Finders Keepers (14 page)

“Hey Mr. Berg!” Brett Gibson yelled as he came out of the gym and saw what was happening. “Dummy Danny's trying to flood the school.”

Half the class rushed out excitedly to paddle in the corridor. Marylise tried to stop the water by stuffing her fist in the top of the broken pipe, but the force of the water made three jets instead of one, soaking some of the bystanders.

“Surf's up,” hollered Brett Gibson and took a running dive through the water and slid on his belly over the wet linoleum, down the length of the corridor. Several other kids promptly followed.

Mr. Berg erupted angrily from the gym, roared at them, then raced off down into the basement to find the janitor and the stop tap.

By the time the water had been turned off the entire Grade 5 class was drenched to the skin and Mr. Berg had furiously given them all a detention. They had to change back into gym shorts and spread their clothes out on the playing field to dry in the sunshine. The class was lectured for behaving like kindergarten kids and Michael and Danny spent the rest of the morning helping the janitor mop up.

Danny chuckled out loud; he'd missed math and science during clean up, and all the class seemed to think the riot was worth a DT. He'd even glimpsed Mr. Berg laughing as he explained the uproar to the staff. Not a bad deal all round.

“You sound in a good mood, son.” Danny's father entered the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee from the coffee pot and sat at the table. “What are you up to today?”

Danny pushed the helicopter over to his father. “I'm making a new rotor blade for this.”

His father picked up the helicopter and the broken blade and examined them. “This the one you broke? Brett Gibson's?” he asked.

Danny flushed. “How did you know?”

His father grinned. “It's a small town, son. You learn a lot in a store just by keeping your ears open.” He put down the helicopter and nodded towards the wood in front of Danny. “Think you can do it?”

“I think so,” said Danny slowly. “The shape's easy enough, and if I sand down the outer edges of the blade it will give the right angle. I'll paint the wood white. It should look OK if I give it several coats.”

His father patted Danny's shoulder. “Sounds good to me. Ask if you run into trouble attaching it. I'll be around later, but I've got to go over to MacVeys to help with their new bull.” He drained his coffee and got up to leave.

“Oh Dad,” Danny said hesitantly, “I wanted to ask you something… it's about the museum. Are you still on the
museum board?”

“Sure, been on for years. I don't go to all the meetings though. A lot of yattering and no action. Why?”

Danny sat marshalling his thoughts for a minute. This was a tricky one. He had waited all week for a good time to tackle his dad, but Danny wasn't altogether sure his father would understand.

“Well,” Danny chose his words carefully. “You know about this First Nations project I'm researching?”

His father nodded.

“We'll, I've found something out. Something they should know about one of the exhibits. It shouldn't be there.”

Danny's father came and sat down at the kitchen table again. “Hmm. Sounds tricky. You sure you know what you're talking about?”

Danny nodded.

“This something to do with the Indian kid you hang around with?”

Danny looked uncomfortable. “Well, kind of, but not really. It's something he first told me about, but it's not really anything to do with Joshua.”

Mr. Budzynski sighed, folded his arms and stretched out his legs. “OK, spit it out. I guess I'd better hear the whole story.”

Danny gave his father a carefully edited version of the Elders' view of the photo of the Sundance. He stumbled a few times trying to keep his story straight because he didn't want to mention the illicit visit to the museum where Joshua first saw the photograph.

“You mean you've got yourself into a snit over a photo?” Danny's father said unbelievingly. “No one's going to take that seriously.”

“But they've got to, Dad. It's real important to the Peigans. The Sundance is sacred, it's holy. The photo shouldn't be there.”

“Look, son if those Indians are putting pressure on you, I'm going to have a thing or two to say to them.”

“No,” cried Danny. “It's not like that. No one said anything… They wouldn't… but I care.” He looked desperately across at his father, willing him to understand. “Come on, Dad. You're always telling me 'Be a man, stand up for something you believe in.' Well I've found out something. And it's wrong. And I'm the only one that knows. So I have to say something, don't I?”

There was a long silence while Danny looked at his father.

Mr. Budzynski shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Look, this is a tough one, son. It lands me in a spot. Let me think about it.” Danny's father stood up. “I'll take a look at that photo and see what I can find out about it at the next meeting. OK?”

Danny smiled, relieved that his father hadn't poured too much cold water on his idea.

Mr. Budzynski pulled on his sweater and headed for the door. He paused at the door and looked back at Danny. “I know you and I don't always get on about your math, son,” he said. “But you've got a good heart, I'll give you that.”

Danny bent happily over his work. Praise from his dad was rare.

“Every day's been a good one for ages,” thought Danny happily as he stretched lazily in bed, enjoying the Sunday morning feeling of waking without the alarm. He rolled over and looked at his dresser. Brett's helicopter was still there, looking almost as good as new.

The helicopter gleamed in a patch of daylight streaming in from where his curtains didn't quite meet in the centre. From a distance the new rotor blade looked almost identical to the old one. Danny leaned over and touched it with one finger. The layers of fast drying acrylic paint had made a tough shiny white finish. Danny flicked the blade and watched carefully as it spun around evenly and smoothly. He had managed to fix it himself except for the rivet holding it on. His dad had done that for him.

“That should shut up Brett Gibson for a while,” Danny said in a satisfied tone of voice. “I'll give it to him on Monday.” He turned his head and squinted at his clock.

“Nine o'clock! Holy cow, Joshua will be here soon.” He swung his legs out of bed and started hunting in the mess on the floor for some clothes.

In fact it was after ten before Joshua arrived. Danny was in the back yard throwing some feed down for the hens
when he heard a truck pull up and Ringo's frantic barks. He dumped the bucket and ran down the farm track to the gate.

“Hello big puppy,” Joshua was saying as he bent over and rubbed Ringo's ears. “Some fierce watch dog you are.”

Ringo, ecstatic at having another boy to play with, stopped barking and rolled over on his back, paws flopping in the air and tongue lolling out to the side.

“Stupid mutt,” said Danny fondly as he joined Joshua in rubbing Ringo's belly. Ringo's long tongue swept Danny's face and his tail frantically stirred the dust. “You're supposed to scare strangers, not invite them to scratch your belly.”

“Fat chance,” laughed Joshua. “You should have trained him to hate people, not like people.”

Danny sat back on his haunches. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you like people?”

Joshua paused rubbing and considered. “Depends. Not that many white people. What about you?”

Danny chuckled. “Not that many white people either.”

Both boys laughed and Ringo wriggled from under their hands and stood upright, barking excitedly.

Danny jumped to his feet, took Ringo's head in his hands and looked deep into his eyes. “Hey Ringo! Shall we trust Joshua? Shall we show Joshua our secret place?”

The dog barked and wagged its tail furiously.

“Go on then, boy. Let's have an adventure. Ringo, show us the den!”

Ringo turned and trotted across the fields.

“Follow that dog,” shouted Danny, and both boys ran.

“Hey man, this is really something.” Joshua wriggled through the opening in the coulee wall and delightedly surveyed Danny's den.

Danny showed him the pickle jar lanterns and even
though it was morning they lit one and entered the branch tipi. Ringo followed them through the doorway and flopped down between their feet and the log table.

Joshua fished in his pocket and brought out an envelope. “Here, Mom sent you this.”

Danny ripped it open and lifted out a folded piece of paper. It was a copy of a donor certificate, explaining how an object could be given to the Interpretive Centre. Danny read it carefully then refolded and placed it back in the envelope. “Tell your mom thanks,” he said quietly as he tucked it in his pocket. “I've not forgotten what she said. I'm keeping the point safe. Actually I've been trying to copy it.” He fiddled behind the log table and brought out his rag bundle, unwrapped it and held out the rocky shards to Joshua.

Joshua carefully cradled the points in his hand. “You made these?”

“Yes. They're not very good though,” said Danny. “I'm still practicing.”

“I think they're great. It's hard to knap points. You've got several really good ones here.”

Danny looked carefully at the worked stones then delicately picked one out. “Here.”

“You giving me one?'

“Yup. I thought if we each had one we could try and make a lance and an atlatl.”

“Great,” said Joshua wrapping the point carefully in a tissue. “We'll need sticks and pocket knives, have you got one?” He felt in his pocket and pulled out a small scout knife.

Danny pulled out a similar knife. “We'll have to do it outside though. There's not enough room in here. The lances need to be pretty long. Come and look, I found some great willow branches.”

The boys crawled out into the gully and Danny passed over some willow sticks he'd already cut. They sat whittling for a long time.

“This is hard,” grumbled Joshua after his third failure at binding the point onto the lance with fishing line.

“I know, the line is slippery. We're supposed to use sinew but I don't know where to get it or how to make it. Would your Mom know?”

“I'll ask.” Joshua stood up. “This is the best I can do. Come on. Let's throw them.”

Danny eyed the lances and atlatls doubtfully. “I think they need more work… besides I think we need to glue flight feathers on the lance shafts.” He lifted up his lance and looked down its length. “Mine's not very straight.”

“Aw come on. You're such a perfectionist, let's just throw them anyway.”

They climbed to the top of the coulee and stood side by side, lances poised. Ringo waited, tail wafting slowly.

“Hey… I'm a mighty hunter,” said Danny proudly. He held his lance at shoulder height. “Let's aim for that sage bush.” He pointed to a clump about 10 metres away. “On the count of three. One… two…
THREE
.”

Two lances thudded to the ground hardly a length away. Ringo barked excitedly.

“Huh,” snorted Joshua in disgust as he retrieved them. “Fine hunters we'd be. Wonder if the atlatl will make a difference.” They picked up the spurred sticks they had whittled and tried to balance the lance shafts on the atlatls with only a couple of fingers.

“One … two… THREE,” counted Danny.

Once more the lances thudded to the ground a couple of metres away.

“Shoot,” said Danny in frustration. “My point has come off.”

“Guess we haven't made them properly,” sighed Joshua “Now what?”

“We try again,” said Danny and they headed back to the den.