Finders Keepers
Finders Keepers
by Andrea Spalding
Copyright © 1995 by Brandywine Enterprises B.C. Ltd.
Second Edition 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Cover Art and Interior Illustrations: © 1995 by Gillian Hughes
Cover Design: Barbara Munzar
Production Editor: Antonia Banyard
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Spalding, Andrea
Finders keepers / written by Andrea Spalding. — Fourth print., 2nd ed.
ISBN 978-1-55002-828-7
1. Piegan Indians—Juvenile fiction. 2. Learning disabilities—Juvenile fiction. 3. Racism-Juvenile fiction. 4. Frustration—Juvenile fiction. 5. Schools—Juvenile fiction. I. Title.
PS8587.P213F56 2008 jC813’.54 C2008-902958-5
1 2 3 4 5 12 11 10 09 08
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
Printed and bound in Canada.
Printed on recycled paper.
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Dedicated to Joe Crowshoe and the people of the Peigan Nation in southern Alberta
In this time of unrest and distress over land rights, equal justice and equal rights, the Peigan people have chosen to stretch out their hands to other Canadians and share some aspects of their culture to promote understanding. This decision was not an easy one to make.
Finders Keepers is the direct result of a sharing at Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump. It was a gift that has enriched my life.
I have tried to use this gift with respect and to pass it on in a different form to help another group of people engaged in a long struggle, children with learning disabilities.
In my childhood I learned an old folk rhyme:
Finders, keepers
Losers, weepers
May we all find outstretched hands and become “keepers.”
Andrea Spalding
Pender Island, B.C.
Introduction
This book is a work of fiction. While Fort Macleod, Fort Macleod Museum, and Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump are real places, I have taken artistic licence with their proximity to each other and the interlinking topography. All the characters in the story are figments of my imagination, so are the plots and situations. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Though the museum aspects of the plot are fictitious, the issues dealt with reflect current concerns of Canadians. I wish that learning disabilities were a figment of my imagination. Unfortunately, they are a very real handicap, and children exhibiting some combination of the difficulties described can be found in almost every classroom. There are also many other learning disabilities not described, so please do not attempt diagnosis from this book. Go to a qualified professional or ask for information from the Learning Disabilities Association of Canada.
FINDERS
Chapter One
Danny ran unsteadily across the prairie pasture towards the irrigation ditch on the far side. He threw himself among the tall grasses and shrubs edging the ditch and buried his face in his arms. His chest heaved, not just with exertion, but with the aftermath of dry sobs.
“I can’t believe I’ve done it—run away from school,” he gasped out loud. “Now I’m really in for it.” He wriggled deeper into the safety of the concealing grass but he was so scared that his body shook and the grasses quivered and rustled in response.
Above him, the noon sun blazed, a newly polished spring sun that melted the remnants of winter and promised warm days ahead. It comforted Danny and his body relaxed slightly into the earth. But when a meadowlark dripped its honeyed notes into the air, Danny angrily stuffed his fingers in his ears. He didn’t want anything interrupting him. He needed to figure things out. He lay still for a long time.
A sharp jab roused him.
“Hey. You dead or somethin’?”
Danny rolled over and squinted at another boy’s dark head silhouetted between him and the sun.
The boy moved back with a tiny sigh of relief. “You had me scared.”
Danny swiftly dragged his sleeve across his face, sat up cautiously and glanced behind. The town of Fort Macleod looked as usual, pretty quiet. No sign of an irate teacher chasing over the fields after him. But he slid his bum down the steep slope of the irrigation ditch towards the water’s edge, putting the concealing earth bank between him and the town. The other boy followed.
Danny looked sideways with interest. Fort Macleod was a small town and he knew practically everyone living there. But this kid with his black hair and dark eyes was from the reserve. Danny had seen him around the stores, but he didn’t know him. He was about Danny’s age and Danny wondered why he was wandering around the fields on his own.
“How come you’re not in school?” Danny blurted out.
The boy grinned, picked a up a stone and threw it expertly across the dull water below. Both boys watched admiringly as it skipped seven times before disappearing into the depths.
“Teacher quit,” he replied laconically. “We don’t get another till Monday.”
“WOW!” Danny gasped in admiration. A wonderful new world opened up before him. A world in which teachers quit and you couldn’t find a replacement. A hundred scenarios raced through his brain. What if Mr. Berg quit? No more yelling, no more DTs. No more dreading being chosen to spell out loud. No-one sniggering when he stumbled over his tables. No more being called stupid when he couldn’t do written work.
“So. Why aren’t you in school?” The boy interrupted his daydream.
Danny thought for a minute. Suddenly the world that had seemed so desperate held new hope. With the trace of a grin on his lips, he turned to the unknown boy. “I quit,” he said firmly.
There was a moment’s silence, then the boy gave a chuckle and slapped Danny on the back. That did it. Danny’s precarious balance gave way and he slithered down the slippery grass-covered slope towards the cold grey water.
“Help!” Danny grabbed the boy’s arm. Down they both slithered, stopping only on the very edge of the bank, Danny with one foot in the water.
“Geez, that’s cold.” Danny ripped off his sneaker and wobbled on one leg while wringing out his sock. Then he hopped around shaking the sock and shoe in the air, trying to figure if the sun was hot enough to dry them.
The boy laughed. Danny looked at him and then down at his dripping shoe and sock and realized
he was showering the boy; he grinned and again flicked the wet sock in his direction. The boy ducked and scooped up a handful of water and flung it over Danny. Danny retaliated and in seconds both boys were soaked, laughing, and breathless.
“What’s your name?” panted Danny as they lay on their backs and figured out what to do next.
“Joshua Brokenhorn,” replied the boy. “What’s yours?”
“Danny Budzynski. My dad runs the general store in Fort Macleod, and we live in the white farmhouse on the highway just west of town.”
Joshua nodded. “Walked past it today.” He punched Danny on the arm. “Your dog barked at me.”
“Aw. He barks at everyone, but he wags his tail at the same time. He’s a dumb mutt,” added Danny quickly so that Joshua wouldn’t think he was nuts over his dog.
Joshua lay back and chewed on a grass stalk. Danny looked curiously at him. He’d never really talked to a kid from the reserve before, and he’d never visited the reserve. He’d heard stories. Some of the grownups in town didn’t seem to like Indians, but Danny thought they were neat; in fact he admired them and sometimes he wished he was one. Not a modern Indian, but a warrior of the plains who never went to school, but hunted buffalo and lived in a teepee. Sometimes Danny would pay his quarter to go inside the museum in Fort Macleod. He’d wander around looking at the Indian beadwork, the collection of arrowheads and the old photos, (especially the ones showing the Sun Dance, with the warrior pulling against the sinews threaded through his chest) and he’d imagine what life would be like as an Indian.
“What’s it like on the reserve?” he asked hesitantly.
Joshua looked solemn. “Oh, we scalp white folk and sit around drumming and waiting for the buffalo to come.”
Danny’s eyes widened. “You joking?”
Joshua laughed. “’Course I am. What do you think it’s like?”
Danny shook his head. “Dunno. You’re the first reserve kid I’ve talked to.”
“Well, Danny Bud-whatever-it-is, you’re the first Ukrainian kid I’ve talked to. What’s it like at your place?” “Aw, we just sit around and eat perogies,” Danny offered with a grin.
“Hey, you’re OK.” Joshua stretched and got to his feet. “Want to come and see the eagles?”
Danny cautiously climbed to the top of the bank and looked over. Everything was still quiet. “What the heck. I’m in big trouble anyway.” And he slid back down.
The two boys headed along the ditch swiping last year’s grasses with their hands as they passed, seeing who could send the dead seed heads flying farthest.
“Where do the Eagles play? They’ve never played the Macleod Cougars.”
“Not a hockey team… Eagles… Real birds.”
“Oh, birds.” Danny’s tone echoed his disappointment. His vision of a stolen afternoon watching a hockey game was rudely shattered. “What do we want to go and see birds for?”
Joshua turned and patiently explained. “No, not just birds. Bald Eagles. Lots of them.” His voice rose excitedly. “They fly along this side of the Rockies on their spring migration. They’re going to the lakes up north.”
Danny was unconvinced. “I’ve seen eagles,” he said. “They circle above our farm sometimes.”
“Those are Golden Eagles,” Joshua explained. “But these are the Bald Eagles. You see them in southern Alberta only at this time of the year. They’re special. My grandfather told me they’d be here for the next few days. I promised to meet him on his lookout hill. Come on.”
Joshua scrambled up the side of the ditch and headed west across the farmlands. Danny followed, not sure that eagles were really interesting, but Joshua seemed OK. Besides, it would fill in the time until school finished and he could go home.
Chapter Two
The boys jogged across endless fields and tracks and slithered under a barbed wire fence with a faded NO TRESPASSING sign. Danny stopped. “Hey, is this reserve land? Am I trespassing?” he asked uncomfortably.
Joshua barely lessened his long easy stride. “You’re with me, aren’t you?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Guess so.” Danny ran to catch up and they continued together for another half kilometre.
“How much longer?” panted Danny. “Where is this lookout place anyway?”
Joshua stopped and pointed. The land rose and fell ahead of them in ever increasing waves. In the far distance the sun gleamed on the Rocky Mountains, a jagged white capped wall edging Danny’s world. The mountains were constant reminders of another world, one beyond the prairies. They beckoned.
“The mountains!” Danny sputtered. “They’re miles away.”
Joshua shook his head. “Nah! The next rise.” He pointed again. “See, there’s Naaahsa, my grandfather.”
Danny squinted for a better look. The top of the next rise was still far away, but he could see it clearly. He couldn’t see anyone on it though. Joshua continued to point so Danny scanned it again carefully. He shook his head. “The only thing up there is that old tree stump.”
Joshua grinned and started up the rise. “Better not let grandfather hear you call him that,” he tossed over his shoulder. “He might think it’s disrespectful.”
Puzzled, Danny stared at Joshua’s back, then his eyes raked the hilltop again. The tree stump could be a person. A person sitting on the ground. But why would Joshua’s Grandfather be sitting on the ground in the middle of a field? He headed up to find out.
At the crest of the hill Danny stopped, feeling uncomfortable. An old man was sitting cross-legged on a blanket, another folded neatly across his lap. His iron-grey hair was parted in the middle and woven into two long braids that hung down over his chest and ended in bright red elastics. He sat there still and silent, his hands in his lap, gazing across the field. His face reminded Danny of the museum photos of long dead chiefs. Stern, strong and unreadable, and definitely different. Danny was the odd person out here. He felt awkward, a little frightened and unsure of what he had got himself into.
Joshua settled cross-legged, slightly behind the old man. Danny scuffed his feet nervously. “Er, hi,” he ventured, darting a look at the old man’s face.
The old man’s eyes briefly met Danny’s. He gave a tiny nod then returned to gazing at the field. His lips moved silently as though he was talking to himself.
Joshua laid his fingers on his lips, patted a space on the blanket, and motioned Danny to join him. Danny tiptoed over and sat down. “What’s he doing?” he mouthed to Joshua.
“Praying,” Joshua mouthed back.
Danny felt even more uncomfortable and wished he’d not asked. Wasn’t praying something people did privately? Or at mass? It wasn’t something you did in the middle of a field, especially when other people were around. He shifted his legs uneasily and looked at the sky, the landscape, the ground. Anywhere except at the old man.
They sat for a long time.
Gradually a change came over Danny. Instead of feeling uncomfortable and looking around desperately for something to grab his attention, he began to really look. To see and absorb the tiny details of the landscape.
It was an ordinary scene. The sort he saw every day, had seen a hundred times before but never really looked at. He was sitting in the middle of a field, the ploughed ridges sharp beneath his buttocks. Ice crystals sparkled in the hollows despite the strength of the sun. Before him, the swirled chocolate ground rolled away into a wide shallow valley. It stopped abruptly as a road slashed through a string of shallow sloughs, their edges hazing with the spring greening. Beyond, the rangeland swelled upwards in a ripple of bleached gold grass, towards the hovering mountains. Behind and on either side of him the ground fell away, dissolving into a view of patchwork prairie that expanded endlessly onward, dominated only by the massive spread of blue sky.
Danny shrank deep into his jacket, feeling tiny and insignificant. He closed his eyes. That was when he noticed the wind.
The wind curled around him, lifting the hair off his forehead. It whispe
red insistently in his ears and wafted under his nose. Suddenly Danny felt in contact with his world again. He grinned as he recognized the pungent whiff of pigs and cattle from Mr. MacVey’s farm on the next quarter section. He identified the distant throb of a tractor, and the tiny peep of a young gopher. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the clean fragrance of wild sage and the full-bodied smell of living, breathing earth. With eyes still closed Danny stretched his arm out and felt for the edge of the blanket. He stretched a little further and dug his fingers into the surface of the soil. The ground was too hard for him to be able to do more than pick up a piece of the crusted surface. His hand closed around it and crumbled it to dust. The heat of his palm released more of its rich earthy aroma. Danny opened his eyes and lifted his fist into the air. He spread his fingers and watched the wind lift the soil grains and swirl them across the field.
About 30 metres away, a small patch of white stirred.
A tingle ran down Danny’s spine. He froze, hardly daring to breathe. He was looking right into the fierce eyes of an adult Bald Eagle.
The bird was hunched on the ground, resting. Its black feathers blended into the dark ridges of earth. Even the bold white head melted into the background. It could have been a patch of ice, or a piece of garbage caught in the furrow. If the bird hadn’t turned sharply to see if Danny’s movement was a threat, Danny would never have spotted it.
Bird and boy gazed unblinkingly at each other.
“You have the gift to see.” The old man’s voice was a whisper, soft, almost part of the landscape. “When you become at one with the earth, then you are able to see clearly.”
Danny wasn’t sure whether he really heard the words being spoken, or if they’d somehow ’appeared’ in his head. All he knew was that he was seeing in a way he had never seen before.
He concentrated his whole being on the eagle.
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