Finders Keepers

by Andrea Spalding

  The old man smiled gently but said nothing.

  Joshua punched Danny’s arm. “Aw come on, you’re just being weird. The Interpretive Centre is full of neat stuff. Did you bring the lance point?”

  Danny nodded and patted the back pocket of his cutoffs.

  Joshua led the way through the doors of the Interpretive Centre, pressed a button for the elevator and the three of them travelled down to the exhibit levels.

  Danny wandered happily on his own through the displays. Joshua was right, there were wonderful things to be discovered. Peigan stories of the creation of the earth; explanations of the native names for the seasons; the use of herbs and wild foods that Danny had never realized could be eaten; clothing, fire making, drums and rattles. Danny even found a magical ’iniskim’—the buffalo stone.

  “I wonder if you’re the one the holy woman sang to when she called the buffalo,” Danny whispered as he bent down and looked at it with awe.

  The iniskim was small, black and buffalo-shaped. Its well-polished surface gleamed dully as though it had been rubbed and handled during many years of ceremonies. Danny could feel the power pulsing from it. His head whirled and he had to turn away.

  “Holy Comoly,” he gasped.

  There they were… just as if they’d been ’called’ by the Holy Woman… just exactly as he’d imagined them…. A magnificent group of buffalo poised on the edge of the reconstructed jump, buckling at the knees and frozen in time as they were about to topple over to their deaths.

  “WOW!” Danny went closer and looked at the brown muscular beasts whose shoulders towered above him. “You’re massive.”

  Even stuffed and on display the buffalo emanated power and strength. Danny leaned over the barrier to stroke the rough hairy hide.

  “Don’t touch the exhibits!” A brisk looking woman in a red jump suit called out sharply as she walked through the gallery. Danny blushed and moved back quickly but still stared at the animals.

  “The buffalo were our strength.” Behind Danny, the old man appeared again and spoke quietly. “That is why we honour them. We wasted nothing that the buffalo gave us. Without them…?” the old man’s voice died away.

  Danny grappled to understand the undercurrents he could sense behind the old man’s speech. “But YOU didn’t die out, only the buffalo. You still have tipis and language and ceremonies. Even the Sundance.” He gulped as he remembering it was a forbidden subject. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, embarrassed. “I just… it always fascinated me… in the Fort Macleod museum.”

  “Ah yes. The photograph on display. Joshua told me.” The old man moved over to a seat and motioned for Danny to join him.

  “In all cultures there are differences, and in First Nations cultures there are some things that white people find hard to understand.” The old man spoke seriously but without anger. “We believe that some things should not be shown or explained. This includes the sacred ritual of the Sundance. We do not talk about it. The sites are sacred sites… hidden from eyes that don’t understand. The ritual is secret and holy. It should have never been photographed. In your society you have anthropologists, people who try and discover our rituals and explain them. But we are people, not interesting animals to be studied and explained. We are a people. We have sacred beliefs we choose not to share.”

  Danny sat quietly, trying to marshall his muddled thoughts to explain his point of view to the old man. “See… see… it’s hard not to be nosey,” Danny stammered earnestly. “Like… I’m real interested. I want to know everything and see everything. And the sacred stuff’s the most interesting.” Danny paused, grappling for words.

  The old man waited patiently.

  “I guess it’s hard to understand because in our culture we don’t have anything that holy,” Danny said slowly.

  “Some of you do,” said the old man gently. “Do you go to church Danny, to Mass?”

  Danny shuffled uncomfortably. “Mom does, but Dad and I don’t go very often,” he admitted. “Actually, just once or twice a year, like Christmas,” he added honestly.

  “What about the wafers and wine?” questioned the Old Man. “Could they be taken and displayed in a museum?”

  “Oh no,” said Danny definitely, “They’re holy… they’re consecrated.” He stopped suddenly, realizing the impact of his statement. “You mean that’s kinda like the Sundance?”

  The old man eased himself out of the seat, nodded at Danny and left. Danny stared after him.

  Joshua appeared around the corner.

  “I think I’ve offended your grandfather,” said Danny unhappily, and he explained what had happened.

  “It’s OK,” Joshua reassured him. “The elders like to leave you to work things out for yourself.”

  “Sheesh…” Danny’s breath expelled slowly. “If the Sundance ceremony is really sacred…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Joshua, that photo shouldn’t be in the museum. I wonder if we can do anything about it?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before Joshua could answer, he caught a glimpse of a woman striding though the exhibits. His face lit up. “Hey Mom,” he shouted, “we’re over here.” The woman turned, smiled, and headed their way.

  “This is my Mom,” said Joshua proudly. “She’s one of the archaeologists here.”

  Danny’s mouth gaped like a goldfish. It was the woman in the red jump suit, the one who had yelled at him.

  “Hi, you must be Danny. I’m Mrs. Brokenhorn.” Joshua’s mother smiled. She didn’t say anything about yelling, she just shook his hand. “Joshua’s told me about you and I gather you have something you’d like to show me.”

  Danny nodded and fumbled in the pocket of his shorts. He handed her the somewhat grubby pile of tissues. Carefully, Mrs. Brokenhorn peeled them away until the lance point lay exposed on the palm of her hand.

  “How lovely,” she breathed. “Amazing it’s still in one piece after all these years.”

  Danny and Joshua exchanged guilty grins. “More amazing than you know,” thought Danny as he remembered rolling around on the ground after trying to lean on the wind.

  “Danny, I think you have something really special here,” said Mrs. Brokenhorn. “Why don’t you come to my office and we’ll try to identify it.”

  Thrilled, Danny followed Mrs. Brokenhorn across the display area and through a door marked PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY.

  “This is great. I’ve never met a real archaeologist before.” Danny bubbled happily to Joshua. “Why didn’t you tell me what your mother did?”

  “You never asked,” said Joshua with a grin.

  “Idiot!” Danny stuck out a foot to trip Joshua up.

  Joshua smartly jumped over it but stumbled against the corridor wall.

  “You can’t wrestle in here,” warned his mother, opening a door and waving them inside. “There are too many things that could be broken.”

  Joshua saluted her saucily, but obediently went to sit quietly on the only empty chair. Danny hesitated in the doorway. The only other chair had a pile of books on it. He looked around in amazement. There were books everywhere. The walls were lined with them. Danny had never seen so many books except in the public library. Where there weren’t books there were interesting objects, teeth and animal jawbones, lumps of rock, bones, pieces of pottery and several arrowheads. There was even a human skull among the papers on Mrs. Brokenhorn’s desk.

  Danny’s eyes opened wide and he pointed wordlessly.

  “That’s a cast, you can handle it if you want to,” said Mrs. Brokenhorn as she stepped past Danny, removed the books from the other chair and placed them on the floor.

  Danny poked his finger in the skull’s eye socket then pulled a face and perched on the edge of the cleared chair.

  “Now, let’s have a good look at this lance point.” Mrs. Brokenhorn made a space on her desk and spread out a piece of blue paper. She angled a desk light so it shone on the paper and placed the lance point in the middle of the patch of light. The point g
leamed and shone mystically.

  Taking what looked like a long fine pair of steel tweezers, Mrs. Brokenhorn stretched them out so one steel tip gently touched each end of the point.

  “What are you doing?” asked Danny curiously.

  “I’m measuring. Using steel calipers is much more accurate than if I had tried to place the uneven surfaces of your lance point on a tape measure.”

  Danny and Joshua watched with fascination as Mrs. Brokenhorn used the calipers to measure not only the length, but the width and the depth on several places of the point. Then she took several photos of it. The last one she took with an instant print camera. “Here Danny,” she said passing it over. “This one’s for you.”

  The two boys hung over the photo and watched the picture magically develop before their eyes.

  “Well,” said Danny eagerly. “Is it something special? What kind of lance point is it?’

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a Scottsbluff point, and it’s around 8000 years old,” said Mrs. Brokenhorn, stroking the point gently.

  Both boys whistled in admiration.

  “If that’s correct then it’s pretty special,” she continued, as she held it up to the light and they all admired it. “See how delicate it is. It’s rare to find an undamaged lance point. It could have been made to use with an atlatl.”

  “An atal-whatl?” laughed Danny.

  “An at-l-at-1.” Mrs. Brokenhorn sounded out the syllables carefully so Danny could grasp the name. “It’s a throwing stick to make a lance go further. Here!” she moved around the desk and picked up a pencil and paper. “I’ll draw it to show you how it works.”

  Danny gazed at her then down at the drawing. “I don’t really get it,” he said hesitantly.

  Mrs. Brokenhorn smiled. “It seems pretty complicated, but all the atlatl really does is lengthen your arm so you can throw further. You could make one and see how it works.”

  “Really? Great, can we do it now?” Danny and Joshua bounced off their chairs eagerly.

  “Hold on a second.” Mrs. Brokenhorn suddenly turned serious. “There is something else I have to say.”

  Joshua sat back. He knew what was coming.

  Danny sensed a change in the atmosphere, sat down again and looked warily from Joshua’s mother to Joshua. “What’s up?” he whispered.

  “Just listen, but don’t get mad,” Joshua whispered back.

  “Danny, did you know that archaeological finds are so important that they are protected by Alberta government laws?” asked Mrs. Brokenhorn.

  “No,” said Danny, “but that’s good isn’t it? Doesn’t it stop people stealing things from your digs?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Brokenhorn said, “but the law doesn’t just protect digs. It covers any archaeological find in the province.”

  Danny looked at her puzzled. He sensed she was trying to tell him something but he wasn’t sure what.

  Mrs. Brokenhorn sighed. “Even archaeological finds as small as lance points, Danny.” she said gently.

  Danny stiffened with horror. “You mean… NO!” he yelled and grabbed the point off the desk and, clutching it protectively, thrust it deep in his pocket.

  Why did everyone want his lance point? He’d found it, and it was special… Even before he knew it was 8000 years old, it was special. Besides… since he found the lucky lance point his dreams had been better. He didn’t get chased by the ’Thing’ anymore.

  “You can’t have it,” his voice shook. “I found it so it’s mine. You can’t have it.”

  Joshua and his mother looked at each other then at Danny. But before Mrs. Brokenhorn could take a deep breath and explain, Danny slid off the chair, ran to the door and left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Danny raced down the corridor, through the display area towards the elevators. He repeatedly pressed the call button, then found he couldn’t bear to wait. He pushed blindly through a doorway marked STAIRS and rushed upwards. Legs pumping and chest heaving, he burst through an exit, into the fresh air.

  He stood, gasping, at the top of the Buffalo Jump. It was empty. No visitors, no old man or Joshua. Just him, the landscape, the wind, and time to think.

  Danny walked slowly along the edge of the jump.

  The wind soothed and caressed him. It dried the sweat on his forehead and cooled his body. His lungs drew in grateful sage-sweet breaths and his heart gradually stopped thumping.

  Danny sat down, his back against a sun-warmed rock, took the lance point out of his pocket and cupped it in the palm of his hands. It gleamed creamily and the orange threads through the chert sang in the sunshine. Danny drew a finger gently across the fluted edges and felt them nip and bite. “You’re still sharp, even after 8000 years,” he marvelled, “you could still do the job you were made for.”

  But what was the lance point’s job now? It would never be used for hunting again. Should he keep it and use it to keep his fears at bay? It might get broken. Eight thousand years old, WOW! It was a miracle it had survived so long in his pocket. Should he give it to Mrs. Brokenhorn or to Joshua’s grandfather? They were Peigans—maybe the point belonged to them. Danny felt guilty for taking something that he’d found on reserve land. Perhaps it should be in the Interpretive Centre. An 8000-year-old archaeological find should be looked after carefully. That was what museums and interpretive centres were for. But maybe he shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Maybe it belonged to the earth. The thoughts churned around and around in Danny’s head and eventually crystallized into one big one. He was the finder and he loved and wanted the lance point, but who was its best keeper?

  Danny looked down at the lance point. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I wonder what the person who made you would want me to do.” He clasped his hand tightly over the point, lay back against the rock, closed his eyes and tried to visualize the original maker.

  The young man with one eagle feather in his headband was checking the binding on his new lance. It was a good lance. The unusual cream chert had been difficult to knap but it made a fine sharp point. The sinews binding the point in place had dried strongly and tightly and the lance shaft ran straight and true. It was almost ready to use. He flexed his arm and tried out a throw. The lance sped swiftly upwards then curved back to earth to embed itself in some soft prairie. It had flown well but not as far as the young man would like. The young man sighed. His arm was still not as strong or as powerful as some of the older hunters’. No matter how many hours he exercised and practiced, he could not throw as fast or as far as White Calf or Running Wolf. Still an atlatl would help. He would craft a special one to match his lance.

  Picking up his lance, the hunter strode across the prairie and down into a small coulee to search for suitable wood. He walked down towards the river, passing several bushes of juniper. He ignored them. Juniper stems were twisted and gnarled, he wanted a cottonwood tree. One with the wood grain running straight through the length of the branch.

  With the same patience that he had knapped the point, the young man searched for the right piece of wood. He knew he would find it if he looked long enough and in the right places. There it was, a light but sturdy branch on a young cottonwood tree overhanging the Oldman River. It had side branches running off in the right place to make a notch for the lance. He pulled out his obsidian knife and chipped it off.

  The young man sat on the riverbank and trimmed off one side shoot from the branch and peeled and smoothed the wood, checking it against his lance. Then came the hard part. Patiently the young man trimmed the remaining side shoot to leave a small spur, then pared and scraped a shallow groove along the top of the branch until it met the spur forming a little hollow. It took time, for he wanted the groove smooth and even with no bumps or nicks. Eventually he ran his fingers delicately over the wood and smiled with satisfaction. It was smooth. He had made an atlatl. He picked up the atlatl and lance and eagerly ran up the coulee, to try them out on the prairie.

  The young hunter paused and looked around at t
he empty landscape. He was several miles from his tribe’s summer camp and had this patch of prairie to himself. He had purposely come far so no one would see if his attempts at making a lance and atlatl failed.

  The hunter placed the lance snugly in the groove across the top edge of the atlatl, the end tucked up to the spur. He curled his first finger over the top of the lance to keep it steady and held the bottom of the atlatl firmly with his thumbs and the remaining three fingers of his right hand. He lifted them shoulder high for a few seconds, to feel the balance. It wasn’t right. The stone point made the lance head too heavy to sit easily on the length of the atlatl. He needed something on the atlatl to balance the weight.

  The hunter lowered his arm and looked around. There was a long narrow pebble. That might work. Using some spare sinew from his pouch the young man bound the pebble towards the back length of the atlatl, then laid the lance shaft in place again. It took several tries before he placed the counterweight correctly, but finally, when he held the lance and atlatl up in the strike position, they balanced perfectly. Patiently he cut two grooves for the pebble’s binding so that the lance would still fit smoothly on top of it. It was time to try again.

  Holding lance and atlatl at shoulder height, the young hunter started to run, his long legs pounding across the prairie. He drew his arm back as he gained momentum and with as much strength as he could, threw towards the sun. The atlatl powerfully thrust the lance forward. Swiftly it sped skyward, higher and higher in a big beautiful curve. With a great cry of triumph the young man spread his arms. It was a good throw, almost equal to the best that White Calf could do.

  It was the cry that startled Danny. His eyes flew open and he sat up suddenly. The cry came again, and a shadow passed over Danny’s body. He squinted against the sun and saw not the young man with the eagle feather and dream lance, but a Bald Eagle.