“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, PeggyYou’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 kit
chen. 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.”
The old man breathes deeply when a gust of wind brings the smells of the forest to him. Even more than fishing, he longs for the days when he walked with the other hunters among the tall fir, hemlocks, and cedars. Sometimes they would come upon a huge ancient tree of their ancestors. At times like that the men would proudly join hands and embrace the giant tree, thanking the Great Spirit for this sign of his power and abundance. Then they would rest in the forest until it was time to silently creep out to the meadow of white-tailed deer.
CHAPTER 5
After Eddy left for the day, I decided to head to the beach. I knew Aunt Margaret would want to mess around with my head, checking out how I was feeling about my mom’s bad news. But there was no way I’d talk to her about it, no chance I’d let her analyze me. Cutting through the path that led past the sailing club and out to Mud Bay, I found an old log worn smooth by years of rain, sun, and wind and rested my back against it. It was nearly supper-time, and the place was almost deserted.
Even though I had managed to push her to the back of my mind all afternoon, Mom was never really out of my thoughts. Now that I was alone, I let myself think about how much I missed her. It felt like years since we’d been together and she had pinned me in one of her bear hugs. My heart beat harder and my eyes started to water.
“Hello, young lady. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”
I recognized Mrs. Hobbs’s voice coming from behind me and quickly rubbed my eyes. Just then Chester waddled over to me and plopped his wet, sandy snout on my arm. I pulled it away and rubbed his gob on my shorts.
“Would you like to search for more of those tusk shells with me, or are you too tired from all that excavating?” Mrs. Hobbs asked.
I was surprised she knew about it. I hadn’t seen her for over a week.
“This is a small town, Peggy. News spreads faster than cow patties.” As she looked at me, her eyes turned into warm pools of concern. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time, dear?”
I didn’t have a grandmother, but if I did, I’d want her to be just like Mrs. Hobbs. Suddenly, I felt the warm trickle of tears on my cheeks. It made me angry that I was crying, and I tried to fight it off.
“You just go ahead and let those tears flow, Peggy. Sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves is to have a good cry. It helps when we’re worried about some problem to let out all that emotion.”
After a few minutes, my head was pounding and my eyes stung from all the salty tears. When Mrs. Hobbs handed me a tissue, I wiped my face dry, then sniffed. “Thanks, Mrs. Hobbs. I’d really like to collect shells with you. Could we do it after supper? I know my aunt’s expecting me to come home to eat soon.”
“I don’t think the light will be so good after supper, but I have an even better idea. Why don’t you come by and we’ll get started on that shell necklace for your mother?”
I jumped up off the sand and almost tripped over Chester, who was gnawing on some driftwood beside me. “That would be great, Mrs. Hobbs! I’ll bring over my collection.”
She gently swept her warm, soft hand across my face and smiled. Her unexpected affection almost made me start crying again. “All right then, my dear. I’ll see you after dinner.”
When I got back to the house, I found a note on the kitchen table:
Peggy, Uncle Stuart and I are making a trip to the garden store. We’re going to price koi fish for our pond — for whenever it finally gets done! I don’t appreciate your leaving without letting me know where you’re going. We’ll talk about that when I get home. There’s a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup waiting to be warmed up in the microwave. Uncle Stuart made it, so I can’t promise you how it’s going to taste. We’ll be back by 8:00.
— Aunt M
Good, I had the place to myself for once. I put the microwave on, then dashed upstairs to my room to get my box of shells. When I tripped over the clothes scattered
on the floor, I was reminded that one of these days I should wash them. After my supper was ready, I ate on the porch overlooking the backyard. My eyes were dry and sore from crying, but I felt a lot better. Mrs. Hobbs was right. I guess a good cry really did help. I polished off the last of my soup and sandwich and was getting up to leave when Duff rubbed against my leg.
“Sorry, boy, you’re too late. I ate it all.” I scratched the orange tabby under the chin, but he seemed annoyed with me and took off down the stairs. He glanced up at me, then sauntered over to the orange tarp protecting the burial. Just as he was about to walk across it, I yelled, “Get out of there, Duff!” My sudden outburst startled him. Then he narrowed his eyes, flicked his tail at me, and marched toward the gate as if I’d hurt his feelings.
Before leaving for Mrs. Hobbs’s house, I tried calling my mom in Toronto. Because of the three-hour time difference I wanted to talk to her before she went to bed. After several rings, the motel operator came on the line and asked if I wished to leave a message. I said no and hung up. Maybe Mom was having one of her famous long, hot baths. I would try again later.
Soon I was walking up Mrs. Hobbs’s garden path with my box of shells tucked under my arm. When I got to the front porch, the door was slightly ajar. The smell of baking seeped through and grabbed me by the nose. I knocked gently and pushed the door open. “Mrs. Hobbs, I’m here.”
“Oh, hello, Peggy dear. Come in. I’m in the kitchen.” I wandered into the room where mixing bowls, measuring spoons, and bags of flour and sugar cluttered the counter.
“I thought we should have something nice for our work party, so I’ve baked us some double chocolate chip cookies,” Mrs. Hobbs said.
“My favourite!” I said approvingly, sitting at the kitchen table. “I brought my shells like I said. But I don’t think I have enough to make a necklace yet.”
“Behind you, on the china hutch, is a box,” she told me. “That’s it. Take a look inside.”
I pulled the metal fisherman’s tackle box from the polished mahogany chest and opened it. Inside were hundreds of tiny shells of all kinds sorted into compartments. Immediately, I noticed the neat stack of tusk shells.
Reading the Bones Page 4