Warrior Girl Unearthed: Week Eight–Epilogue

After an FBI investigation determined that Donald Miller may have knowingly or unknowingly improperly collected artifacts, archaeologists and other experts joined authorities to begin parsing through the collection—which includes Native American items, and objects from at least nine other countries including China, Russia, Italy and Greece—and identifying which artifacts, if any, must be repatriated.

The exterior lighting is a broken sconce holding a bird nest.

It’s a vinyl window, which means it most likely hasn’t been painted shut. The sash lock has a fifty-fifty chance of being unlocked.

There isn’t a way to reach them except to rappel from the roof.

“You’re actually coming to seminar today?” she says nonchalantly.

Using a wide-tooth comb, Pauline makes my side part look intentional instead of haphazard.

I remain subdued all day until Claire releases us to our team meeting rooms to work on our final projects.

Stormy tells them the spirits of those who came before us are uneasy in the next world, as their physical gift back to Mother Earth has been desecrated.

I freeze, listening intently.

One officer reported waiting “until cover of darkness” and departure of “the grieving family” before “[he] exhumed the body and decapitated the skull.”

“You turnin’ eighteen anytime soon?” Bucky asks, already knowing that I’m not.
“That’s ageism.”

Claire’s mission for today is to make repeated use of the word penultimate. As in this is our penultimate Friday session. It’s also her penultimate week of work, because she’s taking a new job as soon as the Kinomaage program wraps up.

“Oh, Perry. I shouldn’t have favorites, but I so enjoy your joie de vivre!”
“My what the what?”
“Your zest for life! I admire your irrepressible spirit.”

Ominous clouds gather in the distance.

An uneasy feeling turns sour in my stomach. Willing it to subside, I think of any reason why Shense would not have made the second phone call.

If I disclose the call, it means revealing the burner phone and her involvement in the heist.

The cop blanches like I said something nasty.

“You’re still not telling us the entire heist plan?” Pauline is incredulous.

I am an anthropologist and a museum curator, trained to balance a curiosity about religion with science’s cold view that human remains are only devices for decoding history.

Although these Native Americans did not ask for their ancestors to be excavated, they have accepted the burden of reburial, to become my museum’s reluctant undertakers.

I greet the man behind the front desk and ask if I can post a flyer near their coffee station.
“What kind of flyer?” he asks warily.

“You want me to hang out and help?” Lucas offers.
“Maybe?” I concede.

“Our ancestors are counting on us to help them get home,” I say.
They both look properly chastened, so I continue.

“I do not condone using a health emergency,” I say, because I feel as if I should state this. “But if you think it would be the best way to divert attention, then you should do what you feel is necessary.”

Maybe I’ve forgotten something. Omitted a crucial step in my planning.

It feels so normal that I push away the lingering wisps of my nightmare and the uneasy qualms about tonight’s heist.

Dr. Fenton tips her head to the side as if appraising me.

I can guarantee that I’d never get my driving privileges reinstated.

Doing the right thing for the right reason, with a good heart and clear intentions, matters. Bringing home our ancestors with blackmail and manipulation...

“I’ll call,” the voice on the other side of the door says tentatively.

I tiptoe past, following tendrils of vines that grow underfoot just in time for my next step.

She seems pretty lucid for four days without water.

We think we are on Frank Lockhart’s property, where the Nodins had their enclave.

Researchers would come into a tribal community, collect Indigenous knowledge, and fly away to write up the results. The researcher—with their degrees, prestigious grants and publications, perhaps even a tenured faculty position—ended up as the biggest beneficiary.

Tribes wanted an end to this helicopter-research mentality and asserted control over studies involving their citizens.

“They’re supposed to let me visit her tomorrow if she keeps being stable, or whatever,” I say, unsure of the hospital jargon.

“Do you know what a gathering of martens is called? Like a school of fish, a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows?”

As the reverse thrusters signal our imminent arrival, I dash back into my car.

Granny June sewed an appliqué cutout in the shape of Sugar Island on the front of the skirt.

Pauline is one of the Jingle Dress dancers surrounding the drummers and songbirds. The tink-tink of the tin cones reaches us on the bluff.