People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) Read Free

gonna be Bill Gates and invent computers when you’re out for half a day hunting and fishing for each meal.”
    “Tell me indeed,” Anson agreed. “But they did it. Right here in northern Louisiana, they created a miracle.” He turned, waving his arm in a circle. “Everything started here. It’s Egypt and Babylon. Moses and Ramses. I can feel it in my bones.”
    “God, here he goes again,” Penzler muttered, walking off a stone’s throw to study the low mounds.
    When he was out of earshot, Arnold asked, “Why is he here?”
    Anson’s lips bent in amusement. “He’s finishing his Ph.D. on
Poverty Point trade relationships. He’s got this idea of interlocking clan territories regulated by the redistribution of resources.” Seeing Arnold’s look of incomprehension, he added. “Like groups of relatives that trade back and forth to keep the family together. That sort of thing, but on a larger scale.”
    “What was that bit about Egypt and Moses? What’s that got to do with Louisiana?”
    “It’s the same period of time.” Anson pointed at the low earthworks. “Sure, these people didn’t build huge cities of stone. They didn’t leave us records of their leaders, or their laws. But they did something that the Egyptians, the Babylonians, the Hittites, and all of their Old World contemporaries didn’t.”
    “What was that?”
    “Back before the first Pharaoh even thought of a pyramid, the people at Poverty Point put together a cross-continental trading system. But their most important gift to the future was an idea.”
    “Or so you think,” Patty Umbaugh chided. Glancing at Arnold, she said. “We’ve barely scratched the surface here. We haven’t even investigated a tenth of a percent of the archaeological sites in Louisiana. If Dr. Anson is right, we’re sitting on a wealth of revelations about these people.”
    Arnold cocked his jaw, considered, and asked point-blank. “What is your interest in our farm. So far as I know, this site is on private property.”
    Umbaugh nodded. “Yes, Mr. Beauregard, it is. Louisiana has over seven hundred mound sites that we know about. Hundreds more that we don’t. Perhaps thousands have been destroyed by field leveling, and others have been hauled away over the years for highway fill, causeways, and levees. We would like to work with you in the preservation of this site. We have programs—”
    “Yeah, yeah, I know about government ‘programs.’ It sounds so good. ‘We’re from the government, we’re here to help you.’ Next time you turn around, you’re in noncompliance with some damn thing. That, or some EPA or OSHA asshole is poking his nose up your bohungus to certify your fertilizer, or check the green cards on the hired help, or the frogs are being born with too many legs, or some damned thing.”
    “I know, but our program—”
    “With all due respect, Ms. Umbaugh”—he gave her the ingratiating smile again—“we would like to politely refuse your help.”
    “Well,” she said with a sigh, “thank you for at least letting me come and see the site. I’ll leave you a card, and if you ever have any questions—”
    “Yeah, right, I’ll call.”
    Anson turned, head tilted. “Mr. Beauregard, I can sure understand your attitude about the government.”
    “You can?”
    Anson nodded. “Out of fear of the government, some of the most important mounds in the state have been bulldozed by worried landowners.”
    “They must have snapped those guys’ butts right into court before they could grab their hats.”
    “It was private property,” Anson replied laconically. “Just like your farm here. I’d hope that we’ve all learned our lesson. You see, the reason we’re here is that you are the legal owner of this site. We want to let you know what you have here, and why it is important.”
    “What’s it worth?” he asked absently, squinting at the mounds of dirt. Just at rough guess, he figured it at about ten thousand cubic