Reading the Bones (5 page)

“Why was he here?” I asked sharply after Mr. Puddifoot was gone.

“Peggy, that's a rather impertinent tone you're using. Mr. Puddifoot was just being friendly. He was concerned that we were getting pushed around and was explaining that anything we find on our own property belongs to us and we can do what we please with it — even sell it if we wanted.”

“Except that those things don't belong to you.”

“Just who do they belong to then? It's just a bunch of old bones and rocks.”

Maybe my aunt had a point. I sat by the front window, waiting for Eddy to arrive, trying to reason it through. When the old pickup truck finally appeared, I darted out the back door and down the stairs. I moved the four large stones that held the plastic tarp in place over the large hole, then carefully folded the plastic back until the entire burial was exposed.

“Now aren't you an eager beaver. I'd like to see all my assistants as enthusiastic as you.” Eddy was wearing her usual khaki shirt, but she had on a different hat. It was
a forest green baseball cap that said: don's backhoes —

we dig people like you! I felt a giggle inside me and thought about Mr. Puddifoot calling her an odd duck. She certainly wasn't like any grandmother I knew, even though I didn't know many grandmothers.

“So today we're going to continue working around the remains,” Eddy said. “I've got a feeling we're going to find more burial goods that will tell us about our friend here.”

I brought over the excavating tools from under the back stairs and handed Eddy the trowel and dustpan.

“Why don't you start where you left off, Peggy? You were doing such a good job yesterday that I think you should finish this level.”

I felt like diving into the centre of Peggy's Pond. Instead I carefully stepped across the taut string that formed the border. Soon I was gently scraping dark soil into the dustpan and emptying it into the bucket. With every stroke I eyed the ground like a hawk hunting for prey. I remembered Eddy saying that every scoop of dirt might reveal another artifact or bone. The bright morning sunshine was heating the earth, and I could feel the warm air rising into my face.

After about ten minutes, my eye caught the pointy tip of a small greyish object protruding from the earth. Its shape and colour made it stand out from the speckled matrix.

“I think I found something, Eddy,” I nearly yelled.

Eddy put down her notebook where she had been completing some drawings and came over. “Okay now, take the brush and clear away the dirt carefully.” I gently swept around the object. “Oh, that's a beauty, Peggy
You've got yourself a bone awl. That's another tool they used for piercing holes in leather or soft wood. Now take this ruler and set it beside the awl. Then I can take a picture of it in situ.”

Just then I heard the scuffing sound of shoes on pavement coming up the walk behind us.

“Good morning, ladies,” a distinctive raspy voice greeted. “Find anything interesting?”

Eddy and I turned to see Mr. Grimbal smiling down at us. His eyes found the bone awl in the ground.

“Look, Walter, I'm rather busy right now,” Eddy said. “What do you want?” All the excitement in her face drained away as the tone in her voice became curt. She tried to move her body to shield the place where we had been looking at the artifact.

“Oh, I thought I'd come and see what's up,” Mr. Grimbal said. “Got yourself a nice little awl there, I see.” He came closer. “Looks like something from the Locarno Beach Phase, wouldn't you say, Doctor?”

“I wouldn't presume to say anything until all the data's in,” Eddy said. “Peggy and I have a lot of work to do now, so you'll have to excuse us.”

“Certainly. You carry on doing your thing.” Mr. Grimbal smiled, but I could tell he wasn't trying to be friendly. “I just wanted to drop off my card — in case the Randalls decide to get in touch with me.” He reached out his cigarette-stained fingers toward me with a small white business card wedged between them. “Give this to your aunt and uncle for me, will you?'

'I quickly glanced at the words written on the front: “Real Treasures and Gifts, Mr. Walter Grimbal, owner and proprietor, 11228 Beecher Street, Crescent Beach, B.C.”
Underneath, in smaller print, it said: “Specialist in Native Artifacts.” I stuffed the card into my pocket and turned my attention back to the awl.

“It's a nice piece you got there, kid,” Mr. Grimbal said. “Probably worth a pretty penny.”

Eddy didn't take her eyes off Mr. Grimbal. She stared at him hard as if trying to turn his gaze away from the artifact on the ground.

“Right then, be seeing you soon.” He smirked and walked out of the yard.

It was as if Mr. Grimbal had come by just to wave his red cape at Eddy, as if she were a bull in the ring. Though it took her a few minutes to calm down, she was soon breathing evenly again and her face relaxed.

“That old pirate's always looking for a way to turn ancient artifacts into a scheme for making money, Peggy. You'll have to be careful about what you say around him.” Eddy wiped her face with her bandana and smiled weakly. “Okay, let's get a picture of this fine tool and take some measurements. Then we can remove it and put it somewhere safe.”

I wondered if what she really meant was to put it somewhere safe from Mr. Grimbal. “Eddy, do you think Mr. Grimbal would ever come and steal any of the artifacts from this burial?'

'She wiped the dirt from her hands onto her pants and then set the aperture on the camera. “Have you ever heard about the grave robbers in Egypt who went into almost every ancient tomb and looted all the treasures and nearly destroyed everything else while they were at it? They did that because they had no idea that one day the tombs and all their contents would come to
mean so much to the entire world. They could only see as far as the moment they were in. Well, that's Walter Grimbal — a grave robber who doesn't have any respect for the ancient people or the science of archaeological excavation.

“He's not a bit interested in helping to preserve the past for us all to learn from and enjoy. He'll sell prehistoric hand-carved stone tools and other artifacts to people who just want to use them for bookends or trinkets.” Eddy's voice had become loud and her round cheeks had turned bright red. “So do I think Walter would come and steal artifacts? I think you know the answer.” She shook her head as if she were trying to shake off a cloud of gnats. “Let's just forget about him and get back to this wonderful discovery.”

After Eddy photographed and measured the bone tool from all possible angles, she put the artifact into a marked clear plastic bag and then into a small metal box. “Okay, now that the awl's tucked safely away, let's get back to work.”

I followed Eddy back to the excavation pit.

“Before we get started,” she said, “I'm going to test your observation skills. Take a close look at the skull, look down around the jaw. Do you see anything curious?'

' I must have looked surprised by the question. “Well?'

'I got down on my hands and knees and examined the skull closely. It was yellowy and cracked in several places. The teeth were worn down almost to the roots, and they were all brown and pitted. Then I noticed that most of the skull's surface was uniformly smooth — all except a small knob where the upper and lower jaws met.
There it was all bumpy.

“This looks kind of weird,” I said, tentatively pointing to the knob. “It's like it's been eaten away by battery acid or something.”

“That's a great observation, Peggy, and a good description, too. That's his mastoid process. It seems like our friend here had a case of mastoiditis, which is a fancy way of saying a really bad ear infection. It's the kind of problem that could have caused him to lose his hearing in that ear.”

I'd never really had an earache, but I winced at the thought of it. I looked back at the teeth next to the corroded mastoid process. They were so foul-looking that I was suddenly glad for all those times my mom had hounded me to brush my own teeth twice a day.

“Why are his teeth so bad?” I asked. “And don't say it's because he never flossed them before bed.”

Eddy chuckled. “Well, that kind of tooth erosion was probably caused by a couple of things. One reason has to do with the way they processed their food — a lot of sand and dust got in when they used grinding stones to break it down. But there's also something else going on.” She took her pencil and pointed at the molars. “Notice how worn down they are — and not in a usual way, either. These deep grooves on each side are a peculiar wear pattern. I believe it comes from using the teeth as a kind of tool. Because of his crooked spine, there's a good possibility that hunting and fishing were impossible for this individual. So he might have had to resort to women's work — basket making, for instance.”

“What do his worn teeth have to do with basket making, Eddy?”

“Good question. The women used various plants and bark for weaving baskets. For instance, cattails are prolific around here and are great for weaving. But first the stems needed to be softened, and molars are perfect for such a job. But, of course, you can see the drawback — terrible wear and tear on the teeth.”

Soon Eddy and I were back at work. For the rest of the morning I dug and screened while she drew, wrote, and recorded. It was past lunchtime when Eddy finally took out a brown paper bag from her knapsack and sat on the grass. “You'd better get yourself something to eat, too, Peggy.”

I was glad for the break, because my stomach had been making noises for the past hour. I ran up the back stairs and into the kitchen. Aunt Margaret was upstairs talking to someone on the phone. I got myself a couple of slices of multi-grain bread and slapped on a heap of peanut butter. Then I cut up a couple of pickles and some onion slices and placed them on top. Peanut butter sandwiches always made me think of Mom. She always said everything went with peanut butter.

“Hmm, another one of your delicious creations!” Aunt Margaret said sarcastically as she came into the kitchen.

“Want some?” I offered.

“Ah, no, thank you. So you and Dr. McKay are taking a break, are you?”

I nodded and tried to talk, but there was too much peanut butter stuck between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The best I could do was move my head and mumble.

“I was just talking to your mom,” she said.

My eyeballs nearly popped out of my head as I shot Aunt Margaret a fierce look.

“I know you've been waiting to talk to her, but she's not in a good mood right now. She just got turned down for that job she was hoping to get, and she's feeling pretty discouraged. Why don't you give her a call tonight to cheer her up?”

That was the kind of thing that really bugged me about my aunt. Who was she to decide when or if I should talk to my mom?

After I finished my sandwich, I shuffled back out to the yard and sat by Eddy on the lawn. She was stretched out on the grass and had her eyes shut. I was glad we didn't have to talk. I had been trying to get in touch with my mom for two days, and I was really beginning to worry about her.

My mom liked to pretend she could handle any problem. I knew she just wanted to keep me from worrying. She always said, “Kids shouldn't have to worry about stuff. They should be carefree.” But the fact was I did worry — mostly about her. Like did she have enough money? Was she eating properly? What kind of a place was she staying in? Was she lonely? I knew I had learned to live without my dad, but I didn't think I could handle being without her, too. If I didn't think about something else quick, though, my face was going to get all puckered and I'd start bawling. I didn't want Eddy to see me like that.

My eyes wandered over the old bones and the yellowed skull in the pit. Maybe the old guy had had a tough life, but he had nothing to worry about now. I stretched out on the grass beside Eddy and closed my eyes, too.
Shuksi'em feels frustrated with his thick, stiff fingers. He has been trying to carve an alder ceremonial bowl, but when the pain in his hands comes there is nothing he can do but wait for it to pass. Behind him all the women, except his wife, are making new dipping fish nets. Talusip is working on a water basket made from spruce root.

“Come, old man, and help me soften these root fibres. I need them to make the string for my basket.” But Shuksi'em does not hear his wife as the wind blows into his one good ear. She throws a pebble at his back. He cannot turn his head to look at her, but a grunt tells her he is listening.

“Oh, you are an old snail,” she says. Talusip takes up her half-finished basket and roots and crawls to her husband's side. “Here, if you cannot carve today, you might as well help me.” She hands him a hand-sized stone and some roots. He begins to pound steadily. When the fibres are ready, he will rub them against his thigh until they entwine and become strong, supple pieces.

“Later I will get you to soften some cattails,” the old woman says. “I will use them for decoration. You must grind them with your teeth, though.”

“Woman, there is little left of my teeth,” Shuksi'em mutters. “I think it best to save them for grinding my food.”

Down on the shore, where the river meets the bay, Shuksi'em can see the black heads of the young men bobbing in excitement. They must have a big catch of the pink fish today. He envies their straight and strong bodies.

“Once I was tall and straight and people called me Tall Cedar when I walked by,” Shuksi'em tells his wife, as if it were a fact she did not already know.

Her laugh is brittle with age. “Well, you must have
angered the sneaky raven greatly for him to come and steal your body away, leaving you with a back that winds like a river and hands stiff as bear hide.”