The Secret of the Stones by Ernest Dempsey (reading fiction .TXT) 📕

put his hands up to hold the blond man back, a move his captor did not seem to appreciate as evidenced by the warning scowl on his face. Backing off a foot, he continued cautiously, “Look. We don’t need to take it. Just give me a minute.” Ulrich reholstered his weapon, seemingly willing to wait and see what the archaeologist was going to do next.

Tommy took a step back from the exhibit and looked around. Immediately, he noticed that there was no history placard or name plate identifying where the pottery had come from or why it was there. He retraced their steps through the corridor, looking to see if there was anything that contained information about the vessel, but he found nothing.

Finally, he said, “I need to get the guy from the information desk in here.”

Ulrich looked at him suspiciously, deliberating over the request. Then he nodded his approval.

Tommy strode back over to the giant exit doors and gently pushed one of them open. The hinges obviously needed some kind of lubricant as the portal creaked loudly. He poked his head out and noticed the park ranger looking directly at him. The squeaking must have got the man’s attention.

“Done already?” he inquired cheerfully.

“Actually, no. We had a question about something in here. Would you mind?” Tommy made a motion with his hand for the man to come over.

The ranger looked around. For whom, Tommy had no idea. Then he said, “Sure. What would you like to know?” He walked over to the doors and pulled them open to find the three men standing around the corner exhibit.

It seemed that the sight of the huddled group startled the ranger for a moment, but he recovered and continued into the museum. “So, how can I help you?”

The three captors remained silent. Again, it seemed Tommy would do all the talking. “We were wondering about this piece right here.” He gestured to the vase. “How come there isn’t any information about it? We thought that was strange. Sure is a spectacular piece though.”

An odd look crossed onto the Indian’s face. “What is it, exactly, that you want to know?’

The tone of the man’s voice had changed from helpful to almost sinister. Maybe it was just Tommy’s imagination, but the smile that had accompanied his jovial attitude had disappeared as well.

Stumbling through his words, Tommy said, “Well…where did it come from? How old is it? Who made it? You know, stuff like that?”

The smile returned to the weathered face, but there was something different about it. He eyed the other three men with a look that seemed like disdain. When his gaze returned to Tommy, it held a look of warning, though his voice had become pleasant again. “It is a ceremonial jar that was kept here in the Cherokee capital for a very long time. As to who made it, no one really knows. But it is an excellent example of early nineteenth-century Native artwork.”

Tommy looked skeptical; something didn’t seem right. “I’m sorry,” he paused slightly. “Did you say that it was early nineteenth century?”

“Yes. That is correct. The Cherokee were a very artistic people. There was an entire caste of artisans, sculptors, painters. Creativity was encouraged by the Cherokee culture.”

Tommy interrupted him, “Yeah, but I don’t think that this is actually nineteenth century. That can’t be right.”

An annoyed look passed across the man’s face. “I assure you, we have had the best experts in the region examine this, and they have all agreed to the same timeframe.”

“Well, I don’t know who these experts are, but I can tell you one thing: that vase predates the nineteenth century by at least, oh, I’d say a thousand years.”

For a moment, the ranger’s eyes squinted. Tommy’s comments seemed insulting rather than inquisitive. “Really? And what makes you think such a thing, if I may ask,” he responded, crossing thick, tanned arms.

“Well, first of all, as I was explaining to these gentlemen, this is an example of Weeden Island pottery. It’s from the early Mississippian Age, at the youngest. But from the expression of the lines and the type of clay that appears to have been used, I’d say this thing is way older. In fact, it resembles some items that I have seen at a dig site in Lebanon. Phoenicians made some containers that look very similar to this one. And those were about three thousand years old.” He tried not to appear too much like he was correcting the man, but this was an area in which Tommy considered himself to be a foremost expert.

Again, the look on the Indian’s face changed. This time, though, it was an acknowledgement. “Impressive, sir.”

Tommy was not sure how to react. Before he could, the ranger continued.

“It is, indeed, much older than the nineteenth century. Although, exactly how old, I do not know. Since you seem to know much more about our history than the average person, surely you know this vase has a twin.”

The last comment urged an answer. Nodding, Tommy replied, “Vessel Number One. Yes, I’ve seen it.”

Apparently pleased, the man continued while the two flattops and the blond looked at each other, bemused. “This particular piece of work has an interesting history. Originally, it was brought here by the oldest of the Cherokee. It was said that they kept the bones of a great tribal leader within it. As the legend goes, this man was more a king than a chief. He ruled vast lands and was a great warrior. When he died, those who took over for him believed that if they kept his remains, the kingdom would