History in the Faking

by Andreas Oertel

  “Mom’s last day is this Friday,” Rachel said suddenly.

  What?

  I stopped searching the riverbank for Dr. Murray, and twisted my body so I could look at Rachel. She was wringing her hands with worry. Yikes! We knew that our plan had to work fast, but this development gave everything a fresh urgency.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to sound confident. “That,”—I pointed to the tablet down by the river—“is going to bring people to Sultana. I’m sure of it.”

  She squinted at the plaque that would decide our future. “I hope you’re right, Cody.” Her voice grew so quiet I almost didn’t hear what she said. “I really don’t want to move.”

  “And I don’t want you guys to leave either.” I tried to lighten things up by adding, “I’m gonna get real fat if Eric isn’t around to eat all the snacks my mom buys.”

  Rachel laughed. And not a phony laugh either—a good, loud genuine laugh.

  “The plan will work,” I repeated, trying to sound as certain as I could, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, me or her.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Our plan is perfect. It has to work.”

  We turned our attention back to the riverbank. I stopped daydreaming and began wondering why Dr. Murray wasn’t there yet. I figured she probably was too.

  Ten minutes passed, and then Rachel spoke up again, sounding a lot cheerier than before. “Look! That was fast.” She flattened her body against the earth, while I turned to look in the direction of her gaze. “Fast for Dr. Murray, anyway.”

  Dr. Murray stood over the washout with his hands on his hips. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to the plaque, which was kind of a shame.

  “I hope he doesn’t kill himself getting down to the river,” I said. “Old people are pretty brittle.”

  “He’s sure cautious,” Rachel said, raising her head slightly and peering through the gaps in the weeds. “There he goes.”

  He scrambled down the same crumbling bank of rock, mud, and sand as I had the day before. Only he was lucky; he didn’t have to sprint. He stopped halfway (to catch his breath?) and examined the collapsed bank. Then he continued. I worried he might see my footprints, but the mixture of dry gravel and crumbling soil seemed to hide my steps. I hoped so, anyway.

  Then he did another funny thing.

  “What the heck’s he doing?” I wondered out loud.

  His eyes swept the ground back and forth like a robot as he walked to the river. And then, he walked right into the river! Rachel and I hadn’t noticed before, but Dr. Murray had traded his shoes for rubber boots. He trudged through the shallow water toward the plaque, avoiding the quicksand . . . I mean, the damp sand. He kept his head down and continued examining the shore as he approached our tablet.

  “Man, is he good,” Rachel said with admiration. “I think he’s looking for footprints—your footprints. I bet if he saw even one print, he’d know the whole thing was a set-up. And then . . . ”

  “Look! He’s going for it.” I cut her off before she had a chance to get sad again.

  Dr. Murray bent over and extracted the plaque from the sucking mud. I imagined the gooey sound of the slime falling away. He didn’t stand up right away, but stooped over the river and rinsed the mud from the lower half of the tablet. Satisfied it was clean, he held the slate close to his face.

  “Look,” Rachel marvelled, “he’s running his fingers over the glyphs.”

  Dr. Murray placed a bright yellow fishing lure next to the hole left by the slate. Then, he cautiously retraced his steps along the edge of the river, across the washout, and up the bank. We watched him until he disappeared into the trees.

  “So, now what?” Rachel asked.

  “Now we wait.”

  “What if he takes it home and just puts it on the mantle?”

  “He won’t,” I said. “You saw how careful he was. And we left no signs at all that the stone is a hoax. Plus he’s a doctor, and that’s sort of like being a scientist. You know, curious about stuff. It’ll kill him to not know more about it.”

  “I suppose.” Rachel didn’t sound convinced. “Whatever he does with it, I just hope he does it quick.”

  We both stilled as we heard a rustle from the bushes behind us.

  “Is it safe?” Eric whispered.

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “The show’s over.”

  While Eric passed out granola bars and cans of root beer, we explained in detail how Dr. Murray had taken the tablet and how careful he was not to leave footprints near the site. We estimated that if he took the plaque to some expert in the city, the earliest we might see any activity along the river was Friday or Monday.

  Boy, were we wrong.

  I had a hard time trying to get my usual twelve hours of sleep that night. So at 8:00 a.m., I got up, ate, and headed for the hideout. I knew nothing would be happening yet, but I didn’t want to bug Eric or Rachel at such an ungodly hour.

  As I emerged from the bush near our vantage point above the river, I nearly fell from my bike in surprise. Eric was already hiding in the scrub.

  “Get down! Quick!” he said. “Something’s going on.”

  I shoved my bike deep into the woods, crawled over on my knees, and stretched out next to him. “How long have you been here?” I said, panting. Eight in the morning was early for me, but for Eric it was unthinkable.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  I looked around. “Where’s Rachel?”

  “She has to watch Gwyneth for a few hours. Listen. I was riding my bike over here, and two identical green minivans passed me on the highway.”

  “So? Lots of people have vans.”

  “I know,” Eric said. “But they were following Dr. Murray’s truck. I think he was leading the other vehicles there.” He pointed across the river.

  “Have they crossed the bridge?”

  “Yeah,” Eric reached for the backpack and pulled out the binoculars. “We should see them by the washout any minute.”

  “Good thinking.” I indicated the powerful glasses with my chin.

  Eric smiled and focused the binoculars on the opposite riverbank. “I do think of everything.”

  We took turns scanning the far treeline, but saw only birds. Ten minutes went by and still nothing happened. I was getting worried. It shouldn’t take that long to walk to the washout. Eric reluctantly admitted that maybe it wasn’t the doctor’s truck he had seen.

  Wait a second!

  Suddenly, we saw someone across the river, near the clearing. And instantly understand why it took them so long to get there. Even without binoculars we could see the group fighting its way through the dense forest. And judging by all the boxes they were setting on the ground, they must have had an exhausting walk from the highway.

  “Holy smokes!” Eric said. “There must be seven or eight people over there.”

  “And look at all the stuff they brought!” Every person, other than the doctor, was carrying either a bulky tool or a case of equipment. “These guys mean business.”

  “Some of the guys are girls.” Eric passed me the binoculars.

  I watched them converge at the top of the washout. Dr. Murray had his back to us and appeared to be explaining where he had discovered the plaque and how he had retrieved it. A short blonde-haired lady set up a video camera and began recording events. The camera followed Dr. Murray’s finger as he indicated different areas of the site.

  The expedition leader—or the guy we thought was the leader—also appeared to be the oldest person in the group. Not quite as old as Dr. Murray, but probably around sixty. He had a grey mustache and grey hair, and he was wearing a white shirt with khaki pants. The pants had a hundred pockets. It looked like he was asking lots of questions, which Dr. Murray answered either by talking, or by pointing at the dock, the river, or the washout. Once he was satisfied with the debriefing, the leader waved his team together for a group meeting.

  Dr. Murray stayed with the group but retreated to the back o
f the pack. Each member of the team seemed to understand his or her role. When the leader clapped his hands, they dispersed like worker ants. But the videographer never left the leader’s side, filming everything he did and said.

  “This is fantastic!” Eric said, watching two guys who were wrapping a yellow DO NOT CROSS tape around the washout. “They are really taking this seriously.”

  “Yeah,” I said, weakly. “They sure are.” For the first time, I began to wonder if we could get in trouble for creating such an epic hoax. What if the cops charged us for all the time and money the guys across the river were wasting? What if Eric had to move away because his mom couldn’t pay the fine? What if she got thrown in jail? Oh, man. What have we done?

  I took a slow, deep breath. I was probably worrying for nothing . . . again. I mean, last month I was sure I had flesh-eating disease on my wrist, but it was only poison ivy. I sucked in some more air. Yeah, everything was okay and going according to plan. Right?

  “Can they do all this alone?” Eric asked.

  “What do you mean?” I wiped my sweaty forehead and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand.

  “Well, can they just do whatever they want over there, without having to tell anyone?”

  “You mean like the government or the newspapers?” I watched as the leader shuffled down the bank to the river. “I suppose.”

  “Well,” Eric said, “if they don’t tell the papers what’s going on, who will?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It might take weeks for reporters to get wind of this project.”

  “Now, you’re thinking, Cody. But what can we do about it?”

  “We can rat on them.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “YOU STAY HERE,” I said, “And I’ll go call the paper.”

  Eric looked worried. “What are you going to say?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll try and think of something on the way to a phone.”

  “Hey!” Eric said, suddenly getting excited. “Don’t newspapers give away money for good story tips?”

  “I suppose some do . . . I guess.”

  “You should ask,” he said. “Maybe they’ll pay us for this story.”

  I belly crawled to my bike and left Eric at the observation post. As I pedalled down the trail, I wished I hadn’t been so quick to volunteer to make the call. I mean, what was I supposed to say? I couldn’t tell a reporter that an ancient Egyptian tablet was just discovered, because no one was supposed to know about it yet—other than Dr. Murray and his new friends. But I still had to be convincing enough to get a reporter to hop in his car and race over to Sultana.

  I considered going all the way back home so that I could call long distance and phone a big paper in the city. But I didn’t know if they traced phone calls, so I abandoned that idea. Plus, I wanted to get someone’s attention ASAP—like, right now.

  Since I’m on the subject of phones, I should explain that the three of us don’t have cell phones. My dad has one, but the reception in Sultana is so poor—something about the cell tower locations—he rarely uses it. I suppose when the phone company sorts that out, I’ll bug my parents for one (citing safety concerns, of course). I mean, how awesome would it be for Eric and I to be able to text each other?

  Anyway, the closest pay phone was the one bolted to the outside wall of the Rivercrest Motel & Restaurant, so that’s where I headed. I decided on the way that I’d call the paper in Milner’s Corner because that was a local call. And since it was only a half hour away, I hoped I could lure the reporter into making the short trip.

  I examined the few vehicles in the parking lot before I leaned my bike against the wall. One of the cars gave me an idea, and I knew instantly what I needed to tell the reporter. I looked up the number in what was left of the phone book hanging on a chain and made the call.

  “Star Times,” a female voice said after two rings.

  “Could I please speak to a reporter?” I said.

  The phone clicked, and another voice—a male voice this time—said, “Shaun Miles. How can I help you?”

  “I thought you might want a tip about Sultana?”

  Mr. Miles paused. “What about Sultana?”

  “Well, I think someone may have found a body or something near the bridge—the bridge that crosses the Kilmeny River.”

  “How do you know this?” Mr. Miles sounded suspicious. “Who found the body?” Maybe he had been sent on one too many wild goose chases in his career.

  “I don’t know who found it. But the cops are there right now with a bunch of other investigators. The whole area is taped up like a crime scene. So I assume it’s a body. Or they could be shooting a movie too, I guess. Lots of people are down there.”

  Mr. Miles sighed. “You don’t sound very old, kid. Just tell me you’re not pulling my leg. I’m pretty busy.”

  “No, sir. I swear. Just call the cops—they’ll tell you. Or better yet, come take a look. You won’t regret it. Something weird is happening in Sultana.”

  “Alright,” he said, “thanks for the call.”

  That reminded me to ask about the reward. “Umm . . . do you pay for good story tips?”

  He sighed again. “We have several programs. We work with the police to pay for stories that lead to the arrest of criminals. And we have awards for tips leading to stories of significant interest.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I mumbled, “Okay.”

  “Well,” he said, “give me your name and I’ll register you in the tip programs.”

  Now he had me cornered. If I didn’t give him my name, he’d think I was lying about the tip and he wouldn’t bother investigating. And I needed him to write the story. But if I gave him my name . . . Then what? Did it really matter that Cody Lint called the paper and . . .

  “Your name?” he asked again.

  So I told him.

  I hung up the phone without knowing one way or other if Mr. Miles believed me, or if he was reporting me to the police for being a troublemaker.

  I sat on the curb outside the diner and waited for my next mark—that’s what con artists call their victims, by the way. I didn’t have to wait long, either. The door of the restaurant swung open and two RCMP officers walked out and headed for their cruiser car. Sultana didn’t have a police station, so they must have been on patrol from Pine Falls or Pinawa.

  I raced over to them on my bike and put on a good show of slamming my brakes. “Hey, are you guys going over to check out what’s happening by the bridge?” I pretended to huff and puff, like I’d just raced down to the Rivercrest from the scene.

  The two cops looked at each other over the roof of the car. “Why?” asked the female police officer. “What’s happening by the bridge?”

  My heart was pounding like mad already, but I panted a few times anyway before answering. “I don’t know.” I pointed down the highway to the Kilmeny River. “But there are tons of people there already. You can see them from the bridge. They restricted access to the area and aren’t letting anyone near the water.”

  I heard the lady officer mumble something about “checking it out” to her partner and they got in the car. The male officer nodded at me through the window. “Thanks, kid.”

  The cruiser made my day by driving off toward the bridge. I could imagine them crossing the river and seeing all the activity down by the washout. The cops might not stick around, but they’d have to go down and find out what the heck was happening. And believe me, something was definitely about to happen in the normally quiet town of Sultana.

  “ERIC,” I WHISPERED from behind a pine tree. “Can I come over?”

  He lowered the binoculars. “Yeah, but stay low. Real low.”

  I wormed my way next to him.

  “They keep looking all over the place,” he said, giving me an update. “And I don’t know if the video lady has a zoom lens. So we have to start being more careful over here.”

  He passed me the glasses. “How’d it go?”

 
I told him about the phone call to the reporter and about my intentional run-in with the law.

  “That’s brilliant, Cody. Now if the reporter is too lazy to drive over here, and he calls the cops for information instead, they’ll tell him that there is no murder. And when he asks what is going on in Sultana, they’ll tell him that a doctor found a three- million-year-old artifact.”

  “Three thousand,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. This is perfect!”

  “I guess.” As long as the police don’t toss us in the slammer. I used to worry that I’d be mistaken for a bad guy and be wrongfully thrown in jail. Turns out, I might actually be locked in jail for something I am guilty of.

  Anyway, having left early, I was eager to see what the archaeologists were up to. And the first thing I noticed was that the investigation team was not eager to get too close to where I’d planted the plaque. The entire perimeter—an area the size of a tennis court—was marked with tape. And each person on the far bank was careful not to cross it.

  “It doesn’t look like they’ve done anything,” I said, lowering the binoculars.

  “It doesn’t look like much, but they’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Doing what?”

  “Well, see those guys up in the clearing.” He pointed across the river. “They haven’t even left the upper bank yet. They’ve been sweeping the bush and the meadow with some kind of detector.”

  “Probably a metal detector,” I said, squinting to see them.

  Eric nodded. “That’s what I figured. And see that big guy over there?” He needlessly pointed at the biggest guy near the washout. “Well, he’s been scooping up water and testing it.”

  I was just about to ask what the leader had been up to when I saw the two police officers approach the site. “Here we go,” I said.