Hopefully, he behaves himself. Father’s moods oscillate lately between Grumpy and God-Awful. It galls him to be slowed down. At least twice a day I am reminded how much faster we would travel if I had not launched my jumpsuit into the abyss. What really bothers him is the thought Duarte and the Turtles will reach Galway ahead of him. What secret is he protecting?
To appease my patriarch upon the trail, I push myself to the limit and beyond each day. What makes this possible is the recovery ward he totes wherever we go. The recuperative nature of the force field cannot be understated. It is no exaggeration to say I would be dead, or at least down for the count in some ice cave, if not for our nightly sessions within the cocoon.
Apart from eight-hour pauses to stop and charge my vitals, Father has kept us moving virtually nonstop since our reunion with the Sons. They arrived in groups of four and five, until we had 22 hybrids gathered in and around our last dry cave. A few regular faces were missing, and there were also some new fellows. All had Father’s dark unruly hair and cleft in their chins. The paterfamilias set the tone for the trip by conducting a brief trial and declaring Fa guilty of murder. Casting himself to the ground at Father’s feet, the troublesome lout was groveling, begging for mercy, when a precise las-gun blast severed his spine at the neck. Flopping to the ground paralyzed and mute, Fa gawked helplessly as his brothers stripped him of anything that might be useful along the trail. The Sons left their brother propped in a bloody snow bank, naked, bug-eyed, and with a commanding view as we took to the river ice and headed northwest toward the region where the city of Manchester will someday flourish then fade.
If Team leaders are not yet inured to our many infractions of Team Rules, they will no doubt cringe to know Father has taught his Sons to attach antler runners to the sledges they employ to transport supplies and sometimes me across the ice. The innovation makes it much easier to pull heavy weights. The Sons needed every advantage, for Father pushed them without mercy on the run to the northern shelf. The boys did all the hunting, carrying, cooking and preparing of our camps. For the last several days prior to reaching the shelf, at Father’s insistence, I rode in the sledge and did only minimal walking. If the Sons needed another reason to loathe me, serving as my personal sled dogs surely padded the list. Father ground them into dust, while I rode like a king, surveying the bleak scenery, snacking and occasionally burying myself within the warm skins to take wonderful, dreamless naps.
Father’s plans to conserve my energy worked. I was well rested, fed and watered when we reached the river’s terminus. Less than an hour’s walk from the frozen lake at the headwaters, close to the shelf itself, we found the most resourceful little hut made from frozen animal hides and carcasses. I swelled with pride as Father declared it the handiwork of Leonglauix the Storyteller.
“There’s not another man in the North who could come up with something like this,” he said. “He and his clan will have surmounted the ice near here. Collect your things, we leave soon.”
There wasn’t much to collect. My inventory of belongings may be at an all-time low. Besides the clothes I wear and the fur-covered helmet upon my head, my personal worth consists of one computer, a club, three spears and a leather scrip tied around my waist that holds three skinning flints, a round of braided fiber cord and a handful of pemmican. Packing was completed when I slipped the flat, white computer into its special pocket inside my snow lion cape. The cape hangs to mid-calf and is reasonably warm when paired with my matching lion leggings, leather jacket and waterproof klyptops boots.
The Sons peppered me with sideways looks and scowls as they moped about the desolate, boulder-strewn ground collecting dung for their campfire. Father granted them a handful of days (five) to regain their strength before attempting the ice crossing. They reminded me of weary hounds being left behind by the master. Anxious and sad eyed, they were not pleased being abandoned to fend for themselves so far away from trees and running water. Father generated a modicum of cheer by shooting two decrepit reindeer milling near the base of the shelf. The animals looked to have had a rough go of late and were barely alive. The Sons were not so choosy, however, as to turn up their noses to fresh meat, no matter how stringy. Once Father was assured his boys had a fire that would stay lit, he led me toward the ice at the trot. He trotted. My gait was more of a shuffle.
The ice cap is a land onto itself. Unforgivingly beautiful with its meandering hills and cliffs of Persian blue, the landscape boasts far more eye candy than the desolate wastes I was expecting. Many nights, bathed by the dancing Aurora Borealis and spray of the Milky Way, we housed ourselves in the same ice caves and enclosures my friends had used. Before lying down together and drifting off to dreamland, Father and I would often explore the scene to see what we might deduce. It felt a bit like playing forensic pathologist. One cave’s vestibule was painted red with blood and served as a display case for a massive reindeer head. Propped against the wall, the perfectly preserved head looked as if it had been left waiting for the taxidermist to swing by in his van. Crawling past the head and into an interior chamber, we found the area where the Turtles had butchered the animal and smashed its bones for marrow. Further along, there were several sleeping areas with narrow depressions carved into the ice to accommodate sleeping shoulders and hips–an old Green Turtle trick.
The stench of human urine and feces that greeted us in the backmost chamber told us the clan either did not want to, or could not, go outside to do its business. A trio of skinned wolves stacked like cordwood against the wall of the second chamber added to the mystery.
The next riddle presented itself over the crossing’s most brutal section of ice, a stretch of windswept highlands void of caves and other protections from the polar gusts. Why did their tracks nearly vanish? Only occasionally would we spy the imprint of a fur moccasin to let us know we were still on their trail. It remained an enigma until we found a reindeer hide and three wolf skins left in a heap along the edge of the wide causeway we share with the megafauna. The clan must have been dragging the heavy skins, using them as a makeshift tent and ground coverings. Father was once again impressed by Green Turtle ingenuity. He explained the trail swings gradually northward and gains elevation for 60 or 70 kilometers before cresting at the “Killer Ice.” It is the coldest and least hospitable stretch of the northern crossing. On the bright side, once through the “Killer Ice,” it soon becomes downhill sledding.
The hides had been abandoned at a strange but vital line of demarcation. Once again, we were starting to see dung littering the ice. Depending on the direction you are headed, you would either say the shit “stops here” or “starts here.” I am sure my friends were happy to once again have fuel to build fires. Assuming they were the only humans on the trail ahead of us–a fair assumption–we followed their charred fire pits westward, passing two and three each day in our headlong rush to catch up.
We always halted to examine the debris, see who could tell what game the Turtles killed and resources they exploited. Like Sherlock Holmes matching wits with Hercule Poirot, Father and I competed to see who could turn up the most telling clues. Less than two days before leaving the shelf for the grasslands of middle Ireland, we happened upon a strange and sad sight. Covered by a light dusting of snow, resting beside the blackened embers of what must have been an impressive dung fire, the Neanderthal named Fire Starter lay curled up in a fetal position. The poor fellow was frozen stiffer than a Hamburg pretzel.
We found no signs of injury or foul play. It appeared as if he drifted off to Sleepy Town and never woke. Did he die on his own? Had the Neanderthal bolted, or been cast out from the group? Had he just succumbed along the way? Would his associates leave his body behind unburied?
We could discern no indications of ritual or steps taken to prepare Fire Starter for an afterlife. Natives believe in a wide range of possibilities after death. I never had an opportunity to learn my half sisters’ views on Life Ever After or reincarnation, but would not be surprised if they sh
are Leonglauix’s pragmatism. The storyteller is not shy about covering his bases, but if you care to really nail him down on the subject, he believes when a person dies, that’s it, game over.
Father believed the clan had no choice but abandon the body as it staggered to the coastal lowlands. In his scenario, the ice was too solid for digging a grave, there was not enough fuel to build a pyre, and the Turtles did not have the strength to drag or carry him to tillable soil. Sounded feasible to me. We stood over the fur-draped Neanderthal in silence before turning and falling in step alongside a fatigued trio of mammoth.
I am not sure I agree with Father’s hypothesis. Pearl and Lucy were quite fond of their traveling companion. They may not know he is dead. I hope I am not the one who must break the terrible news. Fire Starter was their extremely loyal pet. Not only was he adept at building and maintaining fires, he also served as their protector and pack mule. This loss will hit my sisters hard.
Father has now returned to the cave bearing more firewood, as well as tonight’s dinner–a rabbit and a squirrel. How nice to eat something sensible, rather than Father killing an entire ox to snack on a fraction of its liver. Time to sign off. It does not pay to keep him waiting.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Have you found them?”
Hunter: “I know where they are.”
Bolzano: “Did you, by chance, drop in and say hello?”
Hunter: “Tomorrow. We’ll do it together.”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
If I am to be a diligent Ethics Specialist, I must weigh all factors before determining who pays for Salvatore’s sins. The pool of candidates has shrunk by one. A pity really, for the Neanderthal had been an obvious choice. Making an example of that ape would be more a punishment to my daughters than Salvatore, but I’m sure he would have taken the lesson to heart. He cares deeply for the percussionists. Maybe it is time to break up the band.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Tell me about Martinellism.”
Hunter: “What do you want to know?”
Bolzano: “So, you admit it, the movement is real.”
Hunter: “As real as a kick to the balls.”
Bolzano: “Your dreams are drenched in death. There are plagues and violent attacks. Are Mother and the children really dead? From the flu?”
Hunter: “The flu? At first, some called it the flu, but this was no ordinary virus. Airborne transmission, constantly mutating, it put Ebola and the Black Plague to shame. The Brits called it ‘Manky Pinky,’ or just ‘The Manky’ in honor of the bloody gobs expelled from dying victims’ lungs.”
Bolzano: “Did any of our friends or family survive?”
Hunter: “What an inane question! How could I possibly know the welfare of your friends and associates? You led such a strange life.”
Bolzano: “I meant extended family, people in the city. In your dream last night, Milano was empty. You explored squares and streets devoid of people. There were not even rats or dogs, just human skulls and bones wrapped in scraps of clothing.”
Hunter: “My birthday. Don’t bother asking which one, for I do not know. When you are alone there’s no longer any sense in keeping track.”
Bolzano: “Milano was empty?”
Hunter: “Salvatore, Europe was empty. The Martinellists used suicide teams to release the virus more or less simultaneously around the globe. Volunteer men, women and children were infected with the slow-acting bug then set loose among the populace. By the time world leaders knew what hit them they were already sick themselves. Sots would go before the cameras coughing blood and tell everyone to remain calm.”
Bolzano: “Quarantine did not work? What about the farm buildings and underground hives? I would think their seals would protect them.”
Hunter: “Maybe, but those doors open far more often than you might think. Mr. Manky was a right tricky little devil with a real penchant for seeping through chinks in mankind’s armor.”
Bolzano: “The death rate must have been astronomical.”
Hunter: “Upper 80s. A lucky few had natural immunity, while others sealed themselves up tight enough to survive. The rest were Martinellists.”
Bolzano: “How did the Martinellists resist the germs?”
Hunter: “How else? Their people developed an anti-virus before release. They were also smart enough to wait in safety until the worst was over.”
Bolzano: “And this movement–”
Hunter: “I’d call it more of a religion, or cult.”
Bolzano: “This cult, it is based on the teachings of our Lorenzo Martinelli?”
Hunter: “At least at first. Let’s say his message was amplified many times over.”
Bolzano: “Amplified?”
Hunter: “OK, hijacked.”
Bolzano: “You said he was going to save the planet. What did you mean?”
Hunter: “I admit, I arrived intending to kill Martinelli. Too many of our family suffered in his name. Arriving early, having decades to compare this beautiful planet against the used-up heap of ash it is destined to become, forced me to reconsider. The lunatic may have been Earth’s only hope.”
Bolzano: “Are your fingers crossed? You cannot actually believe such rubbish.”
Hunter: “Enough talk. Pick up your pace or I’ll leave you to that polar bear.”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
This journey to Galway conjures such bittersweet memories. It has been a long time. I’m looking forward to seeing what the Fish Eaters have accomplished since my last stopover. I see the inbreeds have erected more stone cairns along the trailhead, no doubt advertising to lure new blood into the population. I wonder if they still bang the giant drum. I hope so.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “What if we were to go back and dig up the computer Duarte buried? We could delete Lorenzo Martinelli from history.”
Hunter: “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Bolzano: “It would not be that difficult to return to Italy. We–”
Hunter: “That’s not what I meant. You don’t understand time as I do.”
Bolzano: “Time?”
Hunter: “Some threads of time are more powerful than others. Those threads are difficult to sway. Time just seems to gravitate toward certain, critical people and events in history as if they are whirlpools in a river. Ask the fools who attempted to soften history by traveling back to eliminate mankind’s biggest troublemakers. They found the Hitlers of the world hard to kill. We might return to dig up the computer and find it has already left for the future. Or the device may have faded into nothingness, overruled by the more powerful thread of Martinelli’s first reality in the Paleolithic. Maybe that computer is destined to carry forth his story. Time has its way.”
Bolzano: “Lorenzo is one of Earth’s major players? I find it hard to believe.”
Hunter: “Not just him. I believe there were two ‘central’ individuals transported back on the same ship. Can you guess the other?”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Rhino said a new word today. “Dadiil.” In Green Turtle it means porcupine. The accomplishment will help mark the day he nearly lost his eyesight.
Gray Beard and Jones brought a nice big, fat porcupine back to camp this afternoon. I smell its rich outer layer of fat and muscle cooking as I write. Porcupine of this size–it weighed about 95 pounds–are not often seen this far north. Cro-Magnons consider them quite a delicacy, especially for a half-starved, travel-weary bunch desperate for fatty nutrition.
After an extremely rough crossing of the ice cap, the unexpected bounty helped lift the group’s mood. My clan mates had a little spring in their step as they efficiently spread out in groups of twos and threes to gather wood for the fires and appropriate st
ones to heat the cook bags. Paul and Lucy teamed to fill the bags with fresh water from the spring that trickles a mere 147 feet from the mouth of our sandstone cave.
Their banter rolled across the tundra as I struggled to get a fire going by rapping a hunk of flint against the head of Paul’s club. For every 100 strikes, I might get one or two sparks, none of which would ignite my pile of rats’ nests and wood shavings. I was catching my breath, contemplating pulling out my last surviving magnifying lens to see if the weak sun might surprise me, when I noticed my precious boy was no longer attempting to help. My back had been turned for only a few seconds. Rhino must have made a beeline for the porcupine carcass, for when I found him, he was about to topple face-first into its nine-inch-long quills. He would have been blinded.
I never moved so fast. Thrusting for the collar of his fur tunic, I caught him as he was on his way down, his beautiful face inches from the quills. It was one of those moments when disaster is dodged and you look around and realize nobody else saw what happened. No one is aware there even was a disaster. Do you tell everyone and admit failure as a caregiver, or keep it on the down low? Once my heart was out of my throat, I elected to hold it to myself. No harm was actually done. Why then does the blood drain from my cheeks and my hands shake when I think about how close he came to being impaled?
If it were up to Gray Beard he would have let the baby fall, and thereby learn his lesson. I can hear the familiar refrain he repeats whenever someone is hurt attempting something foolish: “I bet you won’t do that again.” Though I delivered my rebuke verbally and through hand sign, Rhino didn’t get it. I could have explained the dangers until I was blue in the face. Finally, I pulled a page from Gray Beard’s manual and let the curious kid bloody his right index finger on a quill’s needle tip.
Galway Page 28
