Galway

by Matthew Thayer

Considering the many times my son Salvatore has disappointed me, all of his many deceptions and thefts, I should be immune to his tomfoolery. Instead, I allowed the sot to play me as if I were a set of Highland bagpipes.

  As usual, I find my anger muddied by a bit of twisted pride. In my long life, not too many men or women have been able to hoodwink me, and none as many times as my felonious son. He stuffed that pack until it was bursting with heavy fossils–the man who has never been what you would call a hard worker. How did I miss that? In hindsight, his bullshit ploy is as obvious as a beacon in the night. He must know he has punishment coming and that it will more than match his crime. I’ll let him stew until an appropriately painful penalty presents itself.

  In the end, Salvatore’s the main loser here. If he wants to grow old quickly, or freeze to death, it is his choice. I was looking forward to many grand escapades together. It gets lonely being the only Super Man in town. That leaves Duarte and Kaikane with suits. I must be more diligent when dealing with those two puppies.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “This the spot?”

  Jones: “Yep, and lower too.”

  Duarte: “Let me see what my computer says.”

  Jones: “Wish Kaikane was here.”

  Duarte: “I think I’ve got this. Here we go. Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly, try to relax, and...Hmmm, that didn’t work.”

  Jones: “Put some muscle into it.”

  Duarte: “OK. Again. Deep breath, let it out and...holy crap!”

  Jones: “Cannons goin’ off.”

  Duarte: “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Jones: “Get off and let me move around some. Ohhhhhh. Ahhhhh. Ya know what? That’s not bad. Least I can move my damn neck again.”

  Duarte: “The computer lists a few more adjustments that could help.”

  Jones: “What the Hell, give me the whole shebang. So, how’s the kid?

  Duarte: “He’s so smart. The boy learns something new every day. Lie on your back.”

  Jones: “Ya ever need a babysitter....”

  Duarte: “Yeah, right, like Fralista’s going to go for that. Turn over onto your left side and cross your arms.”

  Jones: “Don’t need her to watch a kid for an hour or two. Ahhhhhh. Careful Doc.”

  Duarte: “He has a name now, you are aware of that, right? Other side.”

  Jones: “Course. Was there for the ceremony. Oh, Doc, that was a good one.”

  Duarte: “And?”

  Jones: “Think ya picked a solid name. Oh yeah, jeez, low back just popped in.”

  Duarte: “Hope so, cause that’s all I’ve got.”

  Jones: “Thanks, Doc. Back feels tons better. Mean it about babysitting.”

  Duarte: “You’re welcome, Captain Jones. I’ll let you know. When you see Paul, tell him I need him.”

  From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  The natives speak of the ice shelf as if it is a living entity complete with emotions like greed, hate and an eye for revenge. Gray Beard refers to it as “The Killer.” In every legend or personal account I have yet heard, people never die on Killer Ice, they are slain by it. Even Mitch Simmons exhibited a healthy respect for the dangers the sheet represents.

  Now that I have seen it with my own eyes, I understand the hyperbole. There’s no sneaking up on the glacial shelf that caps the northern hemisphere. It looms tall and blue in the distance, sucking moisture from the air as if it were a massive sponge. That is one of the first things you notice about the shelf, nothing grows near it, not even snowflakes.

  Forest tapered away to tundra roughly 75 miles south of the ice. The absence of trees made it much harder for the Sons to skulk and set up their bothersome ambushes. We kept to the middle of frozen rivers and followed a meandering path north by northwest toward the land that will someday become the megalopolis of New Liverpool.

  Tundra dwindled to hardy sedge and clumping grasses, until gradually even those plants petered out. For the last eight miles, along both sides of our slippery, frozen highway, the terrain was nothing but flinty ground strewn with glacial debris ranging up to the size of house-sized boulders. Countless lakes and ponds dot the barren landscape; their frozen surfaces reflecting sunlight like a million shards of a shattered mirror.

  It’s too dry and bitter cold for snow to fall. Despite applying liberal applications of Gray Beard’s moisturizing ointment made from bobolox fat, beeswax and healing herbs, my desiccated skin feels ready to crack apart and blow away. The only one who does not seem to mind is our beautiful baby. We coat him with ointment, wrap him in furs and he never complains on the trail. He has 14 teeth now, and his gums have toughened so there is nothing short of leather that he cannot chew. In camp, as long as there is fire and nourishing food, he’s happy.

  Watching the tundra fade away, I expressed concerns there would be no fuel for fires. Where would we collect wood? What would we eat? Gray Beard told me not to worry, the land would provide. As usual, he was right. Despite the absence of forage growing along the shelf, at its base is a highway for woolly mammoth, snow ox and other megafauna. They trudge by the thousands, leaving more dried dung on the ground than we could ever hope to burn.

  We hit the shelf roughly midway between the Cambrian Mountains to the west and Pennines range to the northeast. Gray Beard identified a defensible cluster of rocks well away from the mammoth highway and said that was where we would site our camp. The old man in his oversized fur hat and tall, thick boots went quickly to work. Stationing Jones and his atlatl with a commanding view of the prospective camp, he led the rest of us on a herding mission to see what game we could lead or chase into the kill zone. It was a good plan, but easier said than done. Nearly all of the animals roaming this close to the frozen wall were just too dang big. We didn’t have the means to bring down a mammoth or ox–and no desire to tangle with one either. After about an hour, opportunity knocked when a herd of bobolox wandered in from the east.

  Tooting whistles, shouting and clacking spears together, we managed to spook a few of the lanky beasts away from the shelf to the southwest. The shaggy, 12-foot-tall animals did not end up anywhere near our intended ambush spot, but Jones cut them off on the run to bring down three animals, including two that dropped side by side. Gray Beard led the charge to the pair of adjacent bobolox and quickly divided us into teams to harvest the hides and organs before everything froze solid. Cutting and hacking at a furious pace, we knew it was a race against time. The storyteller had been calling for high winds and plummeting temperatures for a day and a half. He said our lives depended on making a shelter before nightfall.

  As usual, the Green Turtle Clan got the job done. The skins and bobolox carcasses were stiff as boards by the time we finished, and the winds were beginning to make walking and talking difficult, but we did it. In nearly full darkness, we strained together to roll the two adjacent bobolox onto their backs and tie their hooves together to form a low A-frame above the smoldering dung fire that Fire Starter was methodically building from coals dumped out of his leather-wrapped bison horn. A pair of spears served as vertical supports.

  Draping the three skins over the frame sapped the rest of our dwindling energy. If the Sons had sprung a trap at this moment, I do not think we would have had the wherewithal to defend ourselves. The hides were so stiff and heavy, we were flummoxed trying to move them until Capt. Jones found a way to knot his leather rope to one corner of a skin and pull with all his might while the rest of us used the butt ends of spears to lift and lever. Once the first skin was in place and we had developed our technique, the second and third proved a bit easier.

  Gray Beard wasn’t satisfied until we had a ring of rocks anchoring the skins securely to the ground, and a large supply of dried dung piled right outside the entry flap. At first, we had a few gaps that allowed bitter winds to whistle in, but once those were sealed, the shaggy hides did an admirable job protecting us. It was dark, and a tig
ht fit for 10 adults and one baby, but the body heat we shared probably kept us alive. “Sardines in a can,” was an expression my parents brought with them from Portugal, one that I never really understood until now. Tin cans and sardines had both disappeared from earth by the time I was born. Wedged side by side in alternating directions, people’s feet on either side of our heads, I finally grasped the sardine concept.

  That was two days ago. Well fed and watered, the clan is in much better shape, both physically and mentally. We’re chipping ice from the shelf and melting it in cook bags to make drinking water, and feasting on the sweet flesh of bobolox. The greasy water may taste like dung and onions, but it goes down just fine. To acquire a steak to grill or gnaw raw, all we need to do is sit up in bed and start carving with our flint blades.

  We take turns standing guard when it’s not too cold, and so far there has been no sign of wolves, polar bears or the stupid Sons. Gray Beard says the hybrids do not have the courage to approach the ice without the power of the Hunter, and they probably will not attack with him in charge.

  There continues to be no sign of Mitchell Simmons or Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano. Though we took a somewhat different route than originally planned, the storyteller insists this is the rendezvous point they agreed upon–give or take a day’s walk in either direction. Today at sunrise he returned from his morning piss and said the winds would soon stop. An hour later, two teams left to search for plumes of smoke or other signs of our modern comrades. Gray Beard headed west along the base of the ice with Lucy, Pearl and Fire Starter, while Jones, Fralista, Bongo and Conga went east.

  That leaves Paul and me to hold down the fort. It’s nice to be alone. He naps with the baby in a bed of fur capes while I sit here with my computer and try to find something intelligent to write. Efforts to construct a report detailing unique English tundra have withered on the vine. My heart just isn’t in it. Private time is so rare. I find it much more satisfying to watch my two men sleep.

  It’s good that Paul is getting some extra rest before our long crossing to Ireland. He’s been wearing himself out hauling ice and collecting dung. By my estimates, we’re still 275 miles from Galway. We may cross more than 200 miles atop the polar cap before we can turn south onto land. It sounds like an impossible task, but Gray Beard tells me not to worry.

  The storyteller has regained some of the spring in his step he lost with the tragic deaths of Tomon, Gertie, Lanio and Greemil. There have even been smiles and some laughter inside our tent. The daily challenge to keep his clan alive has given the old man purpose, as did our running battles with the Sons. The tribulations have helped all of us shift focus away from our sorrows and differences. We’ve been too busy for mourning or infighting.

  The entire contingent was on hand to witness the moment the old man finally reconnected with his grandnephew. It was late the first night inside the tent and the baby was too wound up to sleep. Snug against the roaring winds, we all were sort of high on warmth, fresh meat and water. Though we could see the vapors of our breath in the firelight, the tent seemed toasty warm compared to the deep chill outside. Gray Beard had called in the guards, saying no human, not even a thick-skulled hybrid Son, could survive the windstorm.

  Sandwiched between the two carcasses, forced to keep our heads low to avoid the tent’s upper atmosphere of dung-fire smoke, there was no escaping just how wonderful the baby is. Sliding like an otter, he was all over his fur-clad elders, climbing up and ducking down between bodies to play peek-a-boo. Giggling and cooing, he explored the lines of Lucy’s face and fiddled with Pearl’s many necklaces. Fralista kept a stone face as he slithered over her on his way to equally dour Gray Beard. Straddling his granduncle’s chest, the boy bent close to study the soulful, wizened eyes in the firelight. Nuzzling his head into the crook of the old man’s neck, the baby soon fell asleep. Pinned under the physical weight, as well as a symbolic one, Gray Beard closed his eyes and remained perfectly still waiting for the child to awaken.

  During his nap, Paul and I prepared a meal of cubed, charred meat and the last bites of bobolox liver. When it came time to eat, however, the boy refused to let go of his granduncle. Clinging tightly to the man’s cape, grunting, but not crying or wailing, he put up such a fight, we ended up handing the food down the line to let Gray Beard do the feeding. What a player, the smart little boy had him in the palm of his tiny, little hand.

  Sitting with his grandnephew in his lap, the storyteller called us to attention with a new phrase:

  Listen and I will tell you a name!

  As you know, the Green Turtle Clan is slow in choosing a child’s name. Some people complain we are too slow. To them, I ask, what is your hurry? Few decisions are more important in a lifetime. What a man or woman is called helps shape who they become. Appropriate names give power. Ill-fitting ones are a curse. I once knew a man named Swimmer who was afraid of the water. Can you imagine that? Do you know what happened to Swimmer? He drowned crossing a river in springtime!

  When Doo-Art and Kaikane claimed this baby from his parents’ funeral fire, I was not surprised. They have more kindness than sense. Was it not their mercy to Fa and Ha-Ha which allowed those two to recover to kill our clan mates? I imagine Doo-Art and Kaikane feel much guilt about how things turned out. Those snakes should have been stomped. Even Hunter said so.

  Tomon and Gertilkgs had many plans for this child, and each had ideas of what to name him. On the day they died, we discussed this topic for many miles. Tomon wished to name the boy after Salvatore Baldzano, for without him, neither would be alive. Gertilkgs did not agree. She said she cared deeply for Baldzano, but did not want her son to grow up to be like him. “Singing and talking do not bring meat to camp,” she said.

  Though my reasons were different, I was on the side of Gertilkgs. It would not bother me if this little boy were to grow up like Baldzano. The world needs singers and storytellers, but I have never approved when parents name their child to honor another person. Is the baby expected to become that person? Can they not be themselves? Not all of these children turn out unhappy or unproductive, but many do.

  Green Turtles believe in fate. Names present themselves all the time, especially if you are looking. The trick is to know which one is THE NAME. We have all heard the pet name Doo-Art uses for the boy. Rye-Nooo. When I asked her what this name meant, she explained it was the word her former clan used to describe the species of beast that killed the boy’s parents–the animal we call loompaks for the two mighty loompaks on its head.

  I like this word Rye-Nooo. I think it is a fitting name for the boy who survived the loompaks’ many attempts to kill him. Can anyone forget the way the animal smashed the fallen trees while the baby cried? A rye-nooo killed his parents. Will the name be a reminder of sadness and loss? I do not think so. Not if we don’t let it. The name must remind him of his parents’ love, of their great skills as hunters, gatherers, healers and keepers of the clan’s stories. May he grow up to equal and even surpass their accomplishments.

  From this day forward, the baby who survived the loompak’s attack when his parents did not shall be called, Rye-nooooooo!

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “OK, my turn.”

  Kaikane: “How long was I asleep?”

  Duarte: “Two hours and six minutes.”

  Kaikane: “Nice.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  The boss says I should write something before we hit the ice. It might be a while before we have shelter and privacy again.

  She’s stretched out next to the fire, playing a game with Rhino. Both have their fur hats on, and I can see their breath as they mess around with Maria’s ivory moon calendar. She palms the thin disc, slips her hands inside her cape, and lets the kid guess which one’s got it. Cracks the little guy up every time he picks right.

  Maria’s turned into one heck of a...what...caregiver? Mother? Aunty? I know that shouldn’t surprise me. My wife can master anything she
sets her mind on. It’s just, well, work has always been so important in her life. Science is everything to her. I didn’t think she could refocus her priorities like she has. Now, instead of measuring things, taking notes and writing reports, she’s cleaning leather diapers, chopping and cooking the baby’s meat, keeping him hydrated, teaching him to be safe around the fire, protecting him from the cold and animals when we go outside. There is a lot to do. She doesn’t seem to mind.

  Rhino’s picked up a few words. He calls Maria “Dart,” and I’m “K-eye.” Cooped up in this strange tent made of meat, leg bones and bloody hide, the clan has had no choice but get to know Rhino. He’s Mister Personality. Bongo and Conga taught him some drumbeats last night, not that he understood really, but he was banging on everybody’s bellies doing his best to copy them. Pearl and Lucy are also good with Rhino. But when he conks his head and needs a kiss to make it better he goes right to Maria. Her contented sighs and smiles say all there is to know. She’s in love.

  I never thought kids were in the cards for me. Doreen and I talked about maybe having some after our days on tour were over, but she got sick and those plans went out the window. I guess, considering how her cancer turned out, it’s just as well. And then Dr. Maria Duarte came into my life. It made no sense for us to even talk about kids. We’ve both been “fixed.” Adopting a native baby breaks so many of The Team’s rules, I don’t think that option crossed our minds right up to the moment we picked up Rhino and started carrying him across England.

  In Hawaii, plenty kids are raised by other families when their own parents are out of the picture. We call it “hanai.” A few of my brothers and sisters were hanai’d by relatives. In this case, Maria would be the hanai mother and Rhino her hanai son. I guess that makes me a hanai daddy. Truth be told, it scares the hell out of me. What if I turn out like my dad?