We headed back to the others, the bear still clutched in my uncle’s hand. I eyed it as we tromped through the woods a short distance. Something about it kept pulling me, urging me to take it from him.
Uncle Mark called out, “Hey, Jack! Look what our Arrow Hound found!”
Both my dad and Ricky came over and took turns holding the artifact while I fidgeted anxiously. I told myself, I just don’t want them to break it.
Dad took the carving, examined it, and announced, “This is a whistle, not a pipe!”
He pointed out a couple of extra holes carved into the branch on which the bear sat and then brought the whistle up to his mouth to blow.
I realized his intentions and started to say, “No!” but was too late.
When he blew into it, out came the high-pitched, raspy note that had little in common with what I had heard the night before. He changed his fingering and got a second, screeching note. I flinched and waited for something to happen, half expecting him to turn into a bear, but he just smiled in triumph.
“This is an amazing find. I’ve heard of people finding whistles, but I never knew they could be carved with effigies!”
The rest of us hadn’t heard of an effigy whistle before, either; it made the discovery even more exciting. After passing it around and talking about it, I put it in a padded box for safekeeping, and we continued our search. The find jazzed us all. We searched with more enthusiasm than before, but I couldn’t concentrate.
At one point, without realizing it, I stopped, opened the box, and just stared at the whistle.
Ricky found me that way. “Earth to Finn.”
Startled, I slapped the box closed and tried to cover my embarrassment. “Uh, hi Ricky.”
“If you looked at me like that, I'd make you wear a condom over your head.”
I barked out an unwilling laugh and started to reply.
“Don't even go there boy! Don't make me hurt you.”
I tried to grin knowingly, since I had no clue what she thought I was going to say. From her look, I'm sure that it was better than anything I would have come up with.
We found another two arrowheads that day amongst a pile of dirt rich in flint flakes. As usual, it hardly mattered to us that the heads weren’t pristine and intact. The fun and excitement of the hunt lasted even after we lost the morning cool, and the day turned hot and humid. Just before we called it quits, Uncle Mark came up with an oblong stone that he called an ax head. If I squinted, the rough oval gray rock was sort of ax like, but I wasn’t convinced.
Two arrowheads, a dubious ax head, and an effigy whistle in good condition constituted a great day: the kind that keeps artifact hunters coming back through countless days of disappointment.
The other high point of my day came when, soaked to the bone with sweat, I took a break for lunch and much-needed hydration, and Ricky came over and sat beside me on the ground. We spent a pleasant hour chatting about the whistle, the Adena, Hopewell, and other ancient cultures in the Ohio River Valley. I liked her smile and her wry sense of humor, which had become more apparent over the course of the dig. I hoped she liked me too.
We called it an early night. Back in the hotel room, I pulled out the bear whistle and studied its smooth dark red form. My fingers found it a satiny feast. It seemed to pulse with mystery and promise. A darker material lay recessed where the reed would be in a modern wind instrument. The pipe had been cleverly fashioned to hold the darker material in place without any obvious way to get it out. I wondered how they had gotten it in there.
My dad finally joked, “Finn, if you stare at that thing much more, you’re going to give that bear a complex.”
I gave my dad a self-conscious smile. “It’s just so cool! I love the way it looks and feels. It’s like it carries the weight of all its history.”
My dad nodded. “I know the feeling. That’s why I do this. Of course, I also feel the same way when I find a fossil or a chunk of meteor rock.” He paused and reflected a moment. “It makes you feel like you’re somehow connected to something larger. Holding a piece of granite that you know has been around for a billion years is just as moving for me.”
“Check this out. Look at the eyes. It looks like they’re made of the same material as the reed. They’re different than the pipe stone—blacker.” I handed it over to my dad, and his face lit up with the same excitement about it that I felt.
“Hard to tell, but they look like obsidian to me.
I had to agree.
The next morning, we got an early start so we could spend a few hours at the mound before we had to pack up and head back to the airfield. Thankfully, we never had to get back in that old Chevy, because Ricky acted as our chauffeur.
After we finished unpacking our gear from the car, Ricky came over and shook hands with the three of us.
She smirked at me. “Bye, Finn. Stay away from any more haunted mounds at night.”
I said, “Same to you,” as she hopped into her car.
Her impersonal goodbye crushed me as she drove away. While being with her over the weekend, I had half convinced myself that I was in love. I had fantasized about a nice big hug or, in my more optimistic moments, a kiss on the cheek, maybe even an exchange of e-mail addresses or phone numbers. All she gave me was a nice, firm handshake and a comment to my dad about what a “good kid” he had.
The drive to the airport left me depressed and disengaged from my father and uncle, and I consoled myself on the flight back by holding the whistle. Definitely not as cool as a kiss from a beautiful girl, but not a bad consolation prize, either.
After we landed and transferred everything to our car, we chatted for a few minutes.
“Well, Finn, as usual, your instincts are truly amazing,” remarked my uncle.
“I’m just lucky,” I protested while still feeling inordinately proud.
“I was hoping that I could borrow your whistle for a while,” he added. “I’ve got some real archeologists that I’d like to show it to. I think they’d appreciate the chance to study it, catalog it, and just hold it. Of course, I can’t show them until we’re finished with the dig. Would it be okay if I took it for a couple of weeks?”
An emphatic, ‘No,’ bubbled up and tried to escape, but I swallowed it back. It was a reasonable and sensible request. A find like this shouldn't be kept to only one person. It should be in a museum, where everyone could appreciate it, but I couldn't imagine letting it go.
I came up with a compromise that could put off the decision indefinitely, but still not make me feel like an uneducated jerk. “Since you can’t show it to anyone until you are completely done with the excavation, can I give it to you later?”
Uncle Mark laughed in understanding. He loved his things too. “You betcha kiddo.” He tousled my hair and then shook hands with my dad and me before heading off to his Beamer. Apparently, this time he'd driven down.
On my way home, the urge to return to the mound and help with the excavation grew until it was almost painful, but no matter how I pleaded with my dad, he wouldn’t hear of it.
I had to console myself that I at least got to keep the bear. I pulled the whistle out of its box and fiddled with it all the way home. Hopefully my fascination with it would wane by the time my uncle asked to borrow it again.
Happily, the next day, my dad called to let me know that Hatzer had put a stop on the project, and he hadn't told Mark why, but Mark was sure it was just a temporary delay. I was delighted. If he put it off long enough, I might be able to come down and help!
Possession Obsession
Back at school, the day after returning from the mound, during my open period, Jim, Gregg, and I sat together at a table in the science lab. I told them what I had seen. Jim remained still throughout my story with a Mona Lisa smile, but Gregg showed his skepticism openly.
He rolled his eyes after I finished telling them about my first night at the sight. “Homie, you are so full of shit!”
“No, really!” I exclaimed. �
�This is the god’s honest truth! I have never had something so freaky and scary happen to me!”
Jim remained silent and unperturbed, but Gregg couldn’t let it go. “You stopped taking your medicine, didn’t you?”
Now I rolled my eyes. “I’m not on any medicine, Gregg.”
He pounced. “Well, then that’s the problem, isn’t it? You need more drugs! Your mind has finally broken!”
“Yeah? Well, Ricky felt it, too, and how do you explain this?” I yanked the box with my bear whistle out of my bag, pulled out the whistle, and handed it to Jim, just to snub Gregg. “When I returned the next day, I found this buried in the roots just like I had seen it the night before. Explain that.”
Jim examined and squinted at it. “This is nice. It feels old. Did you really find this in the tree roots?”
“Yep, and the previous night, the ghost played it before he turned into a bear.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted Gregg. “It’s probably made in China. Let me see.” He snatched the figurine from Jim’s hand, and his face opened up with surprise as he brought it closer to look at it. “Damn, Finn! This is real! Jim’s right. It’s old.”
From the moment I held it, I’d known that, too, so I taunted him. “How do you know, Gregg? Seen a lot of these, have you?”
I made my point.
He turned his narrowed eyes on me. “It feels old. It looks old.”
I smiled at him sweetly. “That’s because it is old, and came packaged with a guardian ghost who turns into a bear.”
He grunted. “I think somebody slipped something into your Cheerios, bro. Just because it’s old, doesn’t mean it’s mystical. If you’re right, then blowing on this should turn me into a bear.” Without warning, he put it to his lips and blew hard and loud.
“Gregg, no!”
The little whistle gave a high-pitched screech of protest. The sound pierced right through my skull. I clasped my hands to my ears like everyone else in the lab. Unlike them, I gaped at Gregg as he blew, half-afraid he’d change in front of me. Jim jumped from his seat and grabbed the whistle from him. The sound ceased, only to be replaced by the loud complaints of the other students in the lab.
“Jesus, Gregg!” Jim growled as Gregg sat and laughed. “You nearly took out our eardrums.”
I scowled at Gregg. “You jerk!”
Gregg smirked. “You know, I’ve got this weird craving for honey.”
“Yeah, yeah. Ha, ha,” I replied, trying not to crack a grin. “Look, this bear didn’t just blow one note; he played a song and chanted something.”
“Yeah? How did it go?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
“Hey, I’m just seeing if we can repeat your experience under controlled conditions.”
“And, what would we have done with a grizzly bear in the science lab?” I demanded.
Gregg guffawed again.
“Look, I’m not saying I believe that blowing this whistle will turn me into a bear. I’m not that far gone, but I saw what I saw. I know Ricky didn’t see it as well as me, but the cold hit her harder. Something happened to her. We can call her, and she’ll back me up!” I turned to Jim. “Do you think I’m making this up, too?”
“No, Finn, I don’t think you’re making this up. Obviously, you believe something happened to you. Maybe it wasn’t a ghost.” To stop my protest, he raised his hand and continued. “But it sure made an impact on you. I actually think Gregg had the right idea—in a douche baggy sort of way. We should try to duplicate the conditions of your experience and see if something happens. See if you can remember the song your ghost played. We can try playing it during the day or at night and see if anything happens.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Gregg prodded a little stung by the “douche bag” comment.
Jim raised and lowered a shoulder. “Of course. I’m an engineer, not a scientist like you. I don’t necessarily care why something works; I just want to be certain that it does. If you can’t explain it scientifically, that’s your problem, not mine. Besides, wouldn’t it be cool to see Finn turn into a bear?”
Gregg was enthusiastic. “I’d pay money to see that. Let’s do it!”
I gaped at them, not certain if they were serious, then grabbed the whistle from Jim. “I think I’d just feel too stupid trying it.”
Gregg twiddled his pencil between his fingers, a grin spreading wide on his lips. “Stupider than running around claiming to have been attacked by a ghost-bear?”
“Oh shut up, douche bag,” I muttered without any heat.
If I believed what I saw that night, it would be a logical next step, but I feared what I would do if it worked. A kinship with the priests that refused to believe Galileo rose within me. Happily, I was saved by the bell, and we headed off to our next class.
Later that day, hanging out after school, I told Jeff, Dave, and Alan as well. They were a study in contrasts lined up on the brick half wall in front of the school. Dave was pure blond, sky and fair skinned. Jeff was short with a medium build and sort of middle-eastern swarthy skin while Alan was a mix of the two with snow white tan and curly black hair. He was also about as tall as the two of them put together. They didn’t slam me as Gregg had. They both wanted to go back, and I found myself agreeing with them. There were other secrets still to be found.
Dave wanted to try Jim’s experiment right away, only he wanted to drive down to the mound that night and try it there. Jeff seconded him, but I backed off, saying I couldn’t remember what the ghost had chanted or how the tune went. I told them that I’d try to remember and maybe we could try it after school.
I lied, of course. Those words and that tune had indelibly burned themselves into my memory—Nimakwa-kitathaya. My unreasonable fear that the words and tune might work overshadowed my curiosity.
That evening, relaxing up in my room, I turned the bear whistle over and over in my hands. Upon realizing what I was doing, I noted that I didn’t even remember picking it up out of its box. The feelings of comfort and strength it radiated were so addictive that I had to keep the whistle near me, but the only way I could do it would be to thread a string through the hole that traveled through the branch. That would make it impossible to blow the whistle, but I wasn’t planning ever to do that.
With a needle and a heavy thread from my mom’s hobby box, I created a necklace, and I slipped it over my head. The base of the whistle curved like a branch, and the bear sat on the limb, staring at whoever might blow the whistle. When I held the bear upright, the branch curved down at each end, which meant that the bear naturally hung upside-down on the string. It didn’t matter which way it hung, so I made the heavy string long enough that the bear would dip below the collar of any shirt I might wear. It would be safe, inconspicuous, and it with me all the time.
When I put the necklace on, it felt good and right, but I couldn't explain why. Somehow, it made me feel safe, though I couldn’t tell from what.
Since that night, I never took that necklace off unless I had to. When I wasn't wearing it, I felt naked and exposed.
Unsurprisingly, I dreamt about the bear that night. Only, it wasn't a little carving, it was a ten-foot tall mountain of fur and fury. It wanted something from me, but I had no idea what. After a short time, the bear disappeared and left me standing in front of the mound. The dream was short but intense, and I would have it several times over the next couple of weeks, until it was usurped by a much more interesting dream.
The Oak
The old oak tree stood in our backyard close to our house. Its branches extended to my bedroom window. Perfect for climbing, I sat in my tree when life seemed unfair, boring, or horrible in some other way. I usually sat on my branch and could comfortably remain there in peace for hours: hiding, sulking, planning revenge, imagining worlds, or just reading. I loved my tree and fancied it loved me back. Its branches waved about my bedroom window. In the summer, its canopy protected my room from the sun (when it came out), and in the winter, its branches
stood stark against the gray skies of Ohio, a promise of the return of spring and life.
Sometime after our mound trip, my dad had decided that it had to go, but I’d arrived just as the chainsaw had started its first cut. I couldn’t let it happen.
“Dad! Stop! You can’t cut my tree down! I love that tree!”
He turned to me in surprise. His round Harry Potter glasses—he called them his John Lennon glasses—emphasized the kind, vague manner he had. He shut down the chainsaw as I took a stand between him and my tree.
“Finn, it’s time for this tree to go. It’s dying. One of these days, one of those branches is going to come down in a windstorm, right into your room. The tree needs to go. Besides, I need to make room for the back deck.”
My dad had called it right. The thinning canopy bore mute testimony to his diagnosis, but it didn't matter; it was my tree.
I backed against the trunk. “Dad, no! This tree is going to outlast all of us.” I paused, searching for ammunition. “Besides, you’re never going to get that deck built. You know it!”
“Finn,” he said in the overly reasonable tone he used when he felt I had gotten a little over dramatic, “The deck is beside the point. That tree is becoming a hazard and an eyesore.”
I racked my brain for arguments. “I’ll fertilize it! And… and water it! And take care of it. I’ll get it healthy again. I’ll help you build the deck around it… whatever! Dad, you just can't cut it down.”
My dad blinked his owl-eyed blink, considered for a moment, and then he sighed in defeat. “Finn, I don’t know that all the fertilizer and water in the world is going to help. I think it’s just old. Besides, I think oaks don’t need much water. I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets too much as it is in this soggy state.”
The Dryad's Kiss Page 4