Galway

by Matthew Thayer

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  We reached the Atlantic today. Undergrowth was so thick Bongo, Conga and I had to hack a trail for the last couple miles. Spooky territory full of bears and wildcats and new kinds of carnivores we’ve never seen before. At least, none of us but Gray Beard, he’s the only one who’s been up this far. Clan made so much noise with us cutting the trail and Gray Beard piping on his flute, the bears, wolves and cats mostly left us alone. Too bad the “angry ones” didn’t get the hint.

  That’s what we ended up calling the mean 50-pound balls of fur and teeth that charged out of burrows to defend their babies. We figured they were all bark and no bite until a brown mama took a chunk out of Bongo’s ankle. Lucky he had his thick moccasins on. Guy could have lost a foot. The squint-eyed biters look like a cross between badger and pig–low to the ground and solid muscle. Once they get riled up, they won’t back down. We ended up killing two or three hands (10-15) of the dummies before clearing the woods.

  I thought the waters around Gibraltar took the prize for most sea life. Galway has twice as much, more than I ever thought possible. We could hear the noise and smell the ocean hours before seeing water. Cries of gulls, terns, eagles and frigate birds filled the air, along with the bellows of sea lions brawling and snarls of wolves fighting over their kill. That’s the short list. I’m sure Maria has written a couple reports by now detailing all the stuff we saw, heard and smelled. If she leaves out how things felt, let me say it was damn nice to finally be back along the water. We’ll never go hungry, that’s for sure.

  The tide was on its way out when we finally poked our heads from the brush and trees and found ourselves at the top of a shale bank about 20 feet high. It was crazy. Everywhere you looked on the stone beach or out in the tide pools, there was an animal either hunting, being hunted, courting, mating, sleeping, sitting on a nest of eggs or feeding babies. At the top of the beach, every inch not covered with piles of driftwood had a bird’s nest on it–mostly puffins and boobies, but everything else too. Below was a zone of seals, sea lions and turtles hauled out in the sun. Just about every other seal nursed a pup or pups. Sea lion males were rising up tall and banging heads for dominance. Eagles, otters and fox were the main predators working the shore, snatching chicks and babies, stealing eggs, defending their kill from swarms of thieves. We heard more wolves and cats than we saw. They seem to prefer the dark of the forest.

  Gray Beard spoke for all of us when he made the Green Turtle hand signs for “We should build a fire. A big fire.”

  Jones found a game trail down to the beach and we claimed a flat spot above the high-water mark with the birds. Maria and I tried moving a few nests, but once we touched the eggs, the parents would have nothing to do with them. So, like good Cro-Magnons, we ate ‘em. The puffin eggs tasted best. Slow cooked by the fire, sprinkled with sea salt and mashed kelp, they weren’t bad at all.

  The rest of the beach thinned out fast once we had our first fire going. This was one helluva blaze! I waited until the clan was busy trying to start a fire the old-fashioned way, then snuck off and used Maria’s last magnifying glass to get one going under a tangle of tree roots and driftwood wedged against a fallen redwood. No kidding, within 10 minutes, the flames were shooting 50 feet in the air. We couldn’t get within 30 feet because of the heat and exploding shale. Everybody agreed Fire Starter would have approved.

  We’ve learned the hard way not to have any Galway shale around or under our fires. So much water is trapped in the stone’s layers even a little cook fire will make it expand until it pops. Rocks were going off like gunshots. I was one of the first guys to get hit by flying pieces and have the welt on my cheek to prove it. Glad it was me and not Maria or the baby. Man, those suckers burn!

  I had been dreaming about the ocean all the way across the ice, couldn’t wait to get into the salt water and catch a wave. That’s how I pictured it, but the blue-gray surface was flat as a pancake and choked with sharks and orca. It’s weird how having a family makes you rethink your priorities. In the old days, I would have gone for a dip just for the heck of it. No shark was gonna keep me out of the water, and nothing Maria said could change my mind. This time, the conversation was short. I gave in without a fight.

  “You can’t,” she said, squeezing my arm when she saw all those dorsal fins. She knew my plan. I’d been talking about bodysurfing for weeks.

  “I won’t,” I said.

  At least...not yet.

  Once we had our fires going and the animals cleared out, Maria and I took Rhino down to explore the tide pools and watch the whales and dolphins jump. A big school of tuna swept close to shore, turned the sea into froth as it chased sardines. She and the baby ended up searching the pools for pretty shells and things to eat like clams, oysters and seaweed, while I sat down with some willow switches and twine to see if I could make a lobster trap. What I ended up with didn’t look like much, and it didn’t catch even one lobster, but it was hell on king crabs.

  We found a deep crack about eight feet wide where the water was too deep to see bottom. If the waves or tide were up, we never could have gotten so far out on the rocks. Tying the trap to the end of my spear and baiting it with a couple smashed clams, I poked it down into the crack without much expectation. Maria and Rhino were watching me like I knew exactly what I was doing, but as usual, I was just making it up as I went along. Damned if I didn’t catch two big crabs right away. The more smashed-up clams we used, the more crabs swarmed the trap.

  My pile of sticks held up for five more dunks before busting apart. By that time, Maria’s gathering bag was so full of crab I had to take off my tunic and use it to carry the rest. I forgot to count how many we caught, but I bet we had at least 20, all with arms as long as mine. Cooked over the open fire, the meat was the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. Even rocks going off like bombs and wolves’ eyes glowing in the dark couldn’t stop the Green Turtle Clan from enjoying itself.

  Using bone knives to split the shells, we circled up at a midpoint between fires and gorged on crabmeat, eggs, salt, kelp, oysters, clams, young nettles and urchin. I think we all just figured, screw worrying about the dangers, fretting if the Hunter’s going to jump out from behind a tree and mow us down. We accomplished something big by reaching this place and deserved to celebrate. It wasn’t the first time I partied hearty in Ireland.

  The coastline is way different than what I remember from my surfing days. Dory had family in Connemara and as long as we brought them a case of booze they were happy to put us up. We’d surf all day and come home to hang with the aunts and uncles all night. I don’t know how the Irish drank like they did. My eyes would be drooping when they were just getting started.

  I have given up trying to find the rocky bluffs where they lived. Maria says it’s impossible. The hills of Connemara are buried under the last section of ice we crossed. She also says the last 25 miles we walked to reach the ocean will all be sea bottom when Doreen and I come to Ireland to surf. It seemed like a stretch, but then she pointed out the little mountain range poking up out of the lowlands far to the southeast.

  “See the three peaks?” she asked. “Those will be the Aran Islands. Do you recognize them?”

  I did. We used to surf there a lot.

  Just when you feel like you finally have a handle on this world, it gives you a poke in the eye to show how little you know.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Not what you would call modest, is he?”

  Duarte: “Hell no.”

  Bolzano: “Franz. This brings back so many un-fond memories. Topped, however, by a succulent cherry. Did you know I was in the front row the day your husband nearly twisted the man’s head free of his torso?”

  Duarte: “He told me about that fight.”

  Bolzano: “Did he tell you Franz’s face turned the color of a beet?”

  Duarte: “He left out that part.”

  Bolzano: “It is the truth. I will nev
er forget how happy it made me feel.”

  Duarte: “Do you think Franz is going to be waiting for us upriver?”

  Bolzano: “I would not mind making a reacquaintance. I have learned a trick or two since the days when the galoot tormented me so.”

  From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Goddamn it all to hell! Considering the mood I’m in, I have no business writing anything in this stupid, insipid journal nobody is ever going to read.

  I just supervised the destruction of a wooden, one-quarter-scale model of the ruins of Stonehenge. Maybe there should be a sense of accomplishment, of doing my duty, but all I feel is frustrated and small.

  Jutting above the ocean like a damn beacon to the world, the wooden structure had been erected on the apex of a bald nob of an island. We first spotted it from 10.4 miles down the coast, and watched it grow every time we cleared a bay and rounded another point. Dangerous as the coastline is, it’s far safer than wading through 10-foot-tall prairie and forests full of carnivores, most of whom we’ve never seen the likes of before.

  Five square acres and reaching a height of 67 feet above sea level, the dome-shaped islet was situated at the tip of a narrow peninsula separating two large bays. The location, 117 yards from the mainland, made it stand out like a sore thumb–nearly impossible to miss from land or sea. Guarded by strong currents and dangerous waters, the tiny island could only be accessed during the nadir of low tide.

  The effort it must have taken to build the monument boggles my mind. Each hole to anchor the redwood sarsen stones had to be dug or drilled straight into Precambrian Dalradian rock. With stone tools? All the posts and lintels were sized and squared to be fairly accurate representations of the originals. Did the engineers denude the peninsula making their shrine, or float the logs out with the tide? It must have taken 100 men with ropes and rollers to move the logs into place.

  The how of the matter is still up for debate, while the who and why became abundantly clear the moment we left our natives on the mainland and waded over to inspect the place. Names, instructions, maps, even an indictment against one Mitchell Simmons were carved into the posts with bold strokes and German letters. Sal speaks fluent German so we let him do the interpretation. He started at the largest central post, reading the words under a six-inch-tall “M,” contained within a circle.

  “Willkommen to Galway. This denkmal was constructed by the surviving crewmembers of the Einstein IV – Franz Schmidt The Builder and Michael Tamashiro – Kings for Life of the Fish Eater Clan, Guardians of the Drum, proud and faithful Martinellists.”

  Did the words confirm Martinellism? To Cpl. Bolzano’s mind they did. As noted in reports LMR-100 through LMR-124, he believes in the nightmares he dreamed–mass plagues, military overthrows, catastrophic winnowing of the population. I do not know what to think, let alone what we can do about it.

  Moving to stand before the second lichen-covered redwood post, we saw its words were carved below a rather detailed map of the region. The corporal used his hand to scrape away guano and clumps of yellow moss before continuing.

  “Einstein IV Camp located on southern bank of wide river 1 km to north. Trail inland well marked. 1 day walk. Good weather. Good hunting, fishing & gardening.”

  With a sigh, Salvatore moved to post three.

  “Getting old waiting. Come before too late. We want to go home.”

  So they were hoping for a rescue. We’ve certainly been there and done that.

  I didn’t need Salvatore to interpret the heading beneath a carved devil’s face, complete with horns, pointed beard and forked tongue. “Mitchell Simmons.” Salvatore’s voice grew sad as he interpreted the German text.

  “Beware of Dr. Mitchell Simmons. Godless monster. Banished. Powerful & Dangerous. Beware!”

  The last sarsen stone paid tribute to the men and women who–we assume–helped construct the edifice. Beneath the heading “Franz the Builder, master craftsman and benevolent ruler,” was a list starting out with German and Christian names and slowly evolving into runs of consonants and vowels that are most likely phonetic spellings of native names.

  Standing among the pillars, listening to Rhino’s cries carry across the water from the beach, I felt like having a good cry myself. It was all just so wrong and disappointing. What if they really did build an Acropolis in Athens and pyramids in Egypt? What the hell were they thinking? Again, what are we supposed to do about it?

  It seemed fitting Salvatore played the role of devil’s advocate. He pointed out the crew could not be expected to maintain constant vigil along the soggy coast. “After a decade or two, the chore would become rather weary,” he deadpanned. “They needed to do something to attract attention. Look at it this way, they built this atrocity in a place where it can never endure. Even if it does not rot, the thing will be smashed by a glacier and swallowed up by the ocean long before mankind develops the ability to document its existence.”

  I didn’t bother belaboring how bogus his points were. We are both well aware that ideas and stories can be passed down through generations. Some of Gray Beard’s tales must be 500 years old. I can’t help comparing our situation to the chicken and egg. Which Stonehenge comes first, the real one or the replica Franz built? Of course, there is another reason to keep my comments guarded–and also why I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Thus far, Cpl. Bolzano has been kind enough not to point out how my actions fail to match my convictions. It is far easier to rail against the Stonehenge structure, point out how many Team rules it breaks, than to face my own indiscretions–of which there are many.

  What am I doing raising a baby? Despite my best efforts to bring Rhino up as Cro-Magnon, it is nearly impossible to shield the boy from our ways. How many times has he seen me use my helmet and computer? I thought he was too little to understand what was going on until I caught him tapping on a flat rock pretending to type. Two of his first five words were English! Despite the agreements I signed and the rules I pledged to obey, I find it nearly impossible not to teach my baby to the fullest. So smart and beautiful, Rhino absorbs concepts like a sponge.

  Will my desire to do the best for my child change the world? That question keeps me up at night, and also greets me in the morning. If I thought burning the mock Stonehenge to the ground would make me feel better, I was wrong.

  Sal and I elected to send the native members of our clan north to secure a camp by the river before committing our arson. There was no scrubbing the oddity from our companions’ minds, but we could at least try to keep it from being permanently burned into their collective memory. At the time, we both expected the thing to go up like one of our beach bonfires. The wood, however, proved wet and uncooperative. It took three days of tending fires and shuttling driftwood out to the island before we even got the structure’s attention.

  Paul and I took turns watching the baby on the mainland and helping Bolzano and Jones haul wood. By chance, Paul and Rhino discovered the entrance to a vine-covered cave, complete with sand floor and well-built fire pit with flat granite stones for cooking fish. The dugout cave overlooked the island and was easily defensible. It became our mainland base of operations. When the tide was up, if we weren’t out on the island tending fires, fishing or gathering, we were probably cooking and eating at the mouth of the cave, or sleeping inside on its sandy floor.

  Jones is in one of his funks and has not been very good company. He took most of the high-tide shifts. I’d like to think he found peace stranded alone with his dark thoughts on the island. I’m doing my best to respect his privacy, but it’s hard watching him suffer.

  That left us with Uncle Salvatore to entertain. Without the clan’s big ears to eavesdrop, we only had to worry about the baby when we wanted to discuss things in English or peck on our computers. Sal and I made it a working holiday, using our spare time to compile reports and our many hours together carrying wood and feeding fires to brainstorm ideas. To the Italian’s credit, he did his best
to steer me back on course whenever I began driving the conversations toward the potholes of worry and conspiracy. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

  The dynamic of the Gulf Stream was a common topic. The Stream is obviously a driving force in the local ecology and weather patterns. After days of watching storms build to the south, but rarely feeling even a drop of rain, we began to debate what could cause the world’s mightiest current to either stop dead in its tracks or swing west, far wide of this part of the continent. We settled on a hypothesis that it was due to the rivers and curve of the coastline. The river to our south is quite powerful. Its discharge may not match the gigantic Rhine/Thames, but raging with summer melt it may be strong enough to nudge the Gulf Stream away from shore. The river to our north is also said to be large, and looks so on the map. Maybe it also plays a role in pushing the current away.

  That could explain why this region sees less precipitation in summer. Since turning north along the coast 12 days ago, we have left the dense forest behind and entered a more temperate zone. The only redwoods we see are clustered in valleys where there is stream water to drink. Gray Beard says in winter things turn foggy and rainy, with snow on the inland hills. We think the rivers lose their punch when the big melt ends, thus allowing the Gulf Stream to swing back toward the coast to warm it with its waters.

  That does not explain the area’s super-abundance of sea life. A warm current would not be conducive to many of the types of species we are documenting. The only historical data in my computer that sounds remotely similar is the upwelling of deep, nutrient-rich waters in California’s Monterey Bay. The reports say prior to the Tipping Point, when acidification and nitrogen-saturation zeroed out nearly all marine life in the Eastern Pacific, the bay’s cold, fertile waters were home to more species of marine life than man could count, everything from plankton to whales.