Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  The force field is quite a technological marvel. In just over eight hours, it was able to revive me and dry my clothing for another day on the trail. That is how we leapfrogged our way west. Not bothering to search for caves or friendly natives with established campsites, Father would break our trail over hills, across frozen lakes and solid rivers until it was full dark and I was near death. Serving as battery for the recuperative process took a nightly toll upon Father, but by the end of each day’s trek, he was once again fully charged.

  Being inside the field reminds me of those old snow globes, except in this case, all of the snow and elements are outside the glass. A thick dusting covered the shield that first morning when I awoke. Though I could not spy them through the covering, the heat signatures, sounds and smells of a hungry pack of wolves were readily apparent. The pack must have followed my scent, for it was having a hard time understanding why it suddenly ended at this long, oblong rock. A splash of yellow urine opened a visual window above me and also caused a natural revulsion and anger. “Be gone!” my mind shouted and the wolves obeyed, red heat signatures bounding into the gray.

  Readout numbers and words appear to float along the periphery of the field, which is vaguely elastic when prodded or pushed. The readouts cover outside temperature, wind speed, relative barometric pressure, potential threats, all the usual data, plus a generous dose of our own personal temperatures, pressures and blood cell counts. I have finally accepted what a colossal waste of time it is to dwell upon my health index. I squandered thousands of hours fretting over numbers that were not quite up to snuff. Capt. Jones pointed out the futility most succinctly–no surprise there. “No sense worrin’ about shit ya can’t do nothin’ about.”

  The soldier must have been in a doubly negative mood that day. His point has been well taken nonetheless. Why spend our lives in the Paleolithic staring at numbers scrolling across a visor, or in this case, a force field? Instead, I spend the majority of my waking time within the cocoon snooping through files Father has made accessible to me.

  I wish I could say the data has helped me understand his motivations, or that our forced proximity brought us closer as father and son. Sadly, neither is the case. He is still quite irked about the jumpsuit, claiming I broke my word, which, I suppose, is true. There will be a stiff penalty to pay. It keeps me awake at night, thinking of ways to appease him.

  TRANSMISSION

  Hunter: “Come on, hurry it up!”

  Bolzano: “I am trying, but the drifts....”

  Hunter: “The bloody river is right there, you can see it. Move your ass.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  It began innocently enough, a single crow cawing high overhead. Onyx against leaden sky, the bird carved lazy ovals as I followed Father’s tracks through crusty, ankle-deep snow. Fool that I am, I welcomed the break in the monotony of the landscape, even imagined I had found myself a new chum.

  Who could blame me for feeling lonely in these bleak flatlands of never-ending whites and grays? Father was in one of his snippy moods, not only refusing to speak to me, but also traveling in full stealth to withhold even the smallest hint of companionship. For every intent and purpose, I trudged alone atop the frozen river.

  We had not suffered any serious delays for nearly two weeks. Why then would Father allow me to be caught in such a dire predicament? He had to know from the start what that murderous crow was up to.

  Winging in from all points of the compass in ones and twos, the crow’s friends arrived throughout the day. By midafternoon I had a black cloud of more than 300 birds squawking and spiraling above my head. Amid the clamor and increasingly brazen swoops, it would be fair to say uneasiness had set in.

  “Father?” For the millionth time I tried hailing him on the com line. “What are we going to do about this? I know you are there. For God’s sake, say something!”

  “God? You’re bringing God into this? Only now, when you are up to your earholes in shit?”

  “Help me!”

  “Do you know what they call a flock of crows?”

  “A murder!”

  “That’s my boy! Sharp as a beak!”

  Unslinging the club from my back, I set my sights on a depression in the bank that looked like it might offer protection. Knowing I should walk, but unable to control the terror building within, I began lumbering in my heavy leathers across the ice. My would-be escape set off pandemonium. Crows rattled my molars as they ricocheted off my helmet. Too many times to count I endured direct impacts on my shoulders as birds attempted to land and peck at my neck and head. Shrugging them off, realizing I would never reach the bank, I knew it was over if they got me to the ground. I skidded to a halt and began swinging my heavy club round and round like an airplane propeller. The technique was as tiring as it was ineffective.

  Once I began timing my wild swats with better precision, however, the stone crown of my club began connecting with incoming missiles. Batting half a dozen crows into oblivion in quick succession bought me time to reach the bank where a flat strata of sandstone cantilevered over the river just enough to prevent strafing runs from overhead.

  Catching my breath, stabbing and bashing with my club to defend my ever-so-shallow cave, I once again tried soliciting assistance from Father. There was no answer as crows began landing on the ice to create a black plague screeching at my feet. Hopping just out of range of my kicks, the crows studied the situation with intelligent, soulless eyes. A click on the com line said Father’s microphone was being activated.

  “Bad luck for you, son. Take a scan to the north. You may be truly done and dusted this time.”

  Reluctantly tearing my attention from the birds, I glanced upriver to register movement in the air. Zooming in with my visor, I saw it was another, much larger murder of crows racing south. My inattention bought me jolts of pain as crows rushed forward to peck at my thighs and groin. Creating a terrified buffer with boots, elbows and club, I had no time to chart the dark smudge as it grew.

  A change in the tenor of the caws from above alerted the ground birds to the incoming threat. Turning their heads to the north and then back to me, they seemed to be measuring time against distance–the time it would take to kill and eat me versus the distance the interlopers must cover. The crows spent nearly 30 seconds contemplating the matter. With a thunderclap of caws and beating wings, they attacked.

  Hacking and chopping, cursing and screaming, I must have smashed at least 30 birds in the first seconds. My efforts did nothing to slow the murder’s desperate bid to claim my meat and bones. Homing in on unprotected areas, like the soft sliver of neck between helmet and cape and wrists above thick leather mittens, the crows overwhelmed me. Their sheer weight and the intensity of the onslaught forced me to my knees. Abandoning my club, I cinched my leather cape tight and crawled into a ball.

  Jabbing and tearing with razor-sharp beaks, scratching with powerful talons as they scrambled for purchase, the crows were seconds away from breaching my defenses. Like flipping a switch, or turning a page in an ancient paper book, the attack ended as abruptly as it started.

  Peering through a rent in my cape, I watched the crows soar upward in a dense flock and head straight for the birds approaching from the north. The two murders met head on, cawing and complaining as they merged into a whirling tornado of shrieks and black feathers. Wobbling back to my feet, I frantically scanned the banks for a better place to make my next stand.

  “Salvatore, watch this.”

  A wavering distortion pulsed up from the ice. Painting the rotating double helix from top to bottom, Father silenced the tumult with a long blast from his stunner. Nervous systems scrambled, brains incinerated, the birds tumbled from the sky to land in a loose pile a kilometer upriver. I attempted to count the birds, but gave up when I reached 1,000.

  “Why did you do that to me?”

  “You did it to yourself when you destroyed your
suit.”

  “You were going to let them peck me to death? Truly?”

  “I was listening, my son, waiting for you to cry. It wouldn’t have been much longer. Come now, let’s get a move on.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Wait, back up a moment. Are you saying you have not been outside the field for 60 years?”

  Hunter: “Give or take. I strapped on this belt before the jump.”

  Bolzano: “And have not taken it off? Not even once?”

  Hunter: “In case you haven’t noticed, Salvatore, these are dangerous times.”

  Bolzano: “Certainly, but....”

  Hunter: “You didn’t mind me taking care of the crows for you.”

  Bolzano: “This is different.”

  Hunter: “Last time you harped so, I was nearly killed by a lion. Is that your motivation? Trying to get me eaten? Going to have the animals do your dirty work?”

  Bolzano: “Why must you do that?”

  Hunter: “Do what?”

  Bolzano: “Pick fights! Subvert important conversations!”

  Hunter: “You’re a bloody crybaby, do you know that?”

  Bolzano: “Come now, Father, you must be aware of this. Whenever a discussion becomes the least bit uncomfortable, you quash it with hostility and unfounded accusations.”

  Hunter: “Go have a sob, you’ll feel better.”

  Bolzano: “I thought this deflection mechanism of yours was bad when I was young, but it has become much, much worse.”

  From the log of The Hunter

  (aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)

  Ethics Specialist

  Salvatore’s been after me to remove the belt. I imagine he expects me to hang it on a tree and prance naked through the snowdrifts.

  If only it were that easy. Just writing the words makes the field pulse red. It knows what I’m contemplating and has been quick to issue warnings. We’re both well aware of what happened last time I attempted to shed my armor. Twice in the past six decades I’ve briefly powered down, and twice came a hair’s breadth from succumbing to the beasts and weather. Unlike Salvatore, or anyone else in this rotten world, the belt always has my best interests at heart. My safety and well-being are the only things that matter.

  Prior to the jump, I seldom wore my protector. I’d strap it on if I knew I was apt to be passing through sketchy neighborhoods or, once or twice, when I caught a paranoid whiff that my cover story may have gone wonky. I learned the hard way that the belt has drawbacks. Safety comes at the expense of, how shall I phrase this, social nicety. In short, the belt’s single-mindedness makes me a poor dinner guest.

  My most telling lesson came during a faculty mixer. I nearly launched the host from a second-story window for interrupting while I was chatting up an attractive Korean professor visiting from Seoul. My antagonist happened to be the university’s faculty chairman, Dr. Cohen-Hussein, one of those Jewish-Palestinian mixes. By the time I regained my wits the curly-haired fellow was halfway out the window. I managed to avoid a right sticky mess by cradling him in a faux hug and planting a kiss on his cheek. Romeo and Juliet! Everyone laughed it off, but the rude bugger saw the rage in my eyes. He knew how close he’d come, and though he never made an issue of it, the chairman never treated me the same.

  There were other scrapes when temper prevailed or feelings were wounded by insensitive words and brusque actions. I learned to keep my surly appliance away from polite company. And then ended up here, where polite company was unheard of until this new lot settled in. Do I care enough about their precious feelings to put my neck on the line? Not a chance.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “I found your winter cape and boots. Leonglauix left them behind.”

  Bolzano: “Things look a bit threadbare. What is this, blood?”

  Hunter: “One of the boys was kind enough to break everything in for you.”

  Bolzano: “What is the lout wearing now?”

  Hunter: “Let’s say he’s currently seeking alternatives.”

  Bolzano: “Meaning he’s going to steal from another innocent soul.”

  Hunter: “Don’t you trust my Sons?”

  Bolzano: “Not particularly, no.”

  Hunter: “The news I must share will cause you to appreciate them even less. It appears there’s been an accident, a tragic mishap which has been misinterpreted by the Green Turtle Clan.”

  Bolzano: “Tragic? Accident?”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Tomon appeared on my personal horizon the night he set the bones of a screaming man’s left forearm.

  An Aurochs shot in the head by Lorenzo Martinelli had the ill grace to snap the heavily tattooed screamer’s appendage with its final death throe. This was during those crazy, early days of hunting contests between Andre’s Green Turtles and Martinelli’s Tattoos. Injuries and even deaths were not uncommon as the native men jockeyed for position within their pecking orders. Great risks do not always reap great rewards.

  The Tattoos escorted their wounded man into the Green Turtle camp with a not-very-humble request to see a healer. With Leonglauix assumed dead and his wife really dead, the Turtles were lacking an experienced shaman. The hunter we called “Pimples” grudgingly led the unwelcome guests to a young apprentice. At the time, I was still intent on being a scientist. Although I did not understand what was going on, the social interchange was quite interesting.

  So close on the heels of our jump through time, the disastrous sinking of our ship and crew, those weeks are a mishmash of which I recall only fragments. Lorenzo had chopped Andre and me off at the knees by confiscating our suits and helmets. Left to fend for myself amongst the Cro-Magnon tribes and dangerous wildlife, I was scared out of my wits most of the time.

  My efforts to enforce The Team’s code of conduct were laughed at by Lorenzo and Andre. Fraternization with the local populace was strictly verboten, yet they dove in headfirst. I attempted to maintain my distance, and was thus left far behind.

  Following Team rules made me an outcast, unable to comprehend the language or find a friend. The only reason the natives tolerated my presence was Lorenzo and Andre’s protection. The locals certainly didn’t love me, not like they did those two paisanos.

  I may have been lonely and uncomfortable in the extreme, but not as uncomfortable as the wounded man. His flopping arm had the integrity of an al dente noodle as they led him through camp. What was coming? Amputation? Ritual sacrifice? I had no notion, but knew I must chronicle whatever the outcome. In those early months I was still quite diligent about my note taking–and still naive enough to believe my hard work would be rewarded with such fame that streets, towns and university buildings would be named in my honor.

  Pimples found Tomon curled up by a smoldering fire at the edge of the evening’s encampment. Wiping sleep from his eyes, the smallish teenager with wispy sideburns and freckled skin met the Tattoo entourage with an oddly clinical gaze. Signaling everyone to better light, Tomon kept a distance of about two meters as he studied how the retraction of the man’s tendons and ligaments had caused the broken arm to bend at a gruesome 45-degree angle. With a nod of his head, Tomon told the Tattoos to wait while he strode purposely off to harvest a quartet of smooth birch switches that he trimmed to length.

  Returning with a long spool of leather cord, Tomon commenced negotiations for what I assumed were the fees he would charge for his services. Though smaller and younger than all of the Tattoos, the boy drove a hard bargain. I was to learn later he was haggling over the price the Tattoos must pay to replace the valuable braided cordage. I did not yet understand the guttural words of trade dialect or the common hand signs they shared, but was impressed by the tenacity with which the youngster dickered. Once a deal was struck, Tomon used hand sign to instruct the Tattoos where to place their man flat on the ground, how to hold his head still and securely pin his good arm and legs by sitting on
them.

  By this time, a crowd had gathered. Turtles, Tattoos and assorted other peons of Lorenzo’s fledgling circus kept to their groups, craning to watch the show. Thankfully, due to my height, I had no problem securing an unobstructed vantage point. The procedure was over relatively quickly. Seated with his feet against the man’s torso and neck, Tomon took the wrist firmly in both hands and leaned backwards to apply steady retraction. Amid the screams and laughter, wood smoke, distant howls of wolves and bellows of mammoth, the arm slowly straightened. Ignoring the hullabaloo, the young doctor wore a mask of determination as he guided the shattered ends of bones back into alignment.

  In answer to his light whistle, a waif of a girl emerged from the crowd carrying the pelt of a red fox. Gertie wrapped the pelt none-too-gently around the forearm. Under Tomon’s direction, she placed the first two splints and began the binding. I can see them now, working together. Those two were rarely apart for long.

  In less than a month, I would have opportunity to experience their medical skills firsthand. One of the Tattoos rolled me backwards into a patch of stinging nettles as I squatted for my morning evacuation. Such pain! My skin was aflame as I sought out the young healers on the trail. Without a word of comment, Tomon led me to a cool stream while Gertie scurried off to pick a basket of leaves from a “tok” tree. Those leaves proved to be my salvation. Pressed against my angry welts, the tok leaves relieved the pain and inflammation. We spent the day together relaxing in the glen, ignoring our chores and responsibilities. I did not know where my Porters were, and did not care.