Archiaoptricks

                                                         

           

"ARCHAEOPTRICKS"                                          

  

       by

    Doug Donnan

                                       

            [ The Chinese province of Liaoning ]                                                   

     "This is preposterous Kline. How in the Hell can you stand there with a straight

face and--"

     "The proof is in the pudding Connie," Kline cut in with a cocky confidence as he

playfully dusted over the vague basalt rock fossil with his broad archaeologist's brush.

"These local farmers are finding them all over the place, and the street vendors and mer-

chants have managed to unearth--sorry about the pun--the intrinsic value that these

pieces have to worldwide museums like yours and certain private collectors. 'Feathered

dinosaurs', they're everywhere--they're everywhere!"

     They stood there hovering over a merchant's long, makeshift stone and board table

in the middle of the bustling, dusty square. Both men, Kline the opportunistic rebel

archaeologist and the white-suited, diving bell-shaped curator of the Beipiao museum

Sir Conrad Golan were both adamant on their particular positions on the recent glut of

cretaceous fossil findings in this remote region of northern China. A silent third party to

this heated little technical debate stood just out in front of them in the parched earthen

street. They concluded, by using many hit-or-miss Chinese phrases and idiotic Bruce Lee-

like hand gestures, that his name was Pang. A waif-like man dressed in black ragamuffin

clothes and a deep dish straw hat that sat atop his pinched head like the cap of some

giant Shitake mushroom. He was, in fact, waiting for them to come to some kind of

agreement as to just how much they might offer him for this particular 'find'. The dis-

cussion rambled on and the confused Pang could only, repeatedly, bow and raise his

head, much like the monotonous movements of some pencil-necked, table top toy bird

dipping its beak into a cup of water as his name popped up in the conversation.     

     "Listen to me just this once Kline," Golan sighed as he wriggled uncomfortably in his

sweat-stained ice cream suit, "I don't know anything about this fellow Pang, (a smiling

bow) but I do know a little something about the region and provinces around this God-

forsaken part of the world and also, more importantly, I happen to know a great deal

more about dinosaur fossils and prehistoric memorabilia than you give me credit for."

     "I know your credentials and your motives," Kline responded with a whiff of his

brush, "We're not here to argue about our expertise in the field of dinosaur antiques. 

However, even Helen Keller could detect that you have some major issues about the

authenticity of some of these specimens that we have here."

     "You just bet I do," Golan exclaimed as he patted over the expanse of his beaded

forehead with a folded red bandana. "Ever since the amateur collector Haberlein and

his fledgling son sold the first German born Archaeopteryx lithographica to the British

Museum of Natural History in London dinosaur feathers have been flying everywhere.

Were the feathers used for warmth or flight, or both? Is Archie a transitional fossil

between birds and dinosaurs? Who knows?! The debate goes on. But now, thanks

to all the feather merchants like our bending buddy Pang here, it seems as though

many of our ancient thunder lizard pals were sporting around plummage! Dilong para-

doxus, Psittacosaurus, and the list is growing as we speak. 'Poppycock' I tell you.

I'm not buying it! But I will pay for it, if the piece is authentic. Hells Bells Kline, even

'Las Vegas' is bidding on these big bird fossils! Now, as for this supposed crazy

Chinese Bird Lizard here, take a real close look at this chipped out stone piece.

It's all wrong--nothing fits! This cloth tag labels this fossil as a Sinornithosaurus,

but it just isn't possible! The tail is way too short, the mandibles are far to wide and,

feathers or no, it's a slapstick forgery Kline. Soon they'll be digging up--"

     "Okay, Okay, slow down Connie," Kline cut in as he backed off some, "Don't go

gettin' your feathers ruffled. This little fellow Pang (another curtain call bow) has been

working this corner for quite a while now from what I'm told and my sources say he

runs things, for the most part, pretty much on the up n' up. Let's just browse around

some inside and see what else he's got--fair enough?"

     "Fine, fine," Golan sighed as he tucked the tired bandana into his hip pocket.

"And kindly drop the Connie thing if you would, only my wife--"

     "I got ya'," Kline chortled. "C'mon Sir Conrad this should be very interesting."

     The two men rotated together, as if on some invisible swivel, and casually made

for the open-air entrance to the sprawling, poker-faced brick and rusted sheet iron

building. Pang's narrow, squinting black eyes popped open wide as he watched them

retreat into his shop. He stood there arms drawn akimbo as if he had just been rude-

ly rejected at an offer from a dance wall flower..

     "Coming along--Pang?" Kline called back over his shoulder.

     A quick, smiling bow from the silent shop keeper and they all disappeared inside.

*     *     *

The threesome spent quite some time looking over, and passing judgement on,

aisle after aisle of tarnished bric-a-brac, would be exotic gold and jewel encrusted

swords and curving cutlery, and endless tables piled high with intricately tooled leather

work. The hard clay walls that surrounded them as they made their way on this ancient

artifact safari were adorned with all shapes and folds of faded seaman's mappings,

a disturbing variety of animal hides and stuffed carcasses (both past and present!), 

and faded documents of one sort or another. With Pang as the official tour guide,

they eventually found themselves at the extreme back end of the sprawling, musty

building staring up at a makeshift, patch and plaster vaulted entrance-way that lead

into an enormous, dimly lighted room.

     "What have we got here Pang?" Kline asked behind a silly series of Tai Chi-like

hand gestures.

     "The Ancient Ones!" Pang offered back (sans nod) in a clear, didactic tone.

     Kline and Golan looked at each other and blushed somewhat. "Ahh, so you

understood us all the ti-- that is, you know English," Golan exclaimed as he dipped

in for his bandana.                

     "I am still learning," Pang replied with, perhaps, a mocking little tick of his head.

     "Never mind all that," Kline cut in again. "Let's just visit with the Ancient Ones--

shall we?"

     "Indeed!" Golan sighed, trying to mask his embarrassment with the kerchief.

     Pang swept out his arm, as though he might be an usher at a gala ball, "After

you gentlemen--please."

*     *     * 

     A good deal of time went by before Kline emerged from the room that contained

a sweeping assortment of mummies, ancient wood and stone sarcophagi, and all forms

and matter of prehistoric memorabilia. He had decided to duck out for a few minutes to

take a cigarette break, leaving Golan and Pang to fend for themselves amongst the dusty

chambers of the Ancient Ones! Having reached the opening to the busy street, he ex-

tracted a Marlboro from his shirt pocket and was in the process of thumbing-up his

rusted Zippo when a huffing and puffing Golan surged past him, bandana flying like

some small ship's flag from his outstretched hand. The tails and folds of his yards of

white suit flapping behind him like billowing sails.

     "That's the last straw Kline!" he called over his shoulder, "Don't bother me again

with any of this feather-brained foolishness--Piltdown piracy poppycock is all it is!"

     "What the?.. What the Hell happened in there?" he asked a trailing Pang.       

     "It seems he was disturbed by one of the exhibits in the Great Hall!" replied the

shrugging little shop owner.

     "Well--would you please show me just which one of them shook him up so much?"

     They returned inside and made their way back to the room of the Ancient Ones. Once

inside, Kline followed Pang back to a shadowy niche. They stopped square in front of the

moldy, hulking skeletal remains of a seemingly prehistoric man. The diminutive figure

was carefully propped and supported on a little stand of painted paper mache rock and

grass. There was, what appeared to be, a wispy filigree of tiny black feathers covering

the back of his gnarled hands and the tops of his splayed feet.

     "What have we here?" Kline puzzled as he flipped at the lid of his Zippo lighter. He

bent down to try and read the dusty tag at the base of this rather formidable looking fellow.

“Well, I’ll be a spider monkey’s uncle!” he almost shouted.

                                             ____________________________

                                

                                               CROW-MAGNON MAN

                                             ____________________________

     Kline straightened up and gave Pang a wry smile. He then broke into an impish giggle.       

“Still learning are you Pang?” he laughed as he tapped him on the back. “That’s awful

close little buddy, but our portly friend must have minored in spelling.”

     Pang only offered back a shrug of his narrow shoulders in bewildered submission.

                                                    

                                          _____ The End _____