History in the Faking

by Andreas Oertel

  “So,” he said, “what’s happening over at the River-crest?” He rubbed his eyes with one hand and scratched his blond head with the other.

  “It’s nuts,” I said, rolling to a stop. “Must be fifty cars there.”

  Rachel smiled. “Yeah, I thought there might be. Mom’s making lots of extra money in tips, and she got called in early again today.”

  I told them about the TV station vehicles and all the activity on the other side of town.

  Eric seemed to be fully awake now. “I can feel it too,” he said. “It’s like everyone knows something big is going to happen today, but nobody knows what.”

  I do, I thought. We’re all going to prison.

  We pedalled to the hideout and dismounted our bikes two hundred feet before the trail ended by the observation post. We didn’t want to take any chances, so we hid the bicycles deep in the forest and approached the river from a different angle.

  It was 9:00 a.m. and the site across the river was already buzzing with action.

  After three days of waiting, the investigation team was ready to work. The washout had been marked off and sectioned into perfect one-metre-square parcels using strings and stakes. Screening stations were set up away from the washout to sift through the dirt and find more artifacts. One screen was at the bottom of the bank, and the other was up in the clearing.

  “There must be thirty people over there,” Eric said in awe.

  Rachel had the binoculars again, so I had to squint to make out faces. In addition to all the familiar people from last week, two dozen new helpers swarmed the area. They looked like university students or volunteers. Some of them leaned on shovels, some worked the screens, while others kept records or shuttled supplies from the vehicles.

  “This has officially gone viral,” Eric said, “as far as I’m concerned.”

  “All thanks to social media,” Rachel said. She passed her brother the binoculars.

  Eric laughed. “We should check later, Cody. I bet they’ve already posted some cool videos of our tablet on YouTube.”

  “Sure,” I said weakly, wondering if we could use Facebook in jail.

  “That must be the Egyptologist from the Manitoba Museum,” Eric said after a few minutes.

  Rachel and I watched as a short man emerged from the shade of the awning. He was with Professor Bell, the leader of the original team. Dr. Peabody—if that was who we were looking at—was a foot shorter than the Professor. He wore a tan-coloured hat and a tan-coloured suit that looked so new, I wondered if he’d bought the clothes especially for this field trip.

  The two scientists ignored everyone and gestured to each other like excited toddlers. Moving to the top of the river bank, they continued their discussion, frequently pointing at the grid area below them.

  Eric giggled. “Here we go.” He gave the focus dial a slight adjustment. “The reporters are starting to show up again.”

  Eric had the best view, but Rachel and I could see them too. Video camera crews and reporters suddenly appeared at the edge of the clearing and began filming, questioning, and reporting. Dr. Peabody ignored the mayhem—maybe he was used to it—and continued to oversee the dig.

  The reporters and media people were directed to an area near the tent. They were each given a single piece of paper and then escorted by a lady to the different areas where they could report on the activity. We could tell from the pointing and firm expressions that some areas were off limits. Any reporter who pointed questioningly at the grid was answered by a shake of the lady’s head.

  I held my breath as a CBC camera crew dared to venture over the grid, near where we had placed the tablet. Before they could cross even one square, two bulky guys chased them back. We assumed they were the site security.

  Eric laughed. “Man, they’re taking this seriously.”

  “They’d better,” Rachel said. “The history of North America is about to be changed.”

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER A LUNCH of microwaved hotdogs (a big-time choking hazard, in case you don’t know), we looked on Facebook and discovered that there was going to be a press conference that afternoon at the community hall.

  “That must be what we saw them handing out to reporters,” Rachel said, “a notice about the meeting.”

  Since the community hall—officially named the Sultana Multiplex—was on Park Avenue and only a block from my back door, we didn’t take our bikes.

  As we cut across Mrs. Durupt’s lawn and through Mr. Malbazza’s yard to the parking lot, we could see something big was happening at the hall.

  The residents of Sultana all lived within walking distance, so there weren’t many local cars in sight. But the two-acre field in front of us had nearly reached capacity. TV station vehicles packed the gravel lot that surrounded the low, steel-wrapped building. You would have thought they were covering the Olympics.

  “Jeepers!” Eric stopped under a huge oak tree at the edge of the parking lot. “Look at all those satellite dishes.”

  As I stood there, trying to take in the action, I was suddenly overwhelmed by all the people who had wasted their time to come to Sultana. I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Man, are we in trouble,” I said.

  Eric looked at me like I’d just grown horns.

  “No, we’re not,” Rachel said. “We’re the only people who know we made the plaque, and we’re not going to tell anyone. And there’s no way they can figure it out.” She waved an arm across the lot in case I forgot who “they” were.

  I guess I didn’t look convinced, so Eric jumped in. “And even if they do find out it was us—which they never will—they can’t do anything to us because we’re kids.”

  I had heard that before from other people, but I found it hard to believe. How could we create such chaos and not suffer any consequences? I began to wonder if we would get sent to some weird youth prison called “juvie.”

  Rachel turned to me and said, “And if they really do find out it was us—”

  “Which they won’t,” Eric said again.

  “—they can’t make a big deal out of it, because they’ll just look stupid for letting a bunch of kids fool them.”

  “She’s right, Cody,” Eric said, still trying to help. “You have to stop worrying.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, wondering if Eric and I could go to the same juvie jail. It wouldn’t be so bad if Eric was in the same cell with me. At least then we could play checkers together and shoot baskets in the exercise yard with the other delinquents. If he moved away next week, I’d probably never see him again.

  I realized I was daydreaming, and Rachel and Eric were looking at me like they wanted an answer. I snapped out of it and recovered my cool. “Huh?”

  Eric sighed and, I think, repeated himself. “Should we go in right now? Or hang back and see who shows up?”

  “Let’s wait around outside for a while,” I said. “I don’t think we need front row seats.”

  Eric nodded and headed off towards the largest cluster of camera people.

  Despite what Rachel and Eric had said, I didn’t feel that much better. Maybe this mess could end without Eric and his sister needing to move away, and without me doing hard time at some dirty detention centre. But I sure doubted it.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE PRESS CONFERENCE was nuts.

  They had to try to fit everyone in the building, which wasn’t easy because no one thought so many people would show up. Every person in Sultana who wasn’t at work that day was sitting in a folding chair in the community hall. There were even people sitting on the floor. Meanwhile, the reporters and camera crews battled for the best position to view the event.

  We stood in the back corner, near the coatroom, and watched as various TV crews made demands of Mr. Baker, the unofficial caretaker of the building. The lights weren’t bright enough for CNN. CBC wanted extra chairs at the front. And the Discovery Channel wanted more extension cords.

  Every five minutes another stack of chairs had
to be set up for the out-of-towners. Word had spread far beyond Sultana, and people were pouring in from everywhere. Like Eric said, the story had gone viral.

  At the far end of the hall, three long tables had been placed next to each other to make one elongated head table for the speakers. We recognized most of the people from the washout. Dr. Peabody waited patiently at the centre, next to a sweaty, nervous-looking Professor Bell. Occasionally, the professor leaned over and whispered something to Dr. Peabody, who responded with either a nod or shake of his head.

  The other members of the team flanked the doctor and professor on either side. The university was represented by the water-sampler guy and some of the other site investigators.

  We bumped our way through the gauntlet of wires and people and found three chairs next to an emergency exit. The door had been propped open with a plastic milk crate in a failed attempt to circulate the stifling hall air.

  Rachel cupped one hand over her mouth and said, “I think that’s the plaque.” She nodded towards the front of the room.

  I craned to see around a photographer who was wearing a hundred cameras around his neck. He was jostling for the best floor space with our local cowboy reporter, who didn’t feel like budging.

  “Yup, that’s it,” I said.

  The plaque was on the table in front of Dr. Peabody in the same padded case we’d seen before. The case was proudly propped open so that pictures could be taken before, during, and after the meeting.

  Finally, Professor Bell flicked on the microphone in front of him and pulled it close.

  My heart began to pound.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the professor began. His voice travelled through the hall loudly and clearly. “If everyone could please get settled, we’ll begin.”

  The room grew quiet, and after a minute the only sound we heard was the electronic hum of video equipment.

  “We are here to provide the residents of Sultana, and the media, with information related to an artifact that was discovered along the Kilmeny River last Wednesday morning.”

  Professor Bell paused and wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief. A few reporters thought that was worth a picture and some camera flashes went off.

  He continued, “First, I will introduce these people who you see next to me. Then we will each make a statement on the item before us. And finally, when we’re done, we will try and answer any questions from the media, and address any concerns from the public.”

  Professor Bell spent ten minutes identifying each person at the front of the room. According to him, everyone was either a doctor of something, a professor of something, or a member of some scientific organization. After rattling off the accomplishments of the last person at the table, he pushed the microphone towards Dr. Peabody.

  “Thank you, Professor Bell,” Dr. Peabody said. I noticed he had a slight British accent. “As you are all aware, a tablet was found on the outskirts of Sultana last week.”

  He paused and picked up a pair of white cloth gloves from the table. He carefully put them on his hands, and then extracted our plaque from the case. Tilting it slightly, he held it for the room to see. That must have been the moment the photographers were waiting for, because camera flashes burst around the hall like fireworks.

  Eric poked me in the ribs and grinned. It was almost like we were standing up there and the flashes were applause for us. It was all very cool.

  “The tablet, as you can see, has been inscribed with Egyptian pictographic symbols­—more commonly referred to as hieroglyphics or hieroglyphs.” He delicately ran a white finger across the surface.

  “Over the weekend, I completed my translations of the glyphs.” He paused to take a swallow of water from the bottle in front of him and scanned the room slowly, daring anyone to challenge what he was about to say. “The tablet, if it is real,” he continued, “suggests that ancient Egyptians travelled up the Mississippi and to the centre of Canada.”

  Dr. Peabody barely finished that sentence when the room exploded with shouts. The three of us jolted in surprise. Reporters yelled and waved their notepads, each desperately wanting to be the first to have their questions answered.

  “Outrageous,” someone cried.

  “I knew it!” screamed Mr. Malbazza.

  “Please,” Dr. Peabody said. “Please . . . everyone . . . Quiet.”

  The rumble in the community hall finally died away.

  A reporter in the crowd stood up and burst out, “How’d they get here—the Egyptians?”

  Dr. Peabody acknowledged the man with a nod. “Yes, I’m getting to that. Again, if the tablet is authentic, it suggests that Egyptians journeyed north on the Mississippi River—probably from the Gulf of Mexico—and then down the Red River into this area. Once in Canada, they apparently found themselves unable to survive in the harsh Manitoba winter.”

  Silence engulfed the crowded room. Probably everyone was imagining the November winds pounding the unprepared Egyptian explorers.

  “And if it is real, it’s also a personal message from a doomed group of Egyptian explorers. It’s a story of an ocean crossing, and adventure and discovery in a strange land. And tragically, in the end, a tale of despair and sorrow as the party realized they will never return home.”

  “This is their final prayer for peace in the afterlife.” Dr. Peabody held the plaque in front of him and touched the last four glyphs. “Osiris, have mercy on our souls.”

  Eric elbowed me again to get my attention. With a twist of his head he pointed to Mrs. Webb, who was sitting ten feet away from us. I followed his gaze and saw tears were running down her cheek. Eric looked pleased, but I’m not sure how I felt—maybe guilty, maybe ashamed. Probably both.

  Dr. Peabody passed the microphone back to Professor Bell. “Thank you, Dr. Peabody. Now, does anyone have any questions?”

  A man who must have been sitting on the floor jumped up and said, “How do you know that the tablet isn’t a fake?”

  The professor cleared his throat. “We don’t know that, and that’s why we’re testing it. However, there’s no evidence to suggest the plaque is a forgery.”

  The same guy said, “So you’re going to try and date it? To see if it’s a hoax?”

  “Yes, the university’s analytical section has kindly set aside other projects, and the tablet will undergo carbon-14 testing tomorrow. Unfortunately, if there isn’t organic material present in the find, the carbon dating won’t work.”

  A grumble rose from the crowd. I guess no one likes complications or delays.

  “But our geologist has examined the clay covering,” the professor continued, “and although common, she concluded it is from a stratum that is no longer found at grade.”

  A farmer stood up and yelled, “What the heck does that mean?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “It means,” he said slowly, “the clay used for this tablet is old, came from deep in the ground, and has not been exposed to the atmosphere for thousands of years. In other words, it is not the same clay that you grow your carrots in.”

  More laughs.

  “Our geologist also examined the slate backing, which makes up the spine of the tablet, and she reported it is consistent with a deposit in southern Louisiana.”

  He waited for the significance of this to sink in. But it didn’t.

  So he helped everyone out. “And that deposit happens to be adjacent to the Mississippi River, near the Gulf of Mexico.”

  Mumbles of understanding echoed through the hall.

  An older reporter wearing a suit stood and pointed a pencil in the air. Professor Bell gave him permission to speak with a nod.

  “So you’re saying that Egyptians may have landed in North America before the Europeans? How is that possible?”

  “First of all,” the Professor said, “the Norse came to America long before the French, British, and Spanish did. Secondly, is it really such a stretch to imagine that Egyptians crossed the ocean? Ladies and gentlemen, the Egyptians had very ca
pable ships, and they were not frightened of water. In fact, they controlled the annual floods of the Nile with inconceivable precision and engineering for over three thousand years.”

  The professor paused and took another swallow of water.

  “And let us not forget,” he went on, “they constructed pyramids that have lasted millennia. So why on earth couldn’t they build a ship robust enough to cross the Atlantic? The European explorers did it, the Norse did it, and it is certainly not impossible that Egyptians did it . . . before everyone else.”

  The audience absorbed and processed these facts in silence. Eric leaned in so only I would be able to hear him. “They’re falling for it!” he whispered.

  Another person I couldn’t see—a lady this time—asked, “So what will you do now?”

  “If the tablet is authentic, it may be one of many. We feel the entire journey could have been documented on slate tablets similar to this. Therefore, we will be continuing with the dig until we find those records.”

  Some of the local residents nodded. They were probably excited by the idea of more action in Sultana.

  “We are especially eager to find material organic in nature—perhaps bones, or wood—so that the age of the site can be confirmed.”

  “When can we learn more,” a CBC reporter asked, “about what’s happening?”

  “We’ve scheduled another press conference for Wednesday,” Professor Bell said. “By then, we’ll have the results of the carbon testing, and we can report on any further discoveries at the site.”

  Mr. Miles, our cowboy reporter, shouted, “What if this is a prank? What will happen to the perpetrators?”

  The three of us froze.

  The professor cleared his throat. “We have incurred a great expense investigating this tablet—”

  “So have we!” another reporter cried out.

  Everyone laughed—everyone but us.

  “—And because of that expense,” he continued, “we will encourage the police to prosecute the hoaxers to the full extent of the law. This kind of mischief can not go unpunished.”