Author: P. Molnar, Word Count: 2,278
Featured in Spooky Archaeological Story Moot: Live Stream – 2024
“Argh ! Would you look at this ?” groaned Medford, as she turned the newspaper towards
her colleague Edwin Kristensen, who had entered the office just half a minute ago. She
smacked the front page with her palm.
Archaeologists baffled ! proclaimed the banner headlines of Ye Maritim Herold.
Kristensen quietly chuckled, poured himself some tea in the office’s kitchenette.
“I’m more baffled that you seem surprised at all, Kaja. Have they just caught up with two
weeks old news reports from the digsite near the Great Lakes, at the western border ? The
news crews already covered the new finds nearly two weeks ago, back when I was
working at the site with De Jong and Duchamp.”
“Is scientific literacy really getting this bad ? I thought the Maritim Herold was still a serious
broadsheet. Then you notice this tripe on the front page,” explained an exasperated
Karolina Medford, Edwin’s co-worker at the National Museum of New Denmark.
“You know how it is these days,” opined Kristensen, taking a sip. “The circulation of the
papers is declining, the old mainstays are chasing every reader and subscriber. Even the
Herold is getting in on the gutter press emotional tactics. And on the OrbisMesh, as long
as it gets clicks, anything goes,” he noted, then took another brief sip. “Per usual, there’s
been no rewriting-the-textbooks stuff at the digsite. We found a rarer type of copper
arrowheads that might fill in some gaps in the archaeological record of the north central
and Great Lakes Copper Age, but that’s about it.”
“Jog my memory. Were those newly-found copperpoints for usual arrows ?”
“In this case, for crossbow bolts.”
“Nothing baffling about that. They’re just rarer.”
“Yep. I mean, granted, we get far, far more microlithic, antler and bone arrowheads on
surviving native bolts from the pre-colonial era, but these aren’t even the first copper
arrowheads for bolts that we’ve found. It’s just silly to claim we’ve found anything baffling.”
“Speaking of our New Zeeland colleague, de Jong, the boss got a call from the police early
this morning. Some inspector Halligan or whoever called in, to ask about whether De Jong
came to work. His neighbours have not seen him since Tuesday. Last time they saw him,
he told them he’s going for an extended trip somewhere, he might not show up for a long
time. Got in the car, left.”
“Oh, wow. Last time I spoke with him was while we were still at that digsite, over a week
ago. Hadn’t met him since,” said Kristensen, genuinely surprised. “You know, as an
immigree from the south, he has no established family or relatives up here, just a few
friends and neighbours. So it’s not like anyone would be looking for him all that much. He’s
never been willing to discuss his family or relatives. A level-headed, dependable
archaeologist, but a very private type of person.”
“He might be already west of the Appalachias, for all we know. Hopefully he didn’t commit
something… Well, you know what I mean,” said Medford matter-of-factly, but with a hint of
worry.
“Nah, I don’t think so. Granted, he had a strange Dutch accent, even for a New Zeelander
from the south, and claimed to be a recent arrival from Europe. Then again, he openly
detested crime, especially in archaeology. Unlikely to be a thief. But why did he leave in
such a hurry, then ?”
“Next thing you’ll tell me is you want to play detective, Edwin,” she smiled at him, rolling
her eyes.
She couldn’t help but notice an intrigued expression forming on his face.
Kristensen was driving to De Jong’s house, in one of the villa suburbs built on the outskirts
of Indjanhavn back in the mid-1970s. As the overcast sky transitioned into a drizzle, he
took a left turn, carefully passing by the trolleybus at the local stop, passengers exiting and
embarking. Two more streets, and he’ll be at Valdemar III Lane, no. 42. De Jong’s place.
And he had a way to get in. Some months ago, De Jong gave Medford a spare key to his
house, telling her to hide it in a compartment of their department’s employee safe.
Naturally, Kaja was confused about the whole thing, but De Jong politely insisted he might
need to keep a spare key from his house, just in case. As Medford told Kristensen, it was
as if De Jong was tempting people to take the key and break into his place. In light of the
disappearance, it seemed intentional.
Driving slowly down the narrower street, Kristensen wondered about De Jong. The now-
missing New Zeelander was an odd duck indeed. He always had an eccentric side.
Barely two weeks ago, after De Jong indulged one of the news crews at the digsite by
showing them the latest copper finds and explaining their significance, him and Kristensen
struck up a conversation. De Jong was still holding the new copperpoints on the palm of
his rubber glove, nodding in appreciation. He mentioned how, for the great miracle that
was the domestication of maize in Central and South America, from essentially tiny grass
ears, the sophistication of the North American Copper Age was nothing to sneeze at
either. The creation of finely crafted native copper tools and weapon blades already in the
Archaic era, followed by a shift towards decorative copper artefact making in later
millennia, it all put even the Old World Copper Age to shame. All this, all in spite of
Amerindians never having any domesticates beyond dogs, turkeys, and llamas in the
Andes, and never developing complex metallurgy as far as iron, barely approaching
bronze. And then you had the fact that they independently invented simple crossbows and
crossbow bolts, likely somewhere in the Eastern Woodlands, around the 10th century CE.
Kristensen noted that it’s all amazing and impressive indeed. And yet, he couldn’t shake
the impression that De Jong was somehow more amazed by the existence of native
tillerbows than any other North American archaeologists, whether of native or European
descent. Why was De Jong so surprised ?
Then there was that time, about two years ago, when De Jong, Kristensen and Medford
had been invited to the opening of a new NM exhibition on the history of archery-related
material culture among eastern North American peoples. De Jong got acquainted and
shook hands with some real academic heavyweights from multiple countries: Saskia
Williams-Jensen, one of the foremost experts on the late phase Mississippian cultures,
Virginie Duchamp, famous Anishinabe historian and director of the Museum of Indigenous
Cultures of New France, Gareth Ravenbird of the Shoshone National Archaeological
Institute, highly knowledgeable about Great Plains and Northwest Plateau cultures and
native hornbow technology, Etiénne Beaumont, top expert on Native American crossbows
and experimental archaeology involving such finds. Even the youngest of the bunch, Claar
Brouwer from Willemstad in New Zeeland, a specialist on the artistic traditions of several
North American cultures. Kristensen recalled how Beaumont and Brouwer showed them
the then newly-published non-fiction book, Tillerbow: The History, Technology and
Ethnography of New World Crossbows. Considered the most definitive monograph on the
subject to date, after decades of piecemeal coverage in smaller publications and science
journal articles. De Jong kept admiring the book, as well as all the simple but varied native
tillerbows in the display cases… but Kristensen felt De Jong’s reaction was still strange. A
sort of pinch me, I can’t believe it expression. One that De Jong’s face attempted to
carefully curate and conceal. Why would he continue to be so astonished by native
crossbows, with their simple string-catch grooves, small top-mounted triggers or bottom-
mounted rising peg levers, their selfbows, sinew-backed bows and hornbows ? They were
a bit of a New World tech miracle, but had been around for ages, at least a thousand
years.
Finally, last year, one of Medford’s friends at their institute confided in her that he went for
a pint to a local pub, with De Jong and several other co-workers, and some strange things
were said that evening. De Jong couldn’t hold his liquor, and inadvertently got rather
drunk, along with a few others from their group. While De Jong was inebriated, he started
talking, haphazardly, about “his home” containing a North America consisting of only two
countries, “Canada” (Kanata ?) and the so-called “United States”. Not the nearly 40
countries of present day North America. Weirder still, he claimed that there are no
independent Native American countries where he comes from. And the so-called “Yoo-Es”
apparently landed men on the Moon already in 1969. After a while, the fellow drunken
colleagues were laughing at De Jong’s tall tales. Such imaginative claptrap. Everyone
knows that humanity first set foot on the Moon in 2002. The Great Landing of the New
Millenium, as it was often referred to. An international effort. A drunk de Jong sure had an
active imagination. Medford’s friend wondered whether it was just the booze, or whether
De Jong doesn’t have some mental problems. Medford decided to tactfully avoid asking
De Jong any questions about this, but she did eventually tell Kristensen about the whole
incident, several months later. He still had no idea what to think of it.
Kristensen shut the door of his car and looked around carefully. The drizzle had lessened,
but not ceased. No neighbours or passersby were seen on the quiet suburban street, nor
in the yards and gardens. Looking around for a minute, he didn’t notice anyone spying on
him from the windows. He walked over to the front gate, unlocked it, entered and locked it
again. He did the same with the entrance door.
Once inside, he walked through the quiet house, checking for any traps, just in case. He
didn’t turn on the lights, to avoid drawing suspicion. After searching De Jong’s desk and its
drawers in the study, he was surprised to find a neatly enclosed envelope. The envelope’s
surface contained only three words: About my departure. Curious, Kristensen opened the
envelope and unfolded the note.
To whomever it may concern,
I hereby announce I’ve left this place for good. I had no choice, as I don’t know when the
next opportunity will arise. As much as I enjoyed my stay in your world, I had recently
learnt of a potential gateway back to my world. I must leave now. Don’t worry. By world, I
do not mean another planet, nor the future or past. I am from the same planet as you, an
ordinary human, a Dutchman from the Netherlands. As far as I’m aware, I never broke any
of your countries’ laws, nor harmed or insulted anyone. My only sin is that I was born in
what appears to be a different historical timeline, at least from the perspective of your
world. I won’t judge whether your world is better than mine, though I have to admit the
native Amerindians of your world were overall more lucky than where I come from. May
the same good luck occur in my home timeline, to which I hopefully now return, after my
involuntary sojourn into yours, a few years ago. Please don’t look for the location of the
portal, it is hardly a stable gateway anyway. Please express my heartfelt thanks to Ms
Brouwer, Mrs. Williams-Jensen, Mr. Beaumont, Mr. Ravenbird, Mr. Kristensen, Mrs.
Medford, and to all other historians, archaeologists and researchers I’ve met in the past
few years.
Best wishes to all,
Tobias de Jong
Kristensen read the note over and over again, at least ten times. He pondered whether it
was an elaborate practical joke. No, a sick joke. Pondered whether de Jong had suddenly
lost his marbles, or he was some cunning conman all along. But if he was a conman…
Why was he such a vehement critic of artefact robbing and of pseudoarchaeological
authors, such an outspoken defender of archaeological heritage ? His behaviour would
make no sense.
Unless… He wasn’t really joking. His strange, off-handed mentions of fictional things while
he was inebriated… Could all of it had been real after all, in another world ? Did he really
wander in from a parallel world, involuntarily, and tried to make the best of it ? It was all so
confusing. A timeline with no independent Native American invention of the crossbow, a
world where North America was covered by two huge countries and natives had no
sovereign countries of their own, a world where humanity landed on the Moon already in 1969
Preposterous. And yet…
Whatever the case may be, Kristiansen could already imagine the headlines of every
tabloid in the Republik of New Denmark, and likely other eastern seaboard countries, in
the weeks ahead:
Authorities baffled ! Archaeologist gone missing ! National police conducting extensive
police investigation with the help of the Haudenosaunee Commonwealth Police Service.
Even a year later, the whereabouts of Tobias de Jong remained a mystery. The closest
answers were provided by his abandoned car and abandoned wallet, found by New
Danish Police near a rural town not far from Indjanhavn. The car was still parked in front of
the village pub, while the wallet with all of De Jong’s ID, payment cards and cash was
found at a meadow, near a local forest. No signs of a struggle or kidnapping. An extensive
police search of De Jong’s suburban house never found any evidence as to his mysterious
fate. Nor could it. Kristensen had kept the letter to himself, well-hidden, and threw away
the spare key into a scrap metal recycling bin. He still didn’t know what to believe, but
hoped his and Kaja’s vanished pal Tobi had found a way home.
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