People of the Mist Read Free Page B

pen, that’s all swept away.”
                 “It
happens.” McCoy shrugged. “The Indians would tell you that it has happened for
a long time.”
                 “All
those artifacts that I dug out of the ground were made by people, Mr. McCoy.
They were being carefully preserved so that future generations could see them,
learn from them, as I have. It has nothing to do with controlling another
person’s cultural heritage, it’s about disseminating it. It’s part of a human
heritage that we all share. Now those artifacts have been loaded into a truck
somewhere and hauled off. To what? Reburial? Resale on the collector’s market?
And what of the fragile netting, the bone, and bits of copper? They’ll be
thrown away as junk by the people who took them, who’ll never know they were
more precious than gold to the prehistoric Algonquin.”
                 “In
that case—assuming your Piankatank are actually Indian—the only people they’re
hurting are themselves.”
                 “No,
Mr. McCoy, it’s hurting all of us. Everyone loses in the end.” Adam stood, an
empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. “We still have a great deal to learn
about ourselves, about who and what we are as humans. I think we can respect
the dead for what they can teach us today, as well as respect them for who they
were when they were alive.”
                 “That’s
an enlightened perspective.”
                 Adam
sighed. “I don’t feel enlightened, Mr. McCoy. What is happening is wrong—and I
can’t do anything about it by myself.”
                 “Then
you don’t wish to pursue this matter legally?”
                 Adam
spread his arms wide. “On twenty thousand a year? I could offer you my soul in
exchange for your legal services. That ought to be worth something. The ancient
Algonquin people would think so.” At the blank look in McCoy’s eyes, Adam
smiled ironically, “Well, thanks for your time … and the coffee.”
                 “I’m
sorry I couldn’t help. Good day, Mr. Jones.”
                 McCoy
rose, stepping over to open the door. In silence, they walked down the plush
corridors toward the tall glass doors.
                 At
the same moment, at a specialty store in affluent Georgetown , a young woman held the door open for her
tall companion. Navajo flute music gave atmosphere to the crowded shelves filled
with dream catchers and art depicting feathered Indians and buffalo. Turquoise
jewelry, beaded leather bags, and painted Northwest Coast masks caught the bright light, each
displayed to the best advantage. A row of buffalo skulls, bleached and white,
had been painted with scenes of mounted warriors shooting arrows into galloping
herds. Along one wall, behind glass, rows of brightly painted katchinas danced.
Beneath them, expensive Southwestern pots were categorized by pueblo and maker.
                 The
young woman wore her honey-brown hair long, a single turkey feather tied neatly
in the silky locks at her shoulder. Her Eddie Bauer denim shirt accented the
pale blue of her eyes. A beaded belt snugged tight Levi’s to her hips, and Minnetonka moccasins covered her dainty feet.
                 The
tall man, blond hair close-cropped, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with “Ban the
Washington Redskins.” Below faded jeans, Luchese boots rapped hollowly on the
tiled floor. He carried the big box with ease as they approached the counter.
                 The
middle-aged clerk wore a dark suit, a magnificent squash-blossom necklace
draping her blouse. A beaded brooch confined her silver-streaked black hair.
She used a thin white finger to press horn-rimmed glasses onto a straight
narrow nose.
                 “May
I help you?” She greeted them with a practiced smile.
                 The
tall man placed the box on the glass counter and