by Siena West
“Cut marks indicate dismemberment.” The next slide showed where a stone knife had left distinctive marks on the bone.
“Burned bones suggest that people cooked the remains of human-flesh meals and discarded the bones along with other refuse.” A shiver trickled down Elena’s spine.
“What about missing vertebrae?”
“Scavengers, like coyotes, or other natural processes might disturb bodies left to decay naturally, but they leave many vertebrae. The taphonomic signature—the processes that result in burial—of cannibalism is like that of game animals butchered for food. Deer vertebrae remain behind at the kill site because hunters would bring only the best meat parts home. Cannibals do not think vertebrae are choice pieces of meat, my friends.”
Nervous laughter filled the room. “Okay, let’s move on to the sickening indicators of cannibalism,” Thomas said. “The more squeamish may want to leave. Pounding a bone on a stone to crack it open and extract the marrow leaves marks called anvil abrasion. Coyotes don’t do that. They gnaw bones and leave tooth marks. The arrow in this photo is pointing to anvil abrasion. See those short, shallow striations?
“And last, pot polishing is the signal indicator of cannibalism. Bones cooked in a pottery vessel develop smoothed and polished areas where the cut ends rub against the gritty pot interior.” Another slide showed a close-up of shiny, rounded areas on the bone ends. The areas contrasted with the dull surface of the center that had not come in contact with the pot walls.
¡Ave María Purísima! Elena whispered the old incantation her grandmother had used to ward off witchcraft as a collective groan rose from the audience. The mental images conjured by the descriptions of anvil abrasion and pot polishing were chilling. How could anyone cut up human beings and boil their meat in a pot as if they were nothing more than the Thanksgiving turkey carcass simmering for soup? She could not imagine such horror.
“Here’s the clincher, folks. All these attributes must be present to infer cannibalism,” Thomas said. “It’s possible that natural processes might produce a few attributes. Animals or years of weathering might break and splinter bones left on the surface, for example. It’s unlikely that natural processes would produce an assemblage of human remains with all six key features.”
Thomas let that sink in. Then he continued: “There is one indisputable indicator of cannibalism, one we don’t find often, and it doesn’t involve bones. That is the presence of myoglobin in human feces. Myoglobin is a protein found in human striated-muscle flesh, such as arms and legs. Found in feces, it indicates without doubt that the person consumed human flesh. Coprolites at some sites have produced myoglobin.”
Elena felt nauseous and faint. From the expressions on nearby faces, she knew many felt the same. After a moment of silence, murmurs and chatter broke out, and several hands waved. Thomas called on Tim.
“I’ve been supervising the excavations that produced the human remains. What can we do to figure out if the bones we’ve found represent cannibalism, witchcraft, or warfare?”
“It would be necessary for a bioarchaeologist to analyze the bones, preferably someone familiar with the indicators of cannibalism. You would have to consider the context and eliminate other possibilities. Certain behaviors associated with sorcery punishment, such as dismemberment and burning, are like those indicating cannibalism. To have definitive evidence of cannibalism, you’d have to have anvil abrasion and pot polishing.
“There’s one more thing that confuses the issue. In the past, people often accused witches of cannibalism, and anthropologists have recorded the consumption of human flesh during witchcraft rituals. Such ritual cannibalism was common in the Southwest.” This horrific crime justified such harsh punishments as decapitation and dismemberment for the suspected witch.
Mel spoke up from the back. “I think cannibalism is an offensive accusation, Dr. Thomas. How do you defend your position?”
He pulled no punches. “Colleagues censure my work and dismiss it not because it’s flawed, but because it isn’t politically correct. Science shouldn’t stop seeking the truth because it might be offensive. I’m trying to discover why people violated one of humankind’s universal taboos.
“There’s also the science versus religion issue. Their religious worldview is responsible for much of the Native Americans’ negative response to cannibalism among Ancestral Pueblo people. Science by definition is not religion-based.”
Thomas paused and asked to turn off the projector. “I don’t want to offend anyone, Native American or not, with my research and my conclusions. But often, the truth can be inconvenient. You should be aware that you might have to deal with this issue in your own research someday.”
Thomas answered a few more questions, and then Elena wrapped it. “Please give Dr. Thomas a hand for helping us to understand these sensitive issues. He’ll be around tomorrow morning if you’d like to ask more questions. For now, good night.”
Elena turned to Thomas as the room emptied. “After your lecture tonight, I’m even more uneasy about the remains in what we call the bone bed,” she confessed.
His smile was reassuring. “It may not be possible to tell without further analysis,” he said. “But we’ll see tomorrow.”
* * *
Elena mused about death as she prepared for bed that night. In the veiled paganism of New World Catholicism and the folk witchcraft, or brujería, of her native New Mexico, the relationship between the dead and the living was intimate. On November 2, El Día de los Muertos—the Feast of All Souls—families threw great and joyous parties for the souls of their deceased loved ones, las ánimas. The feast for the difuntos was a holiday. Graveyards were not ghostly, decrepit places but scenes of celebration. Families cleared graves, refurbished them, and decorated them with garlands of yellow and orange marigolds, the flower of the dead. They set up colorful altars inside booths where they entertained friends and neighbors. Paths of marigold flowers invited the dead to come and partake of the midnight feast.
So many years later, she recalled the sharp, bitter-herbal scent of marigold petals. She could almost taste the special foods her mother and grandmother made—cookies and sweet breads shaped into little calaveras, or skulls; tamales; and mole de pipián. Elena’s special connection to the ancient dead fostered the belief there was no reason to fear the dead.
But one death Thomas had talked about that night was different. Cannibalism was more than an abomination; it was demonic. Please don’t let it be cannibalism, she whispered to herself. Her senses screamed that what lay beneath the pasture was pure malevolence.
She visited the outhouse one last time before going to bed. On the way back, a pale gray shadow lifted from a cottonwood and into the air. It glided past on silent wings, not ten feet away. It was a great horned owl, seeking warm blood bitter with the fear of the small and the hunted.
Elena shivered. An omen of coming death to the Apache, the tecolote was a symbol of brujería to her. Was this an old, powerful brujo out for an evening flight? She almost expected the bird to turn, its huge, yellow eyes gleaming in the starlight, and speak to her in Spanish. Hola, María Elena. ¿Cómo estás esta noche hermosa?
Stupida, burra, she chided herself. Ir a la cama. Go to bed, María Elena. It’s only an owl.
The owl’s image stayed with her in dreams until she woke just before dawn. The wind had lifted, freshening the air. Lightning flashed, brightening the windows. Maybe it will rain, she thought, groggy with sleep and dreams. The bone bed will fill with water and drown the dead and her troubles.
* * *
Next morning, only Cole, who had the day off, Tim, and a few students came to watch Dr. Thomas inspect the bones in the pasture. As usual, Elena put plenty of distance between herself and the unsettling dead. Thomas, however, got right down among the bones. He stepped among the jumble of charred black, gray, and white chunks and splinters of bone with care, trying not to damage them.
With gloved hands, Thom
as picked up the larger bones one by one, examining each with a hand lens. He didn’t bother with the smaller pieces, knowing they wouldn’t bear any distinctive marks. He replaced each bone in its exact location. Watching as the minutes ticked by, Elena’s breathing had almost stopped. At last, he pocketed the hand lens and climbed out of the unit, one piece in his hand.
“All the bones show cut marks,” Thomas said. “It’s indisputable that someone dismembered these people. But this is the only specimen that might have distinctive marks of cannibalism. It could be anvil abrasion, but I’m not sure. Take a look and tell me what you see.” He held a piece of tibia shaft about three inches long. The bone had been split lengthwise.
Was it split to get at the marrow? Elena wondered. She took the bone from Thomas with reluctance. It felt hot in her hand, as though it was eating through her skin like acid. The familiar sickness started, and an image of flames flickered fleetingly at the edges of her vision. She stared through the lens. There might be a rough patch near one end crisscrossed with tiny little marks. But maybe not.
“I’m afraid I see nothing definitive,” Elena said. As she passed the bone and hand lens to Tim, the ill feelings receded. Tim eyed the bone.
“I don’t see anything, either,” he said. Thomas climbed back down and replaced the bone.
“So what’s the verdict?” Elena asked when Thomas had joined them. The casual chatter among the students stopped, and all waited for the answer in a morning grown silent.
“Frankly, I don’t know. To determine cannibalism with confidence, I’d have to inspect the entire collection in my lab, with clean bones and a proper microscope.”
If the Hopi allow us to remove the remains and analyze them, Elena thought, perhaps Thomas could take them on the analysis. He might tell us if the signature of cannibalism was present. He was retired, but with his interest in cannibalism, it was worth asking him.
“Is there any chance you could analyze the remains, depending on what the Native Americans decide?”
“You know as well as I that the chance to analyze human remains is becoming all too rare in today’s political climate. I’d love the opportunity. But I’m too old to take on a project of this magnitude. Didn’t you tell me you collected more than 20 boxes of bone fragments? I can talk to my daughter, Kathi, and see if she’s interested.” Thomas’s daughter also was a bioarchaeologist who consulted for archaeological firms.
Elena stopped herself from clapping with joy, like a child. On the way back to the house, they discussed how they would keep in touch. Elena would contact him after she heard from the Hopi. He would talk to his daughter, and she would reach out to Elena.
Although nothing was settled, the idea of analyzing the bones was comforting. If the Native Americans allowed analysis, it might help to figure out why such dread and horror seeped from the ground where the shattered bones lay.
Chapter 12
Globe
The Arizona Tourist office promoted Globe as a historic playground, but it was faded and falling down under the relentless onslaught of the sun. Huge piles of tailings dwarfed the old copper-mining town and its sister, Miami. Along with mining and mineral exhibits, Globe boasted archaeological sites and what had been one of the Southwest’s most important private archaeological foundations. Besh-ba-gowah was near downtown. Archaeologists had restored part of the ancient pueblo and converted it to a city park. The field school headed there that day.
A field trip was an opportunity to get the students out of camp and release the tension created by close quarters, isolation, and hard, physical work. Excited, the students spilled out of the trucks and into the little museum, happy as children with a snow day.
Elena paid their visitor fees and herded them together. “Two hours! No more. There’s a video in the auditorium, signed trails and exhibits, and a botanical garden near the parking lot. If you have questions, find me or one of the staff. Let’s meet back here—at 3 p.m., sharp.”
Archaeologists had restored Besh-ba-gowah with river cobbles and slabs of silver, shiny schist that reflected the heat of the midday sun. They had added new ladders and vigas—roof beams—to make the pueblo look more authentic. The field-school crew meandered along gravel paths among the room blocks and soon disappeared from view. Elena followed, stopping at the exhibits, which she thought rather elementary. She was reading the plaque at one when she sensed a presence behind her, and Carl Cimelli’s smooth, rich voice washed over her like an ocean wave.
“What a delightful coincidence! The best-looking woman in this part of the world, and you turn up at Besh-ba-gowah on the same day I visit.” Elena turned, and the man enveloped her hands in a warm, soft clasp. On the night he had come to the field school, she fancied him an unkempt Baptist preacher. Today, Cimelli resembled an eclectic hybrid of rock star and Indian guru. He wore a gauzy, white cotton shirt and leather jeans that looked as soft as butter and were about the same color. Dios mio, he must sweat in those things, Elena thought.
Cimelli’s eyes were even more piercing than Elena remembered and almost black in the fierce sunlight. Streaks of silver gleamed in his hair and beard. Cimelli might be in his sixties; she had thought him younger.
“What brings you here, Mr. Cimelli?” she said, not in the least happy to see him. The man had plaited his hair and wrapped it with suede cord, and he wore beaded moccasins.
“I’m looking for crafts. Hoping the gift shop has interesting things.” The museum held ancient pots, some of which it may have obtained illegally, and a private collection of painted-wood Apache crown dancers said to be spectacular. The gift shop likely sold only Chinese-made trinkets and toys. No doubt Cimelli sought something more valuable and pricey than a fake projectile point or a chunk of the obsidian called an Apache tear.
With a hand on her elbow, Cimelli steered Elena toward a bench under a ramada-style shade. She hated that he kept touching her, invading her personal space. The scent of patchouli rose from his clothes as they sat. Polished Navajo silver at his wrists and neck shone in the sunlight.
Please, someone come and rescue me. She asked about Cimelli’s buying trip. She remembered that was his excuse for coming by the field school.
“Will you call me Carlos, please?” he said. “It’s a nickname.” He fiddled with the bracelet on his left wrist.
“My efforts to purchase Native American arts and crafts have come to naught.” Come to naught? What an antique turn of phrase. Elena wondered if Cimelli had visited Tinker Reidhead’s trading post, and the trader had thrown him out again.
Cimelli moved closer until their thighs touched. She could feel soft leather through her jeans and scooted away. Her skin crawled with his proximity.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand there’s a gift shop at the Crow Ruin. You might find something to your liking there.”
The near-black eyes gleamed. “I’ve been to the Crow Ruin. In fact, I helped John run an excavation there one summer. It’s a wonderful place, and he’s done an outstanding job.”
There could be no greater damnation of Cimelli. The archaeological community had tried to shut down the Crow Ruin “field school” on Kincaid’s ranch for years, given the rumors he sold the artifacts he excavated. If what he said about working there was true, Cimelli had a close connection with a known pot hunter. The FBI would be interested in that detail of Cimelli’s career.
The man changed the topic. “I’ve been wondering since that evening at your camp if you’d be willing to take me to the better ruins on the reservation. You must know so much about the archaeology of this area.”
Elena’s sinking feeling of mistrust expanded. Cimelli was too interested in archaeological ruins, and his attention to her was just as disquieting. “Better?” she asked. “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Well preserved, photogenic.”
Oh. She adopted a formal, regretful tone. “It’s impossible, I’m afraid. The field school’s permit with the Tribe restri
cts us to a small area of the reservation, and we’re not allowed outside.”
“I’m sure you could find a way around the rules,” he pleaded. “The companionship of a beautiful and intriguing woman would be as wonderful as visiting the ruins. I’d make it worth your while, my dear.”
Jesús, María, y todos los santos! Was the man bribing her? Or was he insinuating a romantic encounter?
Elena raised a perfect, arched brow. “In what way would you make it worth my while, Mr. Cimelli?” A long pause stretched between them. Then she continued, undeterred by his silence. “I would advise against trying to go to any ruins on your own. Tourists aren’t permitted to visit sites on Apache land without prior permission and an Indian guide. You don’t want to end up in the Whiteriver jail. I’ve heard it isn’t a pleasant place.” That was an understatement, given its grimy walls, fly-specked ceilings, and a pervasive smell of urine and vomit. Elena visited the jail once and vowed never to go there again.
Cimelli shrugged in an elaborate, European manner. “That’s unfortunate. But my Zen training has taught me to accept whatever comes my way. The stream does not bend the rock.”
What a steaming crock of horse shit, she thought, forcing herself not to laugh in his face. Just then, a gaggle of students returning from touring the ruin stopped to pepper Elena with questions, interrupting the tête á tête. Cimelli rose, touching her elbow once more.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind.” His voice had fallen almost to a whisper. “I’d like you to have this.” He pressed a small leather pouch into her hand, folding her fingers around it. It was warm from being close to his body and therefore repulsive. “I hope it will help to persuade you. It’s been delightful talking with you.” Then, he was gone.
“Who was that guy?”
“Let’s say he’s someone I hope I never see again.”