Sitting there on a lichen-covered rock, studying his wounded finger, Rhino mumbled the word “dadiil.” I wasn’t sure if I heard him right, so I asked in Green Turtle dialect, “What is dadiil?” I had repeated the word several times during my explanation of the dangers, but expected him to say it was his finger, or maybe the blood dripping from its end. Instead, he pointed to the spiky animal and said “Dadiil,” while adding the Green Turtle inflection that means bad or angry.
It amazes me how fast he learns. Every day he makes connections, assimilates, builds upon what he already knows. Judging by how fast they became buddies, I am sure Uncle Salvatore will play a major role in his development. That’s right, Rhino’s favorite uncle is back within the fold.
The corporal and his father arrived while we were still trying to get our fire lit. Mitch offered to help, but by then we almost had it. All it took was another minute or so of stick rubbing, huffing and puffing.
Both men arrived hale and healthy, looking as if they had just finished a month in a spa rather than a month crossing the ice.
“You’re looking well,” I said in an attempt to draw them out. “Did you have an easy transit?”
“I’d wager it was a right bit cushier than yours,” Mitch Simmons said with no smile. “You people look like moose shit.”
“Please excuse Father,” Bolzano apologized. “Our journey has left him with a cranky disposition. Doctor Duarte, pray tell, were you an eyewitness to the deaths of my friends? I need to hear your account of what happened.”
Cpl. Bolzano has an assortment of tricks to get out of doing chores. He has been pulling them since the day we met. As the duties begin, one of his favorites is to start a conversation of import, preferably with a senior officer. Seemingly oblivious to the work going on all around him, suddenly serious Sal is able to stretch the dialogue as long as necessary. I didn’t care. The Turtles sit and watch me tend to the baby all the time.
I led Sal through the tall mouth of the cave to the nook where Paul and I had already spread our sleeping skins. I handed Rhino over to Sal and motioned him toward the skins while I pulled a fire horn from my pack and ducked back outside for a scoop of hot embers. We began our debriefing as I futzed with twigs and coals to build my family’s personal fire. Sore finger forgotten, the baby entertained himself with his pouch of ivory discs and shiny white bones while we conversed. American Sign Language got us through the many spots when Green Turtle dialect was insufficient. (We don’t dare speak English in front of the baby, or anybody else in the clan for that matter. They would be fluent in no time.)
I was aware Sal was close friends with Tomon and Gertie, but not really to what extent. The poor man was sobbing by the time I finished describing their gruesome deaths. He was hoping the Sons’ claims had been exaggerated, and was devastated to learn their accounts were sugarcoated at best. Sal hadn’t even considered they might minimize their involvement. In fact, I don’t think he truly accepted Tomon, Gertie and Lanio were gone until he walked into camp and found me diapering the baby.
Sal managed a weak grin as I explained how his brave dog Izzie gave up her life trying to protect Lanio. The rhino was faster than the dogs, particularly in deep snow. His smile disappeared when I explained our choice of name. The tall heavily bearded Italian was not enamored with Rhino.
“You saw fit to name this little sprout after his parents’ killer? After all the terror and mayhem the murderous beast caused? Why?”
Rhino had put his toys aside and was using his uncle as a pommel horse, climbing up and over, steadying himself as he balanced on wobbly legs. They both stared at me, waiting for an answer.
“Gray Beard says–”
“Leonglauix would not give him such a name on his own. It was your idea, was it not?”
“It seemed fitting. Better than, ‘Little Baldzano.’ That’s what Tomon wanted to name him. Did you know? Is that why you’re pissed?”
“Calm down, Doctor Duarte. You and your conspiracy theories! I was not aware of Tomon’s wishes. Flattering, to be sure, but Leonglauix frowns on the practice. We have discussed this. I do not believe the storyteller would give his blessing.”
“He refused.”
“But, Rhino...”
“Sal, if you saw the way the animal struggled to destroy this child you would understand. It was so big, so enraged by the Sons’ firebrands, it would have stomped us all if the baby hadn’t bought us time while we ran for the trees. Your nephew was bawling the whole time. Drove the rhino mad, not being able to get to him. I don’t know if Gertie placed him between the fallen trees on purpose or if she just got lucky. It was the perfect spot. The only spot.”
For those of us who lived through the attack, the intensity has begun to fade. We have more recent deaths to mourn. Even Lucy and Pearl have regained some spunk since losing their life partner, Fire Starter. Salvatore referred to the Neanderthal as the women’s pet, but he was much more. I have never witnessed such grief as I saw the morning he failed to rise from the edge of the sleeping pile. One of the sisters joked if he didn’t get up they would pour snow into his fire horns. The horns were far warmer than Fire Starter when they rolled him over. The poor guy’s eyes and mouth were frozen open in a ghoulish scream.
This set off a riot of wails that did not stop until the two sisters sat down and began stroking his face, covering it with soft kisses. For two days they refused to leave the body. We ranged far and wide gathering dung to build fires to keep them alive. In the end, only a stern rebuke from Gray Beard could induce the women to leave their companion behind. There was nothing we could do for him. I think that is what hurt most of all. Left to our thoughts as we staggered across the ice, I think we all imagined what it would be like to have our bodies left to the drifts and scavengers.
Mitch Simmons, the self-styled Hunter, showed no pity for his daughters that evening at dinner. Nor did he express any remorse for his Sons’ antics. His boys not only caused the deaths of Tomon, Gertie, Lanio and Greemil, they did their best to wipe out the entire clan. In a snarky tone, he claimed, “It’s the price you pay for crossing the ice. The ice always takes its toll.”
He looked to Salvatore and asked, “How many boys made it to the shelf? Twenty-two?” When Sal shook his head to say he did not know, Mitch continued on. “Let’s say 22. I’m pretty sure that is the number. Roughly one third of them will not reach this side of the shelf. Whether it be broken legs, starvation, blizzard, wolves or polar bear attack, there will be attrition. This isn’t 2230. You can’t just call up an air car and arrive warm and safe.”
I bit back an urge to point out what a colossal fool he was. Hadn’t we just crossed the ice? I don’t recall flying in an air car. Mitch was obviously spoiling for a fight. It made no sense to take the bait. I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I busied myself by feeding and changing the baby, and then watching him play with his Uncle Sal. Sitting on his uncle’s lap, he toyed with his beard and whispered giggling nonsense into his ears. Rhino seemed to know Sal was hurting. I think he was trying to cheer him up.
TRANSMSSION:
Hunter: “What were you two talking about?”
Bolzano: “What didn’t we talk about?”
Hunter: “Don’t get cute. Just answer the question.”
Bolzano: “Doctor Duarte filled in the blanks regarding the murder of my friends. I fear Fa was not alone in instigating the ambush.”
Hunter: “She’ll no doubt want to hold a public trial. I wish her luck. What else did you discuss?”
Bolzano: “Everything from capital punishment to the quality of local real estate.”
Hunter: “Watch yourself, boy.”
From the log of The Hunter
(aka – Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
We hadn’t been in the Turtles’ camp for more than five minutes before Salvatore and his cronies began conspiring against me. Did he think I wouldn’t notice Duarte leading him off to a cave to speak in whispe
rs?
No one will make eye contact with me.
Yes, my idiot Sons made some mistakes along the way. I fail to see how that is my fault. At the time, I was leading my weak and vulnerable son through one blizzard after another, sacrificing my body to keep him alive. Should I apologize for not being present to protect them? I think not! That’s the first bloody law of the jungle. Protect yourself!
I find it hard to believe I was actually entertaining the notion of letting bygones be bygones. Salvatore is not the worst traveling partner I’ve had. He is starting to grow on me, at least his dreams are. I thought the tribulations we endured together had reaffirmed our familial bonds. I let him inside my field for Christ’s sake! You think he would show some loyalty and appreciation for the things I did for him. But, no, of course not! The spineless twerp would much rather slink into a cave and speak in code for two hours. What’s wrong with English or Italian? I understand enough Green Turtle to know what I overheard made no sense.
Obviously, there is a plot afoot, and it is against me. Have they figured out my Achilles’ heel? Nothing brings malcontents into line better than an EXAMPLE. Those who travel in my circle must understand, bad behavior warrants PUNISHMENT. Someone must pay for Salvatore’s SINS.
I know just who it will be.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “My mother used to say if you plucked one gray hair, two would reappear.”
Bolzano: “I am too young to go gray.”
Duarte: “I feel the same way.”
Bolzano: “Ahhh, so you are aware of the sprinkling in your lovely mane?
Duarte: “Hard to miss.”
Bolzano: “Without the benefit of a mirror, I was not sure you could see. You do not have many, yet. Not like me.”
Duarte: “It seems I find more each day.”
Bolzano: “Ditto. Once the weather warms, I plan to scratch away this silly beard. Whenever I spy my reflection in a pool of water, I see Leonglauix staring back.”
Duarte: “Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance.”
Bolzano: “Thank you. Ha ha. You Americans have such brutal senses of humor. Tell me, did Specialist Kaikane alert you to your premature graying?”
Duarte: “Paul’s smarter than that.”
From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones
Security Detail II
Cpl. Bolzano and Hunter caught up today. Walked into camp like they owned the place.
We’re bivouacked in a sandstone cave tall as it is deep. Place doesn’t hold heat or offer much protection from damn fog, but it’s in the lee of a low hill that blocks the wind and rain. A cold-water brook runs close by and so far nobody’s gotten the squirts. I’ll never take fresh water for granted again. Not after two months of working our asses off to melt ice and snow, drinking blood, sucking on icicles, and just barely getting by.
It’s wetter on this side of the ice shelf. Rain in Ireland, who’d have thunk it? We’re not into trees yet, but tundra’s gotten taller and thicker. Each day it’s easier to find deadfall wood to burn, and game to eat. When the fog and clouds clear, we can see patches of gray forest off in the lowlands, as well as lakes and what looks like a lot of marshland. Snow’s about gone down there and things are starting to green up.
We don’t walk with the mammoths and oxen anymore. About a minute off the ice, they went their way and we went ours. It was like the truce was officially over.
Until Sal and his daddy arrived, we hadn’t seen another human for months–not since our last tussle with his Sons. There haven’t even been signs of people, no smoke, old campfires or tracks in the snow. This is more how I pictured this trip back in time. I like it lonely.
Was OK seeing Sal, hearing what he’s been up to. Guy is a lazy-ass motherfucker, but he has grown up since training. Sounds like Sal’s been through hell and back since last time we camped with him and his old man.
The Hunter? I wish he would just turn around and go back across the ice to wherever he came from, meet his Sons on the way and take them with him. Either that, or I’m gonna take a shot at ‘em. Not sure how Mr. Hunter will feel about that. With his security field and guns, asshole reminds me of a Tasmanian pit bull in a room of poodles. Doesn’t bother trying to be nice, just dishes out insults and complaints like we’re recruits.
Prick’s not taking any chances. Looks like he’s got his force field dialed up high. Too bad. I’d love to put a couple bolts through his pretty head and let those nanos see if they can deal with that.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “How did you end up with the child?”
Duarte: “Why not?”
Bolzano: “Until this moment, Doctor Maria Duarte, you have never struck me as the motherly type.”
Duarte: “And now?”
Bolzano: “You look and act the part. But indulge me, please, why you?”
Duarte: “Crows.”
Bolzano: “Crows?”
Duarte: “As I realized the clan was leaving Rhino behind, I had the clearest vision of crows pecking him to shreds the next morning. His parents’ pyre was burning hot enough to see him through the night. Scavengers would have been held at bay, but in the morning a cloud of those black bastards would have been fighting over his little body. I just picked him up. Paul supported my decision, and we have been caring for him ever since.”
Bolzano: “Rhino is very fortunate to have you and Specialist Kaikane in his life.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Sitting in the glow of my computer’s screen, surrounded by the snores and farts of sleeping Green Turtles & Associates, I feel at peace for the first time in a long while. Giovanni Bolzano may be my father, but this is my family. Duarte and Kaikane snooze with Rhino nuzzled betwixt their fur-draped bodies. I wonder, does the sweet, social child come between them in other ways as well?
Motherhood is not easy for the doctor. There is a haggardness about her that is new. It is not as if Duarte stopped using fragrant sticks to scrub her teeth, or quit trying to clean the grime of Paleolithic life from beneath her thick nails, but she is so thin and pale. The woman looks to have aged five years since we last supped together. Obviously, the crossing was hard on all of them. Only Leonglauix seems the same. One by one, upon the conclusion of our rich, fatty meal of porcupine fat and chiga-chiga tuber stew, they dropped off to slumber like a drugged line of dominos. (More on the divine stew later.)
Father and I found ourselves alone once again. Sprawled in dry, charcoal-littered sand near the guttering fire, surrounded by the detritus of the clan’s oily feast, we watched the rain pour outside and half-heartedly listened to our attempts at discussion wither and die. Failed topics included our journey, the weather and the sorry condition of our friends. His responses were curt and guarded as if he feared a Turtle was playing possum, listening to what we had to say.
Father became quite miffed when I declined his invitation to crawl inside his field to dry my clothes and recharge my body. Biting back an urge to order me, or, heaven forbid, beg me to share his cocoon–he blinked from sight. Subtle sounds and scuffs in the sand marked his departure from the cave. Is he off to a more private place to mope? Will he run until dawn searching for his Sons, or perhaps a Neanderthal damsel to screw? I do not know and I do not care.
Locked in the arms of Morpheus as they are, the Turtles do not mind when I study their scarred faces and inspect their clothing through the optics of my visor. I should be the one snoring. We must have covered 50 kilometers today, grinding hard to repatriate with the clan. When I close my eyes, however, all I do is toss and turn, occasionally drift over the edge into swirling, waking dreams full of worry and perturbation. Could Father’s cocoon be addictive? Fool! Of course it is–as addictive as sleeping potions and bed sheets made of fine Bavarian cotton.
Leonglauix was his typical, deadpan self when he greeted us this afternoon. No doubt he had been charting our approach for kilometers. In
this landscape of stunted tundra, interlopers would need to crawl on their bellies to escape notice. Ignoring Father, the storyteller looked up with the faintest twinkle in his eye and greeted me in hand sign, “You made it. Good.”
Out loud he said, “I am looking for a quality piece of flint. About this size.” He held his hands about a foot apart. “If you see one, pick it up and bring it to me.” With that, he whistled Jones and Fralista over to assist him with the butchering of a Rottweiler-sized porcupine.
I was on the verge of jumping in to help with chores when Dr. Duarte insisted I accompany her inside the cave for a debriefing. She told her tales of woe and I shared mine. There is no more denying Tomon and Gertie are gone, along with my former lover, Lanio, and my replacement, Greemil. I shall not dwell upon this topic for it holds nothing but melancholy and despair.
In my heart, I know my friends would be most thankful for the loving attention their child receives from the Green Turtle Clan. Dr. Duarte and Spc. Kaikane are the boy’s primary caregivers. Without their laudable commitment the boy would have succumbed moons ago. Other members of the clan may have arrived late to the child-rearing party, but they now take delight in the boy. Through the evening, every Turtle, even stoic Jones and the scold Fralista, spent time with the rapscallion on their lap. The drummers are particularly patient with the lad. They sing him songs and teach him simple beats.
I wonder, are all children as hard-wired for self-destruction as this one? Rhino careens from handhold to handhold looking for dangers to explore, new ways to injure himself. In a world of red-hot coals, razor-sharp flints, slinking foxes and swooping eagles, trouble is not hard to locate. Life is dangerous for adults. For toddlers it is a minefield. All Turtles play a role in shielding the child from calamity, though for Duarte, this appears to be her new full-time job. She has been at it long enough so her movements have a natural, unrehearsed quality. She walks around with a baby balanced on her hip like a seasoned Madonna.
Galway Page 29
