Finders Keepers (12 page)

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.

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 the 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.

“Young men have to earn eagle feathers,” echoed the Old Man's voice in Danny's head. “Your time will come.”

Danny stood up and squared his shoulders.

Remembering the patience and persistence of the young hunter and the strength and courage of the eagle, Danny walked determinedly back to the Interpretive Centre and called the elevator.

He stepped out on the display level, and walked through the
PRIVATE
door, down the corridor to Mrs. Brokenhorn's office. He paused, took a deep breath, rapped firmly on the door, and cautiously opened it.

Joshua and his mother were still there, talking quietly. Joshua's face lit up when he saw Danny but he said nothing, just watched as Danny came into the office.

Danny hesitated then walked slowly over to the desk.

Mrs. Brokenhorn smiled and waited for him to speak.

“I'm sorry I got mad. I know my point's important, but I need it for my school project… and I need time… I can't figure it out. I don't know if the lance point should be here,
or maybe I should give it to Joshua's grandfather. I'm not sure who it really belongs to.”

“I'm not really sure, either Danny,” Mrs. Brokenhorn admitted softly.

Danny looked at her in surprise.“You're not?”

Mrs. Brokenhorn pushed her dark hair back from her forehead and leaned back thoughtfully. “No, you see, the person who made this lance point may not have been Peigan. We don't know what nations used the Jump in the early days. So even if you thought the lance point should be given back to the people of the First Nations, no one would know which group to give it to.”

Danny felt a small measure of relief. “So I'm not the only one trying to figure it out?”

Mrs. Brokenhorn smiled, stood up and walked around the desk. She patted Danny on the shoulder.

“No, this is something I deal with all the time. Joshua has told me how important this point is to you, but I want you to seriously think about it and its place in history. I'm not going to insist you donate it to the museum now…. no one is going to snatch it from you… I'm going to trust that you think it through and do the right thing.”

She looked across at Joshua. “So, are you going to take Danny to the pow wow?”

“The drums… I'd forgotten,” said Danny, “Will I get to see the drummers?”

“You bet,” said Joshua. “And the dancers. Let's go.”

Joshua and Danny ran exuberantly down the hill. The drumming had stopped but news of the pow wow had spread around the Interpretive Centre and other visitors streamed and flowed through the tipi ring towards the arbour of branches. Danny followed Joshua closely and they wove expertly through the crowd and dodged under an leafy archway into the dancing ground.