward the volcano. Gray Beard has taught me a bit about snow. For instance, if you listen, it will tell you the temperature. The way this fluffy stuff squeaked beneath my leather boots said it was cold–the sort of cold that bestows frostbite and blackened toes upon those who travel improperly. Warmed by the pork roast filling my stomach, dressed in every piece of native clothing I had, I felt alive for the first time in weeks.

  There is just something about winter that awakens the senses. There is clarity of sight, smell and sound that gives it beauty. Wearing a jumpsuit may have its uses, but the armor’s preoccupation with self-defense causes the wearer to lose the ability–or at least desire–to stop and smell the icicles. I exited the cave determined to savor every nuance of our trek to the smoking volcano without the aid of modern tools, but the sun was just too bright. Retrieving my trusty helmet from my pack, I put it on and lowered the visor. I would have ended up with a headache without its protection.

  The rest of the functions were turned off, no doubt saving myself from listening to a steady barrage of complaints and curses over the com line. Father found my slow pace most vexing. While he nimbly ran across the top of deep snowfields and leapt crevasses five meters wide, I picked my way over the snow-covered plain like a drunken old man. Even with Father blazing a trail through drifts and sounding for weak ice, this was not the sort of terrain I could cover quickly, especially while carrying a 60-kilo pack. Humming Robert Schumann’s Piano Quintet in E flat–it was far too cold to whistle–snapping my fingers inside my simple mittens, I savored my humanity.

  The immense weight of my pack certainly contributed to the dawdling, but I was not about to leave it behind where it might be stolen by locals or chewed to pieces by wolves. I would also not permit Father to carry even a portion of my load. This was mine to bear. We both knew once I put on my suit, I would not feel the weight. Thankfully, I had the good sense to filch a long, sturdy spear from Mumbles’ storeroom. Without the birch staff, I probably would have toppled 16 times, instead of just three.

  I hope Mumbles and his crew do not suffer any long lasting brain

  damage after being put to sleep so many times. Father waited until the pork was cooked to perfection before hitting the clan with a generous dose of knockout sauce. Down in the third chamber, I barely felt it, but the Cro-Magnons were out cold for at least two hours. Father and I shared a lovely meal, and of course took time to do a bit of snooping. The plump girl looked to have lost a tooth since we last saw her. I pray that nothing we did (stole) led to its removal.

  With its cook fires, shared body heat and protection from the wind, the cave was quite balmy compared to the bitter outdoors. While trekking to the volcano, as long as I remained in motion, working up a sweat inside my leathers and furs, my teeth did not chatter. The weak sun was too low on the horizon to be of help. Casting long shadows and little warmth, it reached its zenith as we arrived to the base of the tall cinder cone and began our ascent. Pauses to catch my breath on the steep climb gave the cold time to slip through folds and seams of my leathers, inducing shivers and turning beads of sweat on my back to ice. Halfway to the summit, Father lost his patience and circled back.

  “I insist you let me carry your pack,” he demanded, skidding to a stop by my side.

  “No.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “No, this is something I must do.”

  “At least let me help. Take my hand.”

  He basically dragged me to the crater’s jagged rim. On the plus side, though the going became quite difficult, I did not take any more tumbles. And once we reached the top, there were no more worries about being cold. Far from it!

  The circular caldera was perhaps 50 meters in diameter. Hemmed in by black basalt walls, a pond of red lava fountained 20 meters below. The sulfur stench and violent sounds of cooling rocks shattering like breaking glass were quite familiar. This was a contained version of the lava flow I had experienced along the Rhone River. Removing my helmet, I let the heat wash over my face. It felt rather godlike standing next to a miniature sun.

  Father and I found seats along an upwind portion of the rim to allow me to escape most of the smoke and foul odors while peering straight down into the pool of tumultuous magma. Pulsing with heat and energy, the dance of its liquid-stone surface was mesmerizing.

  “This is a dandy metaphor for life,” Father mused. “Take a wrong step one way and you burn in hell. Step wrong the other way and you freeze in hell. The road to righteousness is narrow indeed.”

  I was not about to be drawn into a debate over the likelihood of heaven and hell. Father is the first agnostic I ever met, yet for some reason he remains determined I be a good Catholic. What part of 30,000 B.C. (Before Christ) does he not understand? He was just as disinterested in rehashing the old debate as I was. The master of passive aggression was prodding to get me going–to get me back in my damn jumpsuit and back on the trail. I could sit for hours and watch the lava bubble. To buy time, I requested he share his plan of action.

  “How far will we need to travel to find my friends?”

  “They are headed away from us. If they are having trouble with the Sons, I doubt they are still using the route we agreed upon.”

  “What sort of trouble was it?”

  “Don’t know. My information was six days old. Hostilities had not yet started, but my boys were asking for permission, which means they have probably gone on ahead and attacked anyway.”

  “How far, did you say?”

  “Don’t rightly know. It will take time to find their trail. Let’s say, between 200 and 300 kilometers.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Once you put on your bleeding suit, not overly long. Four or five days.”

  “Sounds like we’ll burn a lot of calories. Let’s a have a snack first.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am. Shall we sample a bit of Tomon and Gertie’s venison jerky? I’ve been saving a bag of their special blend.”

  Father winced at the delay.

  “Just hurry it up. We must be moving.”

  My pack was warm to the touch as I unlatched its locking cover and began searching for the high-grade jerky. Of course, the leather scrip holding the dried meat was buried under all of my heavy artifacts, turtle shell bowls, spare flint points, jumpsuit and everything else I owned. Removing the jerky, and also my computer and trusty club, I locked the backpack up tight, raised it over my head and heaved it as far as I could out over the pool of lava.

  “Nooooooo!” Father’s primal groan echoed off the caldera’s walls, as the heavy pack splashed through t
he lava’s surface and disappeared.

  “What have you done, you fool?”

  “I may be a fool,” I roared, “but I will never again be a puppet or slave!”

  Covering the ground between us in two long strides, he cinched the collar of my jacket tightly around my neck and lifted me high into the air.

  “You planned this!”

  “Hell yes, I planned this.”

  “For how long?”

  “From the moment you stuffed me in the damn device. I’m no slave!”

  “It was going to keep you alive, idiot! You could have lived twice as long!”

  “And enjoyed life half as much.”

  “You fucking idiot, I want to kill you!”

  “Do it, then! Kill me, you fucking machine! Kill me!”

  He dangled my feet over the sheer edge and for a moment I feared he would let go. Though our faces were an arm’s length apart, the wavering of his force field made his emotions impossible to read. Just when I feared I might choke to death, he heaved me to the ground like a bag of potatoes and commandeered a seat high atop a round boulder.

  “At least you won’t have to lug all that bloody weight,” he sighed. “Come on, get up. Let’s hit the trail.”

  TRANSMISSION

  Hunter: “What game are you up to now?”

  Bolzano: “Game? Are you proposing a contest?”

  Hunter: “Don’t play daft with me. I am not proposing a contest and you know it! What do you hope to accomplish with these suggestions of yours? Are you hoping to steal my belt?”

  Bolzano: “How could it hurt to experience life without your crutch for a day or two? I believe you would find it beneficial.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist