Greg Scowen: The Spanish Helmet

Monday, December 30, 1529

This was the wrong harbour, the wrong land. It was even the wrong hemisphere. But that didn’t matter any more. Francisco de Hoces would die on this beach. Destiny had decided that for him.

The San Lesmes struck a rocky reef as they entered the harbour. The fragile wooden vessel could not be saved, but they had been blessed enough to limp closer to the coast as it went down. A few of the men had made it to shore, Francisco among them. The rest had gone down with the ship and all of their supplies, somewhere in the harbour. Their fleeting joy of reaching dry land was short-lived, however, since they were immediately taken upon by the local Indians. Some of the men ran to hide, but that was fruitless, these cannibalistic murderers would find them in minutes. Their noses were well trained, they were hunters. Francisco stood alone on the beach and stared into the eyes of three fearsome looking Indians. He knew death was before him.

This land had been his home for four years, he knew the people. He had been welcomed by the tribes of the south, those he now called family. But this tribe, the tribe at the southernmost point of Isla del Norte, they were different, they weren’t his family. Francisco stood strong. His duty as one of the king’s men was to be steadfast and fight for his nation, even though he hadn’t seen Spain for so long. Today, home was on a quiet beach on the southern part of Isla de Sur. He and his crew had built simple homes in the ways shown to them by their tribal family. They built their lives in this land and hoarded treasures, expecting more of their countrymen to come and join them.

One of the Indians leapt toward him, he grunted and panted, a long club dancing between his hands. With the same pace, the Indian jumped back into place. They were taunting him, death would have to wait.

Their treasures, worthless, he realised. The gold and stones were as valuable as dust now. Only his journal might hold some worth. It revealed an incredible journey. A wondrous truth. Someone had to find this treasure. They could keep the gold too, but his legacy was his most valuable possession.

In a flash, another of them jumped at him. He stared into the huge white eyes which bulged out of dark skin. That was the look of death and Francisco was ready to die. He saw the blur of movement. Then nothing.

Warren Rennie had dirt embedded under his nails again. It wasn’t a new sensation for him, far from it, nevertheless it was a sensation he didn’t enjoy. It came with the job though, not that you could call it a job — archaeology was only a hobby for Warren because he wasn’t the university type. Unfortunately, this meant he was not a qualified archaeologist, which in turn meant he was a hack, a wannabee, at least in the eyes of the people who could make a difference. No, Warren would likely never be taken seriously. He was a committed amateur, nothing more.

He had excavated this farm-site near to one of his best friend’s holiday retreats ever since he gained permission from the landowner. Warren had taken great care in calculating the location of this dig based upon alignments he had identified in standing stones in the area. In his mind, exactly on this spot — well, within a two or three metre radius — he would find something that would make people stand up and take notice. Some artefact that proved Celts had inhabited New Zealand before the Maori.

It was not an uncommon theory in some circles, but it was despised in most. Academia of New Zealand would never accept what he and his colleagues suggested, and certainly the government had no interest in such ramblings of madmen. But the existence of megalithic stone alignments in this region left no doubt in the minds of Warren and a handful of other amateur researchers that the Celts had been here. All he and his co-theorists needed was some concrete evidence and the backing of a real archaeologist. All they needed was…

Wait a second, that looks interesting.

Warren stole a look around himself before continuing. He knew all too well that the authorities, the Department of Cultural Identity, were aware of his movements and his work. He was certain he was being watched by them and knew he needed to be very careful if he actually found something as interesting as… what was in front of him.

Feeling wary, Warren carefully used his hand brush to dust away the last of the sands around the object that emerged piece by piece in the hollow. In the dirt he found two small coins. They were embossed on one side with a horse. The reverse featured the moon-god. But these were insignificant in comparison to the prize object that sat with them. This was exactly the sort of proof Warren had searched for. It was a thing of beauty. A bronze mirror, the size of a dinner plate, adorned with a pattern of swirls and loops on its reverse.

With gentle hands, Warren lifted the mirror from the soil and stared at it. A mirror like this, buried with two coins, was a powerful suggestion that the site where Warren crouched was a burial site, a Celtic burial site. He realised more objects were probably buried within the area. But that would have to wait, he would have to be shrewd and act fast for this find to prove his theory of a Celtic discovery of New Zealand.

With precise movements, Warren placed the two coins into a little cloth pouch and replaced the dirt where the mirror had been. He brushed the dirt around so it was no longer obvious something bigger than the coins had laid there. Then, without hesitation, Warren wrapped the mirror into some cloth, stashed it in his bag, and took off over the farm as quick as his feet would carry him.

Behind a line of Macrocarpa trees, on the other side of the same field, Warren crouched down and built up dirt under his nails once more. When he was satisfied with the depth of his hole, he removed the mirror from his bag, unravelled the cloth, and buried it. He returned the dirt to its original place to cover his traces, and brushed away the tell-tale signs of digging. Warren smiled at his completed work. He noted his location, and strolled back to his dig site. Now Warren had to make two phone calls. The first one would be to the Department of Cultural Identity, to report he had found two coins at his dig site, as was required by law. The second phone call would be much more pleasurable. Warren had anticipated making it for ten long years.

University of South-West England

Dr. Matthew Cameron removed his yellow mug from the coffee machine, took a sip, and grimaced.

‘They really should invest in a better coffee machine.’

‘The coffee was much better in Spain,’ Julia said.

‘Switzerland too.’

They returned to Matthew’s office on the third floor and took seats opposite each other at the round table in the corner.

‘Let me just find my notes,’ Matthew said. Still seated, he stretched his long torso around and shuffled through papers on his work desk. ‘What have you been looking at?’

Julia talked, and Matt listened while he found his notes. He looked up and continued to listen to her describe the artefacts that she had been studying. Both of them were working on treasure that had been recovered from a Spanish Galleon that was recently located on the sea-floor in the Bay of Biscay. It was a frequent occurrence that Matt and Julia worked together. He liked it that way. Julia was like a sister to him. The fact that she was an academic at all was a wonder. Julia had to go against the wishes of a very powerful man to get here; her father. It was his intention she worked for him. Sir Alan McKenzie was one of Britain’s most successful businessmen, the northern lad who made good. He had developed tourism ventures in Spain and Portugal and had become the largest UK tourism provider in both countries. Matt admired that such a petite woman packed enough punch to stand up to him.