Hannah & the Spindle Whorl

by Carol Anne Shaw

  I shake my head. Could this day get any more bizarre? It starts to drizzle a bit as I near the end of the forest trail. I can see a few people on their boats, and there are even a couple of BBQs on the go — a sure sign that summer is here. All the windows of our houseboat are wide open, which can only mean that Aunt Maddie is already here and cooking up a storm.

  I step out from the trees and onto the road. Nell has put the closed sign on the bakery door and gone home for a while. I can see all the day-old stuff bagged up, ready and waiting on the table by the door. I hope that Dad remembered to get carrot muffins. Aunt Maddie loves carrot muffins.

  When I get home, Chuck is lying in the flower box under the kitchen window. There’s nothing in it except a few clumps of hardened old dirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He looks sleepy and bored and opens his mouth in a “hello” meow when he sees me, only nothing comes out. I can see Aunt Maddie by the stove. The counter is a complete mess, but we’re used to kitchen chaos when she cooks supper. There are always vegetable peelings everywhere, and she uses every single pot and pan we own. We have to do dishes for about three days after she goes home, but it’s totally worth it because she’s such an awesome cook.

  “Hey Aunt Maddie!” I call as I come through the door and chuck my backpack on the stairs.

  “Hey Han,” she calls back, brandishing a wooden spoon covered with tomato sauce. “Where ya been?”

  “Wait till you see what I found!” And then I go cold all over, remembering how I had tossed my backpack on the stairs. What if the thing broke? I rush over to check and, luckily, it’s still safe and snug between my books and my shoes. I slide it out slowly, like it’s made of glass, and then flash it in front of Dad and Aunt Maddie.

  “Holy cow! Where’d you get that?” Dad asks.

  “I found it in this cave. In the bottom of this cliff, hidden just off the trail! I tripped and fell in the woods and I saw this rock face with a hole in the bottom covered by a bunch of salal and thick trees and ivy and stuff. So I crawled inside, and then I found this! Isn’t it great! What do you think it is?”

  “What do you mean, you tripped and fell?” Aunt Maddie starts picking twigs out of my hair and then notices the dirt on my clothes. “You crawled inside?”

  Dad takes the thing carefully from my hands and examines it slowly, turning it over again and again. “Well, it’s definitely a Native artifact … I don’t think it’s cedar though. It looks more like maple to me.” Dad knows a lot about wood because of his carving hobby.

  “Whoa … I bet it’s carved from big leaf maple,” Aunt Maddie says decisively. “This is way cool, Hannah. I think you’ve found a Cowichan spindle whorl. Coast Salish. And look here! Check out this pattern of salmon!”

  When she was younger, Aunt Maddie studied anthropology in university and once even worked on an archeological dig in northern British Columbia. But now she works at home editing people’s books. She does a lot of work for my father, because even though he’s a very good writer, he’s also a very bad speller.

  “A Salish what?” I ask.

  “Spindle whorl,” she replies.

  “A spindle whirl?”

  “Not whirl; whorl … w-h-o-r-l. It was used for spinning wool and other fibre. It’s what people used before spinning wheels came into use. I once saw a woman use one at a heritage fair. It was amazing. She really made the thing sing! She went into a sort of deep meditation. It was sure something to watch.”

  Now Aunt Maddie holds it, inspecting it from all angles, feeling the smooth lines of the carved images on its surface.

  “Can I keep it, Dad?” I ask, then remember Max telling me about the arrowhead that he had to give to the archaeologist in Williams Lake.

  “I doubt it, Hannah. It looks like something pretty important. We should let someone at the museum in Victoria know about this. It may be a big deal. They will want to examine this for sure and find out how old it is. Things like that.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Well, if it’s really old, then they use radiocarbon dating. Dating the dirt, basically,” Aunt Maddie explains.

  “How old could it be?” I can feel myself getting more and more excited about the strange object.

  “Well, hard to say. They say that people came across the Bering land bridge during the last Ice Age and reached Vancouver Island close to ten thousand years ago,” Aunt Maddie tells us.

  “No way. Canada is only 142 years old!” I correct her. “We learned that in school last week. We learned that Confederation took place on, um … oh, just a sec! I can remember … we just had the test. Oh, yeah … July the first in 1867!”

  “It’s officially been a country for almost 143 years — and European settlers have been in eastern Canada for close to 400 years, but there’s been human beings living here for much, much longer than that.”

  “Do you think it could really be ten thousand years old?” I ask her. I actually have butterflies in my stomach, and I’m already imagining the headlines in the Cowichan Bay Gazette:

  LOCAL GIRL UNCOVERS ARCHAEOLOGICAL

  GEM IN COASTAL FOREST!

  “Ten thousand years old? Hmmmmmm. That’s doubtful. Wood couldn’t withstand that test of time. But it could be a couple hundred years old,” Dad answers, resting his head on the back of our ratty green couch. “If it’s been in a cave all this time, it would be somewhat protected from the elements. I think we should find out for sure, don’t you?”

  “Will they carbon copy it? I mean, radio — what’s it called again?” I ask, looking at Aunt Maddie.

  “Radiocarbon dating. Not if it’s only a couple of hundred years old,” she explains.

  Then she starts going on about something called comparative analysis and other ways to tell the age of stuff that isn’t super old, and I glaze over a bit because it doesn’t really make any sense to me, and to tell the truth, it sounds kinda boring.

  “Dad,” I say, “when can we find out about this thing?”

  “Well, I have to drive in to Victoria to see my publisher tomorrow. If you like, we can call ahead and try to get in touch with the museum. I’m sure someone there will want to have a look at this.”

  “Can Max come with us?” I ask. I KNOW that Max would be really excited to be a part of this whole thing.

  “No problem for me. Give him a call, but I want to make an early start. If I can get in to see Ian before noon,” Dad kids, “I have a good chance of being done before dinnertime.” Ian Barker is the senior editor at Kingfisher Press. He’s very gruff and tells my dad all the time how disorganized he is, how difficult it is to work with a writer like him, and how he should cut him loose — even though my dad has published four books with him. They’re always arguing it seems, but they’re good friends anyhow.

  The smell of garlic wakes me from my daydream. I was right; Aunt Maddie has made her famous spaghetti and garlic bread. It’s very spicy and she and Dad have dark beer with it, but I have to have milk. We eat on the couches with plates on our laps, and listen to Aunt Maddie tell us about her latest plans to go hiking in Nepal with two of her friends and a real Sherpa named Tashi. Apparently she met him when she was editing a book on the Himalayas. She’s already running five times a week, and lifting weights to get fit before she leaves in September. Her biceps are pretty ripped, and after dinner she challenges my dad to an arm wrestle, and Dad loses almost right away. I feel kind of embarrassed for him, but Aunt Maddie just says, “Oh forget about it, David. It’s probably just your writer’s cramp acting up again!” which is actually a pretty cool thing for her to say.

  Dad makes a face at her, but soon after, they both get serious and start talking about more boring stuff like income tax and accountant’s fees, so I decide to call Max about tomorrow, and then just go to bed.

  Friday, June 12, 2010

  Dear Diary:

  Well, diary? Today I found something that’s even cooler than the orca tooth. Aunt Maddie thinks it’s a Native spindle whorl! This morning I didn
’t know what that was, but now I do. It’s a thing that was used a long time ago to spin wool. And this one might be Coast Salish, from around here! Aunt Maddie says there were even Coast Salish villages right here in Cowichan Bay. So, I wonder who it belonged to? Did they spin wool with it to knit slippers for their kids just like Mom used to do for me? Did they lie in their beds at night and look up at the same stars that I’m looking at tonight? Did they live in one of those cool longhouses that Max told me about? Did they like to chill in the woods just like me? I guess I’ll find out tomorrow when we go into Victoria, that is, if Dad can get us in to see someone at the museum.

  Well, that’s all for now. Pretty cool.

  I shut the diary, turn off my light, and just start to doze off when Chuck leaps in through my bedroom window and lands on my stomach.

  “Ow,” I yell. “Can’t you just land on the floor like a normal cat?” He ignores me, curls up at my feet and falls asleep immediately. His paws are wet and he smells a bit fishy. No doubt he’s been snooping around Ben North’s boat. In the half-light, I can see the spindle whorl across the room, the moonlight highlighting the beautiful carved salmon on the smooth shape, which casts an odd circular shadow across the wood of my table. After a while, the stars disappear and it begins to drizzle again. I fall asleep to the sound of raindrops splashing against the tin roof of our houseboat.

  6

  Victoria Bound

  Saturday, June 13, 2010

  Dear Diary:

  I never really pay much attention to my dreams. I have them all the time and usually they’re kind of lame. You know, stuff like I’m sitting in my room eating chocolate cake, or I’m riding my bike somewhere cool, or I’m in a cold sweat because I have to write a math test that I’d forgotten I had to take. Occasionally though, I’ll have a really good one – one where Sabrina Webber trips and falls face-first in the mud, or gets every question wrong on her English test … but most of the time I forget them ten minutes after I wake up.

  Last night was different. I went to sleep thinking about the spindle whorl and then I had the weirdest dream. I was in the woods bordering the beach, but something felt really different. It was so quiet, and the trees were bigger, and the air kind of crisper. Even the light was different. I remember that my feet didn’t make any noise when I walked through the brush. I had a skirt on too, which is totally stupid, because I never wear them. I seemed scared, like I was hiding from someone, or maybe running away? And I kept looking out to the sea, as if I were looking for something. A boat, maybe? It was the sketchiest feeling.

  When I woke up, I kind of didn’t know where I was, or even who I was. And the thing is, I can remember every single detail, right down to the eerie drumming that I could hear in the distance and this really cool big black raven that was following me around for the whole dream. I mean, that’s freaky enough as it is after that psycho raven at the cave. I remember feeling kind of comforted in my dream by the sound of the drums. And then I woke up. Go figure.

  I close my journal and shove it under my bed this time, behind the box of dolls and stuffed animals that I just can’t seem to get rid of. It’s Saturday! I remind myself. I love Saturday mornings. Usually, I take my cereal and go out on the deck if it’s nice and warm. That’s when all the other houseboaters do the same thing, and it can get quite chatty. After about an hour, the whole shoreline wakes up, and the fish market and the Toad start booming with people. Later, the weekend strollers swarm the craft stores and restaurants. Now that summer is pretty much here, the weekends just seem to get busier and busier. I’m glad to see all the action after months of rain and dark grey skies. Sometimes it gets a little bleak and lonely on a houseboat during winters on the coast. That’s when I read a lot.

  Today I toast an English muffin and go outside with Chuck. Sadie, Ben North’s African grey parrot, is sitting on my dad’s deck chair, preening her feathers. I like Sadie a lot, even though she always looks kinda shifty to me.

  “Hey Sadie,” I greet her. “Better watch out … there’s a cat on board.”

  But I laugh out loud, because everybody knows that Chuck is terrified of Sadie. Maybe it’s because she’s too big to tackle, or maybe it’s because she can imitate the bark of a Rottweiler, Chuck never sticks around when Sadie visits. Today he takes one look at her beady eyes and darts back into the house to take cover once again in the laundry basket.

  “Kitty on a stick … Kitty on a stick!” Sadie mocks. It took Ben two months to teach her to say that.

  I give her a piece of my English muffin and kick off my sandals. It’s really warm for the middle of June. I can hear my dad bumping around in the kitchen, grinding coffee beans and opening and closing the fridge. He takes the wooden spoon out of the drawer and raps on the stair railing.

  “Come on, lazy bones! Up and at ’em!” He calls to me.

  “Too late! I’m already up!” I call back.

  He looks outside sheepishly, and then adds, “Well, if you’re up … where’s my coffee?”

  “Caffeine is bad for you. I don’t want any part of your bad habits,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Oh. Morning humour. How I love it,” Dad says, shuffling outside wearing a navy blue sweater with holes in the elbows and a pair of jeans with paint on the knees. “I’m going to call the museum in an hour or so. You talk to Max last night?”

  “Yep. I told him we’d pick him up on the way out. He’ll be ready. He said he wanted to come with us even if we can’t go to the museum. Just to, you know, hang out.”

  “Great. Make yourself useful for an hour or so, and we’ll make a plan in a little bit.”

  He settles into a chair beside me. Sadie steps from the back of the chair to his shoulder and immediately begins preening Dad’s hair … or, what’s left of it anyway.

  “Crazy bird,” Dad says, smiling. “Why don’t you go visit Riley. He’s got enough hair to keep you busy till you croak.” Riley Waters lives on dock nine and has a grey ponytail that hangs halfway down his back. Wherever Riley goes, a bag of shelled sunflower seeds goes too. There are often little trails of seed husks going from his houseboat to the bait shop, to the coffee shop, and back again. Sadie has yet to venture as far as dock nine, but if she ever discovers that head of hair, and a constant supply of sunflower seeds, she’ll be in parrot heaven.

  A bit later, after Dad calls the museum and gets the thumbs up from someone called Mr. Sullivan, he puts on better jeans, grabs his manuscript and travel mug, and yells for me to hurry up! I’ve learned that when Dad wants to leave, he means immediately. Nothing is worse than making him wait when he’s got a plan. Waiting makes him really cranky and then he drives like a lunatic, so I hurry. This guy is going to meet with us, even though it’s a Saturday, so it’s the least I can do.

  Our Jeep is pretty old, but it’s very comfy, even though the stuffing is coming out of the seats here and there, and it kinda smells like an old tent. We’ve had it ever since I can remember. When I was six, Mom and Dad and I drove it all the way down to Arizona to see the desert. Both Dad and I have a thing about lizards. We saw lots of different kinds of geckos when we were there.

  When we pull up to Max’s house, his mom is on the front steps with Max’s little sister Chloe. It looks like she’s brushing Chloe’s hair and putting it into braids. I kind of feel twisted up when I see that, because I remember Mom doing that to me just before she died. Dad looks over at me and I can tell that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He chuffs me under the chin and winks. I feel like I have a giant grapefruit stuck in my throat. But then Max comes tearing up the walkway and climbs into the Jeep before I let my memories get the better of me.

  “Hi Mr. Anderson. Thanks for letting me come along,” he says as he climbs into the back seat.

  Dad glances back over his shoulder. “No problem. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Miller.”

  “Same here. Hannah? Can I see the whorl?” Max looks eagerly at the floor between us where I put my backpack.

&nb
sp; “Sure … check it out,” I say, taking it carefully out of the old green towel and placing it on his lap.

  “Whoa … this is awesome! It’s hardly wrecked at all, except for this one bit here.” He examines a part of a fish fin — an area where the grooves are smooth and flat with wear.

  “Who’s going to look at it?” he asks.

  “Dad talked to him this morning. A man named Graham Sullivan. He’s the head of … what is it again, Dad?” I ask.

  “Archaeological acquisitions at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria. He was so excited about the whorl; he agreed to see us today, even though it’s Saturday!”

  I’m impressed and, even better, so is Max.

  The Royal British Columbia Museum is next to the Parliament buildings right downtown near the water. After a visit, I love to sit by the totem poles in the park near the museum’s entrance and watch the horses trot by pulling their carriage-loads of tourists. I wait for the carillon bells to chime in the courtyard.

  We park a block away, near Beacon Hill Park, and walk over. We’re about twenty minutes early, so we decide to use our family pass and wander around inside for a bit. Of course, I want to go into the simulated coastal forest and so does everyone else. I stand in the middle of the exhibit and try to figure out just how they make the light the way it is, as if it’s really early in the morning and there’s still a fine mist in the air. You can hear birds waking up and a woodpecker tapping away in the distance.

  I cross over the floor and hang over the railing to peer at the stuffed cougar the way I always do. It’s kind of sad seeing him just lying there, all stiff and stuffed. What awful thing did he do to wind up in a museum, filled with sawdust? But he’s pretty convincing, even though his eyes remind me of the prize marbles I keep in an old pickle jar at home in my room.